Published: 15 May 2017

Elyan quickly registered the car in his name before his brother had a mind change, soon becoming a common sight around town, the top down and the engine roaring, with Stella Parks laughing and holding firm to her hat as the breeze threatened to take control.

Within two day’s he had his first warning about speeding and by weeks end his second. Ted Pratt, the town’s police sergeant being an associate of Reg Pen and out of respect for the father didn’t issue a fine, instructing it would be his last warning and no matter who his old man was, the next time he would issue a ticket and if he continued to speed, impound the vehicle until he learnt to drive sensibly. Elyan gave promise but once out side town limits and the jurisdiction of the local establishment, found his foot itching to meet the floor.

During that period there had been much conversation between Awen and his mother on how he should handle Alice’s property, even more on giving the vehicle to his brother and what she called, his reckless driving. Margaret was in favour of selling the house and investing the money, or at least renting and investing the rent money. Awen was adamant; he would be true to Alice’s wishes, even if the cottage remained unoccupied. As for his father, Reg was as indifferent about the matter as he had been the day of the reading of Alice’s will. ‘It’s your property son, you do what you want with it,’ was his only advice on the subject.

Now the time had come for Awen to inspect his inheritance as its proprietor and not as a visitor. Yet he felt apprehensive in doing so and realisation he had become the keeper of Alice’s memories hung heavy. Fearing even the removal of one solitary item may upset the equilibrium of their once strong relationship and her reason for naming him as her benefactor.

Saturday afternoon and Awen decided to visit Alice’s cottage. Being his rostered Saturday off work he was alone with Margaret, who had as usual found a gross of jobs for him to perform. First on her list was to tidy his room, as Awen was in habit of hanging clothes on the floor, used or clean they would often rest side by side, waiting for either wash day or to be warn.

“Have you finished your room?” Margaret asked as she passed by Awen’s bedroom door carrying a large basked to washing.

“I have,”

Margaret paused, her eyes through the open door to a number of items remaining on the floor. “Are they dirty; I’m just about to do the washing?”

“No mum and I was about to put them away.”

“Good when you’ve done that, I have another little job for you.”

Awen huffed, “a fellow should have stayed at work it would have been less energetic.” He collected the clothes from the floor and unceremoniously dumped them on his bed. Margaret hovered, still holding her heavy clothes basket. By her stance it was obvious she had information to share and not so pleasing news at that.

Firstly she spoke of the clothing, “give them to me, they will be dusty from lying on the floor.”

“No mum, the floor’s clean and I’m about to change into them.”

Secondly Margaret shared her news, “did I tell you your Aunt Doris is coming to stay for a few days?” Rebalancing her basket she moved on towards the laundry.

“No you didn’t, that sounds like fun – when.” Awen appeared most unhappy with the news.

“Soon,” Margaret marched away to the laundry leaving her son to digest the information.

Awen released a quiet disapproving shudder. Doris Hope happened to be Reg’s older sister and often visited announced or unannounced whenever she had a row with her husband. She would arrive with more suitcases than any stay would deem necessary, declaring her marriage was over. After a number of days cooling, there would be numerous telephone calls in both direction, ending in the re-establishment of their undying love and once again she would be gone, leaving in her wake disorder that lingered like some storm cloud for days.

If Alice had been one for enquiring into private business, Doris would tell you what your business was or should be, sometimes coming too close to the truth for the lad’s comfort. Her last visit was spent criticising Awen’s hair style and how a clean short back and sides would predict the gentleman he was born to be.

“Everybody of my age wears it long.” Awen had protested.

“I don’t think so dear, not nice young boys.”

“The Beatles do,” being another subclause to his defence, before finding it necessary to explain who the Beatles were. Doris had not been impressed stating anyone taking the name of some bug could not be upstanding in any refined community.

“I think boys only let their hair grow to be noticed because they are insecure.” Doris supposed, while Awen, feeling there wasn’t anyway he could win the argument had let it ride.

“Maybe you should have a haircut you remember how Doris fussed about it last time.” Margaret suggested as she returned from the laundry.

“No way mum and definitely not for Doris’ visit. I think I’ll move into Alices for the duration.”

“Just a trim, it appears much longer than when Doris last visited.”

Awen shook his hair about, allowing the fringe to cover his eyes before pushing it away. “I don’t think so, not even a trim.”

As Awen approached Alice’s cottage he could hear the sound of a lawn mower coming from the rear of the property. On inspection he found John Ashe mowing the back lawn. He approached the man and called. Ashe turned and killed the motor.

