In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  ‘Actually, I’m thinking of applying to the graduate program. I’ve already been given lots of responsibility anyway. I might as well be getting paid big bucks for the privilege.’

  Her face is pinched and defiant. Despite her bravado, I know she really does care about what Laurie and I think.

  I look across at Laurie. He’s about to speak, but I jump in first, fearing he might say something to upset her.

  ‘Your dad and I will support you in whatever you do, because we love you and trust you to make the right decision,’ I say, choosing my words with caution. ‘You know we will be here for help and advice, but you are an adult, Alice, and you must make your own choices.’

  Her face relaxes, and she jabs a skewer into another marshmallow before holding it over a flame.

  ‘Oh, and Alice.’

  ‘What?’ she says, through a mouthful of puffy goo.

  ‘You have pink marshmallow all around your mouth.’

  Flynn barks like a seal, then, dodging a well-aimed cushion launched by his sister, follows me into the kitchen. I light the oven while he strips the packaging from the pizzas.

  ‘What about your job? Still enjoying it?’ I say, putting the pizzas into the oven.

  Flynn, always the diplomat, is careful about what he says in front of Alice, but he is keen to tell me about how much he is enjoying his work.

  ‘It’s great, Mum. Not like a job, really. Being paid to do what you love is ace, and it’s a tight team. Someone new started last week, and she’s really cool. She’s called Eloise.’

  Ah, Eloise. That explains the new look.

  The next morning they both have a lie-in. When they eventually emerge, it’s after eleven. After getting dressed, they disappear into the woods to walk Buddy. When they return, Laurie cooks a huge brunch for us all.

  ‘Don’t leave it so long before you come again,’ I say as we sit drinking coffee in the kitchen. ‘And bring a friend if you want to. It’s a breath of fresh air having young ones in the house again.’

  Flynn looks at me. There’s concern on his face. It’s apparent he thinks I’m about to mention Eloise.

  I turn instead to Alice. ‘It would be nice if you brought Jess. We haven’t seen her in ages.’ Flynn visibly relaxes and pops a sausage into his mouth.

  They leave mid-afternoon in a noisy whirl, jamming their hastily packed belongings into the boot of the car. With their departure, the house seems to sigh and fold in on itself. Laurie gets back from dropping them off to find me dozing on the sofa, a cup of tea going cold on the table in front of me.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten how loud and untidy they are,’ he says, stretching out next to me.

  ‘I know, but it’s so lovely to see them, even though it was only a short visit. I thought Alice behaved quite well for once,’ I say.

  ‘Did you think Flynn was a bit quiet?’

  ‘He was, but that’s because he has got something else on his mind.’

  ‘Oh yes. What might that be?’

  ‘I think a certain girl from work called Eloise may have something to do with it. It’s quite possible your son might be in love, Laurie.’

  The short time they’ve been here has provided me with – superficially at least – a semblance of normality. I can, if I try, convince myself I feel almost normal. Maybe the worst is behind me, and with time, everything will slot back into its rightful place. Well-oiled cogs will turn well-oiled wheels, and the machinery will propel me forwards to a place where there is hope and light, not death and darkness.

  Just maybe.

  14

  I can’t speak for Buddy, but I’m getting bored with the pavement walks. On impulse, I put him in the car and drive to Willington, a pretty village if you can ignore the giant concrete cooling towers dominating the skyline. It’s located on the Trent and Mersey Canal. Although the village is quiet at this time of year, an influx of boaters during the summer months swells the population considerably. It’s a popular spot, as you can moor your boat alongside the towpath adjacent to the local pub and have a meal. Or you can walk a short distance to the Co-op and restock supplies for your onward journey.

  The village also boasts a pretty church, a small train station, a post office, a florist’s, and a couple of gift shops. When Alice and Flynn were youngsters, we hired a narrowboat for a week during the summer holidays and spent a night moored here on the last leg of our return journey. Tired after a long day spent operating the locks, the kids were famished by the time we had tied up and refilled our water tank. That night we ate our pub meal outside, sitting on one of the wooden picnic benches. We were all in bed by 9p.m. and fast asleep soon after that, rocked by the motion of the boat as it pulled gently against its mooring ropes.

