I sniff, realising now where the strange sausagey smell is coming from. Fighting back the urge to throw up, I pull myself to my feet.
“You’re an idiot,” I say, as the trees start to sway around me again. I grab hold of the tree stump, waiting for this dizziness to pass, but Johnny doesn’t seem to care.
“You’re the idiots for believing in fairy stories,” he sneers.
In the dimming light, the shadows surrounding Johnny seem to blur. I take a deep breath, getting ready to tell him to get lost, but it’s Dizzy who speaks up instead.
“It’s not a fairy story,” he says. “We found the secret message on the path.”
Johnny looks at Dizzy and laughs.
“I know what you found,” he says, speaking deliberately slowly as if to emphasise every word. “Who do you think left those broken sticks there?”
Dizzy’s face falls, but this only seems to amuse Johnny more.
“You’re a couple of babies,” he laughs.
“Get lost,” I shout, finally able to get my words out. “You’re the baby dressing up like some make-believe monster and creeping round the woods. Don’t you have any real friends to play with?”
This wipes the grin off Johnny’s face. He steps towards me, his hands clenching into fists.
“Who’d want to be friends with you?” He glances across at Dizzy then looks back at me. “The cripple and the freak. You might as well both stay in the woods where you belong. I’m going home.”
With that, Johnny turns on his heel, twigs crunching beneath his feet as he stomps off in search of the path. I watch him go, the tree trunks and scrubby branches gradually blurring him out of focus as he disappears into the growing gloom.
“I think he’s heading the wrong way,” Dizzy says.
“Good.”
I glance down at my watch, wanting to find out exactly what time it is. The hour and the minute hand are both stuck pointing downwards, telling me its half past six, but the second hand that should be ticking on is stuck there too. It must have stopped.
I try winding the watch, but the hands refuse to move. It must have got broken when I fell. Something else to explain to Mum and Dad, along with the blood stains on my shirt and the bandage wrapped round my head. I’m going to be in so much trouble.
I look up. The light seems to be failing, the scattered patches of sky I can see now tinged with pink and orange. Dusk is slowly seeping through the leaves, filling the woods with a rising darkness. It feels much later than half past six.
In my mind, I can see Dad sitting at the kitchen table, more empty bottles lined up in front of him now as he watches the clock go round. The jangling pain beneath my bandage makes me feel sick to my stomach. It’s time to face the music.
“Come on,” I say to Dizzy. “Let’s go home.”
I pick my way through the undergrowth, searching in vain for a glimpse of the path.
It’s getting more difficult now to see where the shadows end and the trees begin, the twisting maze of trunks and branches merging to form a vague darkness. Even the colours seem to be fading from the flowers that carpet the woodland floor, their nodding heads blurring into shadows.
The pain in my head has now dulled to a nagging ache, but as Dizzy’s lolloping footsteps crunch through the leaves behind me, I don’t know if I can keep going for much longer. Blocking the way ahead is a fallen tree, its toppled trunk lying crashed amid the dense thicket. No sign of any way round this.
Part of me just wants to sit down until my head stops hurting, but as the darkness descends most of me just wants to find the way out of this stupid wood. I flinch as another twig cracks beneath my feet, the sound as loud as a gunshot. From the bushes and shrubs comes a constant rustling sound, the tic-tac of tiny animal feet scuttling through the brambles. We need to press on.
I clamber over the fallen trunk, the bark beneath my fingers waxy to the touch. As I take my hand away I see with a sudden rush of alarm that my fingers are stained rust-red. Worried, I lift my hand to my head as Dizzy clambers over the tree behind me.
“I’m bleeding again,” I say, holding out my hand to show him.
Dizzy peers at me through the gloom, then shakes his head reassuringly.
“That’s not blood,” he says, holding up his hands to show me that his own palms are stained red too. “It’s just the lichen that’s growing on the tree.”
