I heaved into the white basin, luckily for what seemed to be for the last time. Groaning, I lifted my head upwards, running long, thin fingers into my newly bleached hair. Dry to the touch, it stuck up erratically as my friend behind me laughed.
“Feel any better?” Fiona asked, taking a swig from the brown bottle she held in her right hand, the other carrying two hand bags.
“S’pose so.” I replied, wiping the back of my hand against my mouth. “Got any gum?”
“Yeah, one sec.” Fiona stated, digging through one of the hand bags. “Wait, ugh. Can you hold yours now?”
I grabbed the black leather bag from Fiona’s outstretched hand, whilst the redhead continued to rummage aggressively through the other, periwinkle one.
“Fucking hell! I can never fucking find anything- Oh! Here you go.” She passed the pack of gum over, as I stood up. The two of us had very little room to move, practically crushed together in the cubicle, our large, faux feather stuffed coats infringing on our personal space to an even more uncomfortable degree. Banging on the cubicle door made us whip our heads to the sound, with me quickly leaning over to unlock the door.
“Feeling anything yet?” Maxie asked, grinning from ear to ear. Quickly whipping off his sunglasses, he snorted. “Jesus Christ, Alys, you look horrible.”
“Thanks, can you move so we can, you know.” I ushered, pushing Fiona forward so that she could make her way over to the sink. Booming Techno music grew muffled as the bathroom door shut, which relieved me slightly from my awful headache. I placed my hands under the sink, and continued. “And to your question, no. I think I must’ve thrown it all up. I always do.”
“Hey! This is good stuff! Tracks promised me.” Maxie exclaimed, half-offended, and half-coming-up-too-hard-enough-to-care.
“I don’t think anything that comes out of the mouth of someone that calls them ‘Tracks’ can be taken seriously.” Fiona giggled, before whispering to Maxie. “But yeah, I feel it.”
I wiped my hands on my velvet trousers, sighing at my predicament. “Maybe I will, soon. Hopefully.” I turned to the pair before me. “Maxie, how are you even in here?”
“Gender neutral bathroom, Girlie.” He winked, before throwing his hand up to grip his jaw. “Jesus, I think Tracks was actually on the money this time.”
Scoffing, we pulled the loser with us, emerging back into the club’s dance floor. Bright, fluorescent lights meeting my eyes, blinding me for no more than 3 seconds. ‘Better Off Alone,’ by Alice Deejay plays, as Maxie begins to spin his two ‘favourite women’ around the room.
I feel it. My body tingles, and suddenly everything looks so much prettier; better; the best it’s ever been, ever, for real, like! Love seeps from my pores, and I can’t help but kiss both of my friends on the lips, not like it mattered. The droning Techno has become one solid frequency. Everything is the best ever, once again, and then- -I woke up.
It was the next day, and my train is due in an hour. Paddington. Massive trek from my haunt in Isle of Dogs.“Fuck.” I state, rather than shout. Everything ached, stung, made-you-want-to-cry. I scrubbed myself together, and thanked myself for having packed the evening prior. DLR. Tube. Victoria Coach Station. Get on the Coach. Food from BK before. Fine. Sleep on the Coach. Hopefully no one sits next to me. Hopefully they don’t stop for an hour again, like last time. I sat down in my seat, staring out of the window the entire journey.
Being 22 in London didn’t give me many favours, especially with my Psychology degree - turns out, people do give a shit if your voice makes you sound ‘stupid.’ Apparently the Welsh accent doesn’t help with job applications, especially after Uni.
I looked at the text from my brother.
‘Dad’s picking you up near Bangor Station. Pub later?’
I was ready to text back, but the heaviness in my eyelids distracted me momentarily.
‘Yeah, no issues on my end. Should be fine for 4:37 PM. And sure’. I texted back, placing my phone face-down on my fold-up table before me. I played ‘Better Off Alone’ on my phone to my headphones, before shutting my eyes to rest.
I slept soundly throughout the entire journey. I dreamt about how much I’d missed. The farm, the pubs; Lynn who’d served me since I was 13 because the older woman fancied her Dad. Good times. A cough awoke me from my slumber.
