Mel has gone. She left with Alex soon after he had come up with a pot of tea and three chunky cups.
‘We need to go. Now,’ she said to him. A barked order, not a request.
They left abruptly, locking the door behind them.
They have some business to attend to, that’s what she told me before she left. When they return, I am going to be picked up and taken to a ‘safe’ house for a while, no time scale specified.
‘Honestly, Fran, this is for your own good. I can’t risk you jeopardising the setting up of this deal. There’s too much at stake. I promise no harm will come to you.’
She’s lying. What’s more, she knows I know she’s lying. The gang she is now working with comprises of ruthless and brutal killers. It’s in everyone’s interest that I’m out of the way. There would be no point in releasing me. I know too much. The truth is, I am a dead woman walking.
I feel numb. Left alone, it’s difficult to rein in my thoughts, to stop myself thinking about what’s going to happen to me. The more I try to push it all aside, the more intrusive the thoughts become. It will be quick, I imagine, unlike poor Tyler. A bullet to the back of the head, then a burial deep inside a forest hundreds of miles from here. Amongst the dense pines, where no one ever goes. It might be that my body is never found.
Sipping the now-lukewarm tea, I listen hard for any sound or movement that would tell me that someone is still in the house. All is quiet apart from the gurgle of water moving through the central heating pipes. Going to the window, I pull back the curtain. If anyone is passing, I can try to attract their attention.
Outside, there’s very little light and no sign of life. It’s still snowing, and the imprint of tyre tracks in the road have already been covered in a light dusting. It’s now 9:30 p.m. by my watch. There’s nothing else for me to do but wait.
Resting my head on the arm of the sofa, I’m drifting into a fitful sleep when I hear a noise coming from somewhere in the house. It’s barely audible and animal-like. I don’t remember Tash and Alex having any pets. Tash doesn’t like cats, and she would have told me if they had acquired a dog. Sitting upright, I wait. Minutes pass, and I’m about to dismiss it as a waking dream when I hear it again. It’s coming from downstairs.
It’s an old house, and this room has floorboards. There are bound to be gaps between the boards. Moving the rug aside, I find what I’m looking for. One of the boards has a missing corner. Lying down, I press my ear to the floor. There it is: a cry of despair, and it’s definitely not an animal. The sound is faint, but unmistakable. A woman is sobbing quietly, and I’m pretty sure I know who it is.
‘Hello, hello.’
Knocking with my knuckles against the wood produces a dull thud that echoes in the void between floor and ceiling. There’s no response. I need something more substantial if I am to attract attention. Scanning the room, there’s nothing that looks suitable. Then my eyes alight on an object lying under the cradle. I scoot across the floor on my backside to have a look. Leaning in, I slide out a small hand plane, left there I would guess, by Alex when he was working on the cradle. Picking it up, I can feel it has some weight to it, ideal for making enough noise to be heard in the room below.
Returning to my spot, I bring the edge of the plane into contact with the wood. It makes a satisfying ringing sound. After a few more goes, I pause and listen. The noise from downstairs has stopped. I bring the plane down a few more times in quick succession and wait. This time a door opens, and there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I hold my breath as the key is turned in the lock. The light from the hallway is blocked by a figure.
‘Tash,’ I say, ‘I thought it was you.’
I’m pleased to see her, but wary. She must have known I was up here, yet she didn’t come to check and see if I was all right. So much for our long friendship.
I get up and walk towards her. She puts a hand up like a cop halting traffic.
‘No. You stay there.’
She is trying to appear tough despite the waver in her voice. She looks rumpled, as though she has been sleeping in her clothes. Her hair is sticking up on one side and flattened on the other, and her face is blotchy from crying. I stand, holding myself still, conscious she might bolt if I say or do anything out of turn.
She points to the sofa.
‘Sit,’ she says. ‘They will be back for you soon.’