I glance down at the fallen trunk, noticing now the rust-red moss that’s growing there. This is why I hate the countryside. Even the trees are trying to make me think that I’m bleeding to death.
Feeling relieved I look around, trying to work out which way to go now. There’s no clear path ahead, only crooked inky tracks that quickly straggle into darkness. A sour, weedy smell hangs in the air and I can’t remember now why I thought this was the right way to go.
As if reading my mind, Dizzy peers into the gloom.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I snap, unable to hide my irritation. “I thought it was right because you were following me. You said you had a map of these woods in your head.” I point to the bandage that’s wrapped around mine. “I wasn’t paying much attention to which way I was going when I thought Old Crony was chasing me.”
I can’t stop myself from shivering at the memory of this.
“There are more than sixty miles of paths and tracks through these woods,” Dizzy frowns. “We’ve got to make sure we find the right one.”
He looks back over his shoulder, past the fallen tree in the direction that we’ve come.
“Maybe we should’ve followed Johnny.”
I shake my head, this movement generating a fresh jangle of pain inside my brain. Following Johnny was the last thing I wanted to do. He’s the reason we’re in this mess.
“You said he was heading the wrong way,” I say, remembering what Dizzy had said as we watched Johnny stomp off into the trees.
“I thought he was,” Dizzy says, scratching his head as he looks around again. “But this doesn’t look at all like I remember it. I thought we’d have reached The Walk by now and then we’d be able to follow the path back out of the woods.”
I peer down the twisted tracks, trying to decide which one looks like it will lead us home. Then I hear a sudden crack followed by the sound of splintering wood.
Something’s moving through the trees.
I turn towards Dizzy in fear as the splintering sound comes again. It sounds like some wild animal is hurrying towards us, crashing through the undergrowth as it sniffs us out.
Dizzy is staring straight ahead with a desperate look. Following his gaze, I see the nearest tree begin to reach towards us, its low branches cracking as whatever’s pushing them forward draws near. I hold my breath, waiting to confront whatever monster is out there, thoughts of Old Crony crowding into my head.
And then Johnny Baines comes blundering through the trees.
He comes to a sudden halt, staring at us in surprise.
“I can’t find the path,” he gasps, his sweaty face now grimed with dirt. “I’ve been searching for ages, but there’s no sign of it anywhere.”
His white shirt and black shorts are matted with dust, like he’s just been rolling through the leaves. Beneath the scabs on his knees, his legs are scratched and bleeding, mud splattered across the tops of his shoes.
It’s not a monster. It’s only Johnny. And he looks even worse than me.
I remember how to breathe again, letting out a sigh of relief.
“You went the wrong way,” I say, allowing myself a small smile at the state that Johnny’s in. “Isn’t that right, Dizzy?”
But Dizzy just looks confused.
“How did you get ahead of us?” he asks, peering in the direction that Johnny’s just come from.
“I don’t know,” Johnny replies, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a grubby sleeve. “I thought you were following me. I couldn’t find the path so I doubled back, caught my foo
t in a rabbit hole and fell over.” He pauses for a second, catching his breath after this flurry of words. “It feels like I’ve been walking for hours.”
That’s ridiculous. Johnny only left us ten minutes ago. He must’ve hit his head too if he thinks he’s been gone for hours.
“You must have walked round in a circle,” I tell him. “We’ve been walking in the opposite direction to you. And you’ve only been gone for a few minutes. Tell him, Dizzy.”
But Dizzy doesn’t reply and I glance across to see him staring up into the trees.
“What is it?”
Lowering his gaze, Dizzy meets mine, a look of real worry on his face.
“It shouldn’t be this dark yet,” he says quietly.
I look up. Dark shadowy branches scrape against the sky, but there’s a ragged hole in the roof of leaves where the tree has fallen. And the patch of sky I can see through this isn’t blue but grey.
I glance down at my watch, forgetting for a second that it’s broken. The hands still say it’s half past six, but above our heads the sky has turned to slate.