“Sorry lad I didn’t see you there, I hope you don’t mind but I was mowing the yard next door and took liberty.”

“I’ll pay you for doing it.” Awen offered

“No need, I was doing it for the memory of Alice. I was scheduled to mow it for her anyway.”

“No I’ll pay and have you mow it regularly if you wish. I don’t have money on me; I could bring it around to your place if you like.” Awen suggested realising it would be beneficial to have the man perform the work as Alice didn’t own a mower and it would be cumbersome wheeling their mower for such a long distance from home.

“Sounds fine.” Ashe answered and smiled. “I’ll finish up, I won’t be a sec.”

Awen watched as Ashe completed his final run down the side of the shed and returned towards the fence. For the first time he took notice of the look of the man. In reality Ashe was most handsome, his sandy hair had grown longer since Awen had last seen him and danced across his forehead as he strode behind the mower, while concentration gave him a more masculine appearance than usual, masking a normally nervous and self conscious disposition.

Ashe was tall with a sportsman’s physique and as he walked, the seam of his shorts folded neatly into the valley of his buttocks. His bare chest chiselled and smooth, with pert nipples that moved up and down independently with each movement of his arms. Awen was captivated, having to tare his gaze away in fear of being discovered.

“Finished.” Ashe announced loudly and killed the motor. Retrieving his shirt from a fence post he wiped his brow and put it on.

“Look’s good.” Awen assured.

“How often do you reckon, I do Beth Simpson’s next door once a month, more often in the rainy season.”

“Sounds good enough, are you still living in that shack along the beach?” Awen asked allowing his eyes to settle momentarily on the bulge at the front of Ashe’s shorts.

“Still there mate, close to the surf.” Ashe answered with a smile as he adjusted the mower’s loose control mechanism. “I’ll need to get a spanner onto that,” he rhetorically confessed and finger tightened the nut.

“I’ll bring the money around on the weekend.”

“Sure thing I’ll see you then.” Ashe nodded and wheeled his mower towards the front of the house, moments later the sound of the man’s Kombi van clattered into life and drove away.

Awen released a smile and reached into his pocket for keys, ‘he doesn’t seem like a bad sort of fellow,’ he quietly admitted but with his confession came a self incriminating thought disallowing any further opinion on Ashe’s masculinity.

Opening the back door Awen was met with the pungent scent of roses. Alice had loved rose oil polish and anywhere dust settled she cleaned with it, even dripping oil into draws and on pads of cotton wool which she placed amongst her linen. If the oil was Alice’s fancy, it was Margaret’s nemesis. Claiming allergy to its scent, she used it as an excuse to keep her visits at a minimum, neglecting to admit it was Alices constant recalling of family events that concerned her most, not wishing to be constantly reminded of the past, of her mother’s failures and her grandmother’s erratic behaviour.

Once inside memories of his last visit with Alice returned. He could almost see her seated in her favourite chair; perceive her weak smile, hear her croaked voice as she told stories of long gone times. A time of horse carts and cattle roaming through the town, hitching rails before the hotel and stock watering troughs along the main street. It was a time when the air was laced with the pungent odour of horse and cattle dung and dust clung to everything, with the red soil giving the town a rusted appearance. Then bars of the seven hotels were so crowded, many had to drink their beverage under the verandah and literally fight their way back in for a refill. Now if it wasn’t for the fishing crews and the mill the three remaining hotels would struggle, even so they were never over busy and serving lunches and refreshments to travellers was basically all that kept their doors from closing.

Alice’s time was before the motor car and the coming of the railroad. She remembered those as well and was a young girl at the station the day the noisy black monster hissed its way to a stop, scaring horses and townsfolk alike, while frightened children scurried for cover and dogs with tails between their legs hid from sight. How surprised she was when so many people alighted from the carriages, gathering on the raised platform to enjoy morning tea supplied by the Country Women’s Association.

She also remembered the day when Percy Jones, proudly drove his fine new horseless carriage along the main street, only to break down outside the Criterion Hotel in front of a heckling crowd of drinkers, having to be towed back to Jones’ property by a team of draft horses. Now Alice had gone and her numerous anecdotes and harmless gossip were no more, leaving Awen with a thousand questions he wished he had asked.

