eight

“I still can’t believe I’m even considering this,” hissed Jemma, hovering on the corner in the shadow of the Londis.

“Go on,” Cindy prodded her. “It’s nearly time - you don’t want to miss him.”

With a sigh, Jemma ventured out onto the pavement. Cindy had insisted that she should wear a disguise and had kitted her out in a pair of ripped jeans, a denim jacket, a head scarf (to conceal her scars), an Adidas baseball cap, D&G shades and a scruffy pair of Converse All Stars. She felt ridiculous - as if she were on her way to an Aerosmith concert circa 1986. And, despite the change of outfit, there was no hiding her tell-tale hobble.

Jemma tried to act casual as she wobbled her way past the memorial gardens sans walking stick and past the Nameless Newsagents to the Harbour Café. She paused at the car park entrance as a Range Rover turned in. Steadying herself against the low curved wall, Jemma glanced down at her watch. It was ten past two. She felt a little flutter of anticipation as she approached the café steps - but the whole charade was just too bizarre to cause any real fear.

She lowered her shades and peered in through a window, partially obscured by peeling posters for Summer Spectaculars and Cymllynion Farmers Ice Cream. There were only half-a-dozen people sat inside. Two mums between school runs chatted over chocolate cake and a mini cafetiere. An elderly couple sipped tea in front of plates scattered with the remains of fish dinners. The smell of deep-fried haddock wafted out through the doors, wedged open by a rock painted with messy daisies.

At a table by the far wall a youngish man with scruffy dark hair sat with his back half-turned to the doorway, a battered rucksack on the chair beside him. Could that be him, she wondered? She turned away from the window, pushed her shades back up her nose and lowered the peak of her cap.

Across the road in the shadow of the Londis she could see Cindy frantically waving her arms at her. She wasn’t sure whether the hand gestures meant - ‘go on in’ or ‘get out of there fast’.

Jemma decided she’d done enough surreal sleuthing for one afternoon. She was going in! If rucksack boy turned out to have a hidden chisel and a wire loose, so be it. She just wanted the charade to be over.

She took off the cap and glasses, and tidied her hair and scarf in the window, so that she looked a little less like Janis Joplin on a bad trip. Then she entered the café.

Jemma lingered a moment in the doorway, looking from table to table. The chatting mums ignored her. The lady behind the counter gave her a slightly quizzical look as if to say, well are you coming in or not? Then, slowly rucksack boy swivelled in his chair to face her.

He looked slightly startled to see her standing there (maybe he hadn’t expected her to turn up).

The boy was even younger than she’d thought - barely out of his teens, she guessed. He had a slightly foreign look about him - a straggly fringe of Romany black hair and wild eyes. He clearly hadn’t shaved (or maybe washed) for a week and wore a crumpled cream T-shirt stained by careless snacks. He could quite possibly be on the run from a metal institution, thought Jemma.

The boy rose cautiously from his seat. Strangely, Jemma didn’t feel at all threatened by him. In fact, she found him rather pitiful as he stood there, shoulders slumped, looking rather guilty. And she just stood and stared back at him.

Rucksack boy seemed nervous, uncertain of what to do. Their eyes stayed locked for several seconds like two tabbies poised to pounce yet frozen on the border between territories.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked finally.

Jemma nodded slowly.

“I thought you’d come,” he said. “In the end.”

Jemma kept on staring silently at him.

“So what now?” asked the boy. “Do I just come with you?”

“Where to?” asked Jemma.

“I thought...” his voice tailed off.

A storm erupted in Jemma’s mind. The café became a blur.

“What did you think?” she snarled. “That this was some kind of game?”

“No,” said the boy, meekly. He seemed almost in tears.

“So why did you do it then?” she asked. “Why did you put me through this?”

The boy lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he shrugged. “I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

“How can you not mean to leave a wooden heart on the beach? How can you not mean to create my face and poke it in the sand...”