This can’t be right. We’ve only been in the woods for a couple of hours or so. The sun doesn’t set until nine o’clock and it can’t be near that time yet. Can it? Beneath the bandage, my head aches. How long was I knocked out for?
“Maybe the sun’s got stuck behind a really thick cloud,” I say, trying to make sense of the failing light. “It just looks darker because we’re in the woods.”
Dizzy shakes his head.
“Listen.”
Standing completely still, I angle my head to try and catch the sound that Dizzy seems to want me to hear. But there’s nothing. All I can hear is silence.
I glance across at Johnny, seeing the same look of puzzlement on his face.
“I can’t hear anything,” I say.
“That’s what I mean,” Dizzy replies. “The birds have stopped singing.”
“So what?” Johnny pipes up. “Worried it’s getting too dark for you to do one of your stupid drawings.”
“No,” Dizzy says, ignoring the sneer in Johnny’s question. “The birds know what time it is. They must be roosting in their nests now. That’s why they’ve stopped singing. They’re telling us that it’s night.”
Like the darkness, the silence is thickening around us as Dizzy speaks, swallowing his words.
I strain my ears, desperate to hear something that will prove him wrong. It’s not just that the birds have stopped singing, but that the woods themselves are hushed. The constant rustling of leaves is now stilled to a noiseless roar. I shiver, a cold sweat soaking the bandage that’s wrapped round my head.
Instinctively, Dizzy, Johnny and I draw closer, the crunch of dry leaves beneath our feet unnaturally loud in the silence.
Then a loud churring call rings from the trees, the trilling notes tumbling over each other in a torrent of clicks.
Chk – chk – chk – chk – tshrr – chk – chk – chk – chk.
“That’s a bird,” I say, unable to hide my relief as I look up in search of the sound. “You see – it can’t be night yet.”
Above my head the shadowy branches reach out into the silvered darkness as, from its hidden perch, the bird calls out again.
Chk – chk – chk – tshrr – tshrr.
“That’s a nightjar,” Dizzy says, keeping his voice low. “It’s a nocturnal bird.”
“What do you mean ‘nocturnal’?” Johnny asks, his voice so much louder than Dizzy’s. “It’s still a bird, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Dizzy replies, “but one that only comes out at night. That’s when it goes hunting for food.”
I don’t want to believe what Dizzy’s telling us. I told Mum and Dad that I’d be back by half past seven. But even as the nightjar sings, shadows have worn away the edges of everything. The gathering darkness is closing in and I realise with a shudder that he’s right.
It’s night and we’re lost in the woods.
The nightjar calls again, its song sounding stranger than before.
Tshrr – chk – tshrr – chk. Tshrr – tshrr – tshrr.
The nightjar’s call seems to be slowing down, the blurred churring of notes stretching out into individual sounds, each one louder than the last.
“That bird’s getting on my nerves,” Johnny growls. Bending down he picks something off the ground and, as he straightens up, I see that he’s got a stone in his hand.
“Don’t—”
But before Dizzy can even finish his sentence Johnny launches the stone high into the tree, aiming it straight at the source of the sound.
Tshrr – tshrr – chk.
I hear the fizz of the stone as it rips through the leaves, followed by a clunk. The bird falls silent and, for a second, I think that maybe the stone has hit home.
“That’s shut it up,” Johnny says, dusting his hands in satisfaction.
Chk – tshrr. Chk – chk – chk.
The hairs prick up on the back of my neck – this eerie call now coming from directly overhead. It doesn’t even sound like a bird any more, more like some kind of machine. All I can hear are the same two notes – one short and one long – repeating in ever-shifting patterns.
As this rhythmic clicking worms its way inside my head, I realise, with a sudden rush, what it is.
“This isn’t bird song – it’s Morse code!”
In Dad’s old book about scouting there’s a whole page about Morse code. This is a special code that uses dots and dashes to send messages. Every letter in the alphabet has its own set of dots and dashes. And when you use a Morse key to send a message in Morse code, these dots and dashes sound like clicks – just like the ones I can hear now.
