Darkly Wood

by Power, Max

  Benjamin’s face became very serious all of a sudden. He stepped a little closer to Daisy and looked around nervously as though genuinely frightened.

  “You’re right!” He announced quite darkly, “Let’s go home!”

  It took Daisy only seconds to realise that he was making fun of her and she thumped him again.

  “Ouch!” he exclaimed, as she tramped away from him in the direction she had seen the boy go.

  “You asked for it,” she told him, “now come on if you’re coming.”

  Benjamin rubbed his arm and followed a few paces behind. Daisy cocked her ears as the whispered voice came across the Wood once more.

  “Daisy May” it called in the softest, sweetest of voices. She looked back at Benjamin and he smiled at her. He hadn’t heard it and as she looked at his smiling face, the voice called out her name again. Benjamin definitely didn’t register the sound. She turned away and kept walking and Benjamin trotted a few steps to catch up. She daren’t tell him, that she was hearing voices. It was bad enough that he thought she was seeing strange boys.

  They walked in silence save for the sound of their tromping feet, hiking through the deep foliage underfoot. It grew deeper as the moved further into the Wood and the forest canopy closed in above them, blotting all but the barest glimpses of sky above. The trek quickly became very tough and slowed their progress. Benjamin took her hand and now it seemed perfectly normal for him to do so and she smiled. Suddenly the walk took on new meaning. Woody began to fade in importance. Daisy felt feelings that were entirely new to her and it was confusing, exciting and wonderful. Benjamin looked at Daisy and Daisy returned his smiling glance as they walked together hand in hand, high-kneed, unaware of the danger ahead, deeper and deeper into the grip of Darkly Wood.

  CHAPTER TEN – JO-JO

  One of the enduring stories about Darkly Wood involved a woman who the locals would have called a floozy, although not to her face. Perhaps it was her colourful background that helped make hers one of the more popular stories to tell, or perhaps it was the manner of her demise. A key reason was that what happened to her was still fresh in the memories of the people of Cranby and thanks to the modern day media, the story travelled even further afield. Another reason was the nature of the story and the lady herself.

  Jo-Jo Couchet was indeed, a woman who had led an extraordinary life before coming to Cranby. She carried a rather exotic name although her real name was far less exciting. Born Joanna Crotchet, her family was wealthy and well received in all the right circles. She was an only child and should in theory at least, have had the potential to lead a wonderful life. Her path through the world was laid out for her and it was to be a privileged one indeed. Whatever went wrong however went seriously wrong. The origins of her troubles were undocumented, her early story untold. Joanna ran away from home for the first time when she was just eleven. Apart from a very small group of people, no one ever heard of this little escapade. A story like that, for such a family, would have been juicy news. The chief inspector was a personal friend of Joanna’s father. Everything was kept quiet.

  By the time she ran away from home for the fifth time at the age of fourteen, Joanna had a drink habit that would have been unbecoming of a seasoned marine and she was pregnant. Joanna couldn’t even be sure who the father was. It was a short lived pregnancy. Largely due to her habit and lifestyle, she lost her baby. Joanna was five months gone and the baby was a boy. Despite the fact that she strenuously denied to anyone who would listen that she cared not a jot about her baby, Joanna had chosen a name and had even begun to imagine a life with her new child. It would have been a life worthy of making an effort for, a life to stop drinking for and she would have called him Jack. She did. Sadly it was not to be.

  The story goes that after losing her baby, Joanna disappeared completely. She vanished into some metropolis no doubt, no one really knew for sure. Her mother worried herself into an early grave. Although he could have used his considerable resources and influence to find his daughter, her father was happy to have his embarrassment out of sight and mind. Shadrach Crotchet was a hard, cold man. As far as he was concerned, the further away she went the better and good riddance.

  By all accounts she resurfaced five years later, arrested and imprisoned for six months on a variety of charges involving soliciting and theft. Shadrach irritated that she had come back, refused to have anything to do with her, once again leaving her to her own devices. On her release from prison, Joanna vanished once again.

