Black Wood

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Just checking there was nothing missing from here,’ he said. ‘I never thought to look before. The key was in, but it was unlocked. I’m sure I locked it.’

  ‘Like the door,’ Gray said. He noticed Maloney’s hand shaking slightly as he turned the small brass key on the bureau.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Nothing missing.’ His eyes flicked to the left first, this time, and Gray knew he was lying.

  He’d read something about the whole ‘tell’ thing recently, something dismissing it as claptrap. It might not be scientific, but in Gray’s experience there was a definite sign when someone was lying.

  Something was definitely missing.

  He also wondered what it was that Maloney had stuffed into the bureau when Gray had turned round …

  ‘Look,’ Maloney said, ‘I’m clearly wasting your time here. Whoever it was is gone. They haven’t taken anything … I’m getting the locks changed, so …’

  ‘Fine. If you notice anything later, or think of anything else … you know where to find me.’

  Maloney sagged in relief.

  Gray turned to leave. Then stopped, turned back.

  ‘Oh … just one more thing, Mr Maloney. Sorry if this sounds a bit out of place, but you said your dad died when you were here. Can I ask what happened? Must’ve been tough for you and your mum. Upping and leaving afterwards …’

  Maloney looked like Gray had slapped him in the face. ‘I …’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Gray held up a hand. ‘That wasn’t necessary. I’m sure it’s not relevant …’

  ‘I … well. Actually, I don’t even know if he died. It’s just what I tell people. It’s easier than trying to explain … See, he went out one night … and he never came back.’

  47

  By the time Gray had left, Laura felt calmer, less of an idiot. She knew he wouldn’t judge her for her failed defence skills. In fact, he’d reassured her that she’d done everything she could. Her gran had been brilliant too. Bringing her tea. Deriding the man who’d done this to her.

  Maybe it was the combination of the numerous cups of tea and the slightly-more-than-recommended dosage of painkillers – some co-codamol that her gran had for her sciatica – but she felt better already. The pain in her knees was barely a dull ache, her skinned, scabbing face merely an inconvenience.

  She pulled herself up off the couch with hardly a wince.

  ‘Gran?’

  The old woman had disappeared into the kitchen after Gray had left. Laura had heard the sound of the washing machine door being opened. Damp clothes being dropped into the plastic laundry basket. She walked through to the kitchen, limping slightly, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

  She leant her hands on the sink and stared out the kitchen window to the small garden beyond. Only her gran’s legs were visible from her position inside the whirly-gig, where fresh washing was being pegged.

  Bob was racing around, yelping happily. Apparently he loved the smell of the fresh laundry and liked to get involved. Laura watched as Bridie shooed the little dog from nipping at the sleeves of a jumper hanging over the edge of the basket. The back door stood open and a warm breeze trickled in. It stung Laura’s face slightly, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

  ‘Gran? Can I give you a hand with that?’

  The woman appeared from behind a curtain of wet washing.

  ‘Laura! Get back on that couch, missy! You’re meant to be resting.’ She had pegs clipped up one side of her cardigan, presumably to save her having to keep dipping into the small bucketful of pegs that lay on the ground, tipped over by Bob.

  ‘I’m fine … and I’m bored. Do you want me to put another load on?’ Laura glanced across at the washing basket and saw that it was empty. On the worktop nearby a pile of folded clothes sat, waiting to be put away. ‘Or I can take these upstairs for you?’ She picked up the pile, then frowned. Shirts? Men’s shirts?

  ‘Gran – whose clothes are these?’

  They couldn’t be hers. Her granddad had died five years ago and she’d gone with her mum when they’d taken all his stuff to the Sue Ryder. All except his favourite shirt, a worn, soft pale-blue one with white pearl buttons. She kept it in a dry-cleaning wrapper, hanging at the end of her wardrobe. She lifted the corner of the pile. It definitely wasn’t in there. Why would it be? It’s not as if it could ever get dirty again.