Eyes fluttering open, I looked upward to see the Coach driver in the aisle, who grinned a nearly-toothless smile at me.
“Gosh, aren’t you a heavy sleeper?” He chuckled, before emerging into a fit of coughs.
A smoker. “We’ve arrived, I believe your father is the one stood outside waiting?”
I stood up instantly, uttering apologies to the older man with a deeply croaking voice. “No worries, wish I could sleep as well as you do.”
He chuckled once more, the same low, rasping noise rattling around his chest. I followed the driver off the Coach, apologising one last time before greeting my Dad with a hug.
“Wow, Sunshine, love the hair.” Dad exclaimed, ruffling it about until it stuck out awkwardly from all ends.
“Really? Thought you would’ve hated it?” I asked, shutting the boot to the truck my Dad drove. He smiled, eyes and smile-lines wrinkling.
“No, no. Not at all. Quite the city mouse now, it suits you.”
Ah, there it was. Mouse. The nickname my father had branded me with ever since I left my mother’s womb. Possibly, though not to my knowledge, even before I was a mere twinkle in his eye. The drive was long, but not boring. Quite the contrary. Despite my father, Dafydd, being quite young to have a 22 year old youngest child, he still had an old soul, one which refused to own any sort of mobile phone. He’d gone and impregnated my mother when they were both just 17, months before their exams. Despite a rather intense beating from his father-in-law, and a heavily pregnant girlfriend, he’d done marginally better than anyone else in his sleepy town ever had done before. He took to working on a lamb farm, and within a year or so it had been left to him, allowing a stable-enough income to support his then-wife, and their newborn son, Llewellyn. I came into existence just under 2 years later. A hearty laugh from my father caused me to crack a smile, as we drove through the winding country lanes. He saddened, and the proud twitch of my father’s mouth caused my heart to sink slightly, bracing myself for the inevitable words that would leave his mouth.
“You look more and more like your mother everyday.” He said, eyes never wandering from the road before him.
I stilled awkwardly; bracing myself for such quips never worked, despite how hard I tried. My mother was a beautiful woman; known by all the men in the village for her long, red curls and buttoned nose. ‘Lips like rose-petals’: a phrase etched into my mind from the moment I could consciously understand such words. My mother was a sight to behold, and, despite passing before I could truly know her outside of her warmth, she had unknowingly and unintentionally cast a cloud of suffering over her daughter. By contrast, I looked like her aunt, her father’s sister, who had a crooked face and a scrawny build. The red-hair was unceremoniously passed down to my brother, who took after his mother’s beauty and father’s handsome ruggedness, and I suffered with plain looks; naturally mousy hair and an unnoticeable demeanour. Hence the bleach. With all these factors playing against me, I never felt anything but eyes filled with judgment and comparison from all those who knew my parents.
“I mean it. I know you don’t think so, but your mannerisms, they’re the same. You’re Marie’s daughter, alright.” Dad nodded assuringly, noticing my grimace.
“Thanks, I suppose.” I responded, albeit more curtly than I’d desired. The drive grew more silent for a while, and I looked to my phone.
A text from Fiona. ‘Tell your brother I say hi xx’
My lips pulled back, nose scrunched to snort, but was suddenly stopped by my heart skipping a beat. My father had halted suddenly to a stop. Lurching forward, I put a hand on the dashboard to still myself, inhaling sharply.
“Jesus. Sorry.” Dad said, unbuckling his seatbelt to leave the car. I watched as he grew closer to the mass on the road. Being winter, the roads were dark, leaving very little to see from the safety of my father’s truck. I watched in horror as my father, quite the iron stomach, hurled onto the ground beside the mass. I burst from the passenger side, running over to my father to help him in his vulnerability.
“Dad, are you ok? What-“ I stopped, my eyes settling on the mass. It was a ram… well, the remains of one anyway. The smell was sickening, something I could only imagine the inside of a van transporting butcher meat would smell like. The smell was certainly not rotting, despite what the carcass may have implied. Just… tainted meat. “Dad…”
“Get back into the car, fuck!” I have rarely heard my father sound so distressed, so desperate. I wanted to listen to him; everything in my gut telling me to simply obey his words.