  There are no free spaces in the car park, even at this time of the morning. It tends to be used by commuters taking the train to Birmingham and is often full. I turn my car around and drive over a little humpbacked bridge and park in a layby close to Tash and Alex’s terraced house. I notice they have replaced the front door and put in new wooden windows. Outside, there are signs of ongoing building work. Bits of old carpet and planks of laminate flooring are stacked neatly in a corner of the tiny front garden. From a basket hanging on a hook next to the door, a profusion of bright orange and yellow nasturtiums spill over the edge, trailing their fleshy stems almost to the floor.

  Tash and Alex will both be at work, so I walk Buddy down the road and through the car park to join the towpath.

  A slight mist hovers over the water, and the few boats still moored up look ghostly in the pale grey light. They vary in their degrees of neatness. Some are freshly painted with bright canal ware and tubs of colourful flowers on their roofs; others are tatty and neglected, with logs piled onto every available space and fly-specked curtains at the windows. As a general rule of thumb, the newer, better-maintained boats are owned by Alice’s favourite target, the well-off retired. The older, scruffier ones tend to be ‘liveaboards’ with a motley assortment of owners – not always, but almost invariably, single males of a certain age.

  The canal gives the area an illusion of space, and the trees look as though they have recently had their branches lopped. They are a sufficient distance away for me not to feel too hemmed in as I make my way along the towpath towards the nearest lock. Buddy is in his element, chasing the odd mallard or moorhen off the path and back into the water. He stops short at entering the canal himself, happy to just dip the tip of his nose and his paws into the shallows, where tufts of reeds protrude and rushes grow in abundance.

  We pass the newly built marina, the gleaming boats arranged in serried ranks, looking to all intents and purposes like a caravan park on water.

  A man is fishing in the canal. He is sitting on a low canvas chair surrounded by rods and buckets of bait. He nods a greeting at me and gives my inquisitive dog a scratch around the ears.

  ‘Lost my dog a couple of months ago. Died of old age. He were a terrier, too.’

  The man’s voice is gruff. It doesn’t sound as though he is used to doing much talking.

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I say, grabbing Buddy before he gets stuck into a plastic box full of wriggling maggots.

  We reach the lock just as a narrowboat is coming up. The boat is as neat as a new pin with her blue and cream livery and tubs of pink and red geraniums on the foredeck. The name Minerva is emblazoned across her gleaming side. A man jumps off, and I help him close the heavy gates after the boat exits the lock. It is being steered effortlessly by his female companion.

  She ‘hovers’ the boat alongside the towpath just long enough to allow the man to jump back on board, then aims the prow for the middle of the canal. The familiar putt-putt of the engine can still be heard long after they have disappeared from sight.

  I was planning on having a coffee at the lock-side café, but I see it’s closed, so I round up Buddy for the walk back. The sun breaks through the cloud cover, burning off the haze over the water, and the sound of birdsong
fills the air. I’m thinking how peaceful it is when there is a low rumbling sound, then a whoosh of air, which flattens the tops of the trees that still have foliage. This is followed by a strident blast of a horn as a train passes at speed within feet of where we are walking. Despite being aware of the proximity to the track, I’m still startled by the noise.

  The normally bombproof Buddy looks shocked and stands stock-still with his tail tucked between his legs until he is sure the threat has passed. ‘It’s all right, boy,’ I tell him, bending down to stroke his head. Reassured, he resumes his exploration of the hedgerows and dense thicket of brambles edging the towpath.

  The couple from the lock have found themselves a sheltered spot not far from the pub and are tying off Minerva. I give them a wave and head for the path exiting from the towpath. This will take me back to the main road. We are about to turn onto it when I hear a woman’s voice, loud and urgent.

  ‘Kai, Dexter, get here – now!’