‘Oh, Tash. How on earth have you got yourself mixed up in this? I thought you disliked Mel. You certainly seemed to disapprove of what she stood for. Yet here you are, holding a kidnap victim hostage in your home. That’s major criminal activity, Tash. I thought we were friends.’
Her face crumples for a split second, then becomes defiant. ‘No, not kidnap.’
‘Then what else would you call it? They took me by force, and I am being held here against my will. It’s very serious, Tash. You and Alex will go to prison for this. And if I’m killed, you will be an accessory to murder. What will happen to your baby then? They will put you away for a long time.’
All her bravado dissipates, and Tash sinks to the floor in an untidy heap. Clutching her knees, she rocks back and forth, tears streaming down her face. ‘Matko Boska, Matko Boska.’ She repeats the phrase over and over again. I can only assume she is appealing to a deity that has not featured in her life for some time. I sit down on the floor next to her.
‘Tash,’ I say, keeping my voice low and even, ‘can you tell me what is going on? How have you and Alex got yourselves involved with Mel and those crooks?’
Tash reaches into a pocket in her dress and pulls out a soggy, crumpled tissue. She blows her nose vigorously.
‘I so angry and upset with Alex,’ she says, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘He get us into this mess, stupid man. He never do anything like this before; then he go work for Mel.’
‘Something to do with drugs?’ I say.
‘No, not at first. He start by doing odd jop.’
‘Odd jobs?’
‘Yes, things about house. Build big kennel for dogs in garden. Stuff like that. She pay him good money. Cash.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then he do driving. Deliveries. She pay money and give him bags.’
‘Of what? Crack cocaine?’
‘Yes, that gówno stuff. She is dziwika.’ Tash spits the last word out whilst wiping her eyes with the disintegrating tissue. ‘Now he have habit, bloody fool. We have debt for first time ever. He work for Mel, only way to pay it off.’
It’s pointless trying to suggest that there are other ways of getting off drugs and clearing your debts. She isn’t going to listen, and anyway, there isn’t time.
‘Tash, they will be back at any minute. They are going to take me somewhere and kill me. You have to help me!’
‘No, no, not kill. Take you away for few days, then let you go. Alex tell me that.’
‘C’mon, Tash. Don’t be a fool. I witnessed Tyler’s murder and saw the men who did it. I know too much about Mel and the new set-up. It’s a huge drug operation. They aren’t going to let me go.’
Tash shakes her head. ‘No. You’re wrong…’
I reach out and grab her arms, pull her to her feet and force her to stand and look me in the eye. ‘The baby. The one who died from the overdose of methadone His name was Christopher. They called him Kit. Don’t let there be another unnecessary death, Tash, I implore you. You have to help me before it’s too late. You can tell them I tricked you into coming up here and that I locked you in.’
She is mute and withdrawn, so I shake her by the shoulders.
‘Please, Tash. I don’t have much time. I’m pleading with you for my life. Let me go. I will tell the police you helped me to escape. They will be lenient with you, especially as you are pregnant.’
Tash sits back down heavily on the sofa. She seems diminished. All the energy and sparkiness has gone, and she looks tired and resigned.
‘Okay,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders in resignation. ‘Lock this door and
go. But don’t walk roads. They will find you in car.’
I shiver at the thought, and she looks at me in concern.
‘You want sweater? Your top too thin. Is very cold.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘My coat is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I’ll get it on the way out.’
I go to the window first, open it, and look out at a picture-postcard scene. The snow is still coming down, and everything is blanketed in white. I listen for the sound of car tyres and search for headlights, but nothing is moving out there.
‘Thanks, Tash. Look after yourself,’ I say before closing the door and locking it behind me.
40
An Arctic blast hits me full in the face when I open the front door. I will have to keep moving to try to stay warm. There’s no real plan, just a desire to get as far away as possible without being seen. The snow is two to three inches deep. Stepping down onto the path, I can see my boots are leaving indentations. Walking away from the house means I’m a sitting duck. I’m not going to be difficult to find if I leave a trail of footprints.
