She smiled. There may be three alternatives on the table, but in reality, there was no choice at all. To remain as Allun, she knew that time was running out. His health, or lack of it, would probably result in a heart attack before he was sixty, followed by chronic emphysema and who knows what else (if the heart attack wasn’t fatal, that is).
She was not prepared to share this life with Allun, as it would be no life at all. No, there was only one answer; and perhaps it would be cruel to be kind.
Still with a smile, the girl walked into town, pulling down the hem of her dress. As she walked, the locality seemed familiar. It was as if she belonged here. Maybe not here and now, but somehow, some-when, this part of the world had been her home. She had all Allun’s memories, but she had extra ones, deep within her subconscious.
She knew that these came with the torque, so whenever the torque left her, these memories would go. She knew, for example, the old Cornish language, as well as some of the old Celtic tongue and several others, few of which had been spoken for a very long time.
As she walked, she felt the vibrancy of youth and life within her. It was a magical miracle, but she knew that there would be a price to pay. Nothing ever happened for nothing. In his life to date as well as in all the RP games, there was always some penalty or cost to magic or a sudden gift.
She was prepared to pay it, as pure, unmitigated joy bubbled up inside her. Her hair flowed behind her as she walked and she felt the power in her young legs. Her eyesight was better than perfect, so she breathed in the scents of summer, as she admired the myriad of wild flowers that surrounded her. Her smile went as deep as her soul, and laughter was never far from her heart.
Grace Carpenter was not a native of Cornwall, but she’d lived all her adult life here with her husband, who was Cornish. He was, coincidently enough, a carpenter by trade, now making a healthy living producing wooden carvings for the tourists in summer, resorting to plain old joinery during the off season.
Grace started working in a small boutique shortly after arriving in Falmouth. However, once the children went to school, she took a risk and started her own shop selling ladies clothes.
Specialising in woven fabrics of Celtic and traditional Cornish designs, her shop did well in the summer months, particularly when the large cruise ships disgorged their passengers en-masse to roam the town and spend their money on items that were not available anywhere else and were traditional rather than Chinese-made tourist crap. Her stock was sufficiently varied and reasonably priced, with trendy tops and tee shirts for those not into more traditional fare.
The bell on the door rang and she looked up. She drew breath as she saw the girl who entered, for her natural beauty was so rare that she was simply stunning.
Her new customer was a slender girl dressed in a very unusual tan suede mini dress with leather ties at the throat. She had a wonderful golden brown suntan, with her long dark hair reaching to the small of her back. However, it was her piercing dark green eyes and her delightful smile that Grace found the most striking features.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Dohajydh da, I mean, good afternoon,” the girl said in English with a slightly odd, sing-song accent, not unlike Welsh.
Grace smiled. She rarely heard anyone speaking Cornish these days. The language was supposed to have become extinct but had been resurrected in recent years by enthusiasts who were reluctant to see the culture and heritage of the Cornish die out.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Cornish, but my husband does. You do speak English as well, I assume?”
“Uh, yeah, I need something a little more appropriate than this,” the girl said, tugging at her short dress. Her accent was local but mixed with something else. Grace was unsure of what, but the girl sounded very exotic and slightly mysterious.
“It’s certainly different. What do you have in mind?”
“Just a skirt and top will be fine. Um, you don’t do underwear, I suppose?”
“No, sorry. Temptations up the road would be the place for that, or even one of the supermarkets, as they’ll be a lot cheaper.”
“Okay, then how about that navy skirt with the white cheesecloth top. The one with the Celtic writing saying ‘Have a wonderful day’?”
Grace was surprised.
“You can read Celtic?” she asked.
The girl shrugged as if it was no big deal.
“What size are you?”
“I’m not sure.”
Grace found her measuring tape and measured the girl.
“Size eight. God, how I wish I was a size eight again!”
She found the skirt and top in the girl’s sizes and showed her to the changing booth.
The girl was very quick.
“Very nice, they suit you.”
“Do you sell shoes?”
“Some, but I must say those boots are amazing. Where did you get them?”
“I can’t remember. I think they were a gift ages ago.”
She tried on a pair of open-toed sandals with three-inch heels.
“These are fine. I’ll take them all.”
The girl paid cash for the skirt and top and, smiling like a Cheshire cat, walked out of the shop.
“Dydh da, meur ras,” she said as she left.
Grace looked at the clock, shaking her head. Not only was the girl in and out in less than ten minutes, but she spoke Cornish as if it was natural. Grace went back to her magazine, hoping that the girl would come back so she could find out who she was, as her husband would be interested.
Twenty minutes later, after visiting Marks and Spencer’s in Market Street, Tamsyn had underwear, nightwear, clothes and shoes. She’d even purchased a shoulder bag, some toiletries and makeup from Boots the chemist. In a charity shop, she’d bought a small holdall and an anorak in case it rained. She also found a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Her money was running out.
Her final act was to go to the ATM machine in the high street, and keeping her head down so as not to be on the CCTV camera, used one of Allun’s Visa cards, withdrawing the maximum allowed - £400.
Putting the cash into her bag, she walked to the public toilets near the harbour. Looking at her watch, she saw it was now three pm. She entered the ladies and locked herself in a cubicle. She dressed in all the original clothing, and then she took off the torque. Once more, and for what he hoped would be the last time, Allun stood there in his jeans, check shirt and loafers. He stripped off the clothes and replaced the torque. The girl left the toilets wearing her new clothes and carrying a rolled up pair of jeans with the shirt, underwear, socks and loafers in the middle.
She sat on a wall and wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper, then placed the paper into the wallet. Then, she walked back to the cliff top, which took her about fifteen minutes. Where, after waiting for a man and his dog to pass, she threw Allun’s clothes over the edge. She watched them land on the rocks below. She took a last look at Allun’s photograph on his New Jersey Drivers licence and then, threw the wallet and all contents over as well. The only thing she had now was some of the cash, as she knew it would be suspicious if there wasn't any in the wallet when it was found.
Ironically, the main Coastguard station was above her, hidden by the trees.
With an enormous sense of relief and release, she walked back to the town. She stopped at a telephone box. She dialled 999, asking for the police. She gave her name as Maria Maynard, the first name that came into her head. She tried to age her voice, to sound much older. Allun had gone to school with a girl of that name, thirty-eight years ago. She was aware that she spoke with a local accent, with no hint of New Jersey at all.