Black Wood

by SJI Holliday

  After Claire’s accident, she switched to selling nasty nylon and lace lingerie, but she still let me hang round with Claire because she felt sorry for my mum after what happened with the baby.

  My brother would be twenty-two now, if he’d lived.

  She’d had a perfect pregnancy. Not like with me, she was fond of saying. I’d caused her backache and sickness and headaches for the entire time I lived inside her. Then I came out and I was a girl, and my dad had wanted a boy, so he’d never fallen in love with me. To appease him, my mum decided not to fall in love with me either, although sometimes, in secret – she tried.

  I was just there. A hindrance that meant they couldn’t go down the pub every Friday night like they always had. A screaming, unhappy little runt, driving a wedge between them with every second I continued to breathe.

  Thank God my gran didn’t feel the same. If it wasn’t for her taking care of me, I’m sure I’d have been dumped on someone’s doorstep.

  The perfect pregnancy that should have brought me my little brother ended abruptly at six months. A rush of blood and a small, unmoving blob. The hospital sent Mum home, but she didn’t utter a single word for a fortnight.

  After that, she hit me for the first time. A slap on the cheek when I’d cheekily asked for a second slice of bread. Not that hard, but enough to make my cheek sting until I’d skulked off to bed.

  It was all my fault. I’d caused her stress. She’d been fine before she got pregnant. Maybe a bit up and down, but mostly she was fine. I knew what to expect from her. Sometimes I drew us together, smiling and happy, and when I showed her the pictures she was smiling and happy – for a while. She seemed to resent me after she lost the baby, though. I don’t know why.

  That’s when I started living at Gran’s pretty much full time, except the school didn’t know officially, so I still had to go round my parents’ now and then to make it all look normal: as if we were normal. My gran and my mum spoke in one-word sentences. My dad pretended I wasn’t there.

  I walked back to Craig and Rob’s the same way I came. Up Western Road until it turned into Burndale Road.

  Rose Cottage.

  There was a light on in the upstairs window, and I hung back against the wall opposite, keeping away from the street light, straining to see if someone was up there in the bedroom. I still didn’t know if Maloney had any family. I crouched down behind a cluster of pampas grass so that no one could see me from the road.

  A rustling came from somewhere behind me, and I realised I wasn’t alone.

  The dog’s face appeared, followed by a low growl.

  Then a familiar voice.

  ‘Bob? Where are you? Come out of those bushes now, d’you hear?’

  Mrs Goldstone.

  I slid out from behind the bushes and tried to make it look like I was tying my shoelace.

  ‘Hello, Bridie,’ I said, casually. Sobering up fast.

  ‘Joanne! What’re you doing in there?’

  I stood up straight. ‘I wasn’t in there. I was just bending down to tie my lace and Bob appeared. He gave me quite a fright.’

  Her eyes flicked down towards my feet and she frowned, and I remembered I was wearing boots with a zip, not laces.

  ‘I—’

  ‘You’ll have been up here mooching about the McAllister’s old house, eh? Checking out that young man who’s moved in. He looks familiar, you know. I’m sure I’ve seen him before … Oh!’ Her eyes lit up like someone had flashed their full beam. ‘Have you heard about that bother up at the Track? I was telling your friend earlier – ye ken – that Claire one … So, the Brownlee girl was mugged. Makes me wonder what she was doing along there on her own anyway. That one’s a bit of a handful, so I’ve heard …’ She tailed off when she realised I wasn’t going to give her the reaction she wanted. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘you should be getting back down to see your Scott, Joanne. He’s really no’ himself.’

  ‘Hmm?’ I said. I glanced at Bob and saw his ears prick up. He darted into the bushes. Mouse, maybe. Or a vole. Did dogs like catching little animals? I imagined they did. ‘How do you mean? He seemed fine last night. I hope he told you he chucked me out on my ear. I haven’t even got a place to stay—’

  She made a clucking sound in her throat that reminded me of one of my gran’s old hens. Cecilia, I’d called her. After the Simon and Garfunkel song.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine with your colleague from the book-shop and his friend.’