  As had happened previously, Joanna’s vanishing act was complete. Even the most creative of story tellers could do little more than speculate as to what happened during those missing years. Joanna’s story was filled with holes. After another three years she surfaced once again. On this occasion however, she was a different person, a completely different person. So much so that Joanna had changed everything, even her name. Now she was Jo-Jo Couchet and though still practicing the same profession that had seen her imprisoned years before, this time around she was working indoors and her rates had gone up.

  Jo-Jo had gone upmarket and escorted only the best-heeled of the upper class. She was very much sought after and gained a reputation second to none. After all the years of hating the class from which she sprung, Jo-Jo had finally figured out how she could use her breeding and understanding of those that she despised the most. Money flowed and Jo-Jo became a woman of some means. She bought two properties, one in the city and one in the country. Both were used for work although the country home was only for special clients. She had made an almost unbelievable transformation.

  It was as though the person that had vanished three years earlier had re-emerged as a completely different individual. It was caterpillar into butterfly. Her addictions were gone and her confidence soared, at least outwardly. The methods employed to achieve this reinvention were a mystery and no one ever found out what had happened to her during her time away. Whatever it was, Jo-Jo’s transformation was nothing short of miraculous.

  It would be untrue to say however that she was happy, for she was far from that and the damage that had been done to her emotionally and physically, was never part of the stories that people told about her. They only spoke of the more obvious and dramatic and seemingly salubrious aspects of her life.

  So she became a woman of some renown, at least in the right circles which were far removed from a little village like Cranby. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, reduced to depravity through addiction and abuse, Jo-Jo had risen again to the highest of heights, at least within her chosen profession. Although her life had left her with much to regret, she was at least and at last, in control of her own destiny. Or so it seemed. Sometimes and for some people, there is inevitability about the direction they will go. When it came, her fall was hard.

  Jo-Jo arrived in Cranby, running from her past. At first no one knew who she was, but it wasn’t long before the rumour mill got hold of her history and spun it for all it was worth. She had come to Cranby on the back of another dramatic collapse in her fortune, clinging on to the last of her accumulated wealth. She bought a small cottage at the top of the town and hoped to keep herself to herself. The past be damned. What might have been was to be no more. There was no point looking back.

  Her move to Cranby was precipitated by the visit of a particular client. Delmar Lamont was a first timer with Jo-Jo. He made arrangements to meet her for dinner as was the norm at the Blue Lantern. It was a rather expensive and discrete little restaurant, whose well tipped staff guaranteed discretion and whose price list ensured that potential clients had enough money to afford her services. Jo-Jo was a regular and she always booked the same table at the furthest end of the room. From there she could watch the door in the dimly lit restaurant and study the arrival of her clients.

  On the night in question, Jo-Jo had no reason to be concerned, although she was a little apprehensive as she always was when she met a new client for the first time. Her apprehension turned to fright when she
saw her father walk through the door. When she saw the Maître-de point him to her table, her fright turned to horror. He smiled a big broad smile at her and actually sat down and introduced himself under his Nom de plume of Delmar Lamont without recognising her. The room was dimly lit, he was not wearing his glasses, and she was a lot different since last they met. It was hardly an expected turn of events for him. Nonetheless she recognised him immediately and expected the same in return.

  It was when he leaned forward to get a better look under the guise of asking her what she would like to drink, that the penny finally dropped. His face turned grey and he slumped back in his chair. For her part Jo-Jo couldn’t speak. If she had thought about it in advance, perhaps it wouldn’t have surprised her that her father might use the services of a woman like her. The fact that they sat opposite each other in the bizarre trick that life had thrown at them, made her feel no less ill. She made a move to go and he stopped her.

  “Wait.” He instructed, his face still pale, his voice trembling slightly. She stayed in her seat and waited to hear what he had to say.

