In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  The celebrant looks impassive as we take our seats, though a faint tic at the side of her mouth betrays her nervousness. She presses a button on a console, and the song fades. There is a collective sigh of relief as those who have access to seating sink down onto the polished wooden surfaces beneath them.

  We are seated directly in front of the coffin. It’s been sprayed a bright metallic red and is covered in images of Tyler’s motorbike. A simple floral tribute bearing his name rests on top. Despite Mel’s grandiose declaration to Nancy about no expense being spared, the funeral turns out to be simple and low-key. A slide show of photos of Tyler runs on a screen in the background as we hear heartfelt, stumbling speeches from some of Tyler’s college friends. There is a moving tribute from Lara, Tyler’s girlfriend, who comes to the lectern with a woman I assume is her mum. His teacher has prepared a eulogy. Formal to begin with, he speaks of Tyler’s ambition to be a mechanic. Of how hard he was working to achieve his goals. He then makes us all laugh with accounts of Tyler’s mischievous side and his love of practical jokes.

  The celebrant reads a poem on behalf of Mel. As I try to follow the words in the order of service, they dissolve before my eyes. I can feel Mel’s shoulders heave as she sobs quietly into a balled-up tissue in her hand. Her pain is raw, and I squeeze her arm in an attempt to offer comfort. My own tears, I hold in check. It seems an indulgence to weep openly for a boy I did not know. Not when his parents, seated on either side of me, have had their hearts ripped out and shattered into a million fragments.

  Closing my eyes helps me focus on my breathing. With each inhalation, my nostrils fill with the faint cat-pee scent of rotting lilies. I swallow hard against the rising nausea, longing for it all to be over.

  At last, the closing music. Mel walks unsteadily to the coffin. Leaning in, she spreads her arms wide and buries her head in the flower arrangement bearing Tyler’s name. On the seat beside me, she has left the scarf. My scarf. I pick it up and press it into the pocket of my coat. Before I do, I catch a faint trace of her perfume rising from its silky folds.

  35

  It’s a relief to step outside and suck in draughts of fresh air. It’s so cold I can see my breath, and my nose is starting to run. The weather forecast mentioned the possibility of light snow flurries – early for the time of year, but already the odd flake is falling. Mel is with Gabe on the flower terrace, where an orderly queue, which includes Tash and Alex, has formed to offer their sympathies. Mel has an arm around Lara, who is weeping into her shoulder. I notice Joel and Amber are standing on the periphery, like outsiders.

  Feeling like a spare part myself, I make my way back up the steps and across the access road. Taking refuge from the biting wind, I sit on a low wall. I’m shielded by a brick pillar, and if I get myself in the right position, I can observe what is going on without being seen. I open the order of service at the page where the poem read during the service is printed. The words are simple, yet they are suffused with longing and loss. A brief note beneath the text says it was written by a mother following the death of her son.

  Tell me of some fond memory

  Of you and my child together.

  I need all the good memories

  Of him I can gather up now –

  Even second-hand ones.

  Tell me you will miss him –

  That I’m not the only one.

  Your words will make me cry,

  But your silence hurts more.

  Tell me.

  I can’t help but feel like an imposter. I’m here for what reason? I had no tangible connection to Tyler, and the only memories I have of him are associated with fear and pain and death. My link to him is tenuous, grounded in a sense of helplessness that I couldn’t save him. The relationship formed with Mel, too, is insubstantial. It is built around deceit and fraught with difficulties based on what I know about her. I decide I will ignore the invitation to meet at a local pub for the wake. It’s unlikely I will be missed if I slip away. It’s been an emotional afternoon, and if I leave now, I can get back in time to have a hot bath and cook something for when Laurie returns later this evening. Then I will tell him the truth about the last few weeks. It will be a difficult conversation, but once everything is out in the open, we can decide together on what course of action we should take.

  The light is fading, and small groups are starting to make their way back to the car park. I’m about to join them when I hear raised voices coming from the other side of the pillar.

