Black Wood

by SJI Holliday

  I’d been staring down at his feet, wondering what he was going to say, trying to work out how he got his boots so shiny. I lifted my head as the tone of his speech changed. Manhandling? Young lady? He had a smirk on his face now and I frowned. This wasn’t funny. None of it was funny.

  ‘Sorry,’ I managed, before pulling down at my fringe again, fully aware I was acting like a sulky teen.

  Gray sighed. ‘I don’t know what it is with you, Jo. You’re a nice lassie. You just seem to be so angry about everything. With everyone. What is it that you hate so much about Jake? I saw the look you gave him when he asked you to go for lunch. Mind, I saw the look he gave you back … What is it? Bit of jealousy there? Fine line between love and hate, eh?’

  ‘Oh, just shut up,’ I said, immediately regretting it. I didn’t have many allies, and here I was pushing away yet another one.

  Gray stiffened, adjusted his hat. ‘I need to get back now. Give us a shout if you want to talk.’

  He turned and I stood there staring at his retreating back. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands until I felt the flesh break.

  I couldn’t face going back to the shop. I’d made a fool of myself with Jake. With Gray. I needed to go somewhere where none of that would matter for a while.

  Scott’s house was a ten-minute walk from the shop. I walked fast, head down. Avoiding all eye contact with passersby. God forbid someone might actually want to be nice to me. I was panting by the time I reached the top of the hill. The midday sun was beating hard on my back and I felt a trickle of sweat running down between my shoulder blades. Another stinking-hot day. I preferred the cold. Preferred wrapping myself up and sitting in front of a roaring fire with a hot chocolate and a tot of rum, and a Jackie Collins novel to transport me away. Not this harsh northern heat that left everyone pink and sweating like newborn pigs. Bad things happened in the summer.

  Too many bad things.

  I heard the low clang of the town hall bell strike one o’clock. Scott’s curtains were still closed. I shuffled about on the doorstep, debating whether to knock or just go in. If he was in there, it’d probably be unlocked. He’d always been crap with security. I’d always been the one to lock the windows and double-bolt the doors from the inside. It might be a small town, but you never knew who might want to try their luck. I leant up against the door, straining to hear sounds from within. The low murmur of the TV, voices chatting. What crap was on at this time of the day? That panel show with the annoying middle-aged women. If Scott was watching that, he’d stooped to new lows. I decided on a knock and a simultaneous push on the handle. It opened.

  ‘Scott? It’s me …’

  The house smelled different already. I’d only been away a couple of days, and the familiar scent of my citrus body spray that usually hung in the air had been replaced with the stink of dirty dishes and unwashed skin. I stepped into the hall. My winter coat was still hanging on the row of pegs on the wall in front. My black biker boots still in the rack below. A couple of letters lay on the mat and I bent down to pick them up, suddenly feeling sick. The aching familiarity of the flat mixed with regret that I couldn’t hold on to the most decent man I’d met in years. The pain of my failings stabbed me in the gut. When I stood up, I felt a single itchy tear inching down my cheek and hastily wiped it away.

  He was standing in the entrance to the living room, hair mussed and sexy. The look partially ruined by the washing-machine-stretched greying T-shirt and the ancient tracksuit bottoms he was wearing. His face was pale beneath the smattering of stubble. His eyes rimmed red. When I’d seen him in the supermarket the day before he’d looked rough, but today he’d taken it to a whole new level.

  ‘Babe,’ he said, lifting an arm to greet me in a sort of half wave. In his other he held a can of own-brand lager, blue with a white swirly logo. Pikey Pilsner, we used to call it. Now here it was in his hand at one o’clock on a Monday, and the worst part was it didn’t look like it was his first of the day.

  What the hell was going on here? Thoughts of Jake and Gray and Gareth Maloney disappeared from my brain as I followed Scott through into the tip that used to be our living room. Plastic bags dotted across the carpet, empty cans thrown half-heartedly on top. An overflowing ashtray sat on the edge of the coffee table, resting precariously. A pizza box, lying open with a couple of curling triangles and a pile of crusts. A polystyrene chip box on the couch beside him. He shoved it onto the floor.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He wobbled slightly, then fell backwards onto the couch, can still in hand.

