In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

There is an audible gasp from across the room, but Tash appears oblivious. She balances on one leg and cups her hands as if in prayer, in an approximation of the Tree pose.

  Recognising some members of the group from the salon, she gives them a loud ‘yoo-hoo’ and a wave. A few return the greeting with a feeble flutter of the fingers, then gather back around Avis like a flock of well-trained birds.

  It has been a while since I attended the class, but soon my stiff joints unwind and start to become supple. We spend the last twenty minutes of the session in meditation, and for the first time in ages, the tension leaves my body, and I start to feel relaxed. On this occasion however, it’s not me who falls asleep, but Tash. Lying next to me on her mat, she is snoring gently.

  I prod her with my foot. ‘Oi, wakey, wakey,’ I say. ‘Do you want to come back with me and undo all the good work by having a quick drink?’

  ‘What about Laurie? He will be home from work, no?’

  ‘Yes, but he’ll either be in his study working or fast asleep on the sofa. I wanted to tell him about visiting Mel Ingram’s house, but he was too tired to listen when he got in last night. I suspect tonight isn’t going to be any different. He’ll probably go spark out when I try to tell him about having lunch with the couple on a narrowboat who helped when Buddy was attacked.’

  Tash is jamming her yoga mat and water bottle into a shoulder bag. She stops and turns in my direction.

  ‘Wait. Wind back, Fran. You went to her house? That Mel Ingram?’ A shadow crosses her usually cheerful face.

  ‘Yes, twice. Once when her dogs attacked Buddy, and again today, before I picked him up from the vet’s.’

  ‘What vet’s? What happened?’

  Of course, Tash doesn’t know about the attack. How could she?

  ‘Let’s get going. I’ll explain over a glass of wine.’

  Tash follows in her car and pulls in behind me on the drive, alongside Laurie’s car. We duck inside, trying to avoid being blinded by the security lights, and throw our bags down in the hall. The lamps are low in the lounge, and there is no sign of Laurie.

  ‘Upstairs working, I’ll bet,’ I say, making my way to the kitchen to grab some wine. Buddy barges past, ignoring me, and launches himself at Tash instead.

  Laurie is by the oven, holding a frying pan in his hand. The overhead spotlights have been dimmed, and the table is set with the best cutlery. In the centre of the table is our wedding present from my friend Ali from uni. It’s an elongated piece of driftwood with holes cut in the top for tea lights. It casts a soft, flickering glow across the tabletop.

  You’re not the sort of couple who would appreciate a silver candelabra, Ali had written in her card at the time. But I hope this alternative graces your table for many years to come.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Laurie says, wiping his hands on the tea towel wrapped around his waist. ‘I’m making a frittata. Grab a glass of wine. It will only be a few minutes. I’m sorry I was so tired and grumpy yesterday. Let’s eat, and then we can talk.’

  Just then, Tash pokes her head around the door.

  ‘Oops. I think drink can wait for another time.’

  Laurie attempts to persuade her to stay, but she has picked up her bag and is heading towards the front door.

  ‘I should get back. Alex will be home soon,’ she says, adding, ‘You must come for Polish meal. House is not ready yet, but soon. We have from holiday in Poland, Soplica Pigwowa. Is liqueur. Will blow your socks off.’

  We hug, and I promise to phone and update her before the next yoga session. Laurie and I stand at the door and wave her off, both wincing as she gives three long beeps on her car horn. The sound echoes around the close, no doubt disturbing those neighbours already in bed who have to get up early for work.

  ‘What on earth was she wearing? She wouldn’t be out of place in the Palm House at Kew.’

  Laurie says this without malice. He likes Tash, for all her brashness, and he finds her eccentric use of local idioms endearing. Although he has only met Alex on a couple of occasions, he gets on well with him, too. It will be nice to have dinner with them once the house is finished. They are always so hospitable, and I’m looking forward to seeing what they have done to the house.

  ‘Ah yes, the yoga outfit,’ I say. ‘You should have seen the old dears’ reaction. I think Avis was put out by the competition.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘The frittata will be burnt to a crisp if we don’t eat soon.’