  “Your mother loved you.” He began, surprising her with his opening sentiment and tone. He was generally a man who got straight to the point.

  “She loved you so much that she grew to hate me before she died.”

  He lowered his head, but only for a moment, his voice sounded small and he looked very much older than she had remembered.

  “When I disowned you, she refused to speak to me. Barely spoke to me at all except when absolutely necessary in the last few years.” He sounded sad and he never took his eyes off his daughter as she interrupted him.

  “I should go.” Jo-Jo didn’t want to hear his self-pity, if that’s what it was.

  “No, Wait!” He again requested, holding his hands out in a gesture for her to stay in her chair. Unsure but nonetheless curious, Jo- Jo obligingly stayed put and he carried on.

  “She only lived with me at all in the end for appearance sake, you know how she was.”

  Jo-Jo knew exactly how she was. Her mother would do anything rather than let people know what really went on her life. She had let her own daughter go for the sake of appearances and Jo-Jo could not forgive her for that.

  “So it’s hardly news to you that I seek comfort with...” he hesitated, not sure of the right word in the circumstances. Jo-Jo found it for him.

  “Whores?”

  She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow to emphasise the distaste she felt for the man. Even so, she was aware of the irony in her sarcasm. Shadrach looked at her and smiled. He was not going to be kind after all.

  “Whores.”

  He agreed and in doing so called his own daughter a whore. Though she sold herself and had no illusion as to what she was, Jo-Jo did not expect him to be so cruel in that moment. Somehow he had fooled her into thinking that perhaps he might be about to apologise. Somewhere in her heart of hearts, it was a reconciliation that she dearly wanted, although she would never admit that, not even to herself. She should have remembered how cruel he could be. He wasn’t finished.

  “You know, you and your mother had a lot in common. She was a whore of sorts too, don’t you think. Stayed with me for love did she? You think?”

  He looked at her, still with a deadly focus and in his eyes she recognised the hate that she had seen there before.

  “No, she was every bit as big a whore as you, except she only had one client! Me!”

  He almost spat the final words in a half whisper across the table and his face turned red with anger.

  Jo-Jo wasn’t going to be drawn in. There was nothing to be gained by this confrontation. She had enough and had no intention of sitting there listening to his hateful words. Jo-Jo stood up and made to leave, but he reached across and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed so hard it hurt and he snarled at her.

  “Sit down!”

  Jo-Jo looked across the restaurant. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. She sat down again but he still held on to her wrist. It hurt but she didn’t want to make a scene. This was an important place for her. She couldn’t afford to make a scene.

  “YOU!” he snaffled through his teeth. “You’re nothing but a cheap, filthy nasty little slut! You made a good pair, you and your mother. Always bleeding me, always looking to take, take, take.” A slaver of spittle drooled out from the side of his lip.

  She could see a horrible ugliness creep across his face as it began to contort with a deep anger. He still wasn’t finished.

  “Well, I got rid of you didn’t I?” He forced out a small sarcastic laugh, “and that bitch of a mother of your’s is gone now too. Good riddance to bad rubbish I say!”

  He smirked and Jo-Jo actually thought he looked evil.

  “Good riddance!” he repeated. “I want you to know that I’m glad to be rid of both of you. Look at yourself.” He made a face that showed his utter revulsion for her.

  “Tramp!” He used the word like a punctuation mark to his last statement. He might just as well have slammed his fist down on the table to make his point. It felt that way.

  “If I die tomorrow, I will go happy knowing that you know how much I despise you,”

  His smirk became a smile as a thought crossed his mind. It was another chance to twist the knife.

  “You know I lied when I said she hated me because she loved you because in the end, right before she died your mother hated you too.”

  Shadrach leaned forward so she could see the venom in his eyes. That was too much for her to take.