  ‘No, Joel. Nothing will induce me to stay any longer.’ A woman with a soft lilt – Southern Irish, if I’m not mistaken – is speaking. ‘I came today for my grandson, God rest his soul, and now I’m leaving. Nothing good will come of me staying.’

  ‘Don’t go, Bridie.’ Joel’s voice is conciliatory. ‘Gabe is your grandson, too. He will be pleased to see you, and Mel won’t kick off again. Not after she’s shown herself up by having a go at me. Amber and I will look out for you. Please come to the pub and at least raise a glass in Tyler’s memory.’

  If I shift my position on the wall and peer around the pillar, I can see a stockily built woman with greying hair. She is wearing sensible black shoes and a tweed coat. It doesn’t take much imagination to work out who Joel and Amber, just out of my sight line, are talking to. It’s the woman from the chapel with the rosary beads. Mel’s mother.

  ‘I can’t, Joel. I have to go. Mel is my daughter, but I’ll never forgive her for splitting up our family.’ Her voice has sharpened to flint. ‘She broke her dad’s heart. He was never the same after she left, but then, you’ll know all about that. ’Twas you who took her away from us in the first place.’

  ‘Now, you know that’s not true, Bridie. Mel had gone off the rails way before I even came on the scene.’

  Bridie seems to crumple. ‘I know what you’re saying is true, Joel. She was always bad. The things she has done. The people she has hurt. She has no conscience. It’s just… It’s all been too much, and when I heard about poor Tyler…!’

  Bridie pulls a white handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabs at her eyes. ‘I’ve been staying with some of our people in Birmingham, and they showed me the cuttings from the newspapers. There are some awful things being said about how Tyler was mixed up in drugs, and that’s how he got himself killed.’

  She’s sobbing now, and Joel puts an arm around her convulsing shoulders. I want to retreat out of sight, but I’m not quick enough. Joel has seen me, and his eyes lock onto mine. He holds his stare over the top of Bridie’s head. Embarrassment causes my cheeks to redden.

  The heat in my face isn’t just because I’ve been caught eavesdropping. Joel is still an attractive man despite his greying hair and a slight thickening to his neck. His eyes, a deep smokey-grey like Gabe’s, have a languid sensuality. I can see why Mel was drawn to him, and how he has now attracted a trophy wife young enough to be his daughter.

  Eventually, it’s me who drops my gaze, and I move sideways so that once again I’m concealed from view.

  My thick tights are no protection against the cold seeping up through the brick. I long to escape, but I’m still disconcerted at being seen by Joel. I don’t relish the thought of coming face to face with him if he is still around. Retreating footsteps indicate they may have moved on, but I want to be sure. Aching in every joint, I wait until there are no voices to be heard. No sound of car doors slamming. The light has now gone, indicating I must have been sitting on the wall for at least an hour. As I prepare to leave, I think about what Bridie said about Mel. She was always bad. The things she has done. The people she has hurt. She has no conscience.

  Slipping my hand into my pocket, I take out my scarf and place it around my neck. On the scale of things, the significance of this piece of fabric, gifted to me by my children, is of concern only to me. It will have meant nothing to Mel, who picked it up and then discarded it, just as she will do with me when I am of no further use to her. Of course, my part in all of this is not without reproach. Well
intentioned is not a good defence for lying and subterfuge. There is something that’s puzzling me, though. Why has Mel chosen to confide in me? Is it because she trusts the person she thinks I am, or is there a more sinister reason behind it?

  Trying to make sense of it all is draining. I’ve decided I don’t want to be a part of this any longer. The whole saga has become wearisome and grubby, and I’m getting too far out of my comfort zone.

  Telling Laurie will be a start. What’s important is that we remain safe.

  If I’m lucky, we can put all this behind us.

  36

  When I at last venture out, it’s eerily quiet, and my anxiety levels climb. It was stupid of me to wait so long. It’s freezing, and I plunge my hands into the pockets of my coat for warmth, checking at the same time that my keys and phone are still there, along with my bank card. Having decided against carrying a handbag, I had put the card in my pocket at the last minute in case of emergency.

