In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  There’s a sudden screech of brakes, and the car comes to a halt, throwing me against the back of the seats. I have to push myself away using my knees, and I’ve now ended up lying on my back. This is putting extra strain on my arms, and I shuffle around until I’m once again on my side.

  The pause is momentary. The passenger window is opened, letting in a gust of clear air. I can feel the seat in front of me rock as something is launched out into the night. The chink of metal against plastic follows, and I know my phone and keys have been flung into the undergrowth. I doubt I will ever see them again.

  The realisation I haven’t been assaulted or killed brought with it faint hope. Now even that is dissipating.

  What the hell is going on here? Is it random, or was I targeted? And if so, who are these men, and what do they want with me?

  Everything is jumbled in my head; it’s difficult to think straight. I’m left with one explanation for what is happening. It has to be related to Tyler’s murder. Mel must have had less influence on the incoming gang than she thought? Is getting rid of me their way of clearing the decks before taking over the line from her?

  Now the fear is back, the fight-or-flight instinct flooding my system with hormones. Except I am unable to do either, trussed up like a chicken in the back of this car.

  It’s difficult to gauge how long we have been travelling, but the road is now straighter and lit by the orange glow of sodium lights. This suggests we are coming into a built-up area. The car slows and stops. Raising my head, I can see traffic lights reflected in a plate-glass window alongside. They are on red.

  The tiniest flicker of hope struggles into life. If we are somewhere urban, there could be people around. I’ve probably only got seconds before the lights change, but I have to take a chance. I shuffle so that I’m closer to the side panel and kick as hard as I can against the rigid plastic, once, twice, three times. I try to scream, but the tape is wrapped too firmly around my mouth. All I can manage is a sound deep within my throat, hoarse and guttural. Too muffled to be heard from outside the car.

  The lights change, and the car accelerates away, tyres spinning on the wet road.

  I have no concept of how much time has elapsed. Is it an hour, two hours since I last looked at my watch? I remember it was after five when I started walking to the car park, and it could easily be around seven now. Laurie will have tried to ring to let me know that he is on his way. He won’t be concerned when it goes to voicemail. He’ll think I’ve gone to the wake and switched off my phone. Even if I’m not there when he gets back in, he will see to Buddy, grab a beer and something to eat from the freezer, and stretch out in front of the TV. He might even fall asleep. It will be later, when he’s tried my phone a few times and I’m still not answering, that he’ll start to worry. Will it be too late for me by then?

  All the fight has gone out of me; I feel drained. I want to be with Laurie and Buddy, curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, watching something silly on the telly. The thought of home and everything associated with it brings tears to my eyes. The roller coaster of emotional highs and lows has depleted my physical and emotional resources, and I’m starting to feel a sense of hopelessness. With no ability to control what happens, I might as well resign myself to whatever lies in store for me.

  Once again we are moving at speed through the darkness. The wind is whistling through the trees and whipping the snow into wraithlike flurries. I can’t ever remember a time when we had weather like this in late October. No doubt Alice, who is taking an interest in Green politics and blaming us baby boomers for all the ills in the world, would say it’s down to climate change.

  Suddenly, the car skids to a halt. The driver jumps out and starts to open my door when there’s a shout from the passenger side.

  ‘Cover your face, you idiot.’

  The man pauses to roll down his balaclava, but not before I catch the briefest glimpse of his face. It’s only a microsecond, but it’s long enough. Over the last couple of hours or so, it’s become obvious my situation is perilous. What I didn’t factor in was that someone known to me, whom I’ve always liked and trusted, could be implicated in all this. The man driving is Alex, and knowing that, it feels like the ultimate betrayal.

  I don’t have much time to think. I’m hauled to the edge of the seat by my legs and placed in a sitting position, facing outwards. Within touching distance is a hawthorn hedge. Through a gap, I can just make out a flat grey surface before the blanket is thrown over my head. Water. A narrow strip. I can just about make out the shape of trees on the opposite side. It must be the canal. I’m pulled to my feet and steered forwards. In a futile show of defiance, I shrug off the arm on my shoulder. In response, the grip tightens, and I’m pushed forward unceremoniously, the snow crunching beneath my feet.

  A gate creaks, and a door is opened. Warm air, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and something cooking. The aromatic fragrance is a mix of cloves and allspice. I’ve not had anything to eat since Jenny’s soup at lunchtime, and this smell, both fragrant and meaty, is mouth-watering.

  After they’ve manhandled me up the steep stairs, I’m pushed down onto a soft, yielding surface. My head is up against one end, and my feet are jammed against the other of what feels like a bed or sofa. Through the open weave of the blanket, I can see the soft glow of a lamp in a far corner of the room. There’s a resinous odour of newly sawn wood and the smell of freshly washed clothes. I recognise the scent. It’s one of the fabric softeners I’ve used myself, apple blossom and almond.

  Laurie always takes the piss out of me for having such finely tuned senses and an ability to recall even the most insignificant details.

  I can’t help it. It’s just the way my brain works. You wait. It will stand me in good stead one day. How fitting those words seem. I wish I could say them to him now and watch his face break into a smile.