  “That’s a lie!” Jo-Jo raised her voice a little but caught herself and lowered her tone before anyone would notice. “She loved me.” She repeated herself as if needing reassurance, “My mother loved me!”

  Her stomach churned and her throat swelled with emotion, her eyes filled with tears. Shadrach let her wrist go and laughed.

  “Loved you! Ha! You stupid bitch! She hated you!”

  He was enjoying himself now. The all-powerful Shadrach Crochet. No one bested him; no one told him he was wrong. No one walked out on him. He still had more.

  “Your mother told me before she died, last words, scouts honour,” it was an expression that he always used and she despised it, “last words from her lips, ‘I will never forgive her’ that’s what she said, true as I’m sitting here.” He laughed again and repeated with a snort, “True as I’m sitting here.”

  And then a strange thing happened. Shadrach stopped laughing. It wasn’t gradual and it didn’t fade out. It just stopped in that moment on the turn of a word. Jo-Jo looked at him and he was staring back at her with a twisted smile on his face. She watched him and it took a few moments, before she was able to recognise just what it was that stared back at her. When she saw it for what it was, there was no mistaking the thing that she was witnessing. Jo-Jo stared death in the face, quite literally.

  Shadrach died in the most peculiar fashion. He seemed to just come to a stop like a clock whose spring had sprung his dying actions and words forever burned on her soul. It was such a calm moment in that few minutes of upset, that it seemed unreal. Jo-Jo wasn’t quite sure what to do, so she acted on instinct. She took a look around but the staff and customers were oblivious to her situation. Then she took one long last look at her father. He remained still and upright, his dead eyes still staring at her, still laughing at her. Shadrach looked like a man deciding on what he might choose from the open wine list on the table before him. Jo-Jo gathered her things and then stood up. She simply got up and walked out as though nothing had happened. She never looked back. Jo-Jo Never returned to the Blue Lantern.

  By the night’s end, Jo-Jo was so drunk she fell asleep with her face pressed up against the porcelain of the toilet bowl in her ornate bathroom. By the end of the week she had subjected herself to the most severe binge she could remember and that was saying something. By the end of the month she looked five years older and her life was falling apart. When the four seasons had turned, Jo-Jo barely had a grip on real
ity and had wasted most of her amassed fortune. She hadn’t worked since the night she left her father at the Blue Lantern. Gradually Jo-Jo began to collect debts and before long, all she had left was the city house.

  There was no memory of the bottom. No notion of the why or the how of it, but Jo-Jo somehow found a place that said stop. It was not the first time that she had visited the pit of despair. She hit rock bottom and it was time to stop. So she did. A fortunate woman with no dignity left but at least enough collateral to escape the city and find anonymity in a small village far away. A small village called Cranby.

  It took only a couple of months before the rumours started. She had no idea how anyone from the town could have caught a scent of her past, but they did and when they did, by God did they run with it. But Jo-Jo had a thick skin and walked with her head held high. She had done nothing to the people of the town and had no reason to feel ashamed. They could cast whatever stones they liked; Jo-Jo would parry all that came her way. She had been low in her life, lower than any of them could possibly imagine. Their petty sticks and stones couldn’t hurt her. Soon, they would get bored she thought and she was right. True enough, there would be occasional reminders or slight digs but before long she was yesterday’s news.

  Even so, no one ever called to her house. The women of the town thought her a hussy, though apart from the rumour mill, they had no direct evidence to that effect and the men feared being associated publicly with a woman with her reputation. Cranby was indeed a very small village and tempted though some men were, none would risk being caught. They would have been wasting their time anyway. Jo-Jo was once more a changed woman.

  But one day she did have a caller. It was Tommy Whelan the postman. A package had arrived for her and it was too big to fit into the post box that stood at her front gate. Tommy walked up the path, something he had never done before and rapped on her front door with his wind-chaffed postman’s knuckles. There was no bell or knocker. He waited a moment and then knocked again a little louder this time. Again there was no sound, nothing.