Catalyst

By Val P Gould

Sandy leaves home late one evening to catch an overnight train. Her journey takes her across the moor; the road is empty and her music playing loudly, she pays little attention to the road. The ensuing unexpected and bewildering events impact her life in ways which she could never have imagined.
Her chance encounters with three very different men lead her into danger and conflicting loyalties, which extend beyond them all, enveloping families, friends and complete strangers. Familial love vies with justice and Sandy agonises over her choices which expose surprising and upsetting aspects of the people closest to her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291974294

Book preview

Catalyst

Catalyst

by Val P Gould

Publication Details

Catalyst

Copyright © Val P Gould, 2014. All rights reserved.

Cover painting ‘The Low Copper Sun Lit the Moor with Flame’ by the pastel artist Cheryl Culver PPS RBA ([e-mail])

Layout and design by michael pennamacoor of Abgrundrisse ([e-mail])

ISBN: 978-1-291-97429-4

Dedication

For my sister Cheryl and my daughter Ellen and in loving memory of my dear Mother, my mentor and my friend.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Jane Gardam for taking the time to read my book and for giving me encouragement to proceed with my story. I would also like to thank Geff and Annika Sneller who waded through my third draft with a red pen!

My special thanks go to my sister Cheryl both for donating her painting for my book cover and for her invaluable input and for being a sounding board for my ideas. And to my daughter, Ellen, a special thanks for her honesty and sometimes harsh but justified ‘trashing’ of my early drafts. Thank you for making me behave like an adult in the face of criticism.

Finally I extend my gratitude to my publisher and designer michael pennamacoor for his tolerance and for a job well done.

Chapter 1

A black empty ribbon stretched out in the headlights of the car. She flipped the Pink Floyd tape to play.

The first strains of Atom Heart Mother swept through the car. She drummed her fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

Damn! The tape stuttered. As she reached down to eject it something flashed in her peripheral vision. She glimpsed a man’s face, pale and ugly in her lights, heard a soft crunch, a shudder ran through the car. The screech of her tyres merged discordantly with his scream as he fell.

Pin prickles of shock raised the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. She gripped the steering wheel in horror. Where on earth had he come from? They were in the middle of the moor, not a car or house in sight. It was as though he had just dropped from the sky! The man staggered to his feet and shot a look in her direction. He lurched, limping away, his raincoat flapping open as he went. She sat frozen and watched him try to run, then fall and then run again into the night. She couldn’t believe what had happened, traumatised she stared after him. What a bloody disaster! I could have killed him! She had certainly injured him, how bad was he? She would have seen him had she not been fiddling with the tape... she couldn’t drive on pretending it hadn’t happened.

Oh Christ what shall I do? What shall I do? Sandy jiggled her legs up and down in agitation scrabbling her hands through her cropped spikey hair. He can’t be that badly hurt or he wouldn’t be able to run. She started the engine again which had stalled in her emergency stop. The car, still in gear lurched and stalled again. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! I can’t just go on, damn him to hell! Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her torch and started to run after the limping figure calling out to him to stop.

Wait, please wait, I’m sorry, let me help you! He lurched on, arms flailing and one leg dragging. She shouted out again

Stop you bloody idiot! He hesitated enough for her to pick out his face in her torch light; pale and flat, his piggy eyes glinting, then lumbered on. Sod you then! Sandy stopped and began to return to the car, can’t say I didn’t try. A cry of pain made her hesitate and playing her torch across the flat heath she searched for the figure. At first she could see no sign of him, then, he rose up out of the heather, and looked back at her. However, in spite of her calling to him once again to wait and that she would help him, he staggered on.

For Christ’s sake! Sandy made one last attempt to reach him, reasoning that he might have hit his head and be confused.

She put on a spurt but he had a head start and in spite of his injury he kept a distance between them, her plimsolls slipped and slopped; the evening dew coating the soles as if with oil, and she cursed that she had worn them. Her destination had been for warmer climes than the moor! Thank goodness she hadn’t worn her flip-flops.

Very soon her thin jacket and sweatshirt were soaked with sweat, a hot late summer day had handed its mantle to a sultry night. Quickening her pace she called again, he hesitated and seemed about to stop, but didn’t and veered away crashing through some bushes. She heard a muffled cry as he stumbled again. The man was still running away, why doesn’t he wait? The idiot! It was becoming stupid, what the hell was she doing? He didn’t want her help or he would have stopped. On he went through heather and springy tufts of grass and angrily she made up her mind to let him go but, noticing that his pace was flagging she changed her mind yet again and continued her pursuit. She began to catch him up.