Awen stood mid room, attempting to convince himself it was real. The house was his to do what he wished with and if the mood served him, he could move in at a moments notice. Would he enjoy the solitude of living alone, cooking his own meals and washing his own clothes? ‘Maybe,’ he thought, “Maybe not,” he spoke loudly into the silence within the room.Awen was much accustomed to his mother’s cooking and the fuss she made over washing, virtually going as far as stripping the shirt from his back for her almost daily wash; and underwear, with Margaret it was an obsession, always on about clean underwear in case of an accident and having to be taken to hospital. While most embarrassing of all, she would hold up Awen’s underwear, criticising their condition in front of whoever may be present at that moment, be it brother, sister or neighbour. Margaret would shamelessly describe holes and stretched elastic or frayed crotch area but thankfully never mention stains or mishaps, being the reason underwear were actually designed. “I don’t know,” she would declare, “how can a lad so slim be so rough on his underwear? It’s not as if he plays sport in them.”

In Alice’s bedroom, away from embarrassing memories of frayed underwear, Awen found the wardrobe bare of clothes and the bed stripped to its mattress. Obviously his mother had done a good job of clearing Alice from the room. It was Margaret’s way and by doing so meant no disrespect towards her great aunt.

The spare bedroom was similar, cleared of all clothing and the bed stripped, although a quantity of linen and blankets remained in the linen press and towels, Alice had an obsession with towels, some remained in their cellophane wrapping, others obviously never used, stacked neatly to the rear of the bedding, gone unnoticed by Margaret as she went about her cleaning.

The bed in the guest room was most old fashion, raised high from the polished timber floor and quite large for a single, made from iron with a circled metal canopy covered by a mosquito net. Awen liked the idea thinking he would make it his room and seeing the cottage was close by a swampy area, there was always an abundance of mosquitoes, while during the wet termites grew wings and migrated. Attracted by light they would flock about electric bulbs only to fall scorched to the floor, while getting into ever crevasse possible, ears, eyes and if not careful enter with a breath of air. Oddly come the morning they would be gone, most probably into the woodwork to do their worse.

Next the kitchen, which remained much as Alice had left it, as did the living room and the small dining room, although the scatter of rugs and lace antimacassar’s Alice placed on the backs of chairs and their arm rests had gone, along with the many old books and magazines once piled high in one dark corner. Also missing were her precious statues, her so called Staffordshire. Awen had promised to deliver them to Barbara Kemp but Margaret had already done so, as another aversion of Margaret’s was procrastination, a tendency both her son’s were cursed with.

“Sorry Alice,” Awen apologised as he looked about, “but you know mum.” Sighing loudly, he continued, “I suppose it saves me from having to do so.”

Along the hall found Awen at the door to the room that held the old trunk. Trying the door he discovered it locked. “Bugger,” he complained and gave it a gentle push. It held firm. “Where would the key be?” He said and felt along the narrow ledge above. Many hid keys in such places but there was only dust, he laughed. “Obvious mum hasn’t been there.”

He still had the key Alice had given him for the trunk but where would she have placed the room key. He recalled on his last visit Alice had placed it in her apron pocket but where was the apron, had his mother disposed of the apron when she cleared out the clothing?

“Where would she put her apron?” Awen spoke as he searched the kitchen.

“I know behind the kitchen door.” It wasn’t, finding only an old straw hat Alice had used while gardening and a broken umbrella.

“Dirty clothes basket.” He said but found it empty, as Margaret had been thorough.

“Be buggered if I know.” He concluded.

It was approaching evening and Margaret had the electricity disconnected soon after Alice passed on, so with the failing light Awen decided to continue his search another day, he would ask his mother if she had seen the apron. He could force the door but so close to Alice’s passing thought it would be somewhat disrespectful, besides even if his curiosity was strong he had all the time needed to discover the trunks contents.

Margaret had settled in for the night with some light reading, while Awen finished the dishes. He called from the kitchen.

“Mum when you were clearing out Alice’s clothing, did you by any chance see her apron?”

Margaret thought for some time before answering. “What did it look like?” she asked.

“It was somewhat faded with sorta large flowers – I think.” He thought they were flowers, or were they circles, or some other nondescript design, he was sure it was old and shabby.

“No I don’t believe I saw it; why do you ask?”

“I believe the key to the back room may be in its pocket.” Awen finished the dishes and joined his mother.

“What is the interest in that room?” Margaret asked.

“An old trunk Alice asked me to look after.” Awen cracked his knuckles.

“Don’t do that your brother’s always doing it and it’s most annoying.”

“Sorry,”

“Anyway what’s in this old trunk you’re always on about?”

“Not always mum, I’ve only mentioned it in passing. I believe it holds property belonging to a brother of Alice.”

“Why did Alice find it so important for you to keep it?” Margaret placed her reading aside.

