3.

NOW

January 2, 2015

When Eric Leibert got into his patrol car that morning outside the Neath Police Station the air cut his exposed flesh like a sharpened razor blade. The glorious sunshine shining in the azure sky was misleading as he emerged from his home in Skewen earlier that morning. He’d sworn under his breath and darted back indoors. He only emerged again when he’d put an extra pair of socks on and his thermals. The temperature according to his vehicle informed him that it was two degrees Celsius.

Eric had just moved into a bungalow at the top of Skewen. At twenty-eight and having worked his way to being an official member of the local constabulary, Eric’s euphoria could be considered understandable. He had his youth and a job which gave him a high level of authority of lots of other people. His mother always reminded him though to not become arrogant or misuse his newfound rank, as it would come back to haunt him later on. His mother, Agnes, had an old adage that she reiterated. “What goes around comes around, in this life and the next.” Eric wasn’t sure if he believed in life after death, although he concurred wholeheartedly with the first part. Some of his colleagues did strut around while out on patrol enforcing the law wearing shit-eating grins. Some even tried to intimidate youngsters who were minding their own business, prejudging them merely by their age and appearance. Not Eric though. No way ho-say.

After all, those youngsters were innocent until proven guilty, just like any other resident. Furthermore, if you started giving them hassle, when a crime was committed and they’d been at the scene of crime they were more likely to make a statement if you’d let them be. Otherwise they could turn a blind eye on something serious that might have got you an arrest on your collar.

On New Year’s Eve, Eric Leibert had made two successful arrests and had avoided having his jugular ripped open by a drunk wielding a broken beer bottle. He now knew what the older officers meant by “it’s nothing like they show on those big-budget Hollywood films”. Fortunately, he’d been so pumped up on his body’s adrenaline that he’d reacted swiftly and efficiently. Had he known what had been about to transpire Eric believed he would have been incapable under the pressure.

He now understood why some of the more experienced officers were far more inclined to go out on patrol and merely break up any potential pub brawls or clear youngsters off the street corners after dark. The incident gave Eric time to reflect on what had happened, sitting behind the wheel of his patrol car on his way back to the station. There had been an incident involving a citizens’ car that had been parked on the street being damaged. She’d only discovered it that morning. However, she and some of the other neighbours did claim to hear some drunken men on their way home from the local pub the night before being vociferous and using bad language. The only thing Eric could do was put it on record as a formal complaint and check the records for any similar incidents in that area of the same nature. Nevertheless, intuition told him it was a random incident, and if there were no witnesses than there wasn’t really anything he could do about it.

The wing mirror had been snapped off and smashed. It would cost the middle-aged woman a good few quid to get it replaced. Furthermore, there was no CCTV footage on that residential street. If there was he could have done something about it. Even it was solely retribution. At least then the perpetrator would be the one paying for the damage and not the unfortunate victim of an idiot binge drinking until the early hours of the morning.

Eric flicked the indicator and turned left at the roundabout, using the gear stick to slow the patrol car’s speed. The town centre of Pontardawe was congested with narrow streets and pedestrians and vehicles going to and fro all day long. Eric had some time on his hands before his shift ended and decided to drive through the local town, just to let everyone know that the police were out and about on patrol nearby, in case they should break the law. The mere sight of a patrol car passing through town reminded the drunks, adolescents and anyone else considering doing something unlawful to consider their actions before committing crimes.

He pulled the patrol car alongside the kerb, applied the handbrake and got out. Parched, he wandered into the local superstore and picked up two bottles of Evian mineral water and a loaf of bread for his sandwiches. He said the obligatory hellos to the cashier and then strolled back outside. Some youngsters in a group of four who’d been about to cross the street to the superstore to purchase some alcohol, even though they were only sixteen, froze when they saw the distinctive patrol car. They whispered amongst themselves and then started to turn and go back the way they came.

Eric called out, ‘Best decision you’ll make!’

One of the boys glanced despondently over his shoulder and then kept on walking.