It may have been a rock or a rabbit run which caught her foot as she scrambled her way through the scrub, as all of a sudden Sandy was sprawled face down in the heather, a cloud of mosquitoes, disturbed from the foliage whined in her ears. Every ounce of breath had been forcibly expelled from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, the pain was intense and Sandy was sure she had broken a rib. After what seemed an eternity of suffocating she managed to gulp a breath; gasping, she rolled off the rock which had punched her in the stomach when she fell. The heather was coarse and scratched her face and something sharp was pressing into her thigh. As she sucked air back into her winded lungs, the moist peaty soil pervaded her senses in its heady aroma. Sandy curled her head to her knees and closed her eyes waiting for the pain and fainting sensation to pass. Fuck him! I don’t need this! He could go to hell and she would get back on with her journey.

Wearily and still in pain, Sandy struggled to her feet and metaphorically giving him two fingers she shone her torch into... white. A blank wall of mist. Sandy couldn’t believe how utterly blind she had become and how suddenly it had happened. She was shrouded in thick fog. Only moments before the moor had been eerily lit by the moon and stars, which were now completely obliterated by the fog; the temperature had plummeted I can’t see a bloody thing! She stood stock still, shivering a little and pulling her jacket closer, her eyes straining to see and her mind racing. All thought of helping the stranger forgotten, she concentrated her mind on finding her way back to the road; it can’t be far away. Feeling around Sandy found the hazard that had tripped her; a branch lying across her path and stepped carefully back over it in the knowledge that this was the direction in which she had come. Now she had to concentrate and try to orientate herself in the direction of the road. She cautiously began to attempt to retrace her route. Running through the moor in the dark had been difficult enough but now it was far worse, there was absolutely no visibility and Sandy tripped and fell countless times bruising her knees on stones and adding further scratches to her face. Snagged on a thorn bush, her jacket tore as she angrily ripped it free. Still trying to remain focused Sandy ploughed on when suddenly from the depths of the mist she heard a frantic cry. She instinctively turned in shock trying to see where the noise had come from; it had to be the injured man. It sounded so close, but the torch light bounced off the fog, droplets of suspended water danced in front of her eyes. He was wailing and muttering then whimpering, each new cry seemed to come from a different direction and it set every nerve ending in her body on end. Her heart crashed and, her hands shook. The noise stopped suddenly. Who or what was this man? He sounded like a madman. Sandy was terrified. Thank goodness she hadn’t caught up with him, why on earth did she go after him in the first place? The sweatshirt, now icy cold clung to her back, her hair was wet and dripping into her eyes. It was silent but for the sound of her breathing and the drip, and crackle of the moisture in the air. The fog had smothered all sound and light. She had to get away from him, back to the car. Like a punch in the stomach, it hit her that she had no idea which way she was now facing, having instinctively turned at the sound of the cry. She stood rooted to the spot trying desperately to remember which way she had turned but it was hopeless, pure guesswork. She spun round and round in abject panic. Oh Christ, help me! Sandy berated herself for her recklessness in following him, she was chilled and shaking, everything was ruined. She crouched down into the heather and tried to get a grip on her panic; he could be a mere yard away and she wouldn’t know it. Would he attack her? His behaviour wasn’t normal; there was no telling what sort of maniac he might be. Thinking of men she knew, she asked herself if they would have behaved like this and the answer was no. They wouldn’t have run off like that. She couldn’t imagine anyone she knew behaving so irrationally. She asked herself again why on earth she had followed him. Sandy remained silently huddled into herself, her knees ached from crouching and she quietly eased herself to sit and listen. She felt the cold wetness seep into her jeans and soak through to her skin. The smell of wet foliage and wet plimsolls briefly took her back to her childhood running wild in the woods and dens around her home and tears sprung to her eyes. Soon her teeth began to chatter, to her ears they sounded like a drum tattoo. An owl’s cry, far away, a rustling close by, the minute sound of a sudden release of moisture from an overladen leaf, in her imagination were all made by him, as he crept upon her. The fog showed no sign of lifting and Sandy remained, too scared to move.