  Then all hell breaks loose as two dark shapes hurtle in my direction. Before I have time to react, they are jumping up at me, snarling and barking in a fevered combination of excitement and aggression. The cropped tails and upright ears suggest the dogs are Dobermanns. Turning their attention to Buddy, they pin him to the ground. They are twice his size, muscular with powerful jaws. Although my instinct is to try to get a hold of the dogs, I know they could easily overwhelm me. I’ve read somewhere that grabbing a dog by the tail can interrupt a fight, but the docked tails make that impossible. In desperation, I look around for a stick but can’t locate anything suitable.

  To my great relief, the man from the boat appears, brandishing a broom. The woman, whom I take to be his wife, follows, carrying a bucket overflowing with water. Buddy is now squealing in pain, which seems to incite the dogs into a greater frenzy. One has him by the scruff of the neck and is shaking him like a rag doll. I can see a thin trail of blood on the ground. The man, though a little unsteady on his feet, gets in a couple of blows with the brush handle as the woman douses the dogs with water from the bucket. I’m relieved to see that the dog mauling Buddy has slackened its jaws, releasing Buddy’s motionless form from its grip. The cold water seems to have dissipated their aggression, and they shake vigorously before withdrawing almost sheepishly to the side of the path.

  Crouching on the ground next to Buddy, I can hear the man berating the owner of the dogs, who has arrived, breathless from running. All I can see are a pair of leopard-print wellingtons and the bottom of a pink cashmere coat as she clips leads on the dogs’ collars. She ignores the angry tirade of abuse coming from the man and leans over to talk to me instead.

  ‘Shit, is your dog hurt?’

  Stupid question, I want to say, stroking the blood-matted fur around his muzzle. Buddy doesn’t stir for a few minutes, and I feel sure he is badly injured or even dead. I cry out in relief as he stirs, whimpers, then reaches out to lick my hand. A superficial check reveals no significant damage that I can see, apart from a couple of fairly deep bite wounds around his mouth and a chunk out of his ear. He is, however, wobbly when he tries to stand, so I scoop him up and cradle him in my arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman says. ‘They are usually fine with other dogs. They just don’t like terriers for some reason.’ She sighs in exasperation. ‘It’s my own fault. They’ve been cooped up for a couple of days. I shouldn’t have let them run off the lead. I hope he’s alright.’

  I have a good ear for accents, and I detect a slight rising inflection that is not local.

  Although obviously modulated over the years, her accent is still discernible, the distinctive vowel sound for i a dead giveaway. It’s only in Birmingham that alright becomes olright.

  I’ve been so worried about Buddy, I haven’t really looked properly at the woman. She is still leaning over and talking to me, but the curtain of blonde hair falling across her face is concealing her features. The shock of the attack has left me struggling to process what she is saying, and, still clutching Buddy, I stagger to my feet. By now, I am boiling with anger and ready to give her a piece of my mind, but I stop short as I realise just who is standing in front of me.

  15

  Melanie Ingram has slender fingers topped by pink gel nails glittering with diamanté. I watch in admiration as she expertly taps a number into her phone.

  ‘Hello, yes, it’s Mel Ingram. Kai and Dexter have attacked a dog on the towpath. I’m coming in with the owner.’ There is a pause as the person on the other end speaks. ‘No, I haven’t a clue.’ Her tone is firm but impatient. ‘It’s a small dog, some sort of terrier cross, I would guess. I want you to check it over and see if it needs any treatment. We’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’

  She is used to giving orders, that much is clear.

  The man and woman from the boat look on in concern.

  ‘Poor little lad,’ the man says, fixing Mel with a fierce look. ‘Best get him checked out. And make her pay for any treatment. It’s the least she can do after what her dogs have done.’

  She ignores him and turns to talk to me. The man might as well be invisible.

  ‘Are you alright carrying him a little way? I say him. I’m guessing it’s a male?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Buddy,’ I croak, dry mouthed.

  ‘My house is not far. I just need to take the dogs back, and then I’ll drive you to the vet’s. I’ll pay, obviously. Come with me. It’s this way.’

