In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  I now know our battles resulted from the high expectations she had of me. She was especially intolerant of my ‘teenage melodramas’, as she called them, but I always knew she loved me. Her life hadn’t been easy, and she was a proponent of the ‘curtains approach’ when faced with any emotional crisis. Just pull yourself together and get on with it. I can hear her familiar voice in my head and decide that is a good piece of advice – for now, at least.

  ‘Why don’t you come for a walk? You’ll feel better for it,’ Laurie says.

  ‘I was just coming around to that idea myself,’ I tell him, slapping on my brave face. ‘I don’t think I’m up to taking our path into the woods yet. We could go the long way round, though, and take the path from the car park. The one that doesn’t go past that bloody yew tree.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Laurie looks hesitant, but I can tell he’s pleased. ‘If you can manage it, Buddy and I will be delighted. Won’t we, boy?’ He tickles Buddy’s floppy ear.

  I don’t feel quite so confident when we reach the car park, which today is full of vehicles. My former faux bravery is beginning to waver, and my heart is starting to hammer in my chest. We wouldn’t have been able to take the path that leads past the yew tree even if we had wanted to. The access is sealed off with crime scene tape, and a police officer stands guard, preventing anyone from entering.

  In the far corner, away from the parked cars, a crowd of people have gathered. They are all sobbing quietly and leaning against each other for support.

  As we hurry past, I see cards and flowers have been placed in front of a laminated photo of Tyler. His smiling face is flanked on either side by tall glass jars containing strings of lights. On the ground, a large heart shape has been fashioned out of tea lights.

  One of the figures from the group turns and reaches out to hug a young woman who has just arrived and looks distraught. The older woman has blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and is wearing a long, dark coat. Although I only catch sight of her for a fleeting moment, I recognise the woman from her Facebook page. It’s Tyler’s mother.

  I am beginning to suspect I’ve made a mistake in coming today. I don’t want to turn back and risk drawing attention to myself, so with Buddy still on the lead, we take a path less used by walkers. It is more of a rutted, muddy track and is frequented mainly by cyclists and occasionally motorbikers, despite the fact that motorised vehicles are banned from every part of the forest. A couple of cyclists whiz past, and we have to jump to the side to avoid being splattered with mud, but mostly we have the path to ourselves.

  The circular walk eventually brings us to the other side of the car park. We are close to where the van was parked that aroused my suspicions. I am relieved to see that there are now very few vehicles remaining. There’s no sign of Tyler’s friends and family either.

  Many of the tea lights on the ground have gone out, but those in the jars sparkle incongruously. It’s such a melancholy scene, and I struggle to hold back the tears.

  Twinkling lights have always been a reminder of happy times in our family. Over the years, I hosted barbecues for friends and prepared parties for Alice and Flynn on so many special occasions. Together, we would string fairy lights along the fence and drape them in the trees and bushes until the garden looked like a magical grotto. Normally a symbol of joy and celebration, today they represent sorrow and loss. I notice Laurie is subdued, and I sense he is also affected by the scene. I take his arm, and we walk back home, neither of us in the mood to talk about what we have just observed.

  I am cleaning the kitchen floor when a thought pops into my head. Laurie is hoovering the lounge, and when I hit the off switch with my foot, he looks up from his task in surprise.

  ‘What do you call those pictures that people stick in their car windows?’ I ask him.

  ‘What’s this, a quiz?’ he jokes, then sees I’m serious. ‘Do you mean car stickers? Decals, I think they’re called.’

  ‘That’s the word, decals,’ I say. ‘When we were in the car park today, something must have jogged my memory. When the police asked me about the van, I couldn’t tell them much, just that it was a Volkswagen, because I remembered the VW symbol, and the fact that it was grey. But I do remember there was something in the back window. Let me try to draw it for you.’

  Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, I sketch out what I remember of the image. Two spheres, one above the other, wrapped around with a blue ribbon. Laurie initially looks confused, but then takes the pencil from me and adds to the drawing, filling in some more of the details.

  ‘Like this?’ he asks, turning it towards me. The top circle is now a world globe, and the bottom one is a football.

  ‘Yes, exactly like that,’ I tell him. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s a Birmingham City Football Club badge. The men were probably not from around here, or it would more likely have been a Derby County or Nottingham Forest sticker.’

  ‘It’s probably not that important, but I’ll give the police a ring on Monday and mention it,’ I say.

  I feel the faintest flicker of relief. If the men are not local, then maybe they have left the area. And if that’s the case, the note through the door was probably a prank after all.

  7

  ‘You’re not sleeping well, are you?’ Laurie asks me over breakfast. ‘Might be worth going to the doctor’s to get something to help you relax. You don’t want to make yourself ill again.’

  I know he doesn’t mean it, but that make yourself comment jars. It’s not as if it is a choice I have made. Lack of sleep is becoming a problem, though. When I do eventually drift off, I wake with a jolt, drenched in sweat, fragments of nightmares hovering at the edge of my consciousness. Although we have always laughed at Laurie’s ability to sleep soundly, I must be disturbing him if he is aware of my restlessness. The fact that I’m wide awake for long periods during the night, combined with my wrung-out dishrag look, can’t be very appealing first thing in the morning.

