Black Wood

by SJI Holliday

  Claire had turned her head to look up at him as he spoke into the phone. His voice was wavering. He was scared too. She watched him slide the phone back into his pocket.

  ‘Right, tell you what. Let me call Rob. He’ll be able to fit your chair in his car. We’ll tell him to meet us at the station, then get him to drive us up to Black Wood, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Claire said. Things had started to swarm inside her head. Too much going on. This was what usually caused the blackouts – the last thing she needed right now. ‘OK … but hurry!’

  53

  Gray sat and looked at the man in front of him, confused about what he was seeing. Only a week ago, he’d seen Scott jogging along the river path when he’d been out there for a Sunday morning stroll. The younger man had looked fresh, pink-cheeked and sweaty. He’d panted out a hello to Gray as he’d passed. Gray had admired his efforts. It was a hot, clammy morning and a walk was as much exercise as Gray could bear under those conditions.

  The man in front of him now was like an artist’s impression of himself. Aged by twenty years and dressed in clothing befitting a tramp.

  If you’d asked him a week ago, Gray would’ve placed Scott and Jo on the ‘potential summer wedding, nothing too fancy’ list. Now Jo was AWOL and her bloke looked like he’d spent a week living in the cellar of the Rowan Tree with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few kegs for company.

  Even his eyes were pink and watery, as if he’d barely seen daylight. The right one was florid with purple bruising, a small red cut underneath.

  ‘Right, son. Let’s get this over with.’ Gray nodded at Beattie, who switched on the tape recorder. ‘Scott Philips, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed. Before we start I must remind you that you’re not under arrest, you are entitled to free legal advice and a solicitor can be called for you, and that you’re free to leave at any time. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence. Do you understand the caution?’

  ‘Yes … and I don’t need a lawyer.’ Scott’s voice was thick, as if he’d stuffed a scarf down his throat. His eyes were directed towards the wooden table where his elbows rested.

  Gray and Beattie looked at each other. Beattie raised his eyebrows and Gray shrugged back. ‘Present at this interview are Sergeant Davie Gray and PC Callum Beattie. Time is 17.05. In order for us to verify your statement, this interview is being recorded. OK?’

  Scott’s shoulders flinched.

  ‘Is that a yes, Scott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right,’ Gray started, ‘you know why you’re here, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Are you referring to the balaclava? For the benefit of the tape, this is a black, nylon-mix balaclava, recovered from the suspect’s laundry basket by a Miss Laura Goldstone, who was staying with her grandmother, Mrs Bridie Goldstone, in the property next door to the suspect, at the time.’

  Scott eventually lifted his head. He glared at Gray, and Gray felt disappointed.

  ‘It’s. Not. Mine,’ he repeated.

  Beattie shifted in his seat. Gray changed tack.

  ‘You know that Laura was attacked, don’t you? Someone gave her quite a fright. Lucky she was able to fight him off. Managed a swift punch to the side of his face, by all accounts. Want to tell us how you got that cut below your eye?’

  Beattie cut in: ‘For the benefit of the tape, suspect has a three-centimetre gash just below his right eye. The injury looks fresh, and has not been professionally cleaned and dressed.’

  Similar to its owner, Gray thought, a bit nastily. It was unusual to see Scott dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a stained T-shirt when he was usually in a suit. Maybe a cheap Topman suit, but a suit nonetheless.

  Scott sighed, looked away. ‘I told you. I can’t remember.’

  ‘You’ve a cut like that and you don’t know how you got it? Looks tender. There must’ve been a time when you didn’t have a cut, a moment you realised you had it – can you not work out what happened in the time between?’

  ‘I was drunk, all right? I’ve been drinking for … a few days now.’

  Gray nodded, lowered his voice. ‘I can see that, Scott. Maybe you’d like to tell us what it is that’s troubling you?’

  Scott looked at him. Blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Look, I was a bit worse for wear last night. I was in the pub. I think I might’ve tripped or something.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘The Rowan Tree.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you? Anyone see you leave? What time?’