  I rolled my eyes. Prejudice was completely normal in this town, certainly for her generation. People of Bridie’s age tried to use the correct words when they were talking to the younger generations, like me. But the words were always in implied inverted commas: ‘gays’, ‘blacks’, ‘Asians’. I’d overheard her talking to her neighbours on the other side, though, more than once. Then the words were different.

  Some things never change.

  ‘You know he’s not been going to work?’ she said. A hint of a goading smile.

  I stared at her. ‘What do you mean? Of course he has. He gets the 7.10 every day. He leaves the house at seven. Always. He never even has a sickie!’

  She smiled properly then. Delighted to have one over on me. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He leaves the house at seven. But he comes back at ten past nine. After you’ve left for work.’

  15

  Claire settled herself on the sofa, mug of hot chocolate and some cheese and crackers on the table beside her. She picked up a cracker and bit into it, then laid it back on the plate, disappointed. It was stale, tasted of cardboard. Or maybe it was just her mouth, dry from the glass of wine in the pub. Or maybe it was her mood, soiled after her meeting with Jo.

  Why did she have to bring up the bloody woods again?

  Despite the obvious, permanent physical damage, Claire tried hard to keep the whole incident out of her mind. The time in hospital, the recovery … the questions. The blame on Jo. Only three people knew what had led them to being in the woods that day: herself, Jo and Polly McAllister. And, funnily enough, Polly hadn’t had much time for her after it happened. She clearly didn’t want to be friends with a cripple. Claire occasionally wondered what had happened to Polly. Where she’d ended up. No doubt she had a perfectly successful and happy life somewhere far away from the cloying community that Claire and Jo had somehow been unable to escape from.

  She thought about calling Jake, asking him to come round. But it was late, and he’d said he had things to do. What things, she didn’t ask. She never asked. Despite his overprotective nature over the years, she’d never managed to learn as much about him as he knew about her. But she liked it that way. Actually felt jealous that he had that level of privacy that most people in the town seemed to lack.

  She was worried about Jo. Scott had been good for her. Kept her on an even keel, which was no mean feat. Should she call him? Find out what was going on? Maybe if he took her back it would steer her away from this latest obsession, dredging up the past again.

  How did she know it was the boy from the woods anyway? She’d always said she hadn’t seen their faces. Claire could only agree. She couldn’t remember a thing after Jo shoved her through the fence while they tried to get away from the boys … Jo always felt guilt for what happened that day, but, in a lot of ways, Claire was to blame for it all. Which is why she preferred to keep it hidden in a box with the lid shut tight.

  If only she hadn’t joined in with Polly’s goading that day … but she’d been trying to impress her. She was the best gymnast in the year and Claire wanted to be in that gang, not hang about with dropouts like Jo. She felt like such a bitch when she thought about it all, about how she’d treated Jo when they were kids. Sometimes she thought she deserved what had happened to her. She was never meant to be part of Polly’s gang …

  They were in Polly’s bedroom, listening to New Kids on the Block. Jo was rifling through Polly’s huge collection of CD singles. Polly had whispered something into her ear and Claire had laughed, covering h
er mouth too late.

  Jo whirled round, glaring at them both. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Claire glanced sideways at Polly, who gave Jo one of her butter-wouldn’t-melt looks.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  Claire had stifled another giggle.

  Jo dropped the pile of CDs she’d been holding onto the floor. They landed with a clatter, sprayed out across the carpet. She lifted a foot to stamp on them.

  ‘Hey …’ Polly started, stopping abruptly when she saw the look on Jo’s face. Her eyes were filled with hurt and anger, shining as tears threatened to escape. Jo stepped over the pile of plastic boxes.

  ‘What’s so funny, Claire?’

  Claire stopped giggling, felt her cheeks grow hot.

  ‘Nothing … It’s nothing, Jo …’

  Polly nudged her in the ribs, hissed, ‘Tell her.’

