In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  Getting caught up in what was going on. Mel’s choice of words is odd. Before I have time to think about it further, she has picked up her keys and is ushering me out of the front door. A quick glance through the rear window of her car and it looks as though Buddy is still in the same position. I tap lightly on the glass, and he lifts his head wearily before dropping it down onto his paws and going back to sleep.

  The veterinary surgery is, as Mel has said, only a short drive away. I carry Buddy inside while Mel speaks to the receptionist at the desk. While we wait, I try placing him down on the floor, but he winces in pain and holds up his back leg. I pick him back up and cuddle him until the vet calls for us.

  ‘Right, little Buddy. What have you done to yourself?’ Clodagh, the vet, is soft-spoken, with an Irish lilt that reassures both of us. She examines Buddy gently and skilfully. ‘He was attacked by dogs, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The woman who brought us in, Melanie Ingram, it was her Dobermanns that went for him.’

  Clodagh raises her eyebrows. ‘Ah, yes. Those two are pretty powerful dogs. They must have given him an awful fright, but I don’t think there’s a huge amount of damage done to the little fella. He needs a couple of stitches over that eye and some antibiotics, that’s all. I think his leg is just bruised. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to keep him in overnight for observation. We’ll give you a ring in the morning to let you know what time you can pick him up.’

  Knowing Buddy is in safe hands, I start to feel less tense. During the drive back to pick up my car, Mel juggles calls from two phones, one of which is in her coat pocket. From the other, located in her bag at my feet, we are treated to a succession of message alerts. The pings are irritating, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Sounds like someone is trying to get hold of you?’ I say by way of conversation. I’m hoping for some information to give me a clue to her life, but she remains enigmatic, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  We reach the layby where my car is parked, and she pulls in behind my little powder blue Fiat 500. The alerts are now coming through thick and fast on the phone buried in her bag.

  ‘It’s just work,’ she offers by way of explanation.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her about her job, but she seems eager to get away. She takes the phone from her coat and waves it in my direction.

  ‘Add my number and ring me when you are coming to pick up Buddy. I’ll go with you to settle the bill.’

  I do as she says, and feeling as though I have been dismissed, I get into my car. It’s just after 1 p.m., but seems much later. It’s certainly been an eventful day. Driving home, I rehearse in my head what I’m going to say to Laurie when he gets back. I’m reluctant to phone him while he’s at work. If he’s busy, he won’t pick up; and if he’s tired, he can be tetchy. Even though he is usually easy-going and we don’t argue so much now, I suspect he will be concerned about me and angry about what happened to Buddy.

  Whatever I tell him, I will need to choose my words carefully.

  16

  Clodagh rings the next morning. She tells me Buddy has had a good night and is ready for collection. When I try Mel’s number, it keeps going to answerphone. It occurs to me that she might be avoiding my call. It’s even possible she’s had second thoughts about footing the vet’s bill. I leave her a message, and just as I’m getting into my car, she calls me back. She sounds flustered.

  ‘Sorry, the engine warning light has come on, and I’ve had to take my car to the garage. They’ve just dropped me off at home. Do you mind picking me up from here?’

  My ring on the doorbell is answered not by Mel, but Gabe. At least, I assume it’s him. He is wearing a beanie hat under the hood of his sweatshirt, and the drawstring is fastened tightly under his chin, concealing the lower part of his face. If he does recognise me, nothing in his sullen gaze betrays that fact, but I still feel a sense of disquiet in his presence. Standing behind him is another youth dressed in almost identical clothing. He is slight, with reddish, cropped hair and freckles. He looks about fourteen. Neither of them speaks or moves aside to let me in.

  The uncomfortable silence is broken by Mel, who appears in the hallway.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gabe, where are your manners? Don’t leave Fran standing on the doorstep.’

  As Gabe and his friend move to the side to let me pass, I notice they are both wearing backpacks.

  ‘Not at school?’ I ask as I step into the hallway.

