Over the course of the morning, the doorbell rings repeatedly, and a collection of notes and business cards accumulate in the Buddy-resistant wire cage attached to the letterbox. We don’t answer the door and throw the stuff into the recycle bin. Anyone who knows us will phone, and we aren’t expecting any deliveries. We do need groceries, though, and Laurie wants to get sturdier locks for the garden gates.
He calls me to his side as he stands, looking at the fencing through the window. ‘What do you think about putting some of those spikes along the top of the fence? They might act as a deterrent, if nothing else.’
I’m not keen on the idea, but don’t dismiss it out of hand, especially as I will be on my own when he is working.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ I say. ‘Isn’t that bloke at number five some sort of security consultant? We could always have a word with him. See what he suggests. I think he’s called Phil.’
We make soup and sandwiches for lunch and switch on the TV. It’s a relief to see there is nothing about the murder on the BBC.
A small segment on the local news, however, catches me off guard. The boy’s face fills the screen, and I choke on my bread. The picture was obviously taken a little while ago. Although he looks younger, it is unmistakably him. I don’t think I will ever forget his eyes, full of fear and begging me to help him. Bile rises in my throat. As I’m running to the downstairs loo to throw up, I catch a snippet of what the newsreader is saying.
Derbyshire police are treating the death of seventeen-year-old Tyler Ingram, found in local woodland yesterday, as suspicious…’
‘We need a plan,’ Laurie says, ‘and not just for the next few days. Right now, we have no idea how long this is going to go on for. It’s important we try to get back to some sense of normality and not let it impact on our lives for any longer than necessary.’
I feel a glimmer of annoyance. He is being his usual pragmatic, problem-solving self. In contrast, I’m a wrung-out bundle of conflicting emotions. I should say I agree with him. That we can’t let it affect us. That it’s a temporary blip in the smooth running of our shared life. I want to, but I can’t, because I don’t believe it, not for a second. Laurie and I are such different characters and approach problems in very different ways. I’m not good at shaking things off and pretending nothing has happened. It didn’t work during the last crisis in our lives, and I’m damned sure it won’t this time, either. I want to tell him that I’m not in the frame of mind for having a rational discussion, and I certainly don’t want to start planning anything. That the short-term is about all I can cope with, but I’m conscious we might end up arguing. I opt instead to keep my thoughts under wraps. It’s a strategy I don’t like, and one that generates in me a ripple of dissonance, but I can’t bear the thought of a row. Not today. Feeling like a sap for being so feeble, I opt to keep schtum, for now at least.
When we first met, I was not one to acquiesce. Growing up with a single mum and an absent father honed in me a mix of defensiveness and belligerence, and I was quick to anger if challenged or I disagreed with something. This either fascinated or repelled prospective boyfriends. University provided fertile ground for those of us who had decided we were exotic or different in some way.
Seamlessly, I felt myself gravitating towards others, mostly female, who were considered ‘characters’ in my Social Science degree course. We called each other ‘sisters’ and organised sit-ins or marched in support of unpopular causes. Our uniform of choice – paint-splattered dungarees, bandana-style headbands and Doc Martens boots – tended to scare off all but the most robust of the opposite sex.
We heard from one male considered worthy of our patronage that our group was referred to as the Fanatical Feminists. If this was meant to offend, it fell flat. We just borrowed a badge-making machine from someone’s kid sister and made button badges. We took satisfaction in getting the uninitiated to guess what FF stood for.
Gatecrashing a party hosted by students from the Mechanical Engineering Department led me to Laurie. For fun, a few of us had decided we would wave the feminist flag at the blokiest men we could find. A house full of engineers seemed fair game. To be honest, they didn’t give us that much of a hard time. Just a few snide comments and references to ‘Germaine’, which we took as a compliment rather than an insult. After a handful of Cheez Balls and a couple of pints of weak home brew, I was past caring anyway. Curled up in a chair in a corner of the room, I watched the unedifying spectacle of drunken young men slam dancing to ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ by Guns N’ Roses.
