Wildwood

by Janine Ashbless

  ‘Hey,’ I warningly.

  ‘Ms Shearing is a most valued employee.’ Michael’s tone was so bland it made me wince. ‘She’s already been able to make a preliminary report on Grange Wood which I’m sure will be of inestimable assistance to me.’

  ‘I bet.’ Ash was deadpan but his next words were aimed at me, not Deverick: ‘You just can’t keep her out of the trees, can you?’

  Despite myself I flushed. This whole confrontation was horrible. I was starting to wish the earth would open and swallow me up. No – I wanted it to swallow both of them instead. That would solve all my problems neatly. But Michael only shook his head, smiling a cold little smile.

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Ash. You’ve never won a fight with me yet, and you’re not going to win this one. You’re just going to get hurt. And I’m going to get exactly what I wanted all along.’

  Ash bit his lip. ‘Really?’ He tapped the top of the gate. ‘Well, if you’re so sure, why don’t you hop over and come in for a stroll?’ He made a mocking wave at the landscape behind him. ‘Get your shiny new boots a bit muddy, why don’t you?’ His hazel eyes seemed almost vulpine. ‘See how you like the place, eh?’

  I waited for Michael to stride triumphantly forwards. He folded his arms across his chest and didn’t move. The two men glared at each other, the derision fading away to something much darker. I was forgotten, invisible. The mob of activists at Ash’s back stood in total silence, not a muscle moving. The skin on my neck crawled as I watched them both. There was something going on here, some secret struggle that I knew nothing about, but I could feel the hostility and I was sure this was no joke. Their faces were set like stone. I was willing to bet at that moment that either man would willingly have seen the other dead. It made me feel queasy.

  The rooks rose again and swept in circles above the treetops, making a racket like they were mourning the end of the world. For a moment the pulse at my temple became a lancing pain and I put my hand to my head. When I looked up again both men were stepping back, contemptuously, and I’d missed who’d blinked first.

  ‘Enjoy your rural idyll while you can,’ said Michael. ‘You know how this is going to end.’

  I turned away with him. What else could I do? I stopped to look back over my shoulder though, and caught one last glimpse of Ash leaning on the gate, head bowed and hands knotted together. He raised his head and for a moment our eyes met. I thought, though I couldn’t be sure, that he looked despairing.

  ‘You know him?’ I asked, lengthening my stride to catch up.

  ‘I knew him years ago.’

  Years? Michael made it sound an eternity. I couldn’t imagine he and Ash sharing any social circle. Apart from being of roughly similar ages I couldn’t think of anything they might have in common.

  Which goes to show how wrong you can be.

  ‘He’s a bit of a prick,’ Michael added, laughing. ‘Tries to make out he’s some sort of green Gandhi. Fatuous Disneyfied drivel about living in harmony with the planet, not exploiting its resources, la la la. It’s all just envy and spite of course.’

  Personally I suspected Michael Deverick rather enjoyed being an object of envy. ‘So is this really about Grange Wood,’ I dared to wonder; ‘or is it about you and him?’

  Michael seemed to shake himself. ‘Neither,’ he replied. He opened his car door. ‘Stay away from him for the moment, though. I don’t expect you to run that gauntlet to try and get into the wood. They’ve probably got their wicker man ready and waiting for us.’

  I nodded, relieved. ‘I’ll get back to the limes then.’

  ‘Get in. I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘No.’ I set my shoulders. ‘Thanks, but I’ll walk over. I need the fresh air.’

  4: A Woman Scorned

  I STOOD AT my kitchen window and looked at the gloom outside. At this time of year it really ought to have been light even this late in the evening but it had rained solidly for two days now; heavy summer rain thrown down from a sky green as an old bruise. Unable to work properly because kit was dangerously slippery and any vehicles just churned the grass areas to mud, Tony and Owen and I had been confined to the workshop in the old stable block, cleaning and sharpening and tuning every tool we owned. I was going stir-crazy.