My luck is in for once. Propped up against the garden wall is a besom broom. I’ve seen Tash incorporate them into her Halloween window displays at the shop. She must be using this one for sweeping the path. I don’t want to waste too much time. I experiment with walking backwards and brushing over the prints with the broom. The snow is powdery, and I take a couple of steps, stopping and brushing, until I am across the road and in front of the gap in the hedge. Looking back towards the house, I can see I’ve done a reasonable job of covering my tracks, and the falling snow is already filling in any gaps I’ve missed. Before I back my way in through the hedge, I spot a movement from the upstairs window. It’s Tash. She’s watching my departure.
Once I’m on the other side of the hedge, I heap the snow up into a mound and drop down the bank, still brushing behind me as I go. I’ve never walked here before, as it’s lined with private boat moorings. I pass a couple of narrowboats. There is no sign of anyone on board, and they appear closed and shuttered for the winter.
I walk close to the boats along a narrow strip of concrete next to the canal. When this ends, the going starts to become more difficult. If I’m to stay off the road, I’m faced with a section of trees and dense undergrowth, but I’ve got no choice.
Underfoot is hazardous. I’m glad of the broom, which I’m using as a stick to lean on to stop me from falling over. I try to increase my pace, but with no path to follow, my progress is glacial. It’s a relief to come out into an area of well-tended allotments. I’m tempted to shelter from the wind in one of the greenhouses, but I know it’s important to keep moving. Coming back into the open, the wind is now against me. Gusts are blowing snow straight into my face, soaking my hair and the front of my coat and dripping down into my boots. Pulling my scarf over my head, I plough on. It’s not the best position to be in, but at least I’m giving myself a chance.
When I cross the railway line, the gravel at the side of the track shifts under me, and I skid down the bank, landing in an open field. In the distance, a beam of light appears momentarily, then disappears. A vehicle is approaching along the lane. I can hear the sound of tyres crunching on packed snow. I sprint and take cover behind the hedge, heart beating faster in anticipation. The car passes, flinging a pile of slush down on my head. Once the rear lights disappear from view, I skirt the edge of the field, staying close to the hedgerow. The snow is deeper here and harder to walk through, but I do have shelter from the bitter wind. I’m soaked to the skin, and my teeth are chattering. I know I need to find shelter and get warmed up soon, or I’m going to be in trouble.
The lights of the marina come into view. There’s bound to be someone around who can help me. There’s a restaurant on-site. I can call in there and ask to use their phone. My watch says 10:47 p.m. I’ve been walking for the best part of an hour.
I’m starting to feel light-headed, and I’m not paying attention to where I’m placing my feet. I’ve reached a line of tall tufted grass and immature trees, which my brain is telling me is the edge of the field. Suddenly, the ground beneath me slides away, and I’m falling backwards. Everything slows, and I land with a humph sound as the air is pushed out of my lungs. I’ve broken through a thin coating of ice, and my lower half is submerged in freezing water. The shock makes me gasp. I sit for a few moments, shivering uncontrollably, before hauling myself back up onto solid ground. What I thought was the boundary between two fields is a stretch of water where boats enter and leave the marina. On the coldest day of this unseasonable spell of weather, already wet and freezing cold, I’ve managed to slip into the canal.
To say I’m in deep trouble is a massive understatement. All along I’ve been concerned that Mel and her thugs are going to be responsible for my demise, when, in fact, it’s my own carelessness that’s going to be my downfall.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
It’s weird, because instead of concern about my predicament, I’m starting to feel euphoric. It reminds me of when I smoked cannabis a few times at uni. Floaty and disassociated, I put my hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle. The overall sensation is not unpleasant. If this is what it’s like to die, then there is nothing to be frightened of.
The path that leads into the marina is on the other side of the water. I have to scramble up to the road, then drop down to access it. It’s uneven underfoot, and I stumble a few times, but it’s well lit, and there’s a safety rail to prevent people from falling into the water. A slope brings me out onto the access road. It’s stopped snowing, and the wind has dropped. I’m warming up, I can feel it; it’s like being caressed by a warm breeze. My clothes start to feel as though they are weighing me down.