  I must have slept for a while, because I wake with a jolt. There’s someone in the room. I can see their outline through the blanket and hear the sound of their breathing. My heart begins its familiar rhythmic pounding, and I try to get into a sitting position, my arms burning from the effort.

  ‘Sssh, ssh, ssh.’

  It’s a man’s voice, deep and resonant. Familiar.

  The blanket is pulled aside, and I can see he is still wearing the balaclava. It’s a pointless attempt at disguise. Alex can’t have realised that I recognised him. He steps forward and pulls the strips of tape from around my mouth. I lick my lips. They feel raw and exposed, and I can taste blood. He reaches behind my back and snips the binding from around my hands with scissors. My arms flop weakly at my sides, but I can feel the warmth returning to my fingers. I massage my arms, then try to loosen my overstretched muscles and tendons.

  ‘Eat,’ he says, stepping back.

  It’s only now I see the tray with the plate and mug of coffee on the floor in front of me.

  There’s no knife or fork, just a plastic spoon. The food looks delicious. Sliced sausage and boiled potatoes in gravy. Polish food.

  ‘Thanks, Alex,’ I say, my voice barely a croak.

  I want a response from him. An acknowledgement that I matter. That I am worth saving, but he leaves the room without a backward glance. He pulls the door behind him, and there’s a metallic click as he turns the key in the lock.

  38

  The food has not only given me back some energy, it has had the effect of kicking my brain back into gear. This is Tash and Alex’s house. I know because I’ve been here before. When they first moved in, it was in a bad state of repair, having been owned by an elderly man. He had lived alone in the house for over fifty years and had made few alterations during that time. Tash kept me up to date with the renovations during my hairdressing appointments. Laurie and I were looking forward to making arrangements to come over for a meal once the work was completed.

  The room I’m in is the nursery. It has flamboyant touches, no doubt down to Tash. A woodland mural with matching curtains and a colo
urful rug on the wooden floor. Taking pride of place is a beautifully carved rocking cradle, which has got to be Alex’s handiwork.

  Is Tash here? I find it hard to imagine her allowing her home to be used in this way, especially if she knows I’m here and being held against my will.

  With the bindings gone from my wrists, I’m now able to look at my watch. It’s showing 8:50 p.m. Laurie must be at home by now. Has he tried my phone? Is he starting to get concerned?

  The front door opens and closes. There’s a stamping of feet and the murmur of voices from downstairs. I desperately need the toilet. Unsure how to attract attention, I stand at the door and try rattling the doorknob.

  ‘Hello, can you hear me?’ My throat is hoarse, and my voice cracks when I try to shout.

  There’s no response, so I stomp down hard on the floor. It takes a number of tries before I hear someone coming up the stairs. The door is opened by Alex; this time his face is not covered.

  How am I to interpret this? That there’s no point in disguise if my fate is already sealed?

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘I need the toilet,’ I say.

  The Alex I know is a big bear of a man with a booming laugh. Always genial whenever I encounter him, he adores Tash and loves the life they have created for themselves in this country. It seems at odds to be presented with a different side to the man I knew and liked. He is troubled, I can see that. Torment is etched across his usually amiable features.

  Holding me by the elbow, he steers me across the hall to the bathroom.

  ‘Please tell me what’s going on, Alex. Are you in trouble? Does Tash know I’m here? Laurie will be worried. Alex, please don’t do this. Think of the new baby. You don’t want to end up in prison just when Tash needs you the most.’ My words are having no effect.

  ‘No talking,’ is all he says.

  The bathroom is unfinished. There’s a new white suite and highly polished chrome taps, but the walls are bare plaster, and the floor is rough chipboard. There’s a hook in the shape of a duck on the back of the door, and I take off my coat and hang it from its beak.

  Filling the sink with hot water, I wash my hands and face, thankful that apart from a shaving mirror, there is nowhere for me to see my reflection.

  The window above the bath is small and wooden with an old-fashioned casement handle. It’s nowhere near big enough for me to crawl through, although the thought does cross my mind. Lined up along the ledge are numerous bottles and pots of creams alongside a shaving kit and bottle of aftershave. A tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush holder sit on a small wooden shelf. The holder contains two toothbrushes.

  Mel is in the room when I return. The name of the perfume she wears has eluded me since we first met. Now for some reason, it floats into my memory, La vie est Belle. The irony doesn’t escape me. Life is beautiful. How appropriate that seems given the circumstances I find myself in.

  She is sitting at one end of the sofa, looking relaxed. She’s still wearing the outfit she had on for the funeral.

  ‘Ah, I see you found your scarf,’ she says.

  I haven’t given it a second thought since I looped it around my neck as protection against the cold. Now I reach up and touch it like a talisman.

  ‘You must be wondering what’s going on,’ she says, patting the space next to her.

  Are you talking about the last four hours, which have left me confused, terrified and in fear for my life? I think to myself.

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reply and stubbornly stand my ground, ignoring her cue for me to sit down.

  ‘Come on, Fran, sit here. I can’t have a proper conversation with you if you’re looming over me like that.’