  Her gran bustled back in to the kitchen, the empty plastic basket in her arms. Bob was jumping up at the hem of her long grey skirt. ‘Oh!’ she said, taking the pile from Laura’s arms. ‘These are Scott’s. I’ll take them back to him the now.’

  ‘Scott’s? Scott from next door? How come you’re doing his washing all of a sudden?’

  ‘Oh, poor laddie. That Jo’s away and left him. I saw her the other day, you know, skulking about up near the top of the toun. She’s a strange one, that lassie.’

  Laura was confused. ‘Jo’s left? When?’ She liked Jo. She often popped next door to visit when she was at her gran’s. She sometimes gave her books, once she’d finished with them. Usually completely random things that she would never have thought of buying. She’d leant her a top once too. Come to think of it, Laura was sure it was still in her top drawer at home. She’d half-hoped that Jo wouldn’t ask for it back, and so far she hadn’t.

  She made a decision. ‘I’ll take them round if you want?’ She wanted to know why Jo had gone. She didn’t like to admit it, but Laura had definitely inherited some of her gran’s nosey gene.

  The old woman screwed up her face. ‘You don’t need to be doing that, hen. I said I’d take another load too. Might be too heavy for you …’

  Laura laughed. ‘Too heavy for me? What about you? Just wait a minute and I’ll put some shoes on.’

  Bridie gave her a key and the weird instruction to ‘leave the clean washing on the bottom stair, pick up the stuff from the basket in the kitchen, and don’t go disturbing him if he’s asleep’.

  Why would he be asleep? It was the middle of the day, and as far as Laura was aware, Scott worked in an office. He’d hardly be in there snoozing in the middle of the day. She wondered if her gran was going a bit doolally. She’d heard her mum and dad whispering about it one day, saying she’d forgotten to pick up her pension and that was hardly like her, seeing as she was tighter than a pair of support stockings. It’d been her dad had said that. Her mum wouldn’t have dared, even if she’d thought it.

  The first thing that Laura noticed when she let herself into Scott’s house was the darkness.

  Then the smell.

  None of the curtains had been opened, and apart from a chink of light leaking out from above the rail in the living room where one of the curtains had come off some of its loops, she could barely see. It looked like someone had yanked the curtain too hard, then not bothered to fix it.

  Everything looked different in the muted light; everything had changed colour with the effect of the sunlight against the covered windows.

  The smell was something else. A mixture of sweat, greasy food and stale alcohol, all melded together to create a cloying, fetid reek. When was the last time anyone had opened a window?

  Laura felt a trickle of fear run down her back. Became aware of her aches again, as if the painkillers had chosen this exact moment to wear off, reminding her that she was injured, vulnerable.

  When had she become such a scaredy-cat? It was the same house. She’d been in there plenty of times before. She shook her head, trying to clear the feeling of unease.

  She was about to pull the door closed behind her, then thought better of it. The small blast of air would do the place good.

  She placed the pile of clean washing on the bottom stair and walked through towards the living room. The layout was the exact opposite of Bridie’s house: a mirror image. The décor was different too. While Bridie’s was all floral wallpaper and puffy furniture, this place was leather and Ikea wooden units. It was really nice, usually.

  She walked further into the living room and identified p
art of the cause of the smell. Pizza boxes lay strewn like rubbish washed up on a beach. Polystyrene chip cartons, beer cans lying on their sides. Spilling out of everything were the contents of the containers. Pizza crusts, wrinkled chips, dark spots on the carpet from the spilled lager. Cheap supermarket own-brand stuff it was too.

  What had Jo done to him? More importantly, where was he?

  She got the answer to that via the creak of a floorboard upstairs.

  Her heart leapt up her throat, sticking in there like a giant gobstopper.

  ‘Whoosair?’ The voice came from the upstairs hall and slithered down the stairs.

  Laura took a deep breath, let it out. ‘It’s just me. Laura. From next door.’ She paused, and the floorboard creaked again. Was he coming down? She really hoped he wasn’t coming down. From the sound of his voice, he was drunk. She didn’t really want to talk to him in that state.