  Jo crouched down on the floor so she was level with them both. Polly sitting back against the wardrobe. Claire, cross-legged, in front.

  ‘Tell me what, Claire?’

  Claire’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Maybe it’s not true …’

  Jo was on her knees now, Claire’s face close to hers. ‘What’s not true?’

  ‘About your dad,’ Polly shouted, triumphant.

  ‘Shh, Polly!’ Claire spun round towards Polly, giving her a warning look, before turning back to Jo, whose eyes were as big as dinner plates. Polly’s eyes were gleaming, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  Without warning, Jo grabbed Claire, yanking her forwards by the straps of her dungarees. ‘What about him?’ she spat.

  Claire knew they’d gone too far, but somehow she couldn’t stop.

  ‘He … he’s that policeman …’

  ‘Your mum’s a slag!’ Polly couldn’t keep the glee out of her voice.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Claire said. She was crying now. Any sense of bravado she’d felt was gone. She felt nasty and sad, and suddenly saw Polly for what she was. Manipulative, controlling. She’d never forget the look of pain in Jo’s eyes.

  ‘Me too,’ Jo said quietly. ‘I think me and you need to have a wee chat …’

  Polly had tried to protest, but her attempts were weak. Jo stood up, then grabbed Claire by the arm and dragged her out of the room, crunching CD boxes as they went.

  Claire heard Polly’s words echoing around her head as Jo dragged her out of the house.

  ‘She’s a bastard, Claire. Her dad’s that policeman! Her mum had sex with him when he was really young … No wonder her mum’s such a nutcase!’

  Claire hadn’t asked Polly how she knew this. Didn’t bother to check whether it was true or not.

  Jo seemed to read her mind. ‘It’s not true, Claire. I’ve heard the rumours too. I overhead that old bag Bridie talking about it in the butcher’s one day. My mum told her to shut her mouth or she would shut it for her …’

  Claire nodded, still sobbing. ‘Where are we going, Jo? I just want to go home …’

  ‘We’re going home, Claire. But first we’re going for a wee walk in the woods … You’re going to walk over that pipe.’

  Claire spun round to protest, but Jo just grinned.

  What could she do? She deserved it.

  16

  After Bridie and Bob had shuffled off, I sat at the bus stop, not really caring if anyone saw me. What the hell was Scott playing at?

  I couldn’t think about that now.

  The upstairs light went off and my eyes dropped to the room below. The faint flickering light of a TV. Are you in there alone, Gareth? I thought. What’re you watching?

  I went through a stage in my teens of refusing to watch TV. I associated it with the hours spent alone while my mum did anything other than interact with me. When I first started school and we got time for free play, I’d sit in the corner of the classroom, my eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. I imagined I was watching The Flintstones. Scooby-Doo. Or my favourite, The Wind in the Willows. I wanted to be Mole. I wanted friends like Ratty and Toad. Miss Wallace let me away with it for the first week. Then I was made to go and play with the others, although by then they’d formed their little cliques. I could still picture Claire’s face as she walked over to get me. Reluctantly. Even at five, she knew how to roll her eyes. What it meant. I know what she’s like. ‘I’ll look after her,’ she’d said. Poor Claire. Stuck with me ever since.

  I willed Gareth to sense me out there. To come to the window.

  I wanted him to see me.

  A bus pulled up in front of me, air brakes deflating and the folding doors squeaking open. The driver looked out at me with a bored expression. I was surprised he’d even stopped. It was a request stop and they liked to ignore those who didn’t bother to stand up and stick their arm out. I shook my head and the doors folded closed again. By the time the bus had pulled away, Rose Cottage was in darkness. I watched, just a little while longer. Then I jumped over the wall and walked carefully down the sloping path into the woods.

  It was a stupid way to walk home in the dark. I was only assuming that Gareth Maloney was tucked up in bed. What if he’d seen me and used the time that the bus was obscuring my view of his house to sneak out and hide? He could be waiting for me in the woods. Ready to pick up where he’d left off.