The boy looked confused.

Suddenly a man was stood between them in a smart shirt and black V-neck. With a jolt of surprise she realised it was Umbrella Man. She’d been hoping to bump into him for days. And here she was dressed like a groupie at a Ramones gig doing a Miss Marple on some deranged wood carver.

Umbrella Man didn’t seem at all perturbed by the situation.

“I’ll handle this,” he said with a quick nod to Jemma. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “OK son,” he said. “You’ve had your fun. Now be on your way.”

“Hey?” The boy looked even more startled. “But...”

“Come on,” said Umbrella Man. “Move it.” He picked up the boy’s rucksack and frog marched him out of the café.

Jemma watched as Umbrella Man threw the rucksack onto the pavement and gave the lad a shove that sent him sprawling in the gutter. She actually felt sorry for the poor boy. She felt she should go out and intervene somehow, explain what had happened. But it was all too strange and complicated.

She stood rooted to the spot as Umbrella Man hauled the boy to his feet and said something to him. Whatever it was it had the desired effect as the boy grabbed his rucksack and fled up with hill with a look of total terror on his face.

Umbrella Man walked calmly back into the café, brushing imaginary dust from the front of his jumper as if nothing had happened at all. A couple of years ago, in mid sales career, she would have found that type of macho intervention intolerable. But, at that precise moment, Jemma was just glad that Rucksack boy had gone and Umbrella Man was back. He held Jemma’s shoulders gently and looked deep into her eyes. His touch was one of polite detachment - as if her were carrying out a medical assessment (not that Jemma would have minded playing doctors and nurses with him).

“OK now?” he asked.

Jemma blushed. “I’m fine.” She glanced out of the window towards the hill. The boy had disappeared.

“Been troubling you had he?”

“It’s a long story,” said Jemma. “I don’t know what you said to him, but it seemed to do the trick!”

“Oh, you won’t see him again,” said Umbrella Man matter of factly.

Jemma wondered if he’d had some kind of military training. He had that bearing about him - like one of those well-bred majors you see on TV sometimes, calmly reporting from some burning far away town as sniper fire whistles past and explosions tremble the skyline.

He continued to look at her, interrogating her with his eyes.

Jemma blushed and looked away. “I was just going to have a tea,” she blurted and waved vaguely at a nearby table.

“Likewise,” said Umbrella man. He stepped smartly up to the table and pulled back the chair facing the window. “Shall we?”

“Thank you,” said Jemma. Her head span as she sat down, placing the cap and shades on the empty seat beside her. She looked over at the counter as Umbrella Man ordered the tea. He looked comfortingly solid. Jemma wished she were still how she once was.

Umbrella Man returned shortly with a tray, which he set down on the table. It was the tourist set - two cups, sugar bowl, milk jug and teapot in handmade Cymllynion china, the blue poppy pattern that the café flogged to the well-heeled out-of-season visitors (and packed away during the summer grockle onslaught). Umbrella Man poured and Jemma took her cup, fingers still trembling slightly.

He passed her a packet of biscuits. “I hope you like custard creams, it’s all they had left, except for ginger nuts. Not everyone likes ginger.”

“I don’t mind ginger,” said Jemma. “But these are fine,” she smiled.

They sipped tea for a while.

Jemma smiled and blushed again. “I expect you’re wondering what that was all about.”

Umbrella Man shrugged and swallowed. “Old boyfriend?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” said Jemma. She tugged her fringe over her forehead.

Umbrella Man nodded understandingly.

“It’s a long story.” Jemma paused. She was facing the street and could see Cindy pressing her face against the window outside.

Cindy moved back from the glass, raised her palms and mouthed, “What’s going on?”

Jemma made a discrete shooing movement with her hand.

Cindy pointed at Umbrella Man’s back. “Is that him?” she mouthed.

Jemma shook her head.

“Everything OK?” asked Umbrella Man. He turned to look over his shoulder at the café window. Cindy waved.

