She knew where to look. Bianca had pointed the way, Geraint Smithson too.
She had buried it deep. But now it was time. Everything was falling into place - the reason why a name on the side of one of the boxes had struck a chord.
It was late when Alun left. She had stood on the doorstep and waited until his car had turned the corner before closing the door behind him. There was a frost. The night was pure and happy. Angels called. The stars glistened far above her. It would soon be Christmas.
And
Alun’s
wife
would
bear
him
a
second
child.
Early the next morning she drove to Barbara’s house. It had the look of a sleeping home. No lights were on. The curtains were still drawn. The front door was shut. She pulled up on the flattened tip and sat for a moment, savouring the warmth from the car heater, wrapping her fleece around her. But the minute she climbed out she could still sense the chill subterranean breath whisper to her. She locked the car door behind her.
A mist hovered over the rugby pitch, which looked like a stage empty of actors. As she crossed to the far end she was dwarfed by the huge “H” bars with their thick padding wrapped around the bottom. And suddenly she was a child again, shrunk down like Alice, staring up at the crossbar and wondering how the ball could possibly be kicked over.
But her errand was not here.
Resolutely she continued to the edge and lost herself in the malicious gorse. Her skin was scratched before she’d
penetrated even fifty yards. For a swift moment she glanced back at the empty pitch.
“Pass
it
y
er,
mun.
Take
it
out
to
the
side.
Don’t
drop
the
ball,
my
boy.”
She
saw
the
grimace
of
an
ambushed
player
felled.
Not
recent.
Not
Alun
but
long
ago,
as
a
child,
when
she
had
sat
on
her
father’s
shoulders
to
gain
a
grandstand
view
of
the
police
team
playing
the
local
pub.
The
Oddfellows’
Arms.
“A
friendly.
”
By
then
she
had
grown
too
big
to
sit
on
Daddy’s
shoulders
for
the
entire
match
so
he
had
set
her
down.
But
she
had
been
plenty
big
enough
to
run
away
and
wander
through
the
undergrowth,
find
a
path
beneath
the
gorse,
scrabble
on
hands
and
knees,
lose
the
people.
That
had
been
the
day
she
had
found
the
ventilation
shaft
which
she
imagined
then
must
lead
right
down
into
the
centre
of
the
earth.
She
had
lain
on
her
stomach
and
peered
down
the
side
of
the
hole.
And
been
terrified
by
a
sudden
vision.
Megan stood for a brief moment, turning through ninety degrees, away from the pitch to face the winding wheel at the head of the valley and had a vision of the men, faces blackened with coal dust, singing. And she longed for a return of this togetherness which had been at the heart of the coal industry, dying throughout the second half of the twentieth century, almost dead by the time she had been born.
She re-entered the pictures which were flashing through her mind like a flipchart. Suppressed for years but sparked subliminally into life by Bianca’s concerns.
“Little
Rhiann
is
dead.
Definitely
dead.”
She had felt that too.
She had dropped a pebble and waited for it to land. Her father was reading her a story.
Deep in the bowels of the earth was where Gollum lived. Gollum of the huge eyes and the blanched skin, of the lisping, whispering voice, wanting his “pessus”.
Scratching
the
floor
with
his
long,
long
fingers.
Down there.
She knelt down and peered through the grill into the deep, black hole. That day while her father had been engrossed in a rugby match she had believed that she had found the entrance to Gollum’s lair. With her eyes tight shut she had counted to twenty … thirty … forty believing that when she opened them again he would be peering up at her, blinking at the light with his horrid, pale eyes. She stared at the iron grid, marveling at how well she had retained the entire memory. She had been a child of ten years old when three-year-old Rhiann Lewis had vanished. Ten was a little old for her parents to worry over a brief absence from the side of a crowded rugby field. But her own parents, like all the other mothers and fathers in Llancloudy, must have been twitched with fear for their own child’s safety. And transmitted those fears to her. So that day as soon as they had missed her they had panicked. She could still recall her father’s face when she had reappeared from between the gorse bushes, scratched and bleeding. There had been no opportunity for explanation. He had shouted at her, hugged her, cried in front of her, finally bundled her into the car and raced her home.
There her grandmother had made dark reference to Rhiann. And her mother had made her promise she would never never wander off again.
All she knew was that she had been very bad. And in great danger.