  My watch tells me it’s after five. Low-wattage pillar lighting snakes along one side of the access road. The light being emitted is inadequate, the lamps partially obscured by foliage. I can’t really blame the Council for failing to fork out on additional lighting with all the cuts they have had to make. It’s not as though the place needs to be well lit at night. There can’t be that many solitary individuals who hang around crematoria after dark, not live ones anyway.

  I suppress a giggle, thinking of what Mum used to say when I developed a fear of walking through graveyards. Remember, Francesca, the dead can’t hurt you. It’s the living you have to fear. If she was trying to allay the concerns of a highly imaginative child, she didn’t succeed. I took what she said literally, and it was a long time before I could be coaxed out of viewing everyone I encountered with a degree of suspicion.

  The footpath leading to the car park, bounded on either side by slender trees and dense bushes, is in darkness. I catch an occasional glimpse of a high, intensely bright moon. For the most part it’s hidden, enveloped in a bank of cloud. In the distance, a downstairs light is on in the building where the office is located. I could go there and see if there’s someone willing to walk me to the car park. Immediately, I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. What if there is only one member of staff and she is female, too? Or perhaps even elderly? I might scare her half to death banging on the door to get her attention. And anyway, I can be at the car park in half the time it would take to walk to the office.

  Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I fiddle with it until I find the right button to turn on the flashlight. It casts a triangular beam on the path ahead, which is now glistening with frost. Below the surface, it’s possible to make out faint imprints from earlier walkers. I’m glad of my boots with their grip soles, as I can see the frost is lying on top of a thin layer of treacherous ice. Now would not be a good time to fall and break something. Keeping close to the centre of the path, I avoid the hollows at the edges where water has pooled and formed into black ice.

  My progress is slow, interrupted only by the rustle of dry leaves in the undergrowth. Suddenly, a sound to chill the blood fills the air. A reedy, high-pitched scream, freezing me in my tracks. For a heart-stopping moment, it sounds like the cry of a child. My senses go into overdrive. With a thumping heart, I swing the torch from side to side, trying to locate where it’s coming from.

  Then the soft, slow beat of wings overhead. My heart rate decelerates.

  What is the matter with you? It’s only a bloody bird.

  The moon appears briefly, and there is my frightener, perfectly silhouetted against the night sky, its distinctive squat body settling into the forked branch of a large tree – a barn owl.

  If Laurie were here, he would laugh at my foolishness.

  ‘It gets you every time. You should recognise that shriek by now. We’ve lived in close proximity to their habitat for long enough.’

  He’s said this to me on more than one occasion. Now, the memory of those words conjures up an image of the two of us sitting in the garden at the end of summer. Wrapped in blankets to ward off the chill, we search the night sky for shooting stars and watch as the owls return to roost after a spell of nocturnal hunting.

  When I at last reach the opening to the car park, I breathe a sigh of relief. A quick scan with my torch reveals it’s emptied of cars from earlier; everyone’s obviously headed to the pub for the wake. I head in the direction of where I left my car and reach for the keys in my pocket. I can’t wait to get in and start the engine. It will soon heat up, and I can be on my way. Except, my car is not there. I’m confused. Surely I haven’t made a mistake? Is it possible I left it somewhere else? Perhaps a different corner of the car park?

  I’ve done that before. Mislaid my vehicle. Supermarkets and multistoreys are the worst. Everywhere looks exactly the same. You end up walking around for ages trying to locate the spot, or worse, have to summon the car park attendant, which is both stressful and embarrassing.

  Standing with my back to the main entrance, I remember driving in and feeling pleased at finding somewhere that could accommodate my little Fiat. It was definitely that weird, wedge-shaped space in the far corner. Pointing the flashlight at the ground confirms I’m not going doolally. The damp outline of where my car was is still visible. The area has not yet had the chance to freeze over.

  There’s only one conclusion I can come to. My car has been stolen, and not that long ago, either.