Chk – tshrr.
Dot – dash.
“How can a bird be singing in Morse code?” Johnny says, his voice sneering at me out of the shadows. “You must’ve lost your marbles when you hit your head.”
I shoot Johnny an angry stare, my glare almost lost in the gloom. I know what Morse code sounds like.
I found an old-fashioned Morse key when I was clearing Granddad’s stuff out of the cupboard under the eaves in my new bedroom. It was mounted on a wooden base with the words “PROPERTY OF THE POST OFFICE” stamped on the front. Granddad used to work at the village post office, so I think he must’ve nicked it from there. How it works is really simple. The main part of the Morse key is a long brass lever with a round wooden knob at one end. Then beneath the lever there’s a coiled spring and two metal contacts – one at the top and one at the bottom. When you push down the lever, these two contacts click together, closing the circuit and sending a signal. One click for a dot, with the lever held down three times longer to make a dash.
In Scouting for Boys it says that every scout ought to learn Morse code so they can send messages in the wild. Even though Dad says I can’t be a scout, I still practised with this Morse key until I knew the code off by heart. I’d sit at the desk in my bedroom, tapping out secret messages to try and drown out the sound of Mum and Dad arguing downstairs. Every click a secret wish that someone would send a message back, telling me how to escape.
From the trees comes the same Morse code clicking, even louder than before. As I listen it seems as if the same patterns keep repeating; halting flurries of clicks and churrs filling the darkness with sound.
Chk – chk. Tshrr – chk.
Johnny’s sneering question echoes in my mind. How can a bird be singing in Morse code? But as a cold sweat runs down my neck, I suddenly realise that this isn’t the right question.
I turn towards Dizzy.
“Quick,” I say. “I need something to write with.”
Still looking confused, Dizzy crouches down in reply. Reaching inside his bag, he pulls out his exercise book and a pencil, handing these over to me.
“What do you need to write?”
“If this is Morse code, then we can work out what it’s saying.” I flick through the pages of the exercise book, sketches of birds f
litting by in the gloom. “I can decode the message.”
Finding a blank page, I crouch with the book on my lap, pencil ready to catch every click of the code.
Chk – tshrr. Chk – chk – chk.
As I listen to the clicks and churrs, my hand translates these into dots and dashes on the page; a beat of silence marking time between each flurry of sound.
“This is stupid,” Johnny says, his voice suddenly loud as he peers over my shoulder. “What kind of message do you think a bird’s going to be sending? ‘Get away from my tree’?”
Ignoring Johnny, I strain my ears so I don’t miss a single sound. Each one is marked with a dot or dash on the page, even though I can barely see these in the semi-darkness. The mechanical notes seem to be stretching out, their odd echoes bouncing round the trees. It’s as though the woods are some giant Morse code machine that’s slowly breaking down.
Chk – chk. Tshrr – chk. Tshrr – tshrr – CHK!
This final noise is so loud it sounds like a tree falling down, a splintering crack that makes me jump in surprise while Johnny swears out loud.
“What the hell was that?”
The pencil trembles in my hand as I wait for what comes next, but nothing comes. Only silence.
“It’s stopped.”
I look up from the page and then cry out in surprise as a sudden bright light almost blinds me.
“What the—”
“Sorry,” Dizzy says, as the blinding light dips. Blinking, I wait for the blotches to fade from my eyes before I see that Dizzy is holding a torch. Its yellow beam is now pointing at the exercise book, still open on my knees. “I thought you might need a bit of light.”
Still blinking, I look around – the darkness that surrounds us now as complete as the silence that fills the woods again. Then I look down at the exercise book, the torchlight illuminating the marks on the page.
Remembering the code I learned off by heart I start to scribble the right letters beneath the dots and dashes.
Dot – dash.
A
Dot – dot – dot.
S
The Longest Night of Charlie Noon Page 3