  I follow him to the kitchen, feeling abashed, especially after what I said to Tash. Laurie has a demanding job; it’s no wonder he gets tired and irritable and is not up for late-night conversations.

  Note to self: Be grateful for having someone as considerate as Laurie in your life, and stop being so bloody selfish and wrapped up in your own issues.

  18

  Later, as Laurie sleeps beside me, I reflect on our conversation over dinner. I had asked about his day, but despite my best intentions, I was only able to focus on what he was saying for a short span of time. I tried to concentrate; I really did. His work is our bread and butter after all, but I was eager to move onto the topic of Mel and Gabe and my return to the canal.

  ‘So this couple on the narrowboat helped rescue Buddy from the dogs?’

  ‘Yes, they were really lovely. They even gave me lunch when I went back today to thank them. What came across loud and clear is that Sal doesn’t have a very high opinion of Mel.’

  I tell him about the narrowboat and how impressive the interior was in comparison to most of those we have encountered. We joke about the possibility of buying our own liveaboard and spending the summer cruising the waterways like Sal and Al.

  ‘Think how relaxing it would be. Sailing along with just the sound of birdsong and the lapping of water to disturb the tranquillity.’

  Laurie is more prosaic. ‘The British weather, nowhere to dry your clothes, having to collect water and empty the toilet. Plus, with the limited space, we would probably end up killing each other. Honestly, Fran, I don’t think it’s one of your better ideas.’

  ‘Hmm, I suppose you’re right. It just seemed so idyllic when I was on board Minerva. We could always hire a narrowboat next summer and give it a try. We’ve never done it without the kids. We could see how we got on.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I’d be up for it as long as we avoid being on the canal when it’s busy. You get some real idiots during the holidays. Now, tell me about going back to Mel Ingram’s house. She does seem to have got under your skin.’

  Although I don’t want to admit it, he’s right.

  ‘She is a bit of an enigma,’ I say. ‘Raising two boys alone must have been very difficult, but there seems to be no shortage of money, considering her job is selling make-up. There’s no expense spared in the house, and she has a top-of-the-range four-by-four. She was most put out when the garage lent her a Fiesta, although she didn’t say anything about slumming it in my little motor when I dropped her off.’

  ‘Was anything said about what happened to Tyler? Did she even know it was you at the scene?’ Laurie says.

  ‘I told her it was me, and she thanked me for trying to help him. She’s a bit of a cold fish. Very unemotional, almost businesslike. I don’t really know what to make of her!’

  ‘What about the brother?’ Laurie says. ‘He’s younger than Tyler, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, by a couple of years. He was there today with a friend. They were going to Birmingham on the train, which I thought was a bit strange. I would have assumed they’d be at school, but he said it was an inset day.’

  Laurie suddenly goes quiet and looks perturbed. He turns his face away from me and starts to clear the table. I can see the tension in his shoulders. The clattering of plates is making my nerves jangle.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  He stops what he’s doing and looks over at me, a worried frown furrowing his brow.

  ‘I don’t know, Fran, it’s just a feeling. I’m not a great bel
iever in intuition, as you know, but I have a sense that there’s something going on in that family that’s not entirely wholesome. I know you think you have some connection with Mel Ingram because of Tyler, but I’d prefer it if you stayed away from her. For all our sakes.’

  Now, lying in the dark, tossing and turning as sleep evades me, I realise Laurie is right to be worried. The truth is, my suspicions were also aroused after my first visit to the house. He has just helped crystallise my thoughts and given substance to the conclusion I had already started to come to: that Mel Ingram and her son Gabe may not be innocent victims. I don’t know in what capacity, but something tells me they are connected to Tyler’s murder, even if it’s indirectly.

  If that is accurate, then what is the link? Is Mel in trouble? In debt? You would need a lot of money to maintain her lifestyle. Is it possible that she has got herself caught up in something criminal, and Tyler’s killing was some weird act of revenge?