  Owen had been having trouble with his girlfriend and was grumbling about it. He was eighteen, a year older than her, and she wasn’t putting out. He’d solicited Tony’s opinion on the subject, which turned out to be, ‘If you’re in a relationship it’s the lass that’s in charge and the sooner you learn that the better, lad,’ followed by a wink at me and: ‘Isn’t that right, Avril?’

  ‘I can’t comment,’ I’d answered, waving my combi-spanner in a wise manner, ‘on the grounds it might incriminate me.’

  Owen didn’t ask my advice, for which I was grateful because I had no idea why a seventeen-year-old girl wouldn’t want sex with him. If I’d been seventeen I’d have been all over Owen like a rash. Working five days a week on fairly heavy manual jobs, he was all lithe and deeply tanned muscle. His face was ordinary enough but his mousy hair was sun-bleached on top and more importantly he was a good-humoured boy. Working too long in his company made me feel distinctly twitchy. And just a little bit old.

  I’d always had a healthy sexual appetite but this was by far the longest I’d been without a steady boyfriend and it was starting to wear on me. My dreams were full of faceless men with bludgeoning erections and I’d woken up practically every night since I’d moved into this cottage and reached for the slim pink vibrator I kept in the bedside drawer. The dragon dream had recurred too. God, I thought gloomily, I need a proper shag. I need to get out this weekend and get laid.

  The rain finally overflowed the gutter above my window and ran out in a pale curtain. I thought of the environmental activists camping out in the woods and wondered what they were doing. Smoking dope and screwing like rabbits if they were lucky, or maybe just wedged in shoulder to shoulder in a foetid fug under leaky tarpaulins. Probably couldn’t even get a fire lit in this weather to make a brew. Poor sods. Coming to a decision I reached under the sink for my biggest vacuum flask. As I filled it with black coffee I remembered the Christmas cake in the pantry. I also added a bottle of sloe gin to the carrier bag, before donning my thickest set of waterproofs and squelching out into the rain.

  Waterproof trousers are horrible to walk in. I’d brought a big rubber-clad torch but I kept my head down under my hood and almost the only thing I saw on the long walk over to the wood were the toes of my wellies poking out from under the frayed yellow rubber of the trouser–cuffs, and the only thing I heard was the rain. When I reached the gate I called out hopefully: ‘Anybody here? Hello?’

  If they had anyone on watch they were doing a poor job. No lights showed among the trees and no one stirred. I didn’t want to appear to be invading their camp but several more shouts produced the same lack of response, so I clambered laboriously over the gate, barely able to swing my rubberised legs high enough, and slithered down the far side. I tramped up to the nearest vaguely teepee-shaped bivvy and shone my torch on it. ‘Anyone home?’

  It was much less well-constructed than I remembered, just a cone of plastic sheeting really. I lifted the flap and looked inside. There wasn’t a groundsheet. Weeds still grew from the earth. The only sign of human occupation was a roughly humanoid form made of dead brambles tied together with orange plastic baling twine. I blinked, nonplussed. ‘OK,’ I muttered, as rainwater ran dripped off the end of my nose.

  The next bender was no better. It turned out to be nothing more than some black plastic bin bags draped over a shrub, and contained only another scarecrow, this one made of wadded bracken. After that I found another, swinging in a makeshift climbing harness from a tree, like a corpse hung in chains. I was starting to feel confused and finding the life-sized scarecrows really quite creepy. It was a relief when my light picked out movement among the trunks and Ash came stomping down the slope, a canvas tarp draped over his head and
shoulders and a fluorescent lantern in one hand. My smile wasn’t feigned. ‘I did shout.’

  ‘I was asleep. What are you doing here?’ he asked, reasonably enough.

  ‘I brought you lot some cake. Where is everyone?’

  He frowned. ‘They’ll be here if they’re needed. At a moment’s notice. Cake?’

  ‘It’s a Christmas cake my mum made for me,’ I explained, presenting the carrier bag. ‘But she forgot I don’t like walnuts much so I’ve been saving it until I threw a party at my place or something, and then I thought you guys might like it. It’ll be fine; fruit cake keeps really well and she makes them with brandy.’ I was aware that I was gabbling a bit. ‘There’s a bottle of home-made sloe gin too, and some coffee.’ I blinked raindrops from my eyes.