She had no idea how long she sat in fear, straining her ears, making herself as small as she could. It seemed like hours. The man didn’t appear, thank God; hopefully he’d wandered off in a different direction. Her panic subsided a little and she began to think more rationally again. Numb with cold and so stiff she could barely move Sandy knew she couldn’t remain here for ever, she had to get her circulation going again; she had to make a decision. Very cautiously, with the torch shielded inside her jacket, Sandy flicked it on and off to see the time. It was 10.30pm there was still a chance she could make it to the train if she could only get back to her car. But there was no way she could be sure she was going in the right direction, she supposed that it made more sense to stay put until the mist lifted. Chances were that it wouldn’t lift ‘til dawn and it would definitely be too late to catch the flight then. But surely it’s better than wandering and getting further lost. After all it’s bound to clear when the sun comes up. Could she last that long shivering and soaked? People did die of hypothermia under these conditions. If only there was some sort of shelter, some bracken or something. She groped around, in half-hearted hope, for something she could use for warmth but of course everything was soaking wet; no point looking any more. Sandy hunkered down in the wet grass and heather, cradling herself with her arms, and hugged what warmth was still remaining in her body. Praying that the madman would be as unable to see and find her as she was unable to see him, she began her vigil. The mist and darkness combined, imprisoned her in a muffled cocoon. It was strange how the fog stifled noise, yet amplified it at the same time. Every drip of water seemed loud and her breathing was raucous in her ears. The rhythmic drumming of her heartbeat accompanied each breath she took, so loud that she was sure it could be heard reverberating across the moor. Holding her breath she listened intently for any sound of footfalls approaching. A distant thrumming made her sit up, it was growing louder. It was getting closer. Oh my God is it a car? Sandy leaped to her feet, cocking her head to catch the direction of the sound. She turned slowly, tuning into the engine noise. It certainly wasn’t far away but difficult to pinpoint exactly where. Apart from the fact that the car was moving, the moisture seemed to hold sound and one time it appeared to be coming from behind and the next in front. The gear changing was altering the pitch, it was accelerating away, yes, it was going that way. Sandy fixed her blind gaze on the invisible car and without hesitation made the decision to find the road. Yes! I can still make it. I’m buggered if I’m missing my holiday for that loser! She stopped herself as she began to rush headlong in her excitement and forced herself to move cautiously. Her mind firmly fixed on her perceived direction of the road; she concentrated on following the noise of the car as the throb of its engine became fainter and fainter until she could no longer hear it and silence fell once more. Unnerved by the silence and consequent lack of guidance, although she had been expecting it, Sandy felt a jolt of anxiety. Causing her to pause and breathe deeply to steady herself before proceeding. She walked, arms outstretched, like some story book ghost, to feel for any hazards which could trip her. She couldn’t risk losing her sense of direction again now that she was so sure she knew where the road was. She planted her feet as carefully as possible, testing the ground for sogginess; break a leg and she could die, fall into a bog and she was definitely dead. The concentration was more wearying than the walking, her breathing, short and shallow with stress seemed not to feed her lungs. She rubbed her eyes to clear them of moisture, the scratches on her face from brambles and shrubs smarted as she scrubbed her hands over them. Her jeans and plimsolls chafed painfully on her cold legs and feet and her eyes ran with tears which she was unable to control. Striving to keep going in as straight a path as possible, she kept her mind fixed firmly on the path which would lead her to the road, praying that another car would pass which would confirm her route. But she neither heard nor saw anything other than her laboured breathing and the dense white mist, no tiny glimmer of light filtered through. The car she had heard was probably the only car to pass that night, it was doubtful that any more would come by at this time. How long had she been on the moor? Doggedly ploughing on half expecting to stumble on to tarmac any minute, sure she had gone the right way; Sandy fought back the doubts which kept forcing their way in. Weariness of body gradually became weariness of spirit when no firm ground greeted her stumbling steps. Yet still she staggered on, it can’t be far away now. Travelling in thick fog was akin to walking with your eyes closed and with nothing to guide you. Had she wandered off course, even in a circle? The air was thick with moisture and she gasped for oxygen as though through a wet flannel. Tripping and falling and shaking with the cold and fear she wove her haphazard course in her search for the road. Scared to stop and scared to proceed, panic built up and up, her head felt as though it would burst. It was no good pretending any more, the going remained heath-land; no hard gravelled road welcomed her tread. As sure as she could be, the route that she had taken was straight; she didn’t think she had swerved to any great extent, so why hadn’t she reached the road by now? She had definitely heard a car and she was positive she had discerned the direction it had come from; she hadn’t rushed headlong at the first sound but had carefully listened to be absolutely sure before moving at all. Sandy recalled how hard it had been to pinpoint the car, apart from the fact that it was moving all the time, there had been a sort of echo — no not an echo, more as though the moisture in the air had sucked up the sound, swilled it around and spat it out again. It reminded her of that frustrating semi-deafness one gets with a head cold, where you hear noises in the ears and your head feels sort of unbalanced. With her vision gone and sound muffled, she realised with a sinking hollowness that she must have fooled herself into believing she was going in the right direction in her desperation to get off the moor. A coldness ran through her, a coldness which had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the chill of utter despair.