“Don’t rightly know but I sorta promised.”

“You know that part of the family was always a little strange.”

“Alice appeared quite bright to me.” Awen objected.

“Not so much Alice although she did have her moments, it was more her brother and his lot.”

Now Awen was confused.

“Alice mentioned Bert but didn’t say anything about having other brothers or sisters and as far as I know Bert wasn’t married.”

“Yes there were a tribe of them, Alice had three, no four sisters and two brothers but I don’t remember them well, only Henry who married Nelly Chambers from over Point Stanley way; they had children and they were all quite loopy,” Margaret recollected. “I think the problem was with Nelly’s family, I believe her mother married a first cousin.” She added attempting to divert the suggestion of insanity away from her branch of the family tree.

“How come you’ve not spoken of them before?” Awen asked.

“No reason but my mother, your grandmother kept well away from the family, so I don’t know that much about any of them except Alice. Henry did turn up at the door when I was first in high school, wanting money but your grandfather sent him packing.”

“What about her younger brother Bert?” Awen asked.

Margaret appeared somewhat guarded and changed the subject. “Would you like me help you go through the rest of Alice’s things?”

“Not really but I am interested in finding out more about her Brother Bert.” Awen reiterated.

“Sorry I don’t know anything about Bert. I’m going to make myself coffee, would you like a cup?”

“No thanks but I thought I may stay over at Alice’s for a few days, maybe the weekend, could you arrange having the power turned back on for me?”

“Why would you want to stay there?”

“No reason but I found a stack of old photographs and stuff, I thought I’d go through them, maybe get a feel for Alice’s past.”

Awen could hear Margaret in the kitchen, there was the sound of china on granite bench tops and running water but no answer. The kettle whistled and moments later she returned carrying her coffee. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like coffee?” She once again offered.

“I don’t much like coffee and find it has the texture of mud.”

“Do you often drink mud?” Margaret asked and smiled. Awen pulled a humoured face. “What’s all this interest in the past, you’ve never spoken of the family before?” Holding her mug of coffee high she peered through the steam towards her son. The warmth soothed her eyes.

“Don’t know really but visiting Alice before she died made me think of things and about her mysterious brother Bert.”

Once again Margaret refrained from answering but by her expression appeared somewhat guarded towards her son’s persistence for information about Alice’s brother.

“Did I tell you Ely wants to move into Alice’s?” Awen said as Margaret finished her coffee.

“He did suggest it but knowing Ely after a week of fish and chips and pub meals he would be back begging, carrying his pile of washing for me to do.”

“I said no.”

“Well love it’s your house.”

“He was pulled up for speeding again.” Awen let slip.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have given him that car.” Margaret suggested showing concerned for Elyan’s erratic driving.

“He’s a little heavy on the accelerator but not a bad driver.” Awen assured.

“I was visiting Ivy this afternoon.” Margaret changed the subject.

“Who’s Ivy?” Awen asked.

“Jack Murland’s the fruit and vegie man’s wife, or should I say,” but Margaret didn’t say. Ivy was much too respectful, too decent to be described in the way she was thinking.

“She has her son Stephen down from boarding school and is thinking of enrolling him locally.” Margaret pause, “lovely lad but somewhat shy and like you a little on the skinny side.”

“I’m not skinny.” Awen protested.

“Well a little lean.” Margaret corrected.

“How old is Stephen?” Awen asked.

“Don’t rightly know but seeing he’s in Sub Junior, I suppose about fifteen. Yet Ivy doesn’t look as if she’s old enough to have a son of that age and Stephen appears more like ten than someone in high school.”

“How old is Jack?” Awen asked.

“Not even Jack knows that for sure, I should think he’s a good ten years older than Ivy, maybe even more.”

“How long has Jack been doing the vegetable run around town?

“So long I can’t remember, he once had a greengrocery shop in the main street but the coming of the supermarket took most of his business and he had to close. He did have another shot at it a year or so back but it went the same way.”

“I guess that progress for you.” Awen released a sigh, his thought on his own work and how many of the mill’s positions had been lost to mechanicalization. Only the previous week his father had purchased a new forklift, saying it was to increase the hight of stacks, thus creating more space for extra product. Awen had soon argued it only took one person to stack with the forklift and two manually, sometimes more, so who would be first to go. Reg promised not to dismiss anyone but memory was that two board sawers were laid off because of new machinery a week before the previous Christmas and that was also on a promise.