Eric got back in his patrol car and drove down the short narrow road and used the makeshift roundabout where a marble monument to the World War Two hero’s stood, slowly cornered it and headed up the slight incline, vigilant. He made certain to go slow to hover for as long as possible before departing.

The shortcut back to Neath Police Station was to take the route uphill and go through the sleepy town of Rhos Meadow where a certain amount of inexplicable deaths belonging to livestock, pets and residents hit the local and national news since dating back to early 2013.

Eric recalled reading an article in the south Wales Evening Post about it. The title exclaimed in bold print at the top of the page: LOCAL FARMER’S LIVESTOCK DIES DUE TO FRACKING! He’d been vaguely aware that there was some kind of new experiment taking place in the countryside town of Rhos Meadow. However, he didn’t know what hydraulic fracturing or the benefits of wind turbines were precisely. He’d queried his mother about it one Saturday afternoon after he’d taken her to Tesco to do her weekly shopping. She read a lot of newspapers and was an avid viewer of the national and local news on TV, radio and the internet. She’d explained in layman terms how the operation had apparently been a big success in the United States as a bridge between fossil fuels and renewable energy sources. Nevertheless, she did state later on when more headlines hit the news how there were many drawbacks.

CONTAMINATED WATER KILLS YOUNG BOY!

That headline had stopped Eric in his stride as he strode towards the newspaper stand a few months later. When he read how a boy, Jack Zane, had suffered from severe convulsions because he’d been drinking flammable drinking water and suffered from a fever that had induced gastroenteritis and later as he lay chomping involuntarily on his tongue, alone in his bedroom, a blood clot which induced a fatal brain haemorrhage.

According to investigating officers, the father, Greg Zane, had discovered the unfortunate boy, wondering what on earth that incessant light thumping noise was emanating from somewhere inside his home. It wasn’t until he ventured upstairs did he trace the sound to his son’s bedroom and saw Jack in a pool of sweat, spit and crimson blood.

The drilling operation had continued, as no one even considered the possibility that the hydraulic fracturing had been the cause. Two farmers, Ted and Keith Gillespie, had complained that ever since the “fracking” began just over their property line of their ranch, cattle began limping with swollen legs and infections. If someone had linked the two and done some thorough research and investigating into the now-accurate claims, the young boy’s death would most likely have been prevented.

Instead the small town mourned the passing of one of their youngest and innocent. Many residents from Rhos Meadow and the environing districts sent bouquets of flowers (particularly red roses), wreaths and sincere letters of condolences to the family. Furthermore, the South Wales Evening Post did a three page coverage of the untimely death and the heartfelt reaction and generosity by the community. The family had also put a brief thank you in the newspaper, but understandably they were still in severe shock.

He hadn’t been through the sleepy town for a long time. And according to gossip (normally he wouldn’t listen to gossip), the town was either haunted or felt haunted. Whereas before the small town used to attract people passing through, campers and potential buyers and anyone with car trouble to the Meadow Garage, now people were spooked by what had transpired to the residents’ pets, cattle and to Jack Zane.

A couple of occasions, Eric recalled David Grant, an experienced police officer, saying that the last time he and his wife went there in the spring of 2012, residents were distressed by their cats and dogs becoming violently sick, coughing up wads of coagulated blood and losing limbs before finally dropping dead. The ones who made it to the local vets’ watched in desperate hope as the vet did his utmost to find out what was causing the sudden sickness.

‘Some guy had taken his Labrador into the vet with all the same symptoms as the other animals, similar as well to the Zane kid. The vet had made a futile attempt - not his fault, ya know? But the poor mutt ended up swallowing its own tongue right in front of its owner. I’m tellin’ you, somethin’s not right with that town. Some folk’s sayin’ that it’s got a gypsy curse on it. Someone passing through got overcharged or didn’t get the service they expected and decided to get revenge that way. And, what I saw up there, me and my wife, I’m startin’ to believe it too. Never did believe in that superstitious shit. Or that supernatural bollocks. But those four dead cows and the hobbling herd of sheep in the cornfield, not to mention the stories of people’s pets, made me reconsider. My wife and I are big animal lovers. Couldn’t bear it if something like that happened to our corgi. Try to avoid that place if I were you, ya know whad I mean? It’s like fuckin’ pet cemetery up there.’