“It’s just a friend,” said Jemma.

“She’s very welcome to join us,” said Umbrella Man, courteously.

“It’s OK,” said Jemma. “She’s just passing.”

She waved at Cindy again with a shooing gesture. Cindy reluctantly slunk away from the window (although Jemma was certain she remained lurking in the vicinity, peeking in).

“So...” Jemma said, “Sorry, I don’t even know what to call you.”

Like a magician, Umbrella Man plucked a business card seemingly from thin air. He handed it to her. “Martin,” he said.

Jemma looked at the card. Martin Chapman, Development Manager, Cymllynion County Homes.

“You’re Jemma aren’t you?”

She looked up slightly startled.

Martin grinned. “I used to work with your stepfather, Peter Edwards. We’ve never been properly introduced, but I’ve admired you from afar.”

Her blush deepened and a billion butterflies set flight inside - like someone had shaken a giant buddleia in her midriff. Surely he was just being polite? It was just a figure of speech. Maybe she did look OK from a distance. But up close - well, there was little left to admire (unless he had a thing for split ends and scars).

“So were you in the building trade?” Jemma asked. “I can’t quite picture you as a hod carrier.”

Martin laughed, and took a gulp of tea. “No, I was a Planning Officer for the County Council, I’m afraid. Not the most glamorous of jobs. And I wasn’t too popular with all the local builders. But I always got on all right with Peter. He was always ‘straight down the middle’. Steady Eddie they used to call him.”

Jemma nodded and they made small talk for a while. She almost forgot Cindy lurking outside and why she’d come to the café in the first place.

“Oh well,” she said, as the last crumbs of conversation settled, “I suppose I should let you get on with developing some more homes.”

Martin glanced at his watch - dark hairs sprouting beneath chunky silver links around his sturdy wrist. “I’m afraid so.”

She blushed as he paused to peer into her with those startling sea blue eyes.

“Well it’s been nice meeting you again,” she said.

“A real pleasure,” he said, still gazing intently at her.

He offered her his hand. Jemma shook it politely. And although he didn’t hold it for too long (not the way an amorous Italian waiter might), it was long enough for the strong warmth of his fingers to send tingling shocks up her arms (and, if she were completely honest, a little way up her thighs). She didn’t exactly swoon (cartoon style). But her head span and her heart raced the way it had when she’d prepared to face chisel boy. Jemma tried to stay calm as she politely withdrew her hand from his grasp. But Martin must have sensed her reaction.

“You take care, now,” he said. “And if that joker shows up again, just give me a call.”

His eyes turned fierce and he was gone.

Jemma stood in the café feeling rather shell-shocked. Cindy came in.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You’ve been in here ages.”

“Sorry,” said Jemma. “He...Martin’s a friend of Peter, my mum’s new partner.”

“Oh, right,” said Cindy, nodding. She glanced out of the window. “He laid into that weird kid, didn’t he!”

“Well,” said Jemma slightly defensively. “I wouldn’t exactly say he laid into him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him,” said Cindy. “He nearly threw that kid through the wall.”

“He wasn’t really a kid,” said Jemma. “And he could have been carrying a knife or anything.” She sniffed. “I thought he was quite brave.”

“Quite bonkers,” said Cindy. “I thought he was the mad sculptor.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jemma pompously. “He’s the Development Manager for Cymllynion County Homes.”

Cindy looked blank.

“He’s a housing developer,” explained Jemma tetchily. “Just a normal bloke. He knows my family. He could see I was being hassled.” Her voice grew strained, as if she were nursing a sore throat.

Cindy shrugged.

“I just thought that he went in a bit hard, that’s all.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” snapped Jemma.

“I’m just saying,” said Cindy.

Jemma handed Cindy the cap and shades, then slipped off the denim jacket. “You better have these back,” she said.

“Whatever,” said Cindy.

Jemma felt herself calming down slightly.