  Scott nodded. ‘The barman, he’ll remember. I was pissed. He told someone to walk me home.’

  Gray and Beattie exchanged a look.

  ‘Who was that then, Scott?’

  Scott frowned, fidgeted his hands in front of him. ‘Claire’s boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Jake. He took me home. I think he must’ve given me more drink, though, cos I woke up on the kitchen floor, sick all over myself. I’d only just cleaned it and gone upstairs when Laura came in to get the washing.’

  ‘Where did you put the dirty clothes? In the wash basket? Laura didn’t mention that anything smelled of puke.’

  ‘No. I put them straight in the machine. They’ll still be there. Reeking, no doubt. Thinking about it, I don’t think I’ve put anything in the laundry basket for days.’

  ‘So the black fleece that Laura pulled out … the balaclava … are you saying you didn’t put them there?’

  ‘Aye. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  Gray leant back in his chair. ‘Right. That’ll do for now. Interview suspended at 17.25. You can go home now, son. But don’t go anywhere else, OK? We might need to speak to you again.’

  Scott nodded. ‘So you’ll be talking to Jake then?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Gray said, ‘we’ll be talking to him all right.’

  54

  Sharon locked up the shop ten minutes late. A couple had come in just as she was about to close, and she hadn’t had the heart to turn them away. It wasn’t like she had anywhere she needed to be. She started to wander home. She was in no great hurry. She wasn’t meeting anyone after work, which was unusual, but with the week she’d had, she was just too knackered. A bath, an early night … then tomorrow she would talk to Craig.

  She was starting to regret taking the job in the bookshop over her other offer, the clothes shop up town that sold all the Goth stuff she liked. She’d started reading the Tarot recently, and there were plenty people she knew who were interested in her readings. She had good intuition.

  It had been fun at first. Craig was always funny, in a dark, twisted kind of way. Dry. That was it. She’d really liked Jo at first too. Her cutting comments were always right on the money. She’d thought that Jo had liked her too, despite being quite a few years older. She’d seemed interested in Sharon’s lifestyle, her music. What she read. OK, she did hate it when she called her ‘Shaz’, but she knew it was affectionate. Well, at least she’d thought it was. At the moment, it just felt like she was taking the piss.

  Walking out and leaving her in the shop – how many times in a week? Three, four? It wasn’t on. She’d ruined her weekend, then when she’d bumped into her in Tesco, she’d been a total bitch to Ben, her latest admirer – who, to be fair, was a bit of a wimp.

  But still.

  She’d heard all the rumours, of course. Who hadn’t? You can’t live in a small town and expect to get away with much. Jo’s parents had died when she was young, and she’d been brought up by her grandmother in a weird old cottage – apparently. People liked to say that Jo’s gran was a witch, and Sharon would’ve loved that to be true. She’d also heard that Jo still owned the cottage. God, that place would have a few tales to tell within its walls. She’d really hoped to get to know Jo a bit better. Ask her about it. But it didn’t sound like she’d be getting a
n invite up there anytime soon.

  She wondered if Jo was living back there now, now that she’d split up with her frankly ‘too boyband’ boyfriend. Nice enough as he was, she’d expected Jo to go for someone with a bit more bite.

  Then there was her friend Claire … that poor cow in the wheelchair that worked at the paper. That was a weird friendship, no doubt at all. Apparently Jo had been there when Claire had had the accident that severed her spinal cord, all those years ago.

  Sharon would’ve loved to know more about that, too. But for some reason Claire hadn’t really taken to her. Maybe it was because of the way she couldn’t help staring at her ridiculously sexy boyfriend, Jake. Now, he was the kind of man she’d have expected Jo to be with.

  He worked at the firm on the edge of town where they made the lawnmowers and the farm machinery and stuff like that. Or maybe they didn’t make it, but they fixed it and whatever, because plenty of times she’d seen him walking back into town from there, head to toe in thick black grease. That permanent scowl on his face.