But that night Gollum had entered her dreams by climbing up the iron footholes set in the side of the rock. Hand over hand. Slow foot behind foot. Inexorably coming towards the surface. Coming for her. She had tried to run back to her father. But children in dreams can find themselves unable to move. Her feet had been stuck to the floor. And webbed - like his. She had screamed as he had
rattled the grid. And then she had woken up, her head against her father’s shoulder, his pyjama jacket wet with tears. For weeks Gollum had haunted her, made her too frightened to sleep. She had altered in character then, slept with her light on, developed a terror of the dark, formed other habits she as a doctor would now label obsessional; washing hands, avoiding walking on cracks in paving stones, under ladders, feeling a fear for the entire world outside. And it had all stemmed from the combination of that one book, and this place. And something else which until now she had locked inside her memory because while she had known Gollum was fantasy, something else was not.
Megan forced herself to see that day with clarity. Why had Bianca’s reference to “Little Rhiann” disturbed her? Why had she had such a conviction that she had known something for years about the child’s disappearance that no one else shared? And why had that secret knowledge been tinged with sick guilt?
At any time since she had been ten years old she could clearly have visualised every single bar or fragment of rust or the locks that secured this grid and kept her safe from Gollum.
If
she
had
wanted
to.
Now she looked again.
And saw. The screw heads that held the grid against the metal flange were rusted. But the grooves were shining silver. Even the grooves would have rusted had they not been touched for years. She ran her fingers over them and they felt sharp.
She touched the grid and remembered something else, before she had been witched by the vision of Gollum. Her own fingers were reaching through the metal because she
too wanted something. Caught on one of the rungs of the ladder was a tiny, red and gold hair elastic. Hair caught in it. Black and curly. Megan rolled back, felt the dampness of the grass, heard the sheep bleating.
Always
complaining
about
something.
Complaining that a child’s body lay here and no one cared. Barbara’s mother had been right. They did have something to moan about.
She sat back on her haunches, ignored the assault of the gorse. And was oblivious to the soft rustling through the undergrowth.
The
wind?
Again she peered down the shaft, and sensed a gasp of fetid air. She could just make out Gollum’s iron rungs until they vanished. As they had vanished. Or not vanished. Were they down there? Was Bleddyn Hughes ready to grasp her with his long sensitive fingers and his destroyed reputation? Was he with the two little girls, Marie, still with her bag of chips, and Rhiann, missing her hair elastic. Were the boys waiting to mock her? All of them, George and Neil now joined by Stefan Parker. All of them except Bianca whose body lay in the churchyard of the Bethesda Chapel.
And Geraint Smithson who was the only one of all of them to have had a Christian burial?
The decay wafted up the shaft on a draft of coal-soiled air. And the voice was behind her now, whispering in Gollum’s lisping tones.
“Don’t
you
want
to
go
down
there,
Meggie?
Sssssee
them
all
for
yoursssself?
How
elssse
are
you
going
to
convince
the
logical
people
of Llancloudy
that
they
have
harboured
a
killer
in
their
midst
for
the
last
thirty
years
when
they
never
have
believed
it
before?”
The voice was right.
She peered over the edge. The iron rungs were inviting her to take a handhold, a foothold. She must go down.
The voice came from behind her now.
“You
are
mad.
What
do
you
think
you
will
find
down
there?”
“I must search for the vanished,” she said.
“And
who
are
the
vanished?”
“
The
people who disappeared without trace.”
“And
you
think
you’ll
find
them
down
there?”
The voice was mocking her.
“I don’t know. I can only look.”
“You
are
sadly
deluded.
”
“I hope so.”
“Do
you
think
Bianca
knew
where
they
were?”
“I don’t think so. Only that they never had left Llancloudy - any of them.”
“But
Bianca
was
mad.
How
could
she
have
known
any
thing?”
“Sometimes the mad know more than the sane.”
“And
if
you
find
you
are
wrong?”
“Then I am wrong.”
“But
if
you
are
right?”
“I’m not sure.”
She did turn around then and saw nothing but the sun rising behind the high straight line of the hill.
No one was there.
She reached the car and tugged the door open, the mundane action dragging her back to normality, at the same time strengthening her resolve.
She
would
go down there. If they were there she would find them. The truth would finally be unearthed. And someone would be brought to justice. Not only for the vanishings but for the death of Bianca. The slurs, rumours and questions would stop.
In the back of her car she carried a flashlight - one of the necessary pieces of equipment for out-of-hours visiting. And also a small tool kit, plus a can of WD40. She grabbed them all, locked the car behind her and strode back across the rugby pitch, resolute. The action felt positive.
She was back at the grill in minutes. The screws were stiff. She sprayed them with the lubricant and tried again. And moved all six. But she dropped one down the shaft and heard it land far below. She felt a frisson of fear - and suppressed it.
Fear
would
not
help
but
hinder
her.
She lifted the cover and dropped it to the side, shining the torch downwards. All she could see were the iron rungs, vanishing into the void. She used her belt to secure the flashlight to her and stuck the toolkit in her kagoul pocket. Then she began her descent.
Hand
under
hand.