“That rucksack boy’s gone now anyhow.”

“Yea, I better be off an’ all,” said Cindy. She gave Jemma a small nod goodbye and trudged off towards the Dolphin, sulkily clutching her cap and jacket.

Jemma sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have stayed in the café so long with Martin. Maybe she should have invited Cindy in. And she shouldn’t have snapped at her. She was only trying to help.

Had Jemma been able bodied, she might have chased across the car park to intercept Cindy with a smile and an apology. But with all the excitement and the sitting, her legs were like lead, and she had no choice but to watch Cindy wander off, then hobble home alone.

“Hi ya, love, do you want a word with your mother?” It was Peter who answered the phone.

“Actually, it was you I was after,” said Jemma.

“Nothing wrong with the flats is there?”

“No they’re all fine, and Lavender Spray is ready for the Alexanders tomorrow morning.” She paused. “I just bumped into a friend of yours. He asked me to pass on his regards.”

“Oh, right.”

“Martin from the Planning Department.”

“Martin?”

“Martin Chapman.”

“Oh Marty!” Peter chuckled. “Back in the area is he?”

“I guess so.”

“What’s he up to then?” asked Peter

“Nothing in particular. I just bumped into him in the harbour café and he said he knew you back in your building days.”

“Oh yes, he was all right, old Marty. Well better than most of those buggers down at the council. How do you know him then?”

“I’ve just seen him in the village,” she said vaguely. “You know walking on the beach.”

“Oh well, pass on my regards, when you see him next.”

“I expect you’ll run into him yourself,” said Jemma.

“I suppose I will,” said Peter. “It’s been a couple of years mind.”

“You mentioned he’d been away a while,” said Jemma.

“Yes, he had some family problems. You know, domestic stuff. Divorced his wife, Christine. Nice lady. I was at school with her older brother - Carwyn Jenkins.”

“The tool shop people?”

“That’s him. He was a couple of years younger than me. Christine was much younger, closer to Martin’s age.”

“Is he local then, Martin?”

“Oh yes. His grandfather was very well know - Dr Chapman. He even treated me once. I must have had chicken pox or measles or something. I remember him calling at the house. I was lying in bed with my pyjamas on and he had to lift up the top to look at my rash. He was about seventy odd by then. But back in the twenties, before they opened the Penlyn Road, he was the only kind of medical help there was in the village. He used to do operations and everything.He was like God around these parts.” He paused. “I don’t know if I should tell you this...”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, don’t be offended...I mean, you would probably have been classed as handicapped in those days, not that you were born that way...”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, before the war, during the depression when things were much harder for local people Dr Chapman had a certain reputation.”

“What reputation?”

“Well if anyone had a child born with any kind of deformity or health problem it created a lot of problems for the families. Children hardly went to school in those days - maybe only for a couple of hours. Families depended on them being able to help with the harvest and collecting firewood. And when the mines in Trechelly closed, most families were literally starving. They couldn’t afford to care for that type of child...”

“So they’d be sent off to some kind of orphanage.”

“It was a bit more severe than that I’m afraid.”

“How?”

Peter lowered his voice. “They were put down.”

“By Dr Chapman?”

“So they say.”

“What, he’d just smack them on the head with a shovel or something or drown them in a sack like kittens?”

“Nothing like that. It was all done humanely. Not that anyone ever spoke about it. Well not at first, anyhow...”

“What do you mean, not at first?”

“Well some thought that he got a little over zealous,” said Peter.

“Go on.”

“Well you know the gypsy camp up on the Penlyn Road.”

“Yea.”

“Well, back in the thirties, after the mines shut, a lot of the local men were forced to go away in search of work and the women had to fend for themselves. The gypsy lads would be round selling vension and rabbits they’d poached. In fact, they could pretty much get anything you wanted for a price. Trouble was none of the women had any money, so there was a lot of carrying on. And some of wives in the village started having babies with darker hair and eyes.”