  I surveyed the carnage. Stared at him in disgust.

  ‘Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened in here? Have you started organising coffee mornings for tramps now?’

  He snorted and took a swig from the can. ‘Stand then. Whatever you want. Fuck it.’ He crushed the can and threw it onto the floor, and then he sagged forward and dropped his head into his hands. He started to sob.

  This … this was not what I’d been expecting at all.

  I couldn’t decide whether to go to him or leave him to it. I’d never seen him cry before. I’d certainly never seen him crack up. That was my job. I’d held the monopoly on meltdowns for a long time. Seeing someone else hit the skids was a new one on me. Eventually, I decided just to let him cry it out. I bent down and picked up an empty carrier bag and started to fill it with rubbish. I was on the third carrier bag of beer cans and pizza boxes when my mobile buzzed in my pocket.

  I stared at the screen.

  Scott and his problems would have to wait.

  23

  Claire’s primary reason for choosing Farley’s over Landucci’s was because they had a wheelchair ramp. She used to hate doing things solely because it made life easier, but as she’d gotten older it’d become more and more pointless to keep fighting the fact that she was actually disabled and really couldn’t do everything for herself.

  It hadn’t come easy, though.

  The day she’d woken up from the coma, she’d known. Even before the doctors said one single word. She knew her life was never going to be what she’d hoped it would be. It might’ve been more than twenty years ago, but it was as fresh in her mind as if it had happened yesterday. She picked up the laminated menu and stared at it, feeling herself float off as the words became a jumbled blur of swirly font and pictures of cakes …

  ‘Claire? Claire? Oh God – I think she just opened her eyes! Doctor – come quickly! I think she just opened her eyes!’

  Her mum’s voice had sounded weird, thick and squeaky. Like she’d been crying. She’d felt her eyelids flicker, and she’d tried hard to do it again, but it felt like they’d been stuck down with glue. Then the light had changed from dull to bright to an intense prickly feeling, like when you get shampoo in them in the bath. Then the light dimmed and she heard a small click. A torch. The doctor had been shining a torch in her eyes. Then she felt a slight tickly fuzzy feeling as someone dragged something across her eyelids.

  ‘What’s that? Is that going to hurt her? What’re you doing? She’s trying to open her bloody eyes!’

  The doctor’s voice was calm but with an undercurrent of annoyance. ‘It’s only a cotton bud, Mrs Millar. We’re just trying to soften the build-up around the lids to make it easier for her. Looks like she might’ve developed a bit of conjunctivitis or something. We’ll get her some antibiotic drops and it’ll make her more comfortable. That’s probably what’s causing the flickering. As I told you earlier, Mrs Millar … Linda … there’s still no change in her vitals. She’s still at grade two on the Glasgow Coma Scale. No voluntary movements. I hate to keep saying this, but they don’t often wake up from this sort of thing without some lasting damage. If they wake up at all …’

  But I can hear you! she’d screamed. But it was only in her head, because her mouth refused to comply. She lay there listening to the sounds of her mum’s frantic gibberish and the doc saying the same things he’d been saying for the last two weeks. They had no idea she could hear them. The firs
t person she’d heard hadn’t been the doctor, though.

  Nor her mum.

  It’d been Jake.

  ‘Earth to Claire – anybody home?’

  Her head flipped up at the sound of his voice and the menu that she’d been staring at for the last ten minutes fell out of her hands and slid across the table. ‘God, sorry. I was miles away …’

  ‘I could see that …’

  Jake bent down to pick up the menu and kissed her hard on the lips. She felt that familiar stirring down below her stomach. She loved that he could still make her feel like that, after all these years. Something Jo would never understand.

  ‘Is she coming?’

  Jake snorted. ‘Of course she’s not! I won’t tell you what she said to me, but I’m sure you can imagine. That copper that’s always sniffing around was in the shop. Should’ve seen the look on his face when she told me where to go.’

  Claire sighed. ‘Right, well that’s the last time. I’ve tried, Jake. You know I have. I really don’t know what it is that makes her hate you so much.’