Margaret continued; “it was a little more than that. Jack Murland is a soft touch, if he had a quid, even his last and you spun him some hard luck story he would give it to you. He has a heart of gold that man but unfortunately no head for business.”

“When is Doris coming?” Awen enquired, remembering his mother’s news.

“She didn’t say exactly, maybe she’s mended her argument with Greg.”

“I hope she doesn’t, I’ve never liked her much.” Awen admitted.

“She’s family; I guess you have to like her.” Margaret didn’t sound convincing. “I’m going to try and find the key to the end room, so you won’t forget to have the power at Alice’s back on?” Awen reminded.

“No dear, when are you going over.”

“I was thinking of spending next week end there.”

“Well I suppose work won’t do itself and I have your father’s work shirts to iron.”

Entering Asling Street Awen paused and glanced back towards the ocean as was his habit whenever possible. It was a warm night and the dark form of Bradshaw was beckoning, while lights from a returning fishing boat were visible between Bradshaw and the wharf. There was a sharp blasting of the boats siren, most eerie as the sound drifted through the still night air. It would have to be the Sea Wind returning early with Sam as crew. The sounding was repeated, two short notes and one long, definitely the Sea Wind.

“Catch must be bad.” Awen sighed thinking of his uncle, as the crew were reliant on a good catch for wages.

Once again he remembered the time he and Sam took his father’s skiff to the island and were marooned until rescued by the Sea Wind. The thought was pleasing, he remembered Sam’s admission or to be precise, partial admission of his sexual preference and wondered if Sam, in some way, enjoyed the company of the crew. He thought not. Most were married or in steady relationships, only Sam appeared to be single. Was that the truth necessary to assure his uncle’s disposition?

That night Sam would be snuggled alone in his bed and uncle or not Awen wondered what it would be like to join him. Breathe heavily of Sam’s masculinity and the smell of salt air, feel his warmth, naked body against naked body and hear the sound of deep breathing as Sam slept.

Awen shuddered in horror at the thought and quickly cast it from his mind, bewildered that such a concept should enter into his conscious at all and where it came from. He often thought his uncle to be handsome but it was more out of envy to be like Sam rather than to be with him.

Entering through Alice’s front gate the notion past and he hoped it would never return. Once inside the house he switched on the light and threw his carry bag into Alice’s favourite chair. He humoured at his familiarity, “I hope you don’t mind me Alice.” He imagined her acceptance of his lack of urbanity and removed his bag to the floor.

In the kitchen Awen switched on the refrigerator and placed his small supply for the weekend on an otherwise empty shelf, as he did so he spied Alice’s old and faded apron hanging on a hook behind the kitchen door, next to the umbrella and covering the old straw hat. His memory was correct, its pattern was flowers; stylised roses.

“I’m sure that wasn’t there last time I was here.” He loudly quizzed his recollection. Taking the apron from the hook he felt into the pocket, finding a crumpled handkerchief and the set of keys he remembered from his last visit with the old lady. “I know it wasn’t there, maybe mum has been over but she did say she hadn’t seen an apron.” Awen paused, “I’m turning into Alice and talking to myself,” he laughed loudly and retrieving the key to the trunk Alice had left in his care, returned it back to its ring.

“Now to see what is in Bert’s trunk.” Awen declared as he made way towards the locked door.

The passage light appeared to shimmer on the door’s glossy paint, as if it were polarising his intent towards the space beyond, inviting him to enter, or was it a warning. Awen’s hand rested upon the door knob, he fitted the key into the lock. The metal knob felt warm to touch, “Come on Awen you’re spooking yourself,” he scalded and turned the key. The door opened with much creaking at its hinges. He turned on the light, a naked bulb dangling from a length of dirt black electrical cord, it feeble glow hardly improving the room’s illumination.

Once beyond the door Awen was taken back. When Alice had shown him the trunk, the room had been dim with the curtains drawn and his concentration had been on the trunk and Alice’s wish for him to take care of it, rather than the contents of the room.

The room’s ambience was stepping back a hundred years, the iron bed neatly made and covered by an ample patch-work quilt created from what appeared to be old dresses given a second life and use. Folded neatly at the foot of the bed, as if ready for the morning’s wearing was a full set of clothing and beside the bed a pair of well worn boots, scuffed but in appearance recently polished.

For a moment Awen lost interest in the trunk, instead he was drawn towards the wash stand, its porcelain basin, jug and a bar of dry and cracked sunlight soap, cut-throat razor and number of small bottles, now empty but once holding the toiletries of a man’s ablutions. He sniffed at the lip of an empty bottle, finding the faint aroma of spice.