  She doesn’t wait for a reply and walks off. I thank the couple and, still holding Buddy, I follow her retreating back as she heads off towards the main road.

  The house is post-war red brick and compact, with a well-tended front garden. A relatively new silver Range Rover sits on the drive, and Mel opens the boot.

  ‘Put Buddy in there. It won’t take me long to sort the dogs out, and the vet’s is only a five-minute drive away.’

  Buddy has perked up and seems unperturbed by being placed in a stranger’s vehicle. Mel clips a seatbelt onto his harness, and he does his usual circular turn, albeit a little stiffly, then curls up on the rug lining the boot.

  His back right leg does seem to be sticking out at an angle. Apart from that, he seems to have forgotten the trauma on the towpath.

  Mel beckons me inside, and I slip off my walking shoes, placing them on the shoe rack in the hallway. She leads the way into a spacious lounge tastefully decorated in shades of grey and cream. The seating consists of two deep leather sofas and a low-slung Barcelona chair. A couple of white shag-pile rugs have been strategically placed on the expanse of blond wooden flooring, and a huge glass coffee table occupies the centre of the room. The overall look is too clinical for me, but it’s obvious she has expensive tastes.

  There is not much evidence of any personal effects or clutter, certainly no books or ornaments, but on the wall above the fireplace hangs a large black-and-white framed photo. It’s a studio shot, professionally posed, and the smiling blondee woman is obviously Mel. She is younger in the picture, and her hair is a shade darker, but it’s unmistakably her.

  The boys, I would guess, are aged around six and eight. They stand at her side, dressed in identical plaid shirts, hair brushed up and back into spiky quiffs. It’s obvious they are brothers, and the older one is definitely Tyler. His gaze is open, clear and untroubled; a faint grin plays around his lips as he looks directly into the camera. The younger boy must be Gabe. In contrast, he appears bored and sulky, his body language defensive. It looks as though he has been chastised and made to stand in front of the camera against his will.

  A large bunch of white lilies sit in the fireplace, and I start to feel headachy and faintly nauseous; the cloying scent of lilies has always been for me a pungent symbolisation of decay and death. The flowers, surrounded by sympathy cards, serve as a reminder that in this house, a boy on the verge of becoming a man lived, laughed, argued, cried. Perhaps he had dreams and had started to plan for his future. A future denied to him in just a few, short brutal minutes. The thought fills
me with an overwhelming sense of melancholy, and I want to weep at the unfairness of it all.

  Mel appears at my side and gestures towards the photograph. Turning my head, I sniff and blink away the tears that are forming. I hope she hasn’t noticed.

  ‘The older one is my Tyler, the family protector, even then. The cheeky-looking one, playing up as usual, is our kid Gabe. He’s the youngest,’ she says.

  I don’t tell her I have already worked that out. Something does strike me as odd, though. She has made no reference to Tyler’s death. Surely, as a bereaved mother, you would want to mention something so important?

  I have never met her in person, and she doesn’t know me either, but suddenly I feel uncomfortable, as though caught out in a lie.

  There hasn’t been time for me to mention the fact that it was I who found Tyler. I want to bring it up, but for some reason, I am conflicted and uneasy in her presence. I notice she is scrutinising me with a cool detachment, and her gaze is making me feel even more ill at ease.

  I swallow hard. ‘They are lovely boys, a real credit to you. There is something I need to tell you though. It’s about your oldest son.’ I am stammering in my haste to get the words out. ‘The thing is, you don’t know me…’ Now I’m gabbling, the words tripping over each other. ‘You don’t know me…’ I say again, trying for more conviction in my voice.

  She puts a hand on my arm, silencing me. I see a shadow cross her face. It’s fleeting, and she quickly regains her composure.

  My uneasiness persists. I want to say something meaningful and consoling.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. It was I who saw what happened. It was I who witnessed Tyler’s murder.’ It’s all I can manage to blurt out.

  Mel’s face remains impassive. ‘The police said someone was there and tried to help him. I want to thank you for that. It must have been terrifying, getting caught up in what was going on.’