  ‘She’s pretty good at hating, Claire. I’m surprised that mug Scott stuck with her as long as he did. Did you find out what happened yet? Better offer? Someone with a heart come along, eh?’

  Claire picked up the menu again and pretended to study it. She didn’t even need to look at it. She always had the same thing: cheese and pickle sandwich on white bread and whatever soup they had that day. She kept her gaze directed at the menu, though, so Jake couldn’t see her eyes. She knew she couldn’t lie, but she didn’t want to mention what Jo had told her in the pub. Jake didn’t like it when she mentioned her accident. Whenever she thought about it, she felt angry with herself for not being able to remember. Whenever she talked about it, she got herself into a state. Jake hated to see her upset, so it was easier not to mention it.

  ‘She didn’t say. Says she suspected he’d been seeing a girl at work but that he hadn’t actually admitted it. According to Jo, things hadn’t been great for a while. Which came as a shock to me cos she was singing his praises last time I saw her. Then again, I’m never entirely sure when she’s bullshitting me.’

  Jake pulled out a chair and sat down, nodding to the waitress as he shrugged off his denim jacket.

  Claire stole a glance at him as he had his head down towards the menu. He seemed content enough. Clearly she must’ve sounded convincing. By the time they’d ordered their lunches, talk had shifted to other things. But Claire’s mind was still half on what Jo had said about bumping into the boy from the woods. The one who – according to Jo’s version of events – had sparked the chain of events that had changed the course of Claire’s life. Not to mention Jo’s.

  The waitress set a pot of tea and two cups and saucers on the table, and Claire smiled up at her and said, ‘Thanks, Carol.’

  As she watched Jake lift the lid of the teapot and stir the contents with his teaspoon, she felt her mind slipping out of focus again. The blackouts had been more frequent recently. She really needed to make an appointment with the doctor. Maybe she’d do what he suggested last time too. What she’d been shying away from for years. Maybe she’d make that appointment for hypnosis. See if someone couldn’t help her remember what had happened on that day.

  Problem was, she didn’t want to.

  24

  Gray left Jo standing outside the bookshop, her face battling embarrassment, anger and something else that he couldn’t quite place.

  He was usually good with tells. The way people tried to hide them. Purposely stopping their eyes from flicking to the left when they were lying but not realising they were giving it away by the way they were wringing their hands or pushing a hair behind an ear. Jo was usually easy to read. It wasn’t as if she ever tried to hide how she felt about things.

  He knew she believed that this man who’d come into the shop was the one that’d caused Claire’s accident all those years ago. They’d investigated it as much as they could, at the time. Gray had been a young PC, desperate to find something out. But there was no trace of the boys. No witnesses. Just Jo’s statement and what Claire remembered after – which wasn’t much.

  Gray had always stood by the girl. He’d felt sorry for her, apart from anything else. He only wished he could get through to her and get her to drop this thing. What was it, twenty-odd years ago?

  But Gray had made a promise. To someone special.

  Jo’s mother.

  He remembered that night. It was imprinted on his brain. Bang. Bang. Bang. The alarm clock beside the bed: 11.45. She was at the front door, hair mussed up. Eyes wild. Why the hell didn’t he invite her in?

  ‘Please,’ she says, ‘look after her …’

  He wasn’t someone to go back on his word.

  A white transit van was parked outside the newsagent’s, the engine idling. The back doors were wide open and Gray couldn’t resist having a look inside. Piles of multicoloured things in packets; cheap plastic robots. Stacks of colouring and puzzle books. He peered over at an open box and found it full of fancy-dress outfits. He was reaching for what looked like a Spiderman costume when a voice in his ear made him jump back guiltily.

  ‘See anything you like, Davie? I’ve got a Wonder Woman at the bottom if you fancy that. Adult-sized …’

  Gray turned round to find a man in tight black jeans and a burgundy polo shirt with a blue stripe around the collar, face pulled into a smirk beneath neatly Brylcreemed hair.

  ‘All right, Ian? Bit early for Halloween is it not?’