David Grant had been around a lot longer in life and on the force than Eric. He knew without anyone having to tell him that it took a hell of a lot to get under David’s thick skin. He was one tough S.O.B. He’d fought off two bodybuilder-type thugs single-handedly on duty once. He’d temporarily paralysed one by finding a nerve in his neck and seized the other by the throat before ramming his back against a stone wall and then hurling him onto the bonnet of the patrol car. Less than twenty minutes later he was down the station booking them both for dealing with illegal drugs (steroids), resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. David wasn’t one too embellish, either. He told you how it was, matter-of-fact.

Maybe if it’d been another officer, Eric might have been a bit dubious. However, the unnerving expression David exuded gave Eric the willies. And, in spite of heeding his warning thus far, going through Rhos Meadow was much quicker. Bone weary, Eric shrugged inwardly and took a left at the roundabout, came to another roundabout and decided there and then which route he’d take. However, he was consciously aware that he was going against his intuition, advising him to take the longer route.

***

His clammy palms clutched the steering wheel fiercely. In his mind’s eye he kept visualising the dead livestock; their limbs jutting from the cornfield, conspicuously.

The steep incline the patrol car was ascending had a blind corner. Eric used the gear stick to slow down. He liked the countryside homes with mowed lawns and red brick facades with arches over the front gate leading up the brick driveways. The properties had ample space, fresh air of the environing woods and peace. Especially now, as Rhos Meadow was now nicknamed “The Uninhabited”.

As he rounded the corner the patrol car hit a wall of impenetrable fog.

‘Whoa! Shit!’ Caught completely off-guard, the young officer almost spun the wheel erratically to avoid collision. He didn’t. Instead his intuition reminded him he was on unfamiliar territory and could end up careening over the incline. The car would plummet down the ravine into the town centre hundreds of feet below. In his mind’s eye he could see himself being choked by the seat belt watching as the ground rushed up to meet him. Then there would be nothing.

Unless he was mistaken, the weather forecast on the T.V. hadn’t mentioned anything about their being any fog. Usually the Met office put a warning symbol on T.V. and made special weather reports on the radio to warn drivers in the district beforehand. And this wasn’t just some morning mist, either. This fog enveloped the vehicle like a blanket.

Vigilant, with all his instincts working overtime, Eric squinted, doing his utmost to see anything familiar that would help him not to crash. He flicked the fog lights. Nothing. He flicked the headlights on full beam.

The road five meters in front of him was made visible.

Eric felt the car ride over the incline and onto flat road. He slowed down. The speedometer told him he was doing ten miles per hour. He dearly hoped that at some point the fog would dissipate or at least be able to let him see more clearly. That didn’t look likely any time soon, though.

‘Knew I shouldn’t have come this way,’ Eric muttered, shaking his head.

He stood on the brake pedal in a vain attempt to stop the patrol car from ramming into the back of another car that was stationary.

The sound of metal crunching and bending, glass shattering and the impact itself was deafening. Eric hit the backrest of the seat hard. He groaned. Sighing in pain and shock, Eric pried his fierce grip from the steering wheel, wincing. He wasn’t so shocked that something like this had happened. If anything, it was inevitable. What had shocked him was how the car appeared in his vision without giving him sufficient time to react to avoid crashing. He’d never had a crash in the car before. His body felt as though it had received an electric shock and his muscles had tensed reflexively.

Exhaling deeply, the young officer unclasped his seat belt. His face burned with intensity. He pulled the visor down and wasn’t surprised to see a flushed complexion staring at him. So, this is what crashing feels like, he thought.

He grabbed the handset to radio over to HQ to let them know what had happened and that he’d need some assistance. However, he suddenly realised there was no reception. No static. It was possible that the radio unit might have got damaged during the collision, but he doubted it. After all, he was only going ten miles per hour. Not to mention he’d braked, which would have reduced the speed even more.

