Penult (The Liminality, Part Four)

Chapter 10: Brynmawr

Problem was, the daily withdrawal limit on my new ivory card was only five hundred pounds. That was more than the average credit card allowed, but it was still a leash. Even if we booked ordinary hotels and ate on the cheap, we would have to withdraw some cash every few days, more often if we traveled. These Penult folks knew how to keep tabs on us, even without avatars.

“Destroy it now,” said Karla.

“What if we need it … like in an emergency or something?”

“What if it is watching us, listening, just like the other one?”

“He said it wasn’t.”

“And you believe him?”

“How about we hang onto it … just a little longer?”

Karla was not pleased. “Then put it away. Keep it zipped. Understood? After the funeral, once we decide where we go next, you burn it. Understood? Any fool can figure out we are going to Brynmawr this weekend.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

What can I say? I was the addicted to the cash flow. Understandable, I guess, once you’ve been homeless for a while like I was after mom died. I just wasn’t quite ready to start worrying about money again. I suppose I could always get a job like normal people.

“Do you think they’ll let us stay with them on the farm? Maybe we should call ahead?”

“Are you kidding?” Karla’s eyebrows collided in the center of her brow. “Renfrew thinks of you like you are his own son. Of course, he will be happy to have us.”

I had thought a lot about those guys while I was in prison, more nights than not. Thoughts of my life on their farm often provided the calm, soothing kernel of the daydream I used to help me fall asleep. It worked like a charm, driving worries and fears like so many harried foxes into the corners of my brain where they could do no harm.

We took a train five hours south to Ebbw Vale Parkway. It was still overcast as we headed out of the station into the car park, which was fine with me. I liked clouds when they weren’t spitting rain.

“Why don’t we take a cab?” I said.

“No taxi. We walk. Remember? From now on, we must save money.”

I didn’t argue, though, in retrospect maybe I should have. It didn’t look that far on the map. Down one valley, into Brynmawr town, and then up another to the farm. But it took us a good hour to walk to town and another half hour or so to reach the lower gate of Cwm Gyrdd farm.

Across the main road, a bunch of goats with Cwm Gyrdd ear tags stood munching alfalfa in someone else’s pasture.

“Damned fences must be broken again,” I said.

“Look,” said Karla, pointing at the entrance to the farm. The bottom gate was torn off its hinges, as if a large truck had plowed through in haste.

Her eyes sought an explanation, but I could only shrug. Without a word, we took off running up the driveway. As we rounded the mound of slag that stood between us and the first outbuildings, we stopped in our tracks all flushed and gasping.

There were no outbuildings any longer, just heaps of ash and charred timbers. Apart from one small storage shed that Renfrew had used to keep odd bits of hardware and lumber, every structure on the farm had burned to the ground. Karla squeezed my arm and buried her face in my chest.

The fire was recent. The embers no longer smoldered, but the ashes were still warm. Two guys with rakes combed through the debris while a supervisor watched from the cab of a lorry bearing the logo of the South Wales Fire and Rescue Service.