  What the hell was he doing with prim, prissy Claire?

  They were an odd bunch, truth be told, but she felt special hanging out with them – them being just those few years older.

  She was almost home when she realised she’d left her bag in the shop.

  ‘Damn it,’ she muttered, stopping, rooting about inside her thin cotton jacket, hoping she at least had her phone. The rest she could pick up in the morning. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere, and her dad would be home by now to let her in.

  She’d just turned off the main road and into the narrow alleyway that led to the back of her house when she heard panting somewhere close behind. Footsteps. Running.

  She turned and, expecting to see a jogger, pressed herself back against the wall to let him pass.

  He stopped right in front of her, his breath coming out in rasps.

  ‘Jesus Christ, it’s you,’ she said. ‘You gave me a right fright!’ Her heart started to beat just a little bit faster then. Something felt off. He looked strange … He looked angry, pumped up … riled … ‘What is is, Jake? Are you all right?’

  She noticed a cut on the side of his face as he stared into her eyes. She felt herself start to shake, and his face seemed to crumple in on itself then, like an empty crisp bag. A sudden thought hit her and she felt like she might be sick.

  ‘Jake? Has something happened to Claire?’

  He sniffed, rubbed a hand across his face. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen like this, Sharon. No one was supposed to get hurt … It’s Jo. I need to see her …’ He shook his head and started to pace back and forth in front of her. He muttered something that she didn’t quite catch. Woods? Did he say that Jo was in the woods?

  She stared back, open-mouthed. Say something, Sharon!

  He cocked his head, scrutinising her. Terror had closed her throat. But he didn’t say anything else, made no move to touch her, just gave her a sad half-smile and marched off – his pace picking up into a run just before he disappeared round the corner, out of sight. She felt about inside her jacket, hoping to find her phone, but it wasn’t there.

  Shit, shit, shit! She tried to control her panic. Took a deep breath. With her legs still threatening to give way, she about turned and walked out of the alley the way that she came, and headed for the police station – hoping that she wasn’t too late. Hoping that someone would still be there.

  55

  I unfolded the piece of paper and looked at it again. It made sense now.

  14L … 25SO …

  Fourteen left, twenty-five straight on … I had to follow the trail, see for myself. My stomach was churning. When had I last had anything to eat?

  I wasn’t even dressed.

  Remembering I’d left the front door unlocked, I quickly bolted it and ran upstairs. I glanced into Gran’s room as I passed. The wardrobe doors were open, as I’d left them. Stuff still strewn across the floor.

  The door to my old room was closed. I never went in there when I came back here. Too many memories.

  I pushed the door open, and it squeaked as it swung into the small room.

  Nothing had changed. Single bed pressed against the far wall. Small, dirty window with sad-looking yellow curtains.

  I blinked, shoving the memories away.

  In the small wardrobe I found a white cotton sundress that I’d forgotten all about. I’d bought it a few years ago, after seeing it in the sale in one of the hippy shops in Cockburn Street up town. It reminded me of the dresses I’d worn as a child, two deep pockets at the sides. I’d wanted it. It hung there, unworn. The tag still attached to the neck label.

  I dropped the towel at my feet and slipped the dress over my head. It felt soft on my skin; I didn’t bother with underwear.

  Then I leant into the back of the wardrobe and pulled out the thing I’d hidden in there years ago, wrapped in an old sheet.

  Gran’s shotgun.

  I’d put it there that day, before the ambulance came and took her away. Something in me knew that I might need it again sometime.

  I released the catch and cracked it apart. It was loaded. I had no intention of firing it, but I wanted it beside me.

  Just in case.

  I walked back downstairs, laid the shotgun on a chair, picked up the map and was about to head outside when my phone buzzed. A text message flashed on the screen.

  Jo, it’s Gareth Maloney. I have something of yours. We need to talk. Can we meet?