But I couldn’t. Stepping closer to the remains before me, my breath hitched when I saw what it was that made my father lose his lunch. The ram had no eyes. No blood around the face, like if birds had taken them. The body certainly was fresh enough to bleed if they had; the pool of red liquid spitting from an artery in its leg evident as such. Yet this wasn’t enough to make me, and especially my father ill. It was the mouth of the ram, opened up into a silent, statuesque screech. Tongue bared back, with jaws stretched open far, as if a final, terrified bleat was the last thing to leave its throat. I turned on my heels, and moved back toward the passenger seat, sitting down to try and rationalise what I’d seen. The thud of the door closing, and my father starting the engine snapped me out of my thoughts, and, eyes darting to the road lit up by headlights before me, noticed the corpse had been moved away from sight.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Dad said, his strong hands shaking as he gripped the steering wheel. He inhaled deeply, before driving once again. The smell of vomit hit my nose, and the realisation that the beard my father clad was no help to the odour.
“Dad…” I whispered, my throat too tight for the words to come out anything but a wrangled mess.
“We need to talk. It’s nothing serious, but…” He trailed off, knuckles whitening by the second as his grip on the wheel increased. “I’m glad you’re home, I am, but once Christmas passes, it’s safer for you to be in London.”
I gulped. My father was never this serious. He was a light-hearted man, who, no matter what hardships were hurled his way by whatever cruel God had it out for him, managed to keep a sunny demeanour. Now he was steeped in a dark cloud, one which remained present for the rest of the journey.
-
“Ah, the runt has returned!” Llewellyn cheered, embracing me in a hug that almost squeezed the life out of me. Chuckling, I beckoned to be released, before Dafydd, our father, brushed past into the kitchen. The familiar sound of a bottle-cap clanging onto the ground, followed by a soft curse in order to pick it up ensued.
“What’s Dad’s issue?” Llewellyn asked, quirking a bushy, dark-red brow at his father’s brusque behaviour.
“We saw a… um, ram’s body on the journey.” I responded, kicking my shoes off. Llewellyn’s expression darkened, and, looking off to the side, he uttered a grunt in acknowledgement. Quickly, his lopsided grin returned, picking up her bags to take them upstairs.
“Still up for the pub in a bit then?” Although it was a question, it came out more like a confirmation.
“Yeah… um, Dad?” I called out, to which a slight hum responded from the kitchen. “What’s for tea?”
“Nothing, really. Sorry, mouse, didn’t have much time - hey, why don’t I give you some cash and you can grab some food from Takdir’s?”
“You sure?” I replied, still unable to see my father from where I stood in the hallway.
“Yeah, of course. Get a keema naan for me to warm up for tomorrow.” He said, his sing-song voice calling out. Llewellyn trotted down the stairs, grinning excitedly.
“We’ll be at the Cart, Dad. Heard you’re pining for a naan?” My brother quizzed, wiggling his brows.
“Tell Lynn, once again, she’s like a sister to me. And yeah, keema. Wait, I never said you could have anything, you’ve got enough cash to feed yourself!” Dafydd’s voice called, as Llewellyn ushered me out of the house.
“Love you!” Llewellyn yelled back, before slamming the door behind him. Turning his face back to mine, his grin grew wider. “You are not going to believe the stuff that’s happened.”
Llewellyn was a gay man. Something he never told anyone, bar his Grindr hookups, close friends, and, of course, his little sister. The switch in voice was phenomenal; around his father he opted for a more masculine code-switch, yet around me, a sweeter, softer voice emerged. I could never understand his mind; it wasn’t as though Dafydd would care if his son was gay, nor would it ever affect his life working as a lamb-farmer alongside him. But Llewellyn didn’t like the notion of being the ‘only gay in the village,’ which would lead to quite the gossip amongst the older, sullen religious folk in the community.