  ‘Coffee.’ He was looking at me like I was mad. ‘You made me coffee?’

  ‘The weather’s that bad and I thought you must be miserable …’ I shivered as a stray drop found its way down the back of my neck. His expression was making an uncomfortable situation worse. I decided to get to the point. ‘Look, you’ve got it wrong, you know. I’m not your enemy.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ I sounded sharper than I’d intended. ‘I don’t know what it is you think Michael’s planning or what it is he’s done that pisses you off so much, but I’m not here to cut down the wood. I’m a gardener. I’m on your side, as much as I can be. I love the bloody trees as much as you lot.’ I looked around, remembering that there was no sign of any others. ‘They’ve gone off to the pub and left you, have they?’ My shoulders sagged. ‘Well, you’d better take the cake.’ I thrust the bag towards him.

  Ash seemed to find speaking difficult. ‘You think I’d trust you?’

  ‘You think I’d poison a cake?’ I countered, disgusted.

  ‘I think Deverick might.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’

  ‘Well, perhaps not. But only because it would be a bit obvious. Do you know him well?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘He’s a manipulative bastard.’ That wasn’t the whole truth, but it would do. Ash surprised me by laughing.

  ‘Oh, you noticed that, did you?’

  I pulled a face. ‘Anyway, Michael didn’t make the cake, my mum did. And I made the sloe gin last year.’ I pulled it from the bag. ‘Want me to prove it’s safe?’ I twisted off the cap and tilted the bottle to my lips, taking a good obvious glug. Rain washed my upturned face but I hardly felt it as the warmth of the spirit hit my throat and the distilled flavour of autumn hedges engulfed me like an embrace. ‘See,’ I said, gasping slightly, ‘it’s fine.’ I passed him the bottle. He took it from my hand and put it to his lips, never taking his eyes off my face, as if he were answering some challenge.

  I grinned.

  ‘Very nice. Avril, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve been asking around?’

  ‘I talked to a gardener. Older man. He said you were his boss.’

  I shrugged and nodded. The gin had roared straight to my head.

  ‘Do you know what it is that Deverick’s doing here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then be careful. He’s using you, Avril. In ways you can’t even imagine.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Did he tell you what happened to the men he sent into Grange Wood before you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The first one died. Ask him.’ Ash took the bag from my hand. ‘Thanks. If Deverick did send it, tell him I’ve got a bezoar and he’s wasting his time.’

  ‘What the hell’s a bezoar?’

  Ash smiled enigmatically ‘Just tell him.’ His attention switched to the darkness behind me. ‘You came out after dusk after what happened the other day? Do you remember what I told you?’ When I didn’t respond he added sharply, ‘Bull Peter?’

  ‘I wasn’t just imagining him then?’ I said weakly, trying to make it a joke.

  ‘That’d be one hell of an imagination you have.’

  ‘I brought a big torch.’ The alcohol was making my cheeks burn.

  He looked me over thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got guts.’

  It seemed a dismissal. He watched as I retreated to the gate and climbed over, doing my best to look dignified. Only when I was safely on the other side did the disappointment hit me. It was getting on for really dark now, I was on my own again and not even bribery could thaw the attitude of the best-looking man within miles.

  The best-looking man who wasn’t my unscrupulous and possibly dangerous employer. ‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to myself.

  I was nearly home, in fact I was just coming up to the back of the cottage, when above the rattle of raindrops on my hood I heard a snort and round the corner of the building stepped a familiar bull-horned figure. My heart leapt into my throat then crashed back into my stomach. ‘Oh Christ!’

  He snorted again, softly. I could see the gleam of his rain-slick skin. His dark eyes flashed rings of white.

  ‘Stop there!’ I snapped, raising the torch in both hands. ‘Don’t move or you know what I’ll do!’

  The threat was pathetic, but he stopped dead. His broad chest rose and fell.

  ‘Oh, you do understand English then?’ I should have switched the torch on anyway, but I didn’t. The smell of wet cow wafted to me. I took a cautious pace forwards. ‘Bull Peter? Is that your name?’