“I see.”

“Most of the village men were heavy drinkers and there was a lot of anger in them after the mines went. And if they found out their wives had had a gypsy baby, they’d probably end up killing them. At the very least they’d become outcasts, shunned by the rest of the village. So Dr Chapman used to help out.”

“You mean if someone had a perfectly healthy baby, but it looked a bit like a gypsy he’d kill it too?”

“No one really knew what happened to them.”

“Maybe he took them back to the gypsies or an orphanage or something,” said Jemma, reluctant to consider the grisly alternative.

“Maybe he did,” said Peter. “Of course, after the war things changed. Dr Chapman was always a bit of a maverick. But what with the NHS and everything, he pretty much stopped the home surgery. He was more or less like a local GP.”

“Good grief. And so Dr Death was Martin’s grandad?”

“For God’s sake don’t say anything like that to Martin.”

“I wouldn’t. But he does sound like a bit of a Hitler.”

Peter looked shocked. “Good God, No!” he snapped. “He was a decent man trying to do what was best in difficult times. Besides, there was no alternative back then. Not like now. Now they keep them all alive. It’s very sad. But when you see the state of some of them, what Dr Chapman did was a kindness.”

Jemma was almost speechless. But there was no sense in arguing with Peter. As he said, it was another world back then. “Well, I won’t mention anything to Martin.”

“I wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Locals of our generation know all about it. But it’s not something that anyone ever talks about.”

“No, I can’t imagine it is,” said Jemma.

Jemma lay on the bed gazing up at the swirling patterns of artex. She’d paid a small fortune to have a man plaster over the ceilings in her old flat. Now she found the patterns strangely comforting. She certainly needed comforting.

She should be feeling pleased (or, at least, relieved). It had been three days since her encounter in the café. She’d ventured out onto the beach that morning and walked along to the slipway and back down the parade. There were no more messages on the sand, no wooden body parts and no sign of rucksack boy. There’d also been no sign of Cindy. And no word from Martin.

She felt such a fool to think either of them might care about her as anything more than a passing acquaintance - a ‘token spastic’ staggering through their lives.

Jemma hobbled down to the kitchen and ate three yoghurts. Then she took two co-codamol 60s and crept back to her duvet and the oblivion of hollow slumber.

Next morning, she had to struggle out to clean the flats. Everything ached, but she soldiered on with her squirting and sweeping and polishing. On the way back to Lavender Spray she glimpsed Cindy in the seconds shop. On impulse (rather like the eponymous deo adverts) Jemma decided to go and buy Cindy some flowers.

She felt uninspired by the selection of wilting posies in plastic buckets outside the greengrocers, so instead brought Cindy a painted flower windmill embellished with a wooden bee with springy eyes.

Jemma felt slightly foolish hobbling into the clothes shop with the windmill. But she mustered up a slice of her old sales courage and approached the counter with a smile.

“All right?” muttered Cindy, with a cursory nod, obviously still in a grump. “What you got there?”

“It’s a windmill,” said Jemma. “I thought you might like it.” She steadied herself on her walking stick - swooning slightly in the musty heat of the shop - and passed the gift to Cindy.

“Thanks,” she muttered, grudgingly, her expression still morose. She tossed the windmill to one side of the till.

In the parade a van changed gear noisily. Two local grannies gossiped by the sweater rack in hushed library tones. Cindy picked the price tags from a pile of checked scarves.

Jemma forced another smile. “Look - about the other day at the café.”

“I ain’t bothered,” said Cindy, still looking down at the scarves.

“I shouldn’t have stayed in there so long. It just got complicated.”

“S’all right,” said Cindy. She stopped picking and looked up.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly,” said Jemma. “That boy’s not been back.”

Cindy raised an eyebrow as if to say she wasn’t surprised after the way Martin had laid into him. “Good,” she said.

“So, anyway, I won’t keep you. I can see you’ve got customers.” Jemma nodded at the two grannies still quietly gossiping.