Obeying the code that says you never leave a sister behind, my friend Ali stayed as, one by one, the rest of our group slunk away in search of a livelier gathering.
Looking through a collection of music tapes, I noticed someone standing in the doorway watching us. I thought I detected a sardonic smile playing around his lips.
‘C’mon, Laurie. Have a drink. Studying can wait.’
A guy I knew as Arch pulled the reluctant figure into the room. Laurie was lanky, with dark hair flopping into his eyes. Two thoughts entered my head when we were introduced: one, where has this extremely good-looking specimen been hiding for nearly three years? and two, how on earth am I going to get his attention?
I decided to go for the direct approach.
‘Hi. Would you like some?’ I said, handing him a bowl of dry roasted peanuts.
Unlike most men I’d encountered, he didn’t eye me up and down pityingly before making a caustic comment. He seemed interested, but not overly so. Later, he walked me and Ali back to halls, holding his coat over us to protect us from the drizzle. It was an old-fashioned gesture, but endearing. I let it pass without making one of my usual sly comments. We arranged to meet the next day for coffee. As the months passed, we found ourselves spending more time together until we were rarely apart. By the time my exams were over, we were in love and looking for a flat together.
‘Do you want coffee?’ Laurie interrupts my reverie.
‘I was just thinking about when we first met,’ I say. ‘You took me for a coffee the next day. I wasn’t too impressed when you suggested the uni café, though. I didn’t know you were completely broke and had to borrow a quid from Arch.’
In spite of myself, I find myself laughing at the memory.
Laurie smiles wryly. ‘And then you ended up working to support both of us until I finished my degree. You didn’t know you were going to be my meal ticket for the next year, did you?’
‘I bloody well did not!’ I snort. ‘If I had known, I would never have given you my bowl of nuts at that party.’
Laurie coaxes me out for a walk with Buddy, who is disgruntled to find we are not going into his beloved woods. Before turning the corner leading onto the main road, we bump into Jenny.
‘Hello there. How are we all?’ She bends to stroke Buddy, who raises his head in expectation of a treat. I suspect he had more than one rich tea biscuit when he was in her care.
‘Just to let you know – and I hope you don’t mind – I sent a couple of news reporters packing. They were fishing for information. I told them that people in this neighbourhood are not ones to gossip, and I will phone their editors to make a complaint if I see them lurking in the vicinity again.’
Jenny, with an MBE for services to the community under her belt, is a formidable woman. She also has some pretty useful contacts in high places, and I don’t doubt she is capable of exerting influence if necessary.
With Buddy walked, Laurie is keen to go and stock up on some shopping.
‘We can place an online order at the weekend. I’ll just pick up a few meals at M&S to tide us over for a few days, and then call into that big hardware place. I can get the bolts for the gates and have a chat with them about additional security. I’ll only be about an hour. Ring me if you are worried, and I’ll come straight back.’
I remember the porch light.
‘While you’re there, can you pick up a bulb for the security light? I’ve been meaning to get
one all summer.’
As I sit nursing a mug of tea, the letterbox rattles. Startled, I get up too quickly, spilling hot liquid down the front of my shirt. Buddy barks in response and follows me to the door.
I see a folded piece of paper lying at the bottom of the letter cage. I assume it’s from another persistent journalist. Retrieving it, I hold it aloft, keeping it away from Buddy’s jaws.
The paper is cheap and the edges ragged, as though torn from a jotter. Placing it on the coffee table, I open it out and smooth the folds. Scrawled in a childish script in bright red felt-tip pen, the words seem to leap from the page and dance before my eyes. I feel my skin prickle in fear.
Keep Your Mouth Shut.
5
Laurie’s car pulls in, and I hear him unloading bags into the porch. Anticipating the safety chain, he doesn’t use his key, but knocks and waits for me to come and open the door. After helping him carry the bags to the kitchen, I spread the note in front of him on the worktop.
‘When did this come?’ Frowning, he picks it up, examining it from all sides.
‘Not long after you went out. What do you think we should do?’ The whole thing looks so amateurish, I do wonder if it might be someone’s idea of a joke.