You’re supposed to take them off when you fall into water, aren’t you?
Yes, but you are not in the water now, so how does that work?
The voice in my head is reassuring and practical. I want it to stay with me, to keep giving me advice, but it’s coming and going like a bad phone connection. I unbutton my coat and discard it with a swing of the wrist, like a Hollywood diva. Unwrapping my scarf from around my head, I wind it around the nearest lamppost. My saturated boots I kick into the bushes, followed by my sopping wet tights. I feel as though I’m walking on air.
There’s a walkway leading down to the moored boats. Suspended above are a row of fairy lights, their haloes casting rainbows in the night air. It looks so pretty I want to cry. The walkway has been swept of snow to clear a path for owners to access their boats. Stepping onto it, I can feel it rock gently beneath me. There’s a buzzing in my head, and my legs are starting to give way. I try to straighten up, wobble and lose my balance. This sends me crashing to the deck. Reaching out, I try to touch the diamonds I can see glittering in the piles of banked snow. I’m sleepy, so sleepy. I just need to rest my eyes for a while…
‘Whoa. Be careful. You’re going to end up falling in, you silly woman!’
A dog licks my face, and I force my eyes to open. A man is peering down at me, his voice a combination of anger and concern.
‘Are you pissed?’
I reach my arms up towards him, conscious that I’m mumbling.
‘Laurie, you and Buddy came to get me,’ I say before everything dissolves and I disappear down a dark tunnel.
41
Pushing my way up through layers of sleep, it’s a struggle to open my eyes. They feel as though they have been weighted down and glued shut.
I must have been dreaming. I remember the sensation of soaring high above the earth and looking down on a figure in a bed. I swoop downwards and see that it’s me, lying pale and still. Then everything fades into darkness.
Now I’m conscious that I’m sinking into a downy nest, and I’m being bathed in currents of deliciously warm air. It’s so peaceful I want to remain here forever. Am I dead? I imagine if I were, there would be nothing. That’s patently not the case, but it’s taking far too much effort to ponder such weighty issue
s. Sleep beckons, and with a deep sigh of contentment, I relinquish myself to its indolent charms.
The noises I awake to are muffled. The rattle of a trolley, the swish of a door and the irritating squeak of shoes on lino. A voice coming from far away, too indistinct to make out any words, is as irritating as a trapped wasp. There’s a hiss, and the air fills with a pungent mix of floral antiseptic. I want to cough, but I haven’t the energy to do so. Nor have I the strength to wave the person away, to tell them I just want to be left alone. To leave me to rest without interruption.
It feels like hours later that I wake from a deep and dreamless sleep, Someone is pulling at my arm. I snatch it away in annoyance and hear a woman’s voice. Low and reassuring, it has a Caribbean inflection. ‘Don’t be frightened, Francesca. You’re safe. I’m just changing your drip…’
I try to pay attention to what she’s saying, but it’s hard to focus, and my body feels leaden.
I’m aware of time passing. I have no idea how long ago it has been since the woman was here, although something around me has changed. Or is it me that is different? Noises are sharper, and there is a sensation of movement, as though the air is being disturbed. There are more voices. I try to force my eyes to open, but my lids are heavy.
‘I think she’s trying to open her eyes. Let’s keep everything nice and calm. We don’t want to startle her. She will be very disorientated.’
The person speaking is the one from earlier. I want to thank her for being so considerate. It would be nice to see who it is, too. Except my lashes are sticking together, and the light, when it hits my retina, is intense.
‘Can someone pull down those blinds?’ the woman says.
The room is a pale mushroom colour, and the bed I’m in is high, with starched white sheets. I have managed to force my eyes to open, but my head still feels fuzzy, and my vision is blurred. I try to speak, and what comes out is jumbled. ‘Wheresamee. Where’s me. I’m is where?’
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 21