Cindy nodded.

“I guess I’ll bump into you in the Parade sometime then,” said Jemma gathering her stick.

“Yea, I guess so.” said Cindy.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” said Jemma. She smiled again.

“Yea, see ya,” mumbled Cindy.

“Yea, see you soon.” Jemma turned and limped off, her smile falling away the instant her back was turned.

She was almost at the door when Cindy called out. “Take care then.”

Jemma looked back over her shoulder. With a sheepish smile, Cindy waved the windmill like a wand. Jemma returned the wave and eased her way out into the chill of the Parade.

She’d just crossed the road when she heard hurried footsteps behind her - not the threatening clumping of a man, but the lighter pitter patter of a lady or girl. She turned with a smile expecting to see Cindy, but it was the girl who’d served her in the café the previous week.

She was clutching three wooden flowers - a rose, an orchid and a daffodil. “I’ve got these for you,” said the café girl. “They were left by table after you’d gone last week. I kept them for you.”

Jemma’s heart raced. “They’re not mine.”

“They were where you were sitting.”

Jemma stared at the immaculate carvings - part of her entranced by their delicate beauty, part of her sickened.

“They’re nothing to do with me.”

“Maybe your boyfriend left them.”

“You mean that freak with the rucksack?” said Jemma, pulling a face.

“No, not him, Mr Chapman, the one you had tea with.”

Jemma blushed. “He’s just a family friend.”

“Well, he must have left them for you. They weren’t there before. I’d only just cleared the table.”

“I hardly think so,” Jemma snapped snootily.

“Look just take them,” said the café girl. She shoved the wooden flowers into Jemma’s arms. “If you don’t want them, give them back to Mr Chapman.”

“Hey!” said Jemma. The café girl flounced off.

Jemma sighed and stood there cradling the flowers in the crook of her arm. She hadn’t meant to be so short with the girl from the café. It was just she’d really thought everything was settled. The last thing she needed was a bouquet in freshly carved beech, gaping up at her like a new wound.

Momentarily turning knock-kneed to clasp the walking stick between her legs, Jemma carefully picked the wooden flowers from her sleeve and held them in cupped palms. There was something sensual, almost sexual about them. She shuddered and shoved them hurriedly into her coat pocket, then returned to the clothes shop.

Cindy seemed surprised to see Jemma as she jangled back into the shop, but smiled more warmly this time. Jemma waited as Cindy finished serving a man a faux-Adidas track top (stitched for a penny in some Bangladeshi sweat shop). Then she emptied the carved flowers from her pocket.

“They’re beautiful,” said Cindy, not sure if they were a further peace offering. She traced a finger gently along the edge of a wooden petal.

“They’re from him,” hissed Jemma.

“Who?”

“You know - Rucksack Boy. The one with the golden chisel.”

“I thought you said he’d gone,” said Cindy.

“I thought he had. But I’m not so sure now. The girl in the harbour café just gave these to me. She said she found them after I left last week.”

“You mean he came back?” asked Cindy.

“I guess he must have done,” said Jemma. “But we would have seen him, surely.”

“Maybe he left them on the seat next to you, and you just never noticed them. I mean he probably brought them to give to you.” Cindy picked up the orchid. “I wish someone would make me something like this. My boyfriends never give me anything except grief.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And, believe me, these are not the kind of gifts you’d want. It’s just too weird for words!” Jemma’s shoulders slumped. “I thought it was all sorted, and now I’m really worried he’s still lurking around somewhere.”

Cindy murmured sympathetically. “Maybe you should tell the police about it. You know, just in case.”

“I’m not sure there’s a law that covers unsolicited wood carvings,” said Jemma.

“It’s still harassment though, isn’t it,” said Cindy. “Someone has to tell the guy, enough is enough.”

“I guess, I should call them,” said Jemma. “All these wooden things. They do seem to be deliberately left for me. I mean, the face - that’s just so blatant.”