Laurie is obviously of the same mindset. ‘Perhaps it’s kids playing a practical joke,’ he says, loading wine bottles into the fridge. ‘The handwriting is very childlike. You could give DI Holmes a ring and mention it, or we could just ignore it. It depends on how you feel.’
‘I’m spooked. There’s no getting away from it,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m not sure the police will be able to do anything. Let’s just leave it for the moment. If anything else worrying happens, I will contact them.’
My attempt at bravado almost has me convinced.
We are getting into the habit of eating our meals from trays while sitting on the sofa. Later, Laurie goes to the study to catch up on some work. I try reading a book, then a magazine, but end up distracting myself with a silly comedy program on TV. Hearing the murmur of his voice from upstairs as he makes a phone call causes a pang of painful recognition. There were many secret calls and unexpected nights spent away during the affair. Over the months my suspicions grew, but with no firm evidence, it was difficult to confront him. Looking back, there was obviously a part of me that just didn’t want to believe it. There was so much going on in my life, and I was miserable and in a state of denial, clinging onto the thin veneer of normality. Eventually, almost as though he subconsciously wanted me to find out, Laurie got careless and left his phone on the coffee table while he went to the kitchen.
Able to dismiss the faint smell of perfume on his clothing, the unexpected nights away, the furtive late-night calls, I couldn’t disregard the brief text that scrolled across the top of his phone. His latest mobile required fingerprint recognition for access, but an incoming message flashed up briefly on the screen.
Ring me. I’m missing you. Nat xx
‘Who’s Nat?’ I had kept my voice as calm and controlled as I could manage.
He had looked cornered, but tried to bluff it out. ‘Just someone from work. What’s the big deal?’ He was blustering, and I knew he was lying.
‘Why would someone from work be missing you and want you to ring them?’ I had remained composed, sensing his discomfort, which had been almost palpable.
His face had crumpled; he’d looked as if he was about to cry.
‘Christ, Fran. I’m so sorry…’
‘Please don’t say you didn’t mean for it to happen, or I will fucking lose it.’
He had sat with his head in his hands, and I stood over him, waiting expectantly for a response. Head down, he made a steeple with his fingers, as he always does when he’s anxious.
‘I need to know, Laurie, all of it.’ My tone had turned glacial. ‘And then we have to decide what we are going to do.’
‘I’m getting a glass of wine. Want one?’ Laurie has come in, startling me and interrupting my train of thought.
‘That would be nice,’ I say, trying to shake off the punch to the gut I always feel when I’m reminded of that time.
With things better between us and everything almost back to normal, I experience a pang of guilt at having resurrected such a painful memory. There is so much going on, what possible good can come from rehashing the past?
While Laurie watches a wildlife documentary, I flick aimlessly through the book Jenny has lent me. It’s a historical romance set in eighteenth-century Derbyshire. She has told me to look out for the reference to our village, but I’ve lost interest in the story. I know it’s mean on my part, but studying the blurb before I next see her should give me enough of the storyline to convince her I’ve read it.
Opening my laptop, there are a few junk emails and some notifications on social media, none of which are important enough to attend to. It strikes me that the dead boy might have a Facebook page. I search for his name, but draw a blank. There are a number of individuals called Tyler Ingram. None are a good fit. They are either too old or live in different countries.
The list does include a Melanie Ingram from Derby. I click on the name. It’s possible she might be a relative. The page opens to reveal a cover photo of two large dogs. They look like Dobermanns. The profile picture is of a woman. She is, I would guess, in her late thirties. Blonde and pretty with a too-dark fake tan, she is wearing far too much make-up for my liking. The latest post shows a picture of a teenager with dark eyes and hair. It’s unmistakably Tyler. He is standing next to a motorcycle, smiling and giving a thumbs-up into the camera. Superimposed across the top of the picture is a black banner with white writing. It says Tyler Ingram RIP. Gone but never forgotten.
The majority of those clicking the like button have selected the crying face emoji. There are hundreds of comments:
We will never forget you, Ty.
Love you and miss you always.