Foot
under foot,
a metallic chink as her zip struck the iron. She glanced up and saw the grey winter’s day circled above her. The wind felt like ice. She continued the descent.
Into the dank unknown.
About thirty feet down the light had almost vanished but the air had changed. There was a breeze that came from another direction. Across her face.
She flashed the light to her right and picked out a tunnel, about four feet in diameter. She could guess what it was - an early drift mine, probably worked in the eighteenth century. Later workings had been much much deeper.
If she had wanted to hide a body she might well have chosen here. Accessible, protected by an army of gorse thorns, well away from the rugby pitch. Not part of the main mine workings so not subject to the rigorous search. Few people would remember it was here. At a guess, the police would not have thought to search here.
There was another point in its favour. You could drive a car around the rugby pitch to within fifty yards of this place. And it would be concealed. A small dip in the land plus the thick vegetation ensured that necessary privacy.
She crawled along the tunnel, partly crouching, sometimes on her hands and knees, the beam of the torch shining ahead of her. When she had penetrated maybe six feet she stopped and shone the torch back. Against the opposite side of the mine shaft she could see the palest pool of daylight. Ahead the air was slightly stuffy, the temperature warmer than on the surface. The walls were chillingly damp. She flashed the beam ahead, hesitated. Were they there?
Thirty metres into the tunnel, the torch picked out a rock fall. Either natural or the tunnel had been deliberately collapsed when the last miners had vacated it. But it would be enough to halt her progress.
She
must
have
been
wrong.
They
were
not
here.
“Bugger,” she said out loud and listened to the walls mock her with an echo.
“Bugger …
Bugger …
Bugger …”
So had she been wrong?
She flashed her torch up and down the rockfall and realised that a few of the top boulders had tumbled. In fact it was not a blind ending. There was a way over the top.
She strapped her torch to her wrist and clambered over. It was tricky. The rocks were loose and shaley, likely to tumble and she could see nothing ahead. Besides, the air here was not pure. She had a suffocating attack of claustrophobia and tried to use one hand to flash the torch ahead.
If
she
could
only
see
something
she
could
return
to
the
top,
persuade
a
professional
team
to
search
here
for
Stefan.
It was a mistake.
She lost her grip on the torch and it slithered down the other side. The light shone uselessly into a corner, illuminating nothing but dark rock.
And
someone
was
coming
down
the
rungs.
Hand
under
hand.
Foot
under foot
with
the
familiarity
and
deliberation
of
someone
who
had
done
this
before.
Instinctively she clung to the rocks, tried to scrabble to the other side.
He
was
coming
back.
A voice bounced along the walls towards her.
“Hello
…
Hello
…
Hello …?”
She knew better than to answer.
If
only
she
could
reach
the
torch,
switch
it
off,
hide.
Where?
The footsteps stopped. She heard the sound of feet on loose stone. The voice came again. Distorted by its echo.
“Hello …hello …hello.”
And then a light. Dancing along the sides of the tunnel like a Will o’ The Wisp. Searching for her.
She crouched behind the stones.
“I know you’re there….
there …
there
… I saw your car
car
…
car.”
All she could see was a powerful beam. She stretched out, found her own torch, switched it off and fought to control her breathing. The worst thing was she didn’t know who it was. Like a child in a lethal game of hide and seek she convinced herself that if she didn’t answer he could not be sure she was here.
The light came nearer. “Don’t make things difficult, there’s a good girl.”
He
was
near.
“Come on. What are you frightened of?”
Of Gollum.
And
a
man
who
makes
people
disappear.
I
am
frightened
of
whoever
killed
Bianca
and
Geraint
Smithson
and
took
Stefan.
I
am
frightened
of
death.
I
am
frightened
of
never
seeing
daylight
again.
She backed up the tunnel.
He must have heard her. “You can’t get out along there. It’s a blind ending. Look, I know you’re there.”
He was near.
She tried to peer beyond the flashlight. But she saw nothing. No one.
“Why did you come?” It was a reasonable voice, distorted only by the confined atmosphere. She grabbed her flashlight and turned it on.
Rumpelstilstkin blinked into the beam.
“Mr Jones,” she said. “What are
you
doing here?”
He lowered his torch and blinked at her light. “More to the point, doctor, what are you doing down here?”
“I thought … I wondered.”
She
could
not
tell
him
what
she
had
thought.
“When I saw your car I asked myself where on earth you had gone. Maybe up the mountain. But it isn’t the day for a walk. I came wandering through the gorse and
then I saw you’d taken the grill off. I thought you must have taken leave of your senses to come down here. It’s not safe. Why have you come?”
This was the voice of normality. She had been wrong. He was not the killer. It was simply Mervyn Jones, worried for her safety.