  A sudden euphoria enveloped me. All the events of the last few days started to make sense. It was fate that Scott had thrown me out. It was fate that Maloney had walked into the shop. I was meant to be here for this. At Black Wood. Whatever it was that was happening had started here. Things were about to come full circle.

  I typed back. Come to Black Wood.

  I closed the inbox down, was about to drop the phone onto the table, when I noticed that the message envelope was still flashing in the corner of the screen. Another message? I hadn’t heard the phone buzz again.

  I opened it.

  I need to see you. Everything has gone to shit.

  It’d been sent an hour earlier – when I was walking up through the woods. The reception was patchy there, which explained why I’d missed it.

  Fuck.

  Not now.

  I was about to respond, say: ‘I’m not here.’ Lie. Anything.

  Panic danced in my chest.

  He couldn’t come here. Not now.

  Bang bang bang.

  Too late.

  56

  The shotgun lay on the chair where I’d left it, in full view. Trying not to panic, I pulled an old tablecloth out of one of the cupboards and shook off years of trapped air; newly released dust motes puffed around the room. I threw it over the table and pulled at each side until it was even, concealing the gun underneath.

  Perfect.

  Bang bang bang.

  His insistence scared me. How could Maloney have got here so quickly? Had he followed me to the cottage? I knew we needed to talk, but he’d been hanging around the town for at least a week, acting like butter wouldn’t melt. Pretending that we had once been friends, instead of … instead of what he was. Instead of admitting what he’d done. So why the urgency now? I was starting to regret coming up to the cottage on my own.

  Maybe he was coming to apologise?

  Was he suffering regret? Remorse? I could forgive that.

  Somehow I didn’t think that was the way things were going to go.

  Bang bang bang.

  On the way to the door, I passed the drawer that I’d pulled out earlier. The paring knife lay inside. I didn’t think; I just dropped it into the right-hand pocket of my dress, then picked up the drawer and slid it back into place. Like the gun, I had no intention of using it. But the unease that I had felt earlier was turning quickly into full-scale panic. I’d thought I wanted this: a confrontation. But now that it was happening, I realised the danger I was putting myself in.
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  What was I thinking, telling him to come here?

  I took a deep breath, trying to slow the frantic beating of my heart, which seemed ready to burst through my ribs. I glanced round, steadying myself.

  Everything was fine. The kitchen looked normal. The fire was still burning gently in the hearth. The slight breeze that inhabited the cottage was keeping it alive.

  Bang bang bang.

  I flinched.

  Standing behind the door, my hand shook gently as I laid it on the bolt, ready to slide it free.

  This was it. No going back.

  After twenty-three years, I was finally going to get some answers.

  I slid back the bolt, and before I could take a step back, the handle turned and the door was shoved hard inwards. I stumbled backwards, catching my hip on the side of the table.

  ‘Hey, what the …’

  He barged past, started pacing back and forth in front of the fire. His hands grabbed at his hair, rubbed at his face. Finally he stopped and leant his hands on the mantelpiece. He let out a long, slow breath.

  ‘Jo … you need to help me …’

  My shoulders sagged in relief. Thank God he’d texted me. I’d thought the timing was awful at first, but in the kitchen alone, awaiting my fate, suddenly I was delighted to have someone there with me. But something was wrong, and I felt my relief turning to fear.

  ‘What’s happened, Jake? What’ve you done?’

  I backed myself around the table. The pain in my hip sung, but I ignored it. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. I’d never seen him like this. He was always so calm, so assured. The little game he played when Claire was there, pretending he hated my guts: that was all it was – a game. I backed further away from him, shivered, like someone had dropped icy-cold water down my back. Thinking about it, he had been angry recently too. The other night, when I’d mentioned Maloney …

  ‘What’s happened to your face?’ I said. My breath was coming out in short bursts. Panic kicking in. I didn’t know why, but I knew I had to get rid of him before Maloney arrived. I was missing something here, and I needed him to just go away and leave me to deal with Maloney alone. I knew that now.