Sleep tight, bro, you woz the best.
RIP Ty, why did it have to happen?
Night-night, cuz. The angels have you now.
The list of tributes goes on, and I’m pretty sure the majority are from his friends, given the sentiments. I begin to feel uncomfortable, as though I’m prying into something personal. It feels intrusive, peering into the life of someone I don’t know, like eavesdropping on a private conversation. I close the lid of my laptop. It’s apparent the page belongs to Tyler’s mother. I find it difficult to imagine the pain she must be feeling having lost a child. I hope she has a support network and is comforted by the expressions of sympathy. Although she doesn’t know me, she will be aware that there is someone out there who witnessed those last, awful moments of her son’s life. What horrors are occupying her waking thoughts and invading her dreams? It’s been a bad enough experience for me; how much worse must it be for her under these circumstances?
I vow from now on to count my blessings. Instead of looking back on the difficult times, it now feels more important than ever to move forward and appreciate all that I have. Those schmaltzy platitudes found in greeting cards used to make me want to throw up. Now I see that messages of positivity and hope can keep you moored when it feels as though your world is spinning out of control. I’m not religious and have no prayers for Melanie Ingram or her dead son. The best I can do is offer up a heartfelt wish that her questions are answered and that she ends up finding some peace in her life.
A wave of emotion washes over me, and I look across at Laurie. He’s still boyish after all these years. He’s been lucky. Unlike many men his age, he has remained trim and still has a good head of hair, even if it is sprinkled with grey. It seems as though now is as good a time as any to get close again. I pour us both more wine and reach for his hand. The emotional distance between us has meant making love has become less of a priority over the last few months. My disinterest in anything apart from a hug or a cuddle on the sofa has put distance between us. I realise that. It’s up to me to make the effort and get things back on track. While Laurie
takes Buddy into the garden, I go through my nightly ritual of checking windows and doors. When they are back in the house, we double-check the lock on the patio doors together before leaving Buddy on his favourite blanket in the kitchen.
We are tipsy from too much wine, and the anxiety of the last few days is dulled by the alcohol. I reach up to kiss him, and giggling like schoolkids, we stumble upstairs, our bedroom a bastion of security against a world that has become full of threat and uncertainty.
6
I wake not exactly refreshed, but not drained and exhausted either. A glance in the bathroom mirror, however, reveals a sorry sight. My hair, desperately in need of colour, is hanging limply to my shoulders. My face is drawn and sallow, and there are dark shadows resembling bruises under my eyes. A visit to the hairdresser for a trim and to get my roots retouched will help. I switch off the light above the mirror, which is doing a good job of highlighting my imperfections, and make a mental note to call Tash to book an appointment.
Laurie makes croissants and coffee for breakfast, and we watch as Buddy hares across the lawn after squirrels and digs furiously into the odd molehill. The trees in the distance are starting to change colour, the leaves gradually becoming muted and dull. In a week or so, they will explode into a profusion of reds, yellows, browns and gold. Autumn is such a beautiful season, and we are fortunate to be able to witness the full spectacle at such close proximity.
In previous years, we looked forward to the cooler, shorter days. Then we would wrap up and go for long, brisk walks, returning to light the wood burner as the sky darkened. The idea that those carefree days will ever return seems remote. It’s childish, but tears are close to the surface; I push down a rising resentment at the injustice of it all. Why me? I want to shout. Why do I feel like I’m being punished when I’ve done nothing wrong?
The thought of what my mother would say is enough to encourage me to snap out of my self-absorption. She hated self-pity and brought me up to confront challenges, not to get browbeaten by them. It was true we didn’t always get on. Sometimes we clashed horribly, especially once I became a teenager – just as Alice and I do on occasion – but I loved and respected her. Now she is no longer around to keep us all in check. Years of smoking dope during her younger years and cigarettes throughout the rest of her life took a toll on her health, and she died from cancer at the age of seventy-five. I miss her. In fact, we all do. She was not only a force to be reckoned with, but was also a fierce defender of her family, adoring Laurie and her grandchildren unconditionally.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 3