  ‘Inset day,’ Gabe murmurs. His friend sniggers and rubs an inflamed spot on the side of his cheek.

  Today Mel is casually dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. I follow her into the lounge, which is considerably untidier than it was yesterday. There are discarded Xbox controllers on the sofa and energy drink cans and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

  ‘I’ve got to go out,’ she says, getting her purse from her bag. She takes a handful of banknotes and hands them to Gabe. ‘What time is your train?’

  Gabe takes the money and jams it into a zipped pocket in his rucksack. ‘ ’Bout 11:30,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Better get going, then, but when you get back, I want you to walk the dogs and get this place cleaned up. It’s a bloody tip. I’ve got a lot to do today. I don’t have time to chase around after you and your mates.’

  ‘They’re off on a day trip to Birmingham,’ Mel says to me, by way of explanation. ‘Keeps them out of trouble. They only get bored and into all sorts of mischief if they hang about in the village.’

  She picks up her bag and jacket, and I lead the way to my car.

  It’s the end of surgery, and Clodagh is waiting for us. She goes to collect Buddy while Mel chats to the receptionist, who is preparing the bill. I hear the woman say, ‘That will be £250,’ as she hands over an itemised printout. It’s an awful lot of money, but Mel appears unconcerned and hands over the payment in cash.

  Buddy is ecstatic to see me and yips in relief at not having been abandoned. We leave with a repeat prescription and a set of instructions relating to his care.

  Mel asks if I will drop her at the garage. Her vehicle needs some work, but they have a courtesy car that she can use until hers is repaired.

  ‘It’s a bloody Fiesta,’ she says scornfully. ‘I haven’t driven anything as small as that since I was a teenager.’

  I look at my little car and then at her, debating whether I should say something amusing or even sarcastic. She seems oblivious to the irony and squeezes herself into the front seat without comment. She ignores the constant barrage of messages coming through on her phone and gazes out of the car window instead.

  ‘Work again?’ I say.

  Her look is diffident. There is an awkward pause before she replies.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I sell make-up. Today is one of my delivery days.’ She turns back to the window, ending the conversation abruptly.

  After leaving Mel at the garage, I am at a loose end. She had exited the car with a wave, leaving only the faint lingering scent of her perfume, a heady floral fragrance I recognise but can’t recall the name of.

  ‘What should we do now, Buddy?’ I say to the snoring figure on the back seat.

  I decide to go back to the canal to see if the couple on the narrowboat are still moored up near the pub. They were concerned about Buddy, and I’m sure they will be pleased to see how well he has recovered. This time, I manage to get a space in the car park, and sure enough, Minerva is still moored in the same place.

  Standing on top of the boat, the man is cleaning the roof with the mop and bucket. Through one of the side windows, I can see his wife. She is chopping vegetables in the tiny galley kitchen. Seeing me, she smiles and gives me a nod and a thumbs-up when she sees Buddy trotting happily alongside me.

  The man steps down to the small brass toe-step at the side of the boat, then lowers himself onto the gunwale before hopping off to land on the towpath in front of me. He bend
s down to give Buddy a stroke.

  ‘Well, he looks much improved on yesterday. I thought he was a goner when those two set about him. Vicious buggers. I hope she sorted out the vet fees. It’s the least she could do under the circumstances.’

  ‘She did. I’ve just picked him up from the vet’s. They’ve given him some antibiotics and painkillers. His ear is a little wonky, and his back leg is stiff, but he’ll be as right as rain in a few days.’

  The woman joins us on the path, and Buddy is treated to an additional bout of fussing.

  ‘Lovely to see him in such fine fettle. You two off for a walk?’ she says.

  ‘Just a short one. I think he’s actually quite worn out after all the excitement. I’m glad I caught you,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to thank you again for all your help yesterday.’

  ‘We are just relieved he’s alright. He’s a sweet little thing,’ the woman says, ‘And by the way, I’m Sal, and this old codger is Alan, although everyone calls him Al.’

