In memory of Brian Crocker
‘Gorffwys mewn heddwch’.
I’d give everything to be back at the first square on the board, with all still to play for…
In the beginning, I was just another kid, with just another unlucky family. I used that bad luck, as I used my good looks and confidence. Nobody knew I’d already killed once. In the games I play, I have always used the charm I was born with – along with various other, less admirable, skills I have had to acquire along the way.
There are a few golden days, bottled and stored at the back of my mind, that bring a comforting glow of nostalgia when uncorked. I inhale, eyelids drooping, and allow my thoughts to drift back…
The grass of the school playing field was warm and smelled pleasantly of hay. It was scratchy on my bare legs and under my spread palms. I remember that day so clearly that I can summon the laughter, the scent of cut grass, the bumpy feeling of a packet of pills in my pocket. I leaned back until the sun enveloped my face in a wave of burning fire, and I enjoyed the dizziness evoked by blood-red patterns on my closed eyelids. Sprawled lazily in a semicircle facing me, a few of the other kids were idly chucking empty Coke cans at an old oak stump. Someone was passing round an illicit cigarette, and the curling blue smoke teased my senses.
I had already discovered how to play with my pack – how to get them into a ball game, climbing trees at the far end of the field, or even a bit of joyriding when darkness fell. That day I had less innocent activities planned. It was the first true test of my power over my players and I relished that tingle of excitement. It buzzed through my veins like a drug hitting home. I could never have guessed how that day and night would shape my life, or how my need for revenge would become everything – a tearing, ravenous hunger I could never satisfy.
I can see us all now, as though I am soaring above the school, floating like a bird, arms outstretched. It’s where I belong. The boys and the girls, so bright and alive against the scorched summer grass. The laughing, teasing group of friends and enemies, and the drifting smell of sweat and chips. Someone was singing that stupid little song we’d had since primary school:
‘Three little girls, sitting up a tree,
Kissed all the boys,
But no one wants me.’
I knew exactly what was happening in my life, and some might say I could have stopped it at any time – but I didn’t. I watched, and I waited. It turned out better than I could ever have imagined. That’s one of the things about being a gamer – you have to know when to let fate dip a finger into your spit. It doesn’t mean losing control, it just means loosening the reins for a moment.
It has always paid to be smart and, looking back, that was more important than anything. It still is. I know I’m smarter than all of them, and that will be my legacy. Before that day at school, everything in my life was just a blurred rehearsal. My heartbeat thumps deep and strong – a jungle drum to my prey. It’s been a few years since I last played for real, but things have changed.
I can hear music from another room. It’s a lilting, joyous sound, and it brings me back to the present. Time to play again. I pick up a phone, scroll down, type a message and hit the send button.
‘Ydych chi’n cofio fi, Ava Cole?’
‘Do you remember me, Ava Cole?’
There was no marker on the grave. Not an impressive carved headstone, nor even a crude nailed cross.
Even the swathes of early wildflowers avoided the leafy mound. Ava knelt, ignoring the damp that seeped through her jeans, the icy wisps of April breeze slicing through the quiet woodland. Her comfort was not important. Ellen, in her lonely bed of leaves and soil, could feel nothing now.
The earth was cold and gritty under her palms, and she stirred the faded leaves with the toe of her boot. An overgrown holly branch scraped glossy fingers across the grave, and overhead the larger trees creaked and moaned. The sour smell of winter death and decay fought with the delicate sweetness of the first bluebells.
Fifteen years of self-imposed exile, and she was finally back in Wales, huddled in a thick jacket and oversized boots, crying over her best friend’s grave. Not back home, but just back.
Awkwardly, slowly, she stood, wiping the tears away with her sleeve. It didn’t take long to find the vast, triple-trunked oak, and the gnarled bark still bore the scars. Just their initials and two scrawled words:
‘Cofiwch fi.’
Remember me.
A sudden glimmer of red and gold, lighting the wood with the last rays of a winter sun, softened the path of early darkness.