“I hate that you fake that voice. He probably knows already, you’ve had enough women throw themselves at your feet for him to not grasp some idea.” I stated, crossing my arms for warmth. North Wales was cold, and my thin leather jacket gave no relief from it. Llewellyn hummed, his perfect teeth glinting under the street-lamp lights.
“Anyway.” I started again, teeth biting at the chapped skin on my lips. “What’s been happening, then?”
Llewellyn chuckled, before turning his body to walk backward, addressing me face on.
“Mate, you could not - would not, even believe what’s happening.” He sniffed, nose red from the chill. “Bad stuff. Weird stuff. Religious nut-jobs are having a field day.”
“Alright, that’s clarifying.” Sarcasm dripped from my voice. Llewellyn snorted.
“Fucking hell, sarky much?” He resumed walking normally, beside me. “The rams at the farm are dying. No eyes, like something plucked them out.”
I shivered. “That’s what we saw with the ram on the road here.”
“How far away?”
“About 30 mins before we got home, to the farm.” I stated, and Llewellyn stopped walking. “Wait, how are we getting to the Cart again?”
“Mill’s taking us.” He said abruptly. “Are you sure its eyes weren’t in its head?”
“What?”
“The ram. On the road with Dad. Are you sure it didn’t have eyes?” He questioned, eyes never leaving his phone as he texted.
“Yeah. I’m sure. What? Is there suddenly some Welsh chupacabra about?” I joked, but my brother’s solemn face made me realise there was, apparently, nothing to laugh about in this situation.
“You shouldn’t stress about it, but yeah, it looks like it.” Llewellyn stated, before his eyes gleamed. “Ah, Millie’s here!”
A 2011, cobalt blue Subaru halted before us, the window pulled down. An androgynous face looked back at us, a handsome smirk across slender features.
“Alright, Llew? And Alys, don’t you look old, haven’t seen you in yonks.” My face grew warm, recognising the person before me. The prettiest girl in college, who became friends with Llewellyn, after both revealed, rather drunkenly to one another, that they could care less about the opposite sex. Soon after Millie cut off all their long, black hair, and began dressing in a more masculine manner, which suited their tall, slender form.
And, to top it all off, they were my first crush.
“Backseat, missus!” Llewellyn chided, patting me on the back. Grumbling, but realising I didn’t have much authority amongst my older brother and his friend, I plonked myself down comfortably in the backseat.
“Do you mind stopping at Takdir’s on the way back? Haven’t had dinner and me Dad’s gagging for a keema.” Llewellyn asked, promptly kissing Millie on the cheek. “Pretty please Mills?”
“Sure thing, sweet thang.” A horribly inaccurate Louisiana accent drawled out from Millie’s lips. “I haven’t been to Takdir’s in ages. Also, have you, er…”
“Told her? Not yet, reckon she might need a pint to line the stomach.” Llewellyn looked back, wiggling his brows.
I scoffed, but continued to look out of the window, peering upon the vast green landscape. The grass and shrubbery of farmland glistened ever so slightly; the moon illuminating the frosted over blades. The hills were still and silent as they had ever been, and ever will be. It was a landscape I was sure I could draw from memory, even if I hadn’t seen it since the Christmas before. It was as much a part of me as the blood that rushed through my veins was, and I often ponder about whether, in some previous life, I may have known it then as well.
Suddenly something foreign crept up my spine; an icy, foreboding feeling that didn’t usually coincide with looking at the picturesque scene before me. Like something was amiss, yet I couldn’t explain why; I couldn’t determine - Breath bubbled in the back of my throat, a painful lump harshly pressed against my oesophagus. I saw it.
It was only a glimpse. Thinking back to it, did I even see anything at all? It seemed that, in the exact moment I’d allowed my brain to process it, the figure had vanished into thin air, the feeling dissolving with it. What could it have been? A farmer? But why would they be out so late? They wouldn’t have disappeared like that? A ghost? Don’t be ridiculous. But it was white, and shiny? I don’t think ghosts are shiny. So what then, I don’t think my mind conjured it up. It mostly certainly did, that’s the most logical reason. The back and forth in my mind distracted me from realising that the Subaru had come to a halt, parked swiftly in front of the pub.