  Al smiles and winks. ‘Just like the song,’ he says. ‘Call me Al.’

  ‘I’m Francesca, but everyone calls me Fran,’ I say. ‘And, I think you already know Buddy.’

  A man passes us walking two Staffordshire bull terriers, and I instinctively pull Buddy close to me by his lead. Sal sees my apprehension and looks at Al, who nods his head as though in agreement.

  ‘Why don’t you go for your walk, and then come back and have some lunch with us? It’s just home-made soup and bread, but you would be very welcome.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I say, eager to see inside. The layouts of narrowboats are fascinating, given the space available, and it will be interesting to see what they have done with the interior. This time, I walk in the opposite direction and away from the man with his dogs. We don’t get very far. Buddy’s initial enthusiasm for a walk has waned. His pace has slowed, and his tail is down. Turning around, we take a leisurely stroll back to the boat.

  I knock on the roof to announce our presence and take off my boots. I remember to duck down to avoid banging my head as Buddy and I enter the cabin where Sal and Al are waiting.

  To my surprise, the interior is completely different from what I expected. Instead of dark planking and twee furnishings, it’s light and airy with grey linen curtains, lime-wash paintwork and Laura Ashley–style furniture. Matching checked Sherlock chairs sit either side of a small wood burner. Loaded with crackling logs, the fire is throwing out heat, and Buddy stretches out on the rug, soaking up the warmth. Like all narrowboats, space is at a premium, but it doesn’t feel cluttered or cramped. A pull-out dinette table has been set for lunch, and my stomach gurgles in response to the delicious aroma of vegetable soup and freshly made bread.

  I take my place on the banquette, a selection of tasteful cushions at my back.

  ‘This is so kind of you, and your boat is absolutely beautiful. I love a traditional style of narrowboat, but this feels so spacious in comparison. And there’s not a horse brass in sight. How have you managed it?’

  ‘It’s all down to Sal, really,’ Al says, looking at his wife in admiration. ‘I’m good with my hands, but Sal is the one with an eye for design.’

  Sal clicks her tongue as though in annoyance and shoos him away. But not before I see the colour rise in her cheeks. They are still in love, I think to myself, with a pang of envy.

  Soon I’m savouring their home-cooked food and starting to feel relaxed. Al pours me a small glass of elderberry wine, which he tells me he has made from fruit picked from the hedgerows last autumn. They don’t live on board all year round, he says. They own a house, which they return to for the winter. The boat was purchased and designed to their own specifications when Al retired. With no dependents to worry about, and being free agents, they feel they have the best of both worlds: the joys of the canal in the summer, and a nice warm house to return to in the winter. A look I can’t interpret passes between them. Sal seems pained, but the moment passes, and I wonder if I imagined it.

  It’s difficult not to admire the lifestyle they have chosen. Life is full of compromises, and I know I have so much to be grateful for. It’s ungracious to want more or to wish that things could be different. It’s true I’ve had a difficult time recently, but unlike Mel Ingram and poor Tash, I am fortunate not to be mourning the death of a child. Still, deep down, there is a niggling worm of dissatisfaction. A part of me that yearns for a simpler life with fewer complications.

  While Al prepares the boat for departure, I help Sal wash the dishes. A low thrumming and a vibration through the floorboards means he has started up the engine. The wine must have loosened my tongue because I tell Sal all about Tyler’s death, the threats, and my interactions with Mel Ingram.

  Sal looks shocked. They had overheard people talking about it in the pub, she tells me, but hadn’t realised the connection to Willington and to my village.

  ‘It’s incomprehensible that such terrible things can happen in rural areas. It’s such a quiet part of Derbyshire. I really don’t know what the world is coming to. That poor young boy, and poor you. It must have been a terrible experience. That mother of his sounds like a piece of work, though.’

  She doesn’t express any sympathy for Mel, having already formed her own opinion of her. I do wonder if I painted too harsh a picture of my encounters with Mel. After all, grief can affect people in different ways, and it might be that this is how she is coping with her loss.