  Another creak. She glanced up and saw him peering down at her from the top of the stairs. A frown on his face. Something dark under his eye. Blood?

  Laura swallowed. ‘I’m just collecting your washing. There’s some clean stuff on the bottom stair. You might need it. Shirts and stuff … for work.’

  ‘Aye,’ he muttered, lurching off, trailing a hacking cough. That was the other smell in the house. Stale fags. Oddly enough, their reek had been masked by the overpowering stench of the rest of the crap that was lying around. She thought of how his bed sheets must smell, and shuddered.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then, doll. I’m off today. Feeling a bit … under the weather.’ Another wracking cough. Another creak. She stood still for a moment, then heard the sound of water in the pipes above her head. The toilet flushing.

  She swallowed. Thank God for that.

  She turned and walked into the small kitchen, spotted the laundry basket.

  The pain in her body was back with a vengeance now. It hadn’t been her best idea. She wondered if the adrenalin that had kicked in had caused the painkillers to become ineffective. When she got back next door, she was taking two more and going to bed. End of.

  She started to pull the clothes out of the laundry basket and stuff them into the giant Co-op bag for life she’d brought with her. There wasn’t that much in there. Why would there be? It was clear he hadn’t been going to work. She pulled out jeans, then a small top that looked like Jo’s. She hesitated, then stuffed it into the bag. Maybe she could drop it off at the bookshop. Or maybe she might keep it.

  A dark fleece jacket had been balled up and jammed tight into the bottom of the basket, so she pulled it out and shook it flat before dropping it into her bag. As she shook, something fell out from inside and slid across the floor. Pair of boxers, it looked like. It was hard to tell in the weird ochre light.

  She pulled out the remaining items, then set the bag down. She was sure she felt her knees creaking as she bent them. Suddenly she felt a hundred years old. She wouldn’t be back at karate for a while, that was for sure.

  That bastard.

  She walked towards the back door, to where the boxers had slid across the lino and, wrinkling her nose, bent down again to pick them up. The pain in her knees screamed.

  She lifted up the boxers, and a flash of static bounced off her fingers. She dropped them like they’d burned her. ‘What the …?’

  These weren’t boxers. Who wore thick nylon boxers? Ignoring the pain, she bent down again, picking up the ‘thing’ at one corner, trying to flick it back into shape.

  It took her a moment to work out that she was holding a black balaclava.

  48

  Gray was just pulling up outside the station when his phone rang again. He’d never had so much happening in so few days. He looked at the display: Laura.

  ‘Hey there, you – how you feeling?’

  ‘Davie …’ Her voice was breathless; he picked up her fear.

  ‘What is it, Laura? Calm down … where are you?’

  ‘It’s … I’m still at Gran’s. Can you come round? I need to show you something. Please …’

  What was this now? ‘Of course, I’ll be right there.’

  He parked outside Bridie Goldstone’s house. Noticed that the curtains were still closed in the house next door. So Scott still hadn’t surfaced. He made a mental note to pop in on him when he got a chance. Make sure everything was OK.

  Laura greeted him on the doorstep. Her face was pale, except for two pink patches on her cheeks. She was jiggling from side to side, the weight on her damaged knee clearly bothering her.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be resting?’

  Her eyes flicked from side to side, checking the path that ran down the middle of the two houses. She took a step back, letting him into the house. ‘Did he see you?’ she hissed.

  ‘Who? Are you OK, Laura? What’s happened? Where’s your gran?’

  ‘She popped out to get something. I dunno. Listen … she sent me next door …’

  Gray stepped fully into the hallway, pushed the door closed behind him.

  ‘Next door …?’

  ‘Yes! To Scott’s … she had a pile of washing. I said I’d take it in and get the next load. She’s clucking about over him like he’s some damaged wee bird, but …’

  ‘I thought you were in agony? How did you manage to do all that?

  She backed in through the open door of the living room. Her eyes were wide, gleaming.