She scrabbled back towards him. But again she dropped the flashlight. And this time its beam did not pick out bare wall but something else. A scrap of material. Pointed and striped. The end of a tie. A red and brown tie which had been knotted around a schoolboy’s neck.
Then she screamed. And the tunnel filled with horror.
They
were
here. All of them. Bleddyn Hughes with his long fingers, the children.
And Jones was scrabbling over the rocks towards her. She turned the torch back on him. He put his arm up to shield his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
She stared up at him in terror and suddenly his anger exploded.
“You had to come, didn’t you? Poke your nose in to things that don’t concern you. What
business
is it of yours?”
She gaped at him but her hand holding the torch was steady. His anger was calming her.
She knew now. Behind her were the vanished. Ahead was …
She dared not think ahead. She felt a suffocating terror. And the air was fetid. Full of death.
She
must
get
out.
Otherwise …
She whimpered.
Otherwise…
“I don’t understand why,” she said. “What were they to you?”
“No, you wouldn’t understand, would you? They weren’t annoying you,” he said. “You, the doctor, you got the respect.”
“Then tell me why,” she said. “Start with the beginning. Start with Bleddyn Hughes.”
“Hughes.” He spat out the name. “This was a good place once. We worked hard all day. And on Sundays we attended chapel. The mines shut and slowly Llancloudy was destroyed, its people weakened by indolence. And who by? People of low moral fibre. Like Hughes. He was a no good. I caught him one day, reading poetry to my Muriel. Trying to woo her, he was. I knew what dirty little games he was playing. Showing up my ignorance. And it wasn’t my fault I wasn’t
educated
like him. What parents could afford education? Use big words, he would, at the table, just to impress and show off, knowing I would not be able to understand. Oh yes, I knew what sort of a person he was.”
“You let the papers destroy his reputation. You let people think …” Her voice trailed away, its echoes no more than a whisper.
“Think …
think.”
“I told them a thing or two.” It was said with smug satisfaction. “I’m not responsible for what the papers choose to print.”
“You -?”
“Oh, yes. Easy really when you know how.”
She tried to block out the calm complacency in his voice. It chilled her more than his anger.
“But Rhiann? She was only a child. What could she have done to you?”
“Know her family, do you?”
A
swift
vision
of Gwen
Owen’s
endless
voice
gave
her
some,
tiny
insight.
“All make too much noise. The child, Rhiann, she was the same. Always noisy. Never - shut - up. Chattering, singing. They lived in the street behind us. I’d been on nights makin’ sure the mines didn’t flood. Keepin’ the
people of this little place safe while
they
slept. But was I allowed to sleep? No. All I asked for was some peace and quiet. I wanted to sleep with my windows open in the fresh, clean air. I tried. For an hour or more I tried to sleep. I put ear plugs in. But the little girl kept on and on makin’ a noise. Until I couldn’t stand it any more. So I got up and went round the back. Come ‘ere, my little darlin’, open the door now to your Uncle Merv.”
She
could
picture
it,
the
little
girl,
innocently
pulling
back
the
bolt.
She
closed
her
eyes
then
slid
the
beam
along
the
floor.
He
was
blocking
the
tunnel.
She
would
have
to
push
past
him.
But
he
was
a
small
man,
and
not
young.
She
was
strong.
She
should
be
able
to
do
it.
Her
torch
wavered.
His
was
shining
directly
on
her.
He
must
have
caught
some
lack
of
concentration,
a
wavering
of
her
purpose.
“It’s no use your thinkin’ you’re getting out of here. You won’t get past me,
Doctor
Megan Banesto, educated pride of the valleys. Fool of Llancloudy who goes on holiday and marries a waiter who only wants to be with the boys.”
Now
she
felt
angry
too.
But
she
concealed
it.
Later
she
would
use
it.
Against
him.
“Marie - ?” she began.
“Thought herself
very
clever. Was fond of baiting me, throwing her filthy chip and sweet papers, coke cans, right into my garden. But I got her. Chuckin’ her rubbish away. I got her - in the end.”
The tone was the same; smug satisfaction. Jones was pleased with himself.
“The boys? George and Neil?” She already knew the answer. Some act of mindless vandalism, or rudeness.
“Little bloody vandals. Always up to something. Hated the pair of them. Well, if their parents weren’t goin’ to do something about them then I was.”
His tone had altered. Now he was the avenging angel.
“But Bianca? She wasn’t like that.”
“No-o.” The first sign of hesitation. “Not like that. She used to come round and ask me to cut her hair after Muriel died. I didn’t mind her too much. At first.”
The
light
from
his
torch
was
wavering
behind
her.
She
dared
not
look
for
fear
of
what
she
would
see..