  Her demeanour is normal, her tone friendly, as though we are meeting up for a drink. What the fuck is the matter with her? It was only this afternoon that her son was cremated, and here I am, having been kidnapped, probably at her behest, yet she is acting as though nothing has happened. Were her dramatic public manifestations of grief just an act? Can she turn it on and off like a tap when the situation demands? Was the visit to the funeral director’s a prime example of her showboating?

  Alex gives me a nudge in the direction of the sofa, and I relent, positioning myself as far away from her as I can. Somehow,I don’t anticipate she has anything to say that will make me feel any better.

  ‘Perhaps Alex will get us some tea?’ She waves a hand in his direction.

  I want to punch her in the face I’m so angry. I turn towards her and fix her with what I hope is a withering look. She ignores me and dismisses Alex with a nod.

  ‘I know you’re frightened, Fran. I’m afraid the London boys can be a bit heavy-handed. They are used to handling far more unsavoury characters than you. You have to trust me; everything is going to be fine.’

  ‘Trust you. Now why would I do that? You’ve done nothing to suggest to me you are in any way trustworthy. And in answer to your first question, yes, I do want to know what’s going on.’

  I can hear the clatter of cups from downstairs.

  Mel picks at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa, then scrapes at a chipped nail. The delay is aggravating. I want to hear what she has to say. To know what possible justification she can have for keeping me here. And, more importantly, what the hell is going to happen to me.

  ‘You know, you’re a very nice person, Fran. All the support you’ve given me over the last few weeks is appreciated. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Well, that’s very big of you,’ I say, trying to inject as much sarcasm as I can into my voice. ‘But I want to know why I have been kidnapped, and why I’m being kept a prisoner? You told me that once you handed over your deal line, that would be the end of it. You said you would talk to the gang leader, and as long as I didn’t go to the police, I would be safe. Well, I haven’t spoken to the police, so why the hell am I here?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ she says, stretching her legs out in front of her. ‘That was true – then. There’s been a change of plan. Let’s just say they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ She laughs at her own joke, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

  ‘You surely can’t mean you’re working for them?’ I say, incredulous. ‘After what they did to Tyler and how they treated Gabe? You said you’d had enough and wanted out. How can you even contemplate being a part of that operation? Is money really more important than living within the law and having peace of mind?’

  ‘Oh, Fran.’ She cocks her head to one side and gives me a look of faux sympathy. ‘You have no concept of how much money we are talking about.’

  Her eyes glitter in the lamplight. With what? Excitement? No, I decide it’s more than that. It’s greed. Pure unadulterated greed.

  ‘And what about me? How do I fit in to all this?’

  ‘I owe you a lot, Fran. Trying to save Tyler like you did, looking out for Gabe, taking care of me in the aftermath of Tyler’s death. I haven’t really got anyone to confide in, and you were, I should say are, a good listener. Very compassionate, but practical, too.’

  ‘I’m not here for a job interview, Mel. Can you get to the point?’

  ‘The point is, I let down my guard. I never do that, not with anyone. I let you in, and that was a mistake. I told you too much. About me, about the deal line. I shouldn’t have exposed myself in that way.’

  Mel is inspecting an expensive-looking charm bracelet around her wrist. She shakes it, and the charms tinkle like ice cubes in a glass.

  ‘Then I got to thinking,’ she says, her tone languid. ‘What was your part in all this, Fran? What were you getting out of poking your nose into my business? I even considered the possibility that you were collecting information to give to the police.’

  That explains why I was searched so thoroughly at the crematorium car park. They were checking for a recording device.

  ‘I think you must be a bit paranoid,’ I say. ‘None of my family knows about any of this, not even my husband, Laurie.’

  S
he raises an eyebrow, and I realise my mistake. Jesus, what a prat I am. I could kick myself for giving her that bit of information. I try not to let her see I’m rattled.

  ‘It was all about Tyler to start with,’ I say, trying to deflect her attention away from what I’ve just said. ‘I felt guilty that I couldn’t help him. Then I saw you at the shrine in the woods and on TV and social media. I identified with you as a mother. I felt sorry for you and wanted to help; that was my motivation. That and feeling as though I owed it to Tyler to find out who was responsible for his death.’

  This is a slimmed down version of the truth, leaving out Sal and Al’s contribution.

  ‘Did you know your mother came to the funeral?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I did. She came to the wake afterwards with Joel and that skank Amber. Didn’t speak to me, though. Told everyone she was only there for her grandson.’

  ‘It’s fair to say she doesn’t have a very high opinion of you, then?’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Even though I want to hurt her, I still can’t bring myself to be that cruel. I hold back from telling her how I’d overheard her mother’s character assassination of her to Joel and Amber.

  ‘No, I didn’t. She was standing next me, praying for Tyler’s soul at the crem,’ I say. ‘If I’d thought about it, I could have asked her to put in a good word for me.’

  The ghost of a smile plays around Mel’s lips.

  ‘It’s getting late, Mel. Laurie will be getting worried.’

  Her smile twists into a smirk. ‘Not yet he won’t. We sent him a little message from your phone. He won’t be calling out a search party just yet. You told him you were going to be back late.’

  39