  ‘She gave me co-codamol … Think I took one too many … Gave me a bit of a buzz, but it’s wearing off now … Anyway …’

  ‘Laura, can you sit down? Tell me what’s happened?’

  Her eyes were still darting about, and he couldn’t tell if it was an effect of the drugs or her heightened excitement. He felt his own heart rate begin to speed up.

  She turned away from him, bent down to take something off the couch. Her blanket lay in a heap at the bottom. An empty bottle of Lucozade was on its side on the floor nearby.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look …’

  He reached out to take what she was offering him in her outstretched hand. Something black. He couldn’t work out what it was, at first. But then he unfurled the crumpled fabric and realised what it was he was holding.

  A balaclava.

  He reached into his pocket for one of his plastic ‘evidence’ bags.

  ‘Where did you get this, Laura?’

  She had her hands on her hips now. The high colour in her cheeks seemed to be glowing. She radiated excitement … fear …

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘I found it in Scott’s laundry basket …’

  Gray felt his mouth go dry.

  ‘… and there’s something else,’ she said, smirking now, despite her pain. ‘He’s got a black eye …’

  49

  I was nine when I first skinned a rabbit.

  We’d come from a balmy summer’s evening, but the atmosphere in the kitchen was a different kind of warm. It hung. Heavy, like velvet curtains. I could taste metal in my mouth.

  Gran’s shotgun stood propped up against the fireplace.

  I stared at the kitchen table and felt my shopping bags dropping out of my arms. It was covered with newspaper, already soaked with dark, congealing blood.

  They were laid out in a neat row along the centre of the table.

  Four fresh rabbits.

  Three skinned and ready for the pot; one left for me.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you think? You ready?’

  I walked over to the table and leant in for a closer look. The skinned rabbits were pink and smooth. Almost like skinny chickens.

  ‘Where are their heads?’

  ‘They’re outside in a bucket. Got the innards in there too. Need to take them into the woods later. Leave them out for the foxes.’

  A feeling of nausea swept through me and I stepped away from the table. I didn’t like the idea of the rabbit heads lying out there in the woods. The foxes scavenging them.

  Gran picked up my bags and I heard her footsteps clunk ing up the sta
irs. ‘There’s an apron there for you,’ she shouted down. ‘Gloves too. If you want them.’

  I stared at my rabbit. Imagined the feel of its insides on my bare hands. I pulled the apron over my head and crossed the strings around my waist and back to the front, where I tied them in a neat bow.

  Lying next to my rabbit was a small paring knife with a wooden handle. It was my gran’s special knife. The one that my granddad used to use. I’d seen her sharpening it on a stone. I picked it up and pressed the tip into my palm and a small bubble of blood squeezed out of my skin.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I hadn’t heard her come back down. She’d taken her boots off.

  I jumped and dropped the knife on the table. ‘Oh! I was just checking it was sharp.’

  She frowned. ‘You know how sharp it is, JoJo. You’ve seen me sharpening it. You can’t muck around if you want to do this. You need to be careful.’

  I looked up at her and felt my bottom lip start to tremble.

  ‘Oh, come on now, you silly sausage.’ She grabbed me and hugged me tight and I flung my arms around her, trying to make them reach each other at the back. She was a big woman, but she felt strong and safe. Eventually, she let me go. ‘Right. Are you wearing gloves?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to.’

  ‘OK, but you know you’ll be scraping blood out of your fingernails for a week.’ She handed me the knife. ‘You need to turn it onto its back, then spread the hind legs and hold them flat. See? Like this.’

  She pressed the rabbit’s legs onto the table, her other hand resting gently on its stomach. She moved to the side to let me take over.

  The fur felt soft but rough. When I pressed on the stomach it still felt slightly warm. She must’ve shot them not long before I arrived. The others would’ve been skinned and made ready in minutes. She was an expert at this.

  She gently adjusted the position of my hand on the legs. ‘Now you need to make little nicks all the way up the middle of its belly. Imagine you’re unbuttoning a winter coat.’