“Totally,” said Cindy. “Why don’t you go home now, have a coffee and make a quick call to the Police Station in Penlyn. At least they can give you some advice?”

“You’re right,” said Jemma. “I will.”

“I would,” said Cindy. “Defo!”

Jemma sat in her big chair. She was cocooned in her comfort cardigan. The phone lay in her lap. The wooden offerings, the encounter on the beach and in the café, swam in her head like fragments of some strange bad dream. Calling the police, making a statement, would somehow piece those jumbled thoughts and fears together and turn them into something scarily solid. She wasn’t sure if she could face that yet. But what option did she have?

Jemma took a deep breath and dialled the number. There was a recorded message.

Thank you for calling Cymllynion Police. We are dedicated to dealing with all crimes in a robust yet sensitive manner. If you are calling regarding an existing criminal investigation please press 1 and ensure that you have your crime number ready, so that we can deal promptly with you enquiry. If you are reporting a new crime, please press 2. For any other enquiry please press 3.

The message was then repeated in Welsh.

Christ, thought Jemma. I’m glad there’s not a burglar in the house. Mind you, then she would have called 999. She presumed Cymllynion emergency services had a shorter message. Maybe they even had a human being to answer the phone. She sighed and pressed 2.

“Hello, crime desk.” It was a gruff sounding male voice (obviously more on the robust side of the crime solving spectrum).

“Oh hello. Yes. I live in Nant Llwyfen.” She paused.

“Yesss,” the voice sounded slightly sardonic.

Jemma was already beginning to wish she could talk to another robot. “Well, it’s difficult to explain really, but I was trying to report or, you know, discuss something with Penlyn police station.”

“You’d like to report a crime?”

“Yes, I suppose I would. I’m kind of being harassed.”

“Right so you’d like to report an allegation of harassment.”

“Yes.”

“And are you the victim?”

“Yes.”

“And your name is?”

“Jemma Webber.”

“And you full address in Nant Llwyfen please.”

“Number three, The Chalets, The Parade, Nant Llwyfen, WT52 6DQ”

“Nice spot.”

“Yes, it is. Lovely in summer.”

“I would imagine so. So, are you are currently on holiday?”

“No I live there all the time.”

“And are you employed at the moment.”

“I was in IT Sales, but I had a car accident. I just do a bit of cleaning part-time at the moment. My family has a few holiday properties in the village. Not loads. Some flats and a couple of cottages. I help out”

“So you’re a cleaner?”

“Yes, kind of.”

“OK. When did the alleged incident of harassment take place.”

“Well it’s sort of been going on a while.”

“When was the most recent incident?”

“Uhmm, today I guess.”

“You don’t sound totally sure.”

“It’s complicated to explain.”

“Just take your time and tell me precisely what happened today.” The voice sounded a little bored.

“Well, it all started a few days ago when I was walking on the beach.”

“OK Madam, we can get to that. If you’d just state what exactly happened today that actually prompted you to report the incident to us.”

“Well this is going to sound slightly silly. But the girl in the café by the harbour, gave me some wooden flowers that she said I must have left behind there, but...”

“OK Madam if you can just focus on the actual incident of harassment.”

“Well, that was it, really. I mean it’s not just the flowers. It was a wooden hand and a heart, a horrible thing, and the face. Actually my face. That’s what really made me think it was specifically aimed at me. You know, not just some random wooden carvings that had washed up on the beach.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Hello...” said Jemma.

“OK, I’m just going to transfer you to PC Chalmers at Penlyn. “

“Right, OK, yes, thank you.”

The phone line buzzed with occasional bleeps and whirs. Jemma could still hear muffled voices, and something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Eventually a woman’s voice answered. “Hello, Sally Chalmers.”

“Oh yes, hello. Is that Penlyn Police Station?”

“Yes, this is PC Chalmers. Can I help?”