  Bloody brilliant. Now what am I going to do? Ring Laurie? It’s pointless worrying him. He’s probably still in a meeting. And anyway, he’s too far away to do anything constructive. Ring the police? I could, but I don’t fancy waiting here in the cold and dark for them to arrive. My best option is to make my way back to the office. If I go out through the entrance gate, I can approach from the main road. There’s no path, but I will be able to see any headlights approaching, giving me time to flatten myself against the hedge if a vehicle passes. From the office, I can ring the police and wait inside where it’s warm. I just hope there’s someone still on duty, or I will have to come up with a plan B.

  Everything shrivels into irrelevance in the next few seconds. From out of the shadows, two figures materialise with such stealth they must have come from the lane that runs alongside the car park. I catch a fleeting glimpse, and from their burly shapes, I would say they are both men. They are wearing identical dark-coloured Puffa jackets, their faces obscured by balaclavas.

  One reaches for my arms and twists them behind my back. My phone and keys fall to the ground with a clatter. There’s a stretching and ripping sound, and I feel my hands being bound with tape. My attempts at screaming are silenced by a gloved hand over my mouth. I can smell the leather and the musky odour of nicotine. Another strip is torn off and pressed tight against my mouth. Weak from cold and fear, I can only stand, knees shaking, heart yammering as the figure in front of me removes his gloves and starts to unbutton my coat. He’s close enough for me to raise my knee in the direction of his groin, but there’s no strength in my leg, and it drops back weakly. I feel his hands run over and up and down my body. I’m petrified, racking my brains to try to find a way to escape. If I could speak, I would plead with them to release me before this goes any further. After all, I haven’t seen their faces. I’d say that although I have no money on me, they can take my phone and bank card. I can even give them the pin number. There’s close to a thousand in the account.

  I want to appeal to their better nature. Let them know I have a husband, children and a dog waiting for me at home. Once they know all this, they may reconsider and let me go.

  I close my eyes and feel my body slump forward. Resigned, I’m waiting for the worst to happen. I’m going to be raped, possibly even murdered. Tomorrow someone will find me and have forever preserved in their memory, the image of a frozen corpse in a crematorium car park.

  A hush has descended, and for a single, suspended moment, it’s as though I’ve stepped outside my body. Peering skywards, I see a subtle change in th
e quality of the light coming through the clouds. There is a softness to the air and a barely perceptible rise in temperature. I feel as though I’m floating, borne aloft on clouds of cotton wool. Perhaps this is what precipitates a deathbed conversion for those who have no religion.

  The metallic clang of a car door slamming jolts me back to reality. I must have passed out, as I’m no longer outside. I’m lying in the foetal position on the rear seat of a vehicle, covered by a blanket. Lifting my head, I can just about make out the outline of a darkened car window.

  It must have started snowing in earnest. There’s no sound except the slap of wet snowflakes hitting the glass. They linger for an instant, holding their shape, then melt and slide down the window like winter tears.

  37

  It can’t have been that long since my hands were taped, but my shoulders are aching, and I’ve got pins and needles shooting down my arms. Every time I try to open my mouth, a strip of skin separates from my lip, and I wince in pain. I seem to recall reading somewhere that it’s a fallacy, perpetuated in Hollywood kidnapping films, that duct tape can prevent you from opening your mouth. Well, let me tell you, it’s no myth.

  There’s a low murmur of voices coming from outside, then a stamping of feet. The front doors of the car open, and I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke before both doors are slammed shut. The engine fires, and there’s a low hum as it ticks over. The car is a four-by-four. Top of the range, if the padded leather seats are anything to go by. Newish model, too; it has that brand-new-car smell.

  There is no conversation between the driver and passenger. All I can hear is the soft swish of the windscreen wipers. The blast of warm air coming from the heater, combined with our heat and breath, is causing the windows to fog. We seem to be racing along country lanes at high speed, the driver braking heavily into bends. It’s not a smooth ride, and I am starting to feel car sick. Whirling snowflakes flash past the window, and I can make out the odd outline of a tree in the darkness.