  ‘I will,’ I say, not very convincingly.

  He knows I dislike taking medication unless it’s absolutely necessary, but his concern is justified. The previous year had exhausted all my physical and emotional resources. There had been the trauma associated with the investigation at work into the death of a baby, mum’s death, and then the emotional aftermath of Laurie’s affair. It was overwhelming, and I found for the first time in my life that I was unable to cope with even basic day-to-day tasks. The doctor I saw at the time was young and newly qualified, but sympathetic when I dissolved into a whimpering heap in front of her.

  ‘Everyone needs a bit of help at some point, Mrs Hughes. It isn’t a sign of failure to admit you are struggling,’ she’d said as I blubbed into the paper towel she had handed to me.

  ‘I’m going to prescribe a short course of tablets, which should help, and I’d like you to come back in two weeks. Don’t hesitate to ring in the meantime if you have any concerns.’

  Leading me out of her room, she had placed a hand on my shoulder, a gesture I found oddly reassuring, given I’m old enough to be her mother.

  Leaving the surgery, I had experienced a mixture of emotions: pathetic gratitude at being listened to and embarrassment at confiding in someone not that much older than my own daughter.

  I did try to take the tablets, but they left me feeling woozy and forgetful. After persevering for over a week, I went back to tell the doctor I didn’t want to continue taking them.

  She had gently rebuked me for not giving the medication longer to kick in, and sent me off with a pile of leaflets on sleep management and mindfulness training. These I placed in the recycle bin when I got back home. I decided I would instead make myself walk at least once a day in the fresh air with Buddy. It seemed to work wonders, and gradually, over the weeks, I began to feel better in myself. Mum would be proud of me, I thought at the time. Little did I know how naive I was, expecting to shake off anxiety and grief like a summer cold. Recovery was never going to be straightforward, des
pite what I thought. In times of crisis, what is submerged and concealed by layers of self-deception will always bob back to the surface, like a genie in a stop-motion animation film, escaping from a bottle.

  Laurie bangs on the kitchen window, startling me. He wants me to come out into the garden to survey his handiwork, and I follow him outside. He has added stronger bolts to the gates and strengthened the hinges. The bolts, made from galvanised steel, are large and ugly, but it does look like it would be virtually impossible to kick in either of the gates if you wanted to access the garden.

  ‘The weather forecast is good for today,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we have a run out to the Peak District this afternoon? I’ve got some work to do this morning. It won’t take long, and we can drive to Youlgreave later and walk by the river. We can stop for an early evening meal at a pub on the way home.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ I tell him. ‘We could all do with a change of scenery.’

  I make a flask of coffee, and with Buddy safely secured in the boot of the car, we head for the A515. We pass mile after mile of uniform green fields until the road begins to rise and the landscape starts to alter. The flat fields give way to rolling hills, unfolding like crumpled paper and stretching into the distance, reaching far away to the horizon. Approaching the town of Ashbourne, the Gateway to the Peak District, we catch a glimpse of the elevation that is Thorpe Cloud. With its distinctive flat top, it’s a spectacular sight. Once an ancient coral fossil, it emerged from the ocean floor as a reef knoll. Now, it’s a popular beauty spot, attracting tourists from far and wide.

  We can just make out a few moving dots on its incline. These are walkers making their way up the steep, rugged path to the summit.

  When it was still possible to encourage Alice and Flynn to come with us on family walks, we would cross the river Dove using the stepping stones, then join the snake of climbers following the path up from the limestone ravine at the base of the hill. It was well worth the climb for the view. Below us, spread out like a 3D patchwork quilt, sprawled steep-sided wooded valleys and emerald green fields enclosed by flint-coloured, dry-stone wall boundaries.

  Now, as we drive through the town, we pass the gated development where mum’s flat is located. I feel a pang of sadness thinking of how much she had loved her warm, cosy home. Having lived for so many years in a rambling old cottage where it was necessary to have a car, Ashbourne had everything she needed on the doorstep, including decent supermarkets. Over the years, the town has become increasingly choked with traffic and crowded with tourists and walkers, but it retains its old-fashioned charm, with its cobbled marketplace, quaint tea rooms and high-end shops.

  The draughty money pit of a cottage I grew up in was bought by mum when it became apparent that my father was not in it for the long haul. She saved for a deposit on her teacher’s salary and took out a small mortgage to ensure we had a roof over our heads. There was never enough money to keep abreast of the repairs, and everything was make-do and mend, but it was home, and I felt a sentimental attachment to it despite its many flaws. It came as a surprise when she decided to sell, but it turned out to be a canny decision on her part. Rising prices in the area guaranteed a quick sale of the cottage. This allowed her to buy her new flat, fit it out in a quirky mix of modern and antique furniture, and have some cash left over. Of course, the expectation was that she would have many more years. Sadly, it was not to be. Following her death, apart from the small sums of money she left to Alice and Flynn, the bulk of her estate, including the flat, came to me.