  There was no way he hadn’t recognised me in the shop. Was he waiting for me to make the first move? Ask him outright?

  I’d never been in the woods in the dark, but I could still make out the winding path through the trees, from memory more than any hint of light. I could hear the faint burbling of the burn to my left. The occasional rustle. Things scurrying around in the undergrowth. Somewhere nearby, the sound of a back door being pulled shut and locked. The faintest hint of tobacco smoke drifting through the trees. My skin prickled. Was someone there?

  As I came out from the thickest part of the trees, the light changed. The burn was illuminated by the street lights from the path on the other side that ran along the back of the houses. Riverview Gardens. I could practically see Claire’s bedroom.

  The pipe was still there, exactly as it was. Smaller, though. Or maybe I was bigger. I remembered Claire, too scared to cross.

  If only I hadn’t made her do it.

  A light snapped on at a window in one of the nearby houses and something made me stop walking. I held my breath, listening. More rustling, followed by the unmistakable sound of a branch snapping behind me.

  Close behind me.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I said, quietly. Not turning round. My heart started to thump hard in my chest.

  Nothing. Just the slightest sound of leaves blowing on the trees.

  ‘I said, who’s there? Come out you fucking coward. I’m not scared of you.’ Once I was, a long time ago. But not now.

  I caught another hint of smoke drifting softly on the breeze.

  My mind flashed back to that day: to my defiance, despite being scared out of my wits. I thought I was braver now, but the eerie silence was weakening my resolve. Slowly, I turned, expecting to see him standing right behind me.

  But there was no one there.

  My shoulders sagged with relief. ‘What’s the point of this? Come out. Talk to me, for fuck’s sake …’

  Another snap, more rustling, then a dark-clad figure darted out of the shadows of the trees and made off in the direction of the bridge.

  I bolted across the pipe in two steps, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest. I ran along the path, in touching distance of Claire’s back fence, didn’t slow down until I was back at Craig’s flat. Chest heaving, my breaths coming out in sharp bursts, I rammed the key into the lock and slammed the door behind me.

  I took the stairs slowly, tried to let my breathing return to normal. I hesitated outside the door to the flat, hoping that Craig was asleep. I was in no mood to talk.

  Inside, Rob was sitting on the couch, alone. A bottle of wine sat next to his left foot. He held a glass in his hand. With nothing but the small table lamp lighting the room, the li
quid in his glass looked black.

  ‘I thought you were in Perth?’ I said, panting. I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  ‘Came back early.’

  I looked at the piles of stuff that Craig had brought up from his car. My clothes spilling out of bags. A small stack of boxes. A mound of shoes.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I was going to sort it, I—’

  He shook his head, then bent forwards to pick up the bottle. Refilled his glass. ‘Want a drink?’ he said. ‘You look like you could do with one.’

  His friendly tone threw me. What was he after?

  I tried to hide my shock. I thought he’d have been fuming about the mess. About me being there. ‘Thanks,’ I said, and walked through to the kitchen area to get myself a glass.

  ‘There’s another bottle in the rack,’ he said. Then: ‘Craig said you’ve split up with Scott …’

  What else did Craig say? I wondered. I hadn’t even had a chance to talk to him about Maloney yet. I decided to play it safe. ‘Yeah. I suppose it wasn’t really working out.’ I took a glass from the corner cabinet and slid out a bottle of wine from the rack. The label was creamy coloured, the writing dark and swirly. Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Even I knew that was a good one.

  I sat down, and he took the bottle and the glass from my hands. Balancing the glass between his knees, he took a bottle opener from the side table and opened the bottle with a swipe of a knife, two twists. The cork popped out. The wine glugged as he poured it into the glass; then he turned to me, glass in hand. Said: ‘So who’s this Gareth Maloney, then?’

  I got it now. Scott was trying to use Rob to wheedle information out of me. To see if I was losing the plot or not.