“Well I was just explaining to your colleague about some items I found on the beach at Nant Llwyfen.”

“OK, can I take you name please.”

“Yes, it’s Jemma Webber.”

“And your address?”

“I just gave that to the man, the first man I spoke to. I really just wanted some advice.”

“I’ll still need to take you full address please.”

“OK, right, sorry. It’s Number three, The Chalets, The Parade, Nant Llwyfen, WT52 6DQ.”

“And you’d like to report some items that you found on the beach there?”

“Yes, kind of. It’s a long story.”

“Was there any identification with the items? A credit card or driving licence?”

“No they were all wooden.”

“Wooden?”

“Carvings. But...”

“Wooden carvings?”

“Yes. Different parts of the body - a hand and a heart and...”

“And these were washed up on the beach?”

“Well it was more like they were placed there. I mean, they’re not lost property. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

PC Chalmers sighed audibly. “OK. Well, if you’d like to bring the items into us, and if anyone reports them missing...”

“I don’t think they will.”

“And why do you say that?”

“It was like they were kind of left for me.”

“Left for you?”

“Well, I’m fairly sure there’s a man who’s watching me.”

“Can you describe this man?”

“Well, I’ve only met him once at the harbour café. He’s a young man with stubble - white, slightly gypsy looking, mid-twenties probably. I can’t be one hundred per cent certain it’s him who left the wooden hand and the heart. But then he actually carved my own face and he began writing messages on the sand and...”

“OK Jemma,” PC Chalmers interrupted her. “Are you in contact with the Cymllynion Health Trust at this present time?”

“No, I was in hospital for a few weeks after I had a car accident, and then the rehab unit. But I don’t see how that’s really relevant.”

“And are you on any prescribed medication at the moment?”

“Well I have some tablets that I take for headaches, co-codamol.” She paused.

“Any other medication?” asked the policewoman.

Jemma paused again, uncertain whether she should tell the police about the epilepsy tablets that rattled unopened in her handbag. Was it a criminal offence to keep on picking up prescriptions without actually taking them? She played it safe. “Hmm, not really.”

“Well maybe you should contact your GP and mention some of these thoughts you’ve been having.”

She suddenly twigged where the conversation was headed.

“I’m not mental,” she said. “There really is a man. He made a carving of my face - a lifelike carving! He’s the one with the psychiatric problems, not me.”

“OK,” said the PC politely, slowly stressing every second syllable. “Well, Jemma. If you know who the owner of the wooden items is then you should return them to him.”

“He’s a bloody psychopath?” snapped Jemma, erupting with frustration.

“Jemma, listen to me. It sounds as if you really need to go and see your GP, OK?”

“But he’s...”

“Thank you for your call Jemma. I can only advise you if you don’t get on with this man, just to stay clear of him. That way you’ll avoid getting yourself into trouble.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No Jemma, you haven’t. But promise me you’ll go and see your GP.”

Jemma sighed. “Look just forget I ever called OK?”

“OK Jemma. It’s up to you. You take care now.”

“Thanks so much,” said Jemma sarcastically. “You’ve been a great help.” She put the phone down.

Shit. She knew this would happen. It was all just too complicated to explain. Now what? Wait patiently for the delivery of more carvings or psycho sculptor boy or men in white coats to turn up on her doorstep?

Jemma gazed across the room and spied the white rectangle of Umbrella man’s business card on the mantlepiece. She placed the phone on the floor, rose to her feet stiffly and then returned to the chair with the card.

She tapped in his mobile number.

He answered almost immediately. “Martin Chapman.”

Her grip tightened on the phone. She felt like she was choking.

“Hello. Can you hear me OK? You’ve come through to Martin’s phone. Hello?”

Jemma covered the receiver as she clutched the handset to her bosom, then gently returned it to its silver plastic cradle.

Read more...

Flesh and Wood is © Copyright Roger Frederick 2005-2009 All Rights Reserved