  Youlgreave is basking in warm sunshine when we arrive. There aren’t many visitors at this time of year, and the village is quiet. We manage to park in front of a row of mellow stone cottages. Buddy is raring to go and launches himself out of the car, eager to explore after being confined for the best part of an hour. We take the lane that winds down to the river, admiring the cottage gardens we pass along the way, still a riot of colour despite summer being almost at an end. When we reach the bottom of the hill, Buddy runs ahead and pads into the shallow water beneath the footbridge. He returns to shake vigorously, showering us with a cascade of water droplets.

  It’s relaxing walking in the sunshine, and for the first time in days, my anxiety levels drop. Resting on a wooden bench, we enjoy a cup of coffee from the flask. With Buddy safely tied up at our feet, we watch a heron poised like a statue. It’s standing on the edge of one of the weirs that drop into pools where trout breed in the crystal-clear depths of the river.

  ‘We should do this more often,’ I say, tilting my head to catch some rays. ‘I feel as though I can breathe easier being away from the house.’

  ‘We will, once I eventually retire,’ Laurie says. ‘It’s all right for you. You are a woman of means. Not everyone has the luxury of retiring at fifty.’

  He’s teasing, I know, but I do feel guilty. Since qualifying in social work, and with only short breaks for maternity leave, my career spanned almost three decades. Towards the end, the stress of the job, alongside everything else I was having to cope with, left me emotionally and physically drained. No longer enjoying the work and heading for burnout, I made the decision to take early retirement in exchange for what I hoped would be peace of mind. Mum’s money, although it wouldn’t have been the way I would have chosen to acquire it, came at just the right time.

  Once her property was cleared, I chose to rent it out rather than sell. The first couple who came to view it seemed ideal tenants, and I felt confident the flat would be in safe hands. It also gave me a guaranteed income, and if I did decide to sell it later, I would acquire a not insubstantial lump sum. I was lucky, I knew that, but more importantly I felt sure Mum, who got so much enjoyment out of her own retirement, would have approved.

  ‘It will be great once you do retire,’ I say to Laurie. ‘We can go on all those cruises with the other rich baby boomers the kids are always complaining about. You know, the ones who have bankrupted their children’s futures.’

  ‘Well, our two haven’t done too badly. We subsidised them through university, and they are fortunate not to have any debts apart from their student loans. And don’t forget, we have helped them with deposits and furniture in their respective flats. We never had any help when we were starting out. I seem to remember we did without. If there was anything we wanted or needed, we saved up for it. They have it too easy now.’

  He’s frowning, and I want to make him smile. ‘Curmudgeon,’ I say, grabbing his arm and tucking it inside mine.

  On the way back, we call at a country pub we’ve visited on many occasions. The couple who manage it greet us like old friends. They bring Buddy a dog biscuit from behind the bar, and he wags his tail and offers a paw like the consummate performer he is. We sit in an alcove close to the open fire piled high with logs that spit and hiss in the grate. Buddy, tired from the walk, curls up under the table and promptly falls asleep.

  Laurie orders our food and comes back with two halves of cask ale, pale amber in colour and topped with a creamy head of froth. As we wait for our meals, he reaches across the table for my hand. ‘It’s been a lovely day, and you look better for being away from the house, but I do have to go to work, Fran. Next week I have those presentations for the new contracts, and much as I hate the thought, I will have to spend a couple of nights away most weeks, right up until Christmas.’

  If he notices the micro expression of pain that crosses my face, he doesn’t acknowledge it. I let him continue without interruption, not really listening and pushing down the feelings of unease that surface whenever he tells me he will be spending nights away from home. I want those feelings to subside, and I want to trust him again. It can only be a matter of time, can’t it?

  Laurie has noticed. ‘I could try to pass the work on to someone else if you want me to be at home. It’s just that it would be a nightmare having to prep them at such short notice. That’s the problem with consultancy; it’s so difficult to delegate.’

  He’s looking for reassurance, but
I turn away to watch the flames reflected in the horse brasses lining the beam above the fireplace.

  ‘I was thinking.’ He waits for me to turn back to face him. ‘What if I ask Mum to come for a few days? She’d love a break from Dad. Once I get next week out of the way, I can look at booking the odd day off here and there. What do you think?’

  I think my worries about him being away are complex, and not just to do with any fears I might have of being alone in the house. On the other hand, much as I love his mum, Verena, she is probably not whom I want with me at this point. I think that although not depressed, my anxiety levels are off the scale, and I am as fragile as an egg. Despite this, I don’t want anyone, including Verena, seeing my vulnerability; it’s the last thing I need right now. This is what I think, but I say nothing to that effect.

  Instead, I give him a brittle smile. ‘Let’s just see, shall we? It’s short notice for your mum, and I’ve got plenty to do next week. Oh, and I forgot to say, Alice texted. She and Flynn are coming to stay next weekend. It will be something to look forward to.’

  I’ve got plenty to do next week. We both know that’s not true, but he doesn’t challenge me. If nothing else, the kids will be a much-needed distraction. It’s just what I need to fill the empty chasm opening up in front of me.