The fog was still dense, the faint light from the moon quenched. Her torch was useless; seeming to intensify the opacity of the saturated air. She should have stayed where she was when the mist descended, and waited for it to lift, but the fear of the close proximity of the man whom she now was sure was a madman and her determination to catch her flight had made her act impetuously when she had heard the car and now she was lost. Madman or not, she desperately needed someone, anyone; she cried out for help into the sodden air, but it was like shouting into a cushion; her muffled voice seemed to bounce back at her. Sandy crouched shivering against a boulder and stared into the mist, little sparks of light flickered in her vision. Clothes soaked and fingers and feet numb with the cold she fought in vain against sleep for fear of dying of hypothermia. She jolted as she felt sleep claiming her, forced her eyes open and attempted to stay alert but finally she succumbed and her head fell forward and awkwardly to the side, the cold wet rock ‘cushioned’ her cheek and she slipped into sleep.

Sandy jolted awake with a cry of pain, her neck had cricked and for an instant she was unable to move it. The pit of stomach clenching which floods in when reality dawns on first awakening, when despair creeps in as you remember something tragic that sleep has put aside, hit her bodily. The realisation of where she was, so very cold and hopelessly lost was unbearable. Wincing with pain she eased her neck loose, stretched her cold, stiff body and despondently looked up into the mist — it had completely cleared and she was greeted by a clear night sky. Other than her sopping wet clothing it was hard to imagine that there had been a mist at all. A chill breeze walked icy fingers over her. Rigid with cold, she tried to stand but her legs were numb. She rubbed them furiously with her hands which were also numb and managed to restore some circulation. Shining her torch around, all she could see was moorland, no lights from cars moving on the lost road, just an expanse of scrub and heather; no glint of moonlight on the roof of her car. Oh shit, where the hell am I? Sandy staggered to her feet, she shone her torch at her wrist but her watch had stopped, it had been her grandma’s watch, a delicate little thing more suited to dresses and evenings out than the damp atmosphere on the moor. Mum had told her to leave it at home but Sandy had insisted that she wear it. Now it was buggered. She had no idea of the time except that it was still night. The moon was a wedge of yellow light, a thin outline of its full self faintly glowing around it; the rest of the sky was pitch-black, save one or two random stars. Through the darkness, lit only by the small torch beam, and the thin moonlight Sandy trudged, stumbling over tufts of grass and small prickly shrubs, shouting expletives as she tripped. Her eyes constantly searching the horizon, the darkness blurred through her tears as she soundlessly wept, the tears trickling down her sore scratched face. Gradually the scrubby grass thinned and gave way to bracken and gorse, each plant reaching out and deliberately scratching or tripping her. In spite of her fear that the man may be near-by, she shouted for help again, but the darkness had a density which seemed almost physical. Sandy wanted to lie down and sleep. Where was the road? Where were the houses? If she had been walking in the right direction surely she should have reached somewhere man-made by now!

She sank down onto the ground exhausted and in spite of the cold she slipped into the arms of Morpheus.