  There’s no time to elaborate, because Al taps on the kitchen window. It’s time to leave. Sal and I exchange telephone numbers, and I rouse a reluctant Buddy to get him on to the lead.

  ‘By the way, Sal, why the name Minerva?’

  ‘We get asked that a lot,’ she says. ‘Young ’uns think she’s named after Professor McGonagall in Harry Potter, but our Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom.’

  Sal gives me a farewell hug, and I pull on my boots and jump down onto the towpath.

  Reaching the car park entrance, I turn to see Sal is on the back deck, hand ready on the tiller. Once the ropes are untied, Al nudges the front of the boat with his foot, and Minerva glides away from the bank. He then hops up alongside Sal, who expertly steers towards the centre of the canal. I wave as they pass me, sending out a silent message to Minerva to grant me the gift of wisdom.

  I’m going to need it, if the last week has been anything to go by.

  17

  Buddy is eager to get out of the car and back to familiar surroundings. He rushes inside when I open the front door. I hesitate, one foot on the threshold, palms sweaty. This is starting to become a habitual behaviour; I can’t seem to break the pattern. I am reminded of a cat we had when I was a child. She was poised to go through a door left slightly ajar when my mother had pushed it open from the other side and whacked the cat hard on her head. For the rest of her life, the cat always paused on the verge of doorways, tail and whiskers twitching, only moving forward when she was sure she was safe.

  This is me. I am that cat. Senses alert to possible danger, feeling as though I am in constant peril, always waiting for something awful to happen.

  A ping on my phone breaks the spell. It’s a reminder about my yoga class tonight. I’ve completely forgotten about it. I’m a bit peeved at giving up my evening. I was hoping to talk to Laurie about today’s events. It will be close to nine when I get back, and by then, he will be too tired. After getting stuck in traffic last night, his main concern was Buddy. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to anything but the bare facts about Mel Ingram, even though I was buzzing to tell him about what had happened.

  Can it really be the case that the dog’s welfare is of more importance than anything else I have to say?

  I give myself a mental dressing-down. I’m being silly and, worse, unfair. Working and travelling is leaving him exhausted. I text him to let him know when I’ll be home then get myself ready for the class.

  What is it about some middle-aged women that they have to squeeze themselves into the most inappropr
iate, tight-fitting, lurid-hued Lycra to participate in an exercise class? My preferred outfit is harem pants and an old baggy T-shirt. The one I’m wearing tonight once belonged to Alice and dates from when she was going through a short-lived heavy metal phase. It bears the legend ‘Rock Until You Drop’.

  One of the Lycra brigade tears herself away from her similarly clad sisters and bears down on me. She has on a garish-coloured exercise headband and is clutching one of those trendy flask- type water bottles aimed at active urbanites. I think she is called Avis, which suits her, as she is bird-like, with spiky greyish-blonde hair. She looks like a wizened cockatiel.

  ‘Fran, it’s so good to see you. How are you?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead she grabs my arm and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘It must have been terrible for you. It’s shaken us girls to the core, I can tell you. We are all terrified to go out, terrified, I say.’

  The word terrified is communicated in such a theatrical way, I want to laugh out loud. Fortunately, the instructor arrives, followed by a vision dressed in a botanical-print training bra and shorts. On her head, she is wearing a bright green turban from which tufts of bright pink hair are escaping in every direction. The effect is weirdly stylish and zany. I’m impressed by the outfit. She has managed to outdo even Avis in the Lycra stakes.

  ‘Tash, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You tell me to come. Every time I see you, you say come, so I here. Alex is working, and tonight I am free.’ She stretches her arms wide to illustrate her point. ‘I think it will be good for making a baby,’ she says.

  I look at her in puzzlement. ‘You mean the yoga positions will help?’

  She howls with laughter, and those huddling around Avis look at the pair of us in alarm.

  ‘No, no, Fran. Not for the sex, for the relaxation.’