“Oi, stop daydreaming, we’re here.” Llewellyn chuckled, opening her car door for me.
The Old Horse and Cart.‘
The Ol_ ____s_ _n_ Cart’.
The pub’s sign needed to be repaired. I felt my shoes stick slightly to the floor; spilt beer that had yet to be mopped up. The pub was warm and cosy, and the musky smell of barrelled liquor tickled my nostrils.“Pint of Guinness, and - what did you want?” Llewellyn turned, and I took a quick glance at the pub’s taps.“Cider, please.”
“Oh, Alys!” A rough, feminine voice called out, and Lynn shot me a smile from behind the bar, nodding as she put the pint of Guinness down for it to settle. “I didn’t realise you were back yet. Home for Christmas?”
I smiled, my lips pulled sheepishly into a thin line. Lynn was a friendly woman, who took kindly to the two siblings. Whether it was on part due to her clear infatuation with our father, or if she truly extended pleasantries to us because of the goodness of her heart, it didn’t really matter. In a home town as cold as ours was, any warmth was welcome. Lynn’s hair was as black as her eyes; and as the smudged eyeliner that never seemed to be removed. Tattooed brows and a sleeve, she didn’t mess about, and held the Cart together as a master does with their hound.
“The young’n should’ve stayed in London.” A gruff man stood at the bar slurred out, swigging from his pint glass.“Gareth!” Lynn scorned, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t listen to him - here.” She passed the pint of golden, fizzing liquid toward her, which I noted was a tad warmer than what she would’ve preferred.
“It’s true. Bad things round these parts. Omens.” Gareth replied, shaking his head. A plump man with a swollen stomach, Gareth was a regular at the Cart. A dairy farmer who’s taste for cheese clearly took a toll on his weight. He snorted, his shining red nose rippling as he did so. I prodded further.
“What do you mean?” I enquired, turning to look up at the mountain of a man. “Is this about the rams?”Gareth coughed slightly, casting a glassy look toward me, pondering onto what to say. Lynn continued to watch us warily, and Llewellyn interjected.
“Ah, Alys, I said I would explain -“
“You’ve seen one.” Gareth stated, using two fingers to beckon Lynn to pour him another pint. “I can tell, you’ve got an air of dread to you.”
“It seems everyone here has.” I continued, maintaining my urgency to figure out what exactly had happened in my absence. “What is it - what’s going on?”
Gareth sighed, thanking Lynn for the fresh pint and taking a swig, wiping the foam from his lip with the meat of his palm. “Lambing season. We saw some miracles. Many ewes had twins, some even triplets. Some… had siamese lambs; lambs stuck together in unfortunate ways, though none that died. Many had to be put down, for complication reasons - but all lived through the birth regardless. Perhaps they would’ve gone to let live f’longer, but no butcher wants siamese meat.”
“Then the rams started to grow sick. They grew weak, but the ewes grew fat, and milk was fine. The rams’ skin began to hang off their bones, and their bleats rang through the night. Painful, screeching bleats. Your father spent many a night here, for stress relief.”
He hesitated for a moment. “It got better. Rams began to get better, and healthier. But many rams died. It couldn’t have been the feed, nor the water or the ewes would’ve grown ill as well. My sheep were also fine, and their milk made for good cheese. Your father called other sheep farms nearby, and none of them faced any issues. It seemed to be just here, in this dreary place. Summer proved to be a better time for us all, but as Autumn came, the rams… began to turn up dead - bloodied and fresh corpses with… well, you saw it. No need to put everyone off their supper.” Gareth drank, and suddenly his pint was empty again. I noted that the pub grew silent, and Lynn, as quiet as a mouse, replaced the glass in Gareth’s hand with a new one, moving quick to wipe the surfaces to busy herself. Llewellyn hummed lowly.
“I think that’s all you need to hear, now Alys?” He smiled, though it held a warning quality to it. I nodded, and soon the pub was filled with mirth once again.