Sighing, he turned the dial.

Silence.

‘What the fuck!’

Eric depressed the dial. Then he pushed it again to turn the radio on again.

Silence.

‘Oh, I don’t fuckin’ believe this,’ he said to no one.

Aware that he was stranded in the midst of a dense fog, Eric knew he had to find some way of communicating with the police station. For one thing, dispatch would be wondering why they couldn’t get hold of him, either.

He fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled some of his colleagues’ mobiles.

The screen illuminated the interior and announced two words to add to Eric’s troubles.

NO SIGNAL

In vain he tried another three times. He even tried to dial 999.

NO SIGNAL

He slammed the dashboard with a clenched hand, crying out in frustration. Then he calmed himself, as best he could. He breathed deeply and used rational thinking, not anger, to do something about the current predicament he found himself in.

Two minutes later, he opened the driver’s door and stepped out into the fog.

He’d been barely standing there twenty seconds, doing his utmost to get his bearings when a shrill female voice cried out causing a shudder to go up his spine.

‘Hello! Hello! Who’s there? I know someone’s there. I just heard you crash into my car.’

Eric’s heart was doing a tap dance on his chest walls. He consciously told himself to quit standing there trembling and answer. ‘Whoever you are,’ he shouted, not liking the quaver in his voice, ‘I’m a police officer.’

‘I’m over here,’ the invisible woman cried back.

The sound of her terror-stricken voice came from Eric’s left. He moved around the front of his patrol car and blindly moved forward. ‘Keep talkin’,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything. ‘If you speak, I’ll be able to find your exact location.’

‘My name’s Diana,’ the woman called out. ‘Just take one slow step at a time.’

‘Okay, Diana. My name is police constable, Eric Leibert. You can call me Eric.’

‘Hi, Eric.’

‘Hi,’ Eric replied. ‘Diana, do you live here in Rhos Meadow?’

‘No. We were just drivin’ through.’

Eric moved closer, stumbling over a rock. He steadied himself, turned to the right and moved forward again. ‘Who’s “we”, Diana?’

‘My daughter, Tulisa. I can’t find her anywhere. The petrol station was abandoned. Tulisa needed to wee. We had to stop. This place was so quiet and creepy, we decided to leave. That’s when the fog came... out of nowhere.’

‘I’m getting closer,’ Eric said, sounding relieved.

‘Eric, will you help me find Tulisa?’

Eric hesitated a moment. Then he said, ‘I’m not sure how we’re gonna do that in this fog, Diana. I don’t understand how she could have got away. At least not far away.’

‘When we drove out of the Texaco station and I turned we hit something. I stopped and got out. But whatever I hit must have disappeared. Tulisa, who’s eight, got out of the car and came outside. She thought I might have run someone down in the fog. But there was no body on the road. All I heard was the passenger door opening. Then her little footsteps drawing closer. The last thing she said to me was, “Mum”. I went to where she’d been standing and couldn’t find her. I called out and called out. That’s why my voice is so throaty, I think. I came over here to see if Tulisa had fallen over and staggered back to the station off the road. But as you can see - or rather hear - she’s not.’

‘I’m nearly right in front of you, Diana. If I reach out and touch you, don’t scream or flinch.’

Eric reached his hands out in front of him, swatting the coils of endless fog, until his fingertips brushed a tender cheek. Diana yelped. Then she apologised and reached out. Her hands found his chest and rested upon his pounding heart. Eric’s hands found her face. He permitted himself to intertwine his fingers in her long curvy hair.

‘Okay,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘The good news is I found you. The bad news is my radio and mobile don’t work.’

‘My phone or car radio don’t work, either,’ Diana said.

‘So it wasn’t the crash that damaged it then,’ Eric said to himself.

They stood in the coils of swirling fog not saying anything.

‘Will you help me find Tulisa?’ Diana said, breaking the silence.

‘I’ll try,’ Eric said.