  My fevered brain wrestles with a range of permutations, but nothing really seems to fit. Eventually, I sink into a fitful sleep punctuated by lurid anxiety dreams in which I am lost in some foreign city. As darkness falls, each twist and turn I take leads me to a dead end. I have a sense that time is running out, and if I don’t escape soon, something terrible is going to happen.

  I must have cried out in my sleep, because I wake to find Laurie has switched on the light and is sitting up in bed, looking at me.

  ‘Christ, Fran, you gave me a shock. You were shouting and flailing your arms about. Did you have one of those dreams again?’

  I don’t answer, but slide upright and lean against the pillows, slowing my breathing until the feeling of panic recedes. Laurie stretches out his arm and places it across my shoulders, offering a space for me to snuggle into. I turn, pulling the duvet up under my chin, and sink into the crook of his arm, my head resting on his chest.

  The dreams first started when I was around six or seven. Technicolour nightmares invaded by monsters or ghosts. Recurring visions in which walls of water would sweep the house away with me and Mum inside. Or deep cracks would open up in front of me and I’d plunge, cartwheeling downwards, my screams echoing around the dark cavernous space.

  ‘If you hit the bottom, you will be dead.’ This nugget of information was offered by Freya Brown, the class swot. I had chosen to confide in her, as she always seemed the most knowledgeable and sensible of my classmates.

  ‘That’s not true. You’re a big liar,’ I shrieked, pulling her hair, then pushing her so hard she lost her balance. She fell, cracking her head on the corner of a desk. After a telling-off from the head teacher, Mum kept me in for a week as punishment.

  This incident and the fact that I had started to wet the bed galvanised Mum into action, and I was taken to our local GP, who prescribed a light sedative. This had the effect of knocking me out to such an extent I couldn’t function without falling asleep throughout the day. Mum, not satisfied with the long waiting list to see a child psychologist, managed to pull some strings, and for six months I spent every Thursday afternoon in the company of Dr Poole.

  With her frizzy hair, buck teeth and wispy voice, Dr Poole created an oasis of calm in which I played with figures of indeterminate sex, drew pictures with an exciting array of coloured pens, answered questions about my dream diary, and sometimes even spoke into her recording machine. I was sorry when it all ended, not least because I became less interesting to my school friends. They had hung on my every word as I fed them an embellished version of what occurred in the sessions. Even Freya forgave me, taking delight in my confabulations. It was many years later before Mum informed me of Dr Poole’s diagnosis.

  ‘You have a very bright and imaginative child, my dear,’ she had told her. ‘Many of the parents of the children I see would give their eye teeth for what you are defining as ‘problems’. The nightmares are likely to reduce in frequency as she gets older. She may even grow out of them, but they could return at times of high emotion. Apart from that, I have seen nothing that concerns me about your daughter.’

  Dr Poole was right. The nightmares took a back seat in my life, reappearing infrequently at times of stress. Like now.

  I must have fallen back into a deep sleep, because when I eventually wake around nine, Laurie has already left, and Buddy is stretched out in the space he has vacated. There is a note on the pillow in Laurie’s neat handwriting:

  Morning, Sleeping Beauty. You looked so peaceful it would have been cruel to disturb you! See you around 7 xxx

  My phone is ringing somewhere in the house, but I don’t rush to answer it. I know it will have clicked onto answerphone before I reach it.

  I dress casually in leggings and a jumper and pull my hair back into a loose bun. . Feeling hungry, I make a boiled egg and some toast. It has rained overnight, and a grey mist hovers above the lawn. It’s a melancholy sight. Soon the high winds will come, as they always do in autumn, and the deciduous trees in the woods will be stripped bare of their foliage. The skeletal sentinels that remain are not only a stark reminder of the power of nature, but also of the cycle of life and death.

  I let Buddy into the garden before locating my phone. Someone has left a voicemail. I dial the number to retrieve it.

  There’s a long pause before whoever is on the other end starts speaking. It’s a woman, and when she does speak, the message is garbled. I’m guessing she is not in the habit of leaving messages on mobile phones.