-
“That’ll be £12.49, Sir.” Amaar said, holding a palm out. In this economy, it’s no surprise that small takeaways are choosing cash over card payment. Llewellyn handed the cash over, winked, and proceeded to check the bag, to make sure nothing was missing. Amaar blushed.
“Thanks again, Mills.” Llewellyn gushed, sweetly smiling at the taller woman, who offered only a wafting hand in response.
“Yeah, yeah. Let me just -“
A crack, followed by a smear. An egg had been thrown against the front of Takdir’s shop. And then another one. Crack, crack. Crack.
“It’s because of you people being here. God is pure, and he does not recognise Mohammad!” A shrill voice squealed from behind the glass. A group of white, toothless individuals came close enough to be viewed by the eye, pasting posters to the egg-sodden windows.Another voice croaked.
“It’s brown cunts like you causing this! The loss of life. Is it halal to take out their eyes?” It cried, and a gammon stuck his tongue out whilst snarling. “We know God protects us, repent. REPENT!”
Amaar spoke in Hindi to his uncle, who was confused to what the crazed mob were saying outside. His uncle and cousins grabbed brooms and mops, attempting to push back against the group who were berating them so. The crash of glass and a sickening scream rang out, and through the chaos, I realised a molotov cocktail was thrown into the takeaway. Llewellyn grabbed the fire extinguisher, and sprayed it not only on the small fire that had broken out, but also turned it upon the mob of wrong doers. My head felt mute, like everything was moving in slow motion. The grip of Millie’s hand on my wrist pulled me both literally and figuratively out of the horrified daze, and I came to back in the back seat of that same Subaru.
It was a silent journey. I looked out of the window, but the drink had dulled my senses. The hills didn’t look as still, and the trees moved to the beat of my ever-racing heart. I feared it. The growing dread in my stomach bloomed once more, and I had to draw my eyes to my knees, in case the scenery passing by, or even the road, spooked me once more. The car came to a halt, and still nothing was said. The shuffle of feet and averted gazes spoke enough to fill the silence.With a shaken turn of the lock, we entered, greeted with the unexpected blare of radio noise.
“Dad?” I called, nervously, kicking off my shoes. I was met with a hush. Llewellyn looked at me, concerned, and we walked into the kitchen. A myriad of bottles littered the table, and our father, Dafydd, stared concerned at the small radio we had. It rippled with each satellite fault, and the wind rattled against the kitchen windows.
‘Lambs found to have been born without the need for fathers, cloned naturally, if you will, as sheep farmers have claimed in North Wales. Let’s hear from local farmer, Henry Neuman’
‘Well, Liz. Lambs born without rams is not something we’re used to in nature. Of course, we had Dolly, the first cloned sheep, but that was with scientific interference. In my 35 years as a farmer I have never seen this before. Maybe there’s a disease affecting the rams which we aren’t quite aware of. The butchers for the major supermarkets are concerned, and it’s hurting profits, but I believe the meat is safe to eat!‘
I listened on, the local radio fluttering on our with interference from the lack if signal.
‘Thank you, Henry Neuman, again. Onto other news, I -‘
Dad turned it off. A palm flew to his forehead and he winced.“It’s spread.” He stated, morosely. “What am I going to do?”
“Dad…” I rubbed his back, trying to give as much assurance as possible.
“Alys, maybe you should leave.” Dad said with darkened eyes. Eyes filled with tears.
“What?” I exclaimed. It was Christmas soon, how could I leave without seeing my family for the festive season?
“It’s not that I want you to go, not at all!” Dad gushed, clearly regretting the expression on my face. “It’s just… Christ, Vicar Powys, the young lad who leads the Church - he’s blown up his head.”
Silence.
“He fucking what?” Llewellyn pressed rather than questioned, flabbergasted as much as I was.
“He was found headless this evening, by the caretaker. But there was no gun. I think there’s some crime gang, but I got a call from Bill and he said that the scene looked like he’d shot himself. Shotgun-like; brain and blood. How can someone shoot themselves if there’s no gun? Alys, you should look for trains tomorrow. It’s not safe here for a young girl like you.”
So I did. I looked for trains home the next morning, and not a single train ran back to London.
Not for weeks.