When Sandy woke again the night was unfurling and a ground mist swathed her, its tendrils caressing her body like a ghostly shroud. Grey light suffused with mauve and pink painted the sky in a Turneresque glow. A morning chorus began with a single blackbird’s note and as the music swelled she thought of her father and their country walks which made her cry like a child. She looked around her at the moorland, the heather still held on to its bloom of purple which in the morning light sparkled with moisture. One or two windswept trees stood starkly against the sky and far above her a falcon hovered, its wings barely moving as it scanned the moor for its morning meal. A faint whiff of fox drifted into her nostrils, somehow comforting in spite of its unpleasantness; living creatures were all around her, some visible and some unseen, life was there and she felt less alone. She was very cold and still scared but she was alive. She searched the horizon and in the distance made out a jumble of rocks which she realised must be a tor. She may be able to climb up and get some idea of her position, you could see for miles from some of them. But her body refused to move, her jeans and T-shirt were clinging like icy rags to her flesh, her jacket was sodden and her hair dripped moisture down her neck. As she cuddled her arms around herself desperately trying to get warm, the sun slowly rose further above the horizon. Yet still she sat huddled and shivering. Every move she had made had been the wrong one so far, she was scared to try again. She sat and wept for mum. After a while, Sandy, having cried herself dry, noticed that the morning was growing finer, she forced herself to struggle to her feet and set off stiffly and stumbling often, in the direction of the tor. The act of doing something rather than just giving in renewed her hope. As she moved onwards Sandy felt the warmth of the rising sun and relished it. Her limbs loosened and her numbed extremities came back to life. The rocks on the horizon were much further away than she had supposed, the sun had risen to its full height and still they appeared distant. She was desperately thirsty and a gnawing hunger pain persisted, causing her on more than one occasion to double up with stomach cramps. There were peaty puddles here and there but Sandy was scared to drink from them, she had never been in a situation such as this before and was totally uneducated in survival skills. However, the thirst became so overriding that finally, when she came across a slightly clearer puddle she knelt in the spongy turf, her wet jeans cutting into the back of her knees and scooped a little water into her mouth. It was icy cold and surprisingly didn’t taste too bad. She waited a while to see if she felt any adverse effects, then, re-assured that she felt none, she cautiously drank some more. She then scooped some into her cupped hands and splashed it over her face, her cuts and scratches stung but she felt better; fresher. As she travelled, the scrub began to grow thinner and the way stony. Tripping and stumbling Sandy, to her joy arrived at the jumble of stones at the base of the bigger rocks. Confident that she would see a house or a village from the top she scrambled up the loose gravel and on to a bigger outcrop, taking great care; the rocks were wet and slippery. Sandy imagined herself arriving in habitation, knocking on the door of a house and begging to use their phone. She would have quite a tale to tell them all when she got home. Dad would come and pick her up and they would probably have a laugh on the way home about Sandy’s innate ability get herself into trouble, sobering up before they reached home where Mum would definitely throw a wobbly and say that she knew she was right and that Sandy should have taken a taxi. They would have a cup of tea and something to eat and go and retrieve Sandy’s car, must remember to take jump leads, did I leave the lights on? Can’t remember. Surely the airline would give her another ticket when she explained what had happened and she would still have her holiday. Laughing to herself in spite of her sore feet and legs and her grinding hunger she clambered up the last outcrop and excitedly looked around her. The sun was in her eyes and she squinted to see better. Stepping into some shade her wet plimsoll slipped on some moss and she lost her footing completely, slithering down the rock, gaining momentum as she scrambled for a hand hold. Sandy hit the ground with a soft thud. Her head whiplashed and crunched back down as she landed and fell unconscious.

Chapter 2

A pitiful keening woke Sandy and she opened her eyes to blackness and pain; it was she who was crying. Her right arm hung twisted. The arm was useless and dislocated from the shoulder, the pain was excruciating. She passed back into oblivion. She dreamed that she was loading her milk float (her holiday job that summer) and the crates of bottles were heavier than usual. She found that lifting them gave her such pain in her shoulder that she had to ask for help.

The foreman at the dairy, Geoff, fat, middle-aged and gruff, hadn’t wanted to employ her.

You’re too small, not strong enough; you’ll be loading your own float...

He had given her a trial run and a big heavy diesel one ton van to drive, told her to be there in the morning at 3am and no later. He was grinning smugly to himself, she noticed, confident that she wouldn’t last the day.

She had loved the country round and over the summer months she would drive directly into the sunrise, clad in shorts and T-shirt, tanned and healthy, running between houses; leaving the van at the end of the road as it was so noisy and her first delivery would be at about 4.30. Compliments came back to the dairy about her considerateness and friendly demeanour. Elderly men and women offered tea and cakes and were grateful for a chat. Some single men invited her in also, but, she suspected, not for a chat. At these houses Sandy crept silently up the path and ‘un-chinking’ the bottles ran quickly back to the van to avoid any uncomfortable attention. Half way through the round a pint of gold top was a personal treat; sitting in the morning sun glugging straight out of the bottle. Only once did she oversleep, and the foreman, having grown to regard her as his favourite rounds-man, had loaded her float for her and delivered it to her flat, throwing stones at her window to wake her. That, according to the other milkmen, was a first.

He must be going soft, one said.

No, it’s her hot-pants re-joined his mate.

It’s because she’s a bloody good milkman growled Geoff as he walked into the depot. She loved being one of the boys and although it was good to be admired, fancied or whatever, it was also good to be appreciated for the job.

I say, are you okay?