On a small table towards the far side of the bed next to a kerosene lamp, Awen discovered a thin well thumbed novel with a bookmark cut from part of a soap box marking the reader’s progress. Some of the pages had come loose but had been carefully placed back in correct order. Awen picked up the book, he read the title, ‘Billy the Kid’ and as he turned to the marked page he noticed faded writing on the page marker in ink. He read the inscription, ‘This book is the property of Albert Thomas, so don’t nick it.’

Awen was awestruck. He was actually holding something that was not only owned by Bert but inscribed by his hand and most probably placed on the table close to the day he died. His heart raced as he carefully returned the book to the table top.

Beside the book he discovered three copper pennies, a half penny and a silver threepenny bit. Its shine long gone to black and almost lost within the darkness of the mahogany stained table. He read the embossing on the top penny; it didn’t appear to be Australian. Most definitely it was a penny, it was inscribed as such but there was a helmeted woman holding a shield and what appeared to be a pitchfork or trident, while the reverse displayed a monarch. He recognised Queen Victoria from his school books, determining they must be English, without realising that in Bert’s time the country’s currency was so.

Eventually Awen’s interest returned to the trunk. Approaching it he discovered an ancient photograph resting on its top. He perceived an image of a young man. It had to be Bert and Alice was correct, except for the clothes and hair style, the image could have been that of Awen. Shaking his head in amazement he opened the trunk and as the lid came from the body of the trunk he was overpowered by the pungent but pleasant smell of camphor.

What he expected to find inside was unclear, what he discovered was a selection of well worn clothing, ironed and neatly folded each within its own wrapping of brown paper, a collection of leather belts, a number of letters tied with a length of cord and some interesting objects of mysterious usage, also a glass jar containing a number of copper and silver coins, non of which appeared to be currency and an assortment of trouser and shirt buttons.

It was the selection of letters that caught his attention, removing the top envelope he read the embossing across the stamp of Queen Victoria.

8 May. 98. He read the address, ‘Mr. Albert Thomas 13 Asling Street and reverently withdrew the short note from the envelope.

‘Dear Bert,

I arrived at Risdon Downs on the mail coach Wednesday, after becoming stuck in a dry creek bed for most of Tuesday afternoon. Very dry out this way and they say it hasn’t rained for almost half a year. I’m missing you already and don’t know how I will feel after six months. Please write soon.

M.’

Awen felt a wave of guilt overcome him for reading such private correspondence but who was M and why sign with an initial and not use the sender’s full name. Could it be Margaret or maybe Mary or Merle and did they ever meet again? Turning over the envelope he discovered it free from a return address.

Gently he replaced the letter under the cord before returning them all to the trunk. He wished to discover more but couldn’t bring himself to create disorder of such order. He would revisit the trunk’s contents at a later time, when he had become more accustomed to his new surroundings and in a less weary state.

Awen opened a beer and took advantage of Alice’s chair, his thoughts remaining on the letters and their mysterious sender. He felt sad to think it possible they may have never met again. Alice had said Bert died not long after the photo had been taken, before he had reached the age of twenty-one, before he had officially become a man and by his calculations Bert’s demise would have been the very year of the letters, possibly even while the mysterious ‘M’ was working on Risdon Downs.

Gazing vacantly along the darkness of the hallway he noticed the light in Bert’s room was still burning. He was positive he switched it off. On reaching the room it was out and there wasn’t any glow, only weak moonlight through the window. ‘It must be have been the moonlight,’ he assured as he returned to his chair but now all was in darkness along the hall and no moonlight shone through Bert’s open door. Shrugging away the thought he finished his beer and after securing Bert’s door, went to bed.

It was an uneasy sleep, waking often from dreaming. The light from Bert’s room burnt brightly in his subconscious, becoming even brighter until it was so brilliant it blinded him. He heard a voice, it was a man’s voice but reassuring without malice. It called his name but he could not answer, then it was gone and once again Awen was awakened to the darkness within the room. Convincing himself that it was being in a strange bed causing his restlessness, he again attempted to slumber through the few remaining hours of the night. Eventually he fell into a deep sleep, awakening to bright sunlight streaming through the open curtains, his heart racing from discovering unfamiliar surroundings, taking a few seconds to realise where he was.

All that morning Awen had a deep uneasy feeling. Through breakfast he felt as if he wasn’t alone and with a slice of toast in one hand a mug of tea in the other he searched from room to room, finding nothing but bright sunlit corners, concluding it was his unfamiliarity with the house and nothing more.

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