  Ian grinned. ‘You’re behind the times there, man. Kids are into fancy dress all year round these days. Only yesterday morning I bumped into a young Luke Skywalker in Tesco’s, howling the odds at his ma when he wasn’t allowed three boxes of Coco Pops and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s for breakfast. Thought I better get in on the action before anyone else thinks of it.’

  ‘Don’t they sell this stuff in Tesco’s then?’ Gray said, picking up another outfit, turning it over in his hands and squinting at the packet.

  Ian took the packet from his hands and flattened it out. ‘Dracula,’ he said. As if it should’ve been obvious. ‘Aye, they do sell it in Tesco’s, just like everything else I bloody sell here. I’ve practically stopped doing cards now. I can’t compete when they sell them for a quid. But if I stop trying, what do I do?’

  Gray nodded. He felt for him. A few years ago, Ian Watson’s shop was the only place in town to buy papers. Now there was Tesco, and combining it with picking up the bread and the milk and something for the tea, Ian was struggling. Gray changed the subject. ‘How’s Anne?’

  Ian threw the costume back into the box, then leant into the van and scooped the box up in his arms. ‘Come and ask her yourself,’ he said, ‘and don’t come empty-handed.’

  Gray picked up a stack of robots and followed him into the shop. It was one of those Aladdin’s caves of a place. Anything and everything.

  Anne was standing behind the counter. Her face looked pale, but there were two high spots of red at the top of her cheeks. She had some sort of elaborate scarf wrapped around her head, blonde hair cascading from beneath. She was handing over a brown paper bag to the customer in front of her. She noticed Gray looking and gave him a wide smile.

  ‘Hello, Davie,’ she said.

  The customer snatched the bag and turned quickly, almost walking straight into him in his hurry to escape the policeman’s gaze.

  ‘Ah, Pete, it’s yourself. I’m glad I bumped into you … I was hoping we could have a wee chat later, on your own?’

  Pete Brotherstone scuttled towards the door of the shop without looking up. Bag clutched to his chest. ‘Can’t talk to you. I need to go home now. Dad’s waiting,’ he said in his usual rapid-fire monotone.

  Anne smiled at the lad, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Bye, Petey, see you again.’

  She turned back to Gray, patted the side of her head. ‘Made it myself. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you look beautiful, A
nne. As always.’

  ‘Idiot,’ she said, but the smile she gave him was like a floodlight being switched on. He liked Anne. She’d been in his class all the way through primary school and he’d thought about asking her out but never did. He took defeat graciously when she chose Ian instead. Ian and Gray bought their first scooters together. They’d attended all the meets together, pogoed to The Jam together on Glasgow Green. He loved them both.

  Something felt off, though.

  Gray frowned. ‘Does Pete come in here a lot, Anne? I’m surprised to see him without his dad … Thought he kept him wrapped up in cotton wool 24-7?’

  Anne gave him a strange look. Like she was mentally battling with what to say. ‘This is about the only place he’s allowed to go on his own. He feels safe here, even if …’ Her eyes dropped, and when she looked at him again Gray was sure he could see tears forming in the corners. ‘Martin came in and had a wee chat with me one day. Said the laddie had a crush on me – as if it wasn’t obvious …’ She paused, took a deep breath. ‘He’s no bother really. He buys his card and glue and string … and his other bits and bobs for his models. Actually, I’m not really sure what it is he makes. I keep expecting him to turn up with one of his creations sometime …’

  ‘Hmm,’ Gray said. He was only half listening. He was still thinking about Pete, but mostly he was musing about Anne. He still couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t tell him who it was who had grabbed her in the park. The cut on her face from tripping up as she ran away hadn’t been seen to. She’d patched it up herself and the scar was a jagged streak of pearl down the side of her otherwise perfect face: a constant reminder of that night.

  He wondered, vaguely, if it was connected to the thing up at the Track now. But it didn’t quite fit. There had been no contact – so far – up at the Track. He had a feeling that Anne knew her attacker. That she was protecting him. Why, though, he had no idea. The Track thing was different. In his gut he still thought it was down to kids mucking about.