  ‘Yes, oh… um, hello, Fran, it’s me Sal, from the narrowboat.’ There’s a gap and a series of mumbles before she resumes. ‘Could you give me a ring, please? I have something to tell you, and I don’t want to do it over the phone. My number is…’ Some more shuffling, and then I hear Al’s voice in the background. ‘Just a minute. What did you say, Al? Was the last bit 776?’ Sal asks him. She comes back on the line and recites the full number. She has probably forgotten we exchanged details, and is obviously unaware her number will have been saved to my phone anyway, but I appreciate the effort.

  I bring Buddy in from the garden and dry his paws, wet from the lawn, before giving him his breakfast. Then I phone Sal back. It rings out, and I am about to give up and try again later when she answers.

  ‘Hello. Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, Fran. You left me a message.’

  ‘Ah, Fran. Thanks for getting back to me. This might sound a bit strange, but there’s something I think you should know. Both Al and I saw something suspicious, but I’d prefer to tell you face to face rather than on the phone.’

  ‘Well, that all sounds very mysterious,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a few things to do this morning, but I could get to you this afternoon. Would two o’clock suit?’

  She gives me the address, and I set about my tasks, eager for the morning to pass.

  I’m intrigued to find out just what has triggered the call.

  19

  The satnav takes me on a circuitous route around the ring road. Eventually, I end up in a neat suburb west of the city. The road is long and straight, flanked on either side by bungalows, each with their own patch of well-watered lawn or gravel garden. Some of the orderly beds or raised planters still contain tidy clumps of summer annuals, with marigolds, geraniums, dahlias and busy Lizzies, the popular choice of plants. I drive slowly, looking for the number of the house.

  The satnav tells me I have arrived, and as there is room for my car, I pull in onto the drive behind a small grey hatchback. Sal opens the door and greets me like an old friend. I can see Al hovering behind her, dressed in what looks like work clothes: dusty jeans and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days.

  ‘You will have to excuse me,’ he says. ‘I’ve been tackling the back garden.’

  Sal ushers me inside, into the kitchen, which is compact, but light and modern. She switches on the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely,’ I say.

  Al is eager to return to his gardening, and Sal says she will bring him coffee after we have had
a chat.

  ‘Fran might be interested in what you have been up to. You can show her before she goes.’

  I carry the tray of tea and biscuits into the lounge and place it on a coffee table. We sit in comfortable chairs on either side of the patio doors, positioned to take full advantage of the view of the garden. It’s a surprisingly large plot, and I can just about make out Al in the distance, beyond the pale yellow sandstone patio and a lawn so flat and green it looks like baize.

  ‘There’s always so much to do when we get back from mooring the boat for the winter. We’ve made the garden as low maintenance as we can, but it can still be a chore.’

  Sal looks weary, and I try to work out how old she and Al are. I’m guessing they must be in their seventies. I notice a cluster of photographs on a sideboard and cross the room to take a closer look. A large silver frame holds a black-and-white picture taken on what looks to be their wedding day. They stand awkwardly, peering into the camera, Al in a dark suit and Sal in a white below-the-knee dress stiffened with petticoats. She is clutching a posy of flowers tied with a trailing ribbon. In the photo, Al has substantially more hair than now, and the curls framing Sal’s face are dark brown rather than grey, but it’s obvious it’s them.

  ‘You both look so young,’ I say.

  ‘We were. I was eighteen and Al was twenty-one. He had finished his apprenticeship and got a job at Rolls-Royce. We were both keen to leave home, so we decided to get married. We will be celebrating our fifty-fourth anniversary in April.’

  ‘And who is this?’ I pick up a smaller frame containing a picture of a young man with the same brown curly hair as Sal’s. He is dressed in graduation robes. I assume it’s a relative, as no mention has been made of them having children.

  Sal takes it from me and looks wistfully at the image. ‘It’s my son, Nicholas. He died twelve years ago.’ She is on the verge of crying , and I feel guilty for stirring up such painful memories.

  ‘Oh, Sal, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’