  His head tilted, bovine ears flicking forwards to catch my voice. I could see his nostrils flaring and narrowing with every breath. His neck was very thick, his head – apart from the horns and the ears – human but blunt and heavyset, with chestnut curls on his scalp. His skin was precisely the same colour as a ginger biscuit. His expression, which showed only around the eyes, was curious but a bit vacant. A beef breed, I thought, not dairy. Beef cattle are bred more docile.

  An arse man, not a tit man then. It was his lucky day.

  ‘Hey now, Peter. You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’ I took another couple of steps, brandishing the torch like Van Helsing brandishing a crucifix. He scraped the earth with one hoof and looked nervous. ‘It’s all right. All right.’ I was within arm’s length now. I reached out with one hand and brushed my fingertips across his chest.

  He felt like man, not tree stump. Warm despite the rain. His musculature was that of a man too, except for those feet. He even had nipples. ‘Wow,’ I whispered to myself. He shivered, his hide dancing under my fingertips. I stroked his chest slowly, still holding the torch between us and angled up at his face, my thumb on the button.

  Deep in his chest he uttered a noise, half bovine low and half groan.

  ‘Shush.’ I let my hand trail down to his belly, and followed its path with my eyes. He had no pubic hair. His cock already hung big and distended, though it wasn’t totally out of proportion for a human. Unlike his bollocks, that is. He really was hung like an animal.

  ‘You’re not real, Bull Peter,’ I whispered, discovering that he had no navel. ‘So what’s the harm?’ My exploring fingertips circled his prick and he shuddered all over. He felt hot in my cold hand and it thickened at once in response to my touch, so that all of a sudden my fingertip couldn’t reach my thumb around its circumference. I stroked him up and down rhythmically. He was like velvet to the touch and, beneath that, hardwood. ‘Oh, you’re a big boy,’ I told him, delighted.

  He seemed hypnotised. His head was tilted high. The eye of his cock gleamed, his own lubrication mingling with the rain. I wanted to fondle the big pouch of his balls but I only had one hand free so I had to release his cock. His whole frame surged back to life and he laid his hands on the front of my coat. His fingers were thick and blunt.

  I should’ve switched the torch on.

  He tore my waterproof open, pulling the zip from the rubberised cotton with no apparent effort. Then he tore open my sweatshirt and blouse together, exposing me to the sudden chill, and slid to his knees in front of me. I gasped with shock, rocking on my heels.
His head dropped to a level with my torso and then his tongue slid out and lapped at my breast as if trying to lick it off. I was overwhelmed by sensation as he mouthed and licked and tried to suckle at my nipples, coating me in his saliva, his brown eyes rolling. Overwhelmed so completely that I didn’t notice him rending the front of my trousers until the elastic and plastic and the thin leggings beneath had given way with a sound of tearing. I laid my hand on his face and cried out. Then I lost my grip as he ducked his head and licked right up between my legs, nearly lifting me off the floor. Only his hands, transferred to my thighs, kept me from tumbling. He pinned me in place as, snuffling, he explored my exposed sex and gently butted my clit.

  Bloody hell – his tongue was long, inhumanly so. He had no problem ascertaining my state of readiness or of effecting entry. And there was no question but that I was ready for him. The torch slid out of my numb hand. As he stood he lifted me, holding me to his chest, and bellowed in triumph. The vibration made my head ring.

  In three strides he had me pinned against the rough wall of the cottage and I was sobbing with fear and relief as he entered me with his prick. I was slick with his saliva and my own insane desire and he moulded me around him, rearranging my insides to make room for his pizzle. I’d braced myself for a real battering and that is what I got; his thrusts were deep and heavy and inexorable. They filled me with his fire. They crushed the breath from me and bruised my arse against the stones.

  They were exactly what I needed.

  When he’d come – and I’d come twice – and a shift of my weight on his hips had released a wash of his seed overflowing my sex and running down my thighs, I rested my head on his hot shoulder and listened to the thundering of his heart until consciousness left me.

  It was a sudden draught that woke me, the chill on my newly exposed breasts. I opened sticky eyes and blinked, trying to make sense of things in the grey light.