In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller

by Tina Pritchard

  I can’t sleep. As Laurie snores quietly alongside me, I go over in my head the plans we are finalising and consider what the future might hold for us. Laurie is excited and eager to set the wheels in motion, whereas I suddenly feel anxious at the speed and scale of it all. The enormity of what we are about to do is starting to hit home. I know we can’t remain in this house. Too much has happened, and I will never feel the same again about living here. Moving on has got to be the best option, surely?

  The next morning, while Laurie takes a conference call in the office upstairs, I begin to tackle the list of seemingly endless tasks on my to-do list. It’s something I’m usually good at. Today, however, I’m listless and unfocused. It all feels like a huge chore. Laurie comes down, and I’m glad to have a break from the computer. He sounds cheerful.

  ‘Work has been surprisingly accommodating. I think it’s because there’s not much in the pipeline once these big contracts finish. I’ve told them I’m retiring, but that I’ll be available in the future on an ad hoc basis for any work that doesn’t take me away from home.’

  He measures out the coffee into the cafetière, adds the water and presses the plunger. ‘How are you getting on? You look a bit frazzled. Don’t go overdoing it if you’re not feeling up to it. You’ve only just got out of hospital.’

  I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

  ‘That must be it,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit dozy, and I haven’t been especially productive this morning. I have spoken to the estate agent, though, and messaged the rental agency to give notice on Mum’s flat. I’ve also looked at some storage places. It’s only our personal stuff to start with, so it’s not too pricey.’

  We munch on home-made shortbread sent by Jenny at the weekend. Laurie has told her I crashed the car in the snow and that’s why I was spending a few days in hospital.

  ‘We will have to tell her the truth,’ I say. ‘You know how much I hate lying to people.’

  The words are out before I realise their implication. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. ‘Oh, shit, Laurie. I know what you’re thinking. That I didn’t extend the same courtesy to you when I got us tied up in this predicament. I promise you, nothing like this will ever happen again. Lies have consequences. It was all an aberration on my part, and I’ve learnt my lesson. From now on, everything has to be up front. I don’t ever again want to be the sort of person who lies and deceives.’

  I can hear the steady tick of the kitchen clock filling the silence. Laurie shifts in his seat. His face is creased with worry, and I realise he thinks I’m getting at him – which, if I’m honest, I probably am, at a level. The original wound is too deep to heal without the odd twinge of pain. He refills our coffee cups and takes a long swig before he replies.

  ‘I know I’ve been an absolute bastard and hurt you deeply. I have no real defence except to say it was a bad time, and your grief and the stress you were under at work put an invisible barrier between us. That’s not an excuse, and I’m not blaming you. I just felt left out and unable to help. The affair was a diversion, and I’m not proud of my behaviour. If there is anything positive to be gained from the whole sorry episode, it’s that I’ve learned a lot about myself and what I want from life. I’m not suggesting we can pretend nothing has happened; that would be foolish. I just want to put it behind us and look to our future, and I hope you can do the same. What do you say?’

  He has his coffee cup in his hand, and I pick up mine.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I say.

  ‘Then we should go and ring the kids and tell them.’

  We clink our cups together, and I feel my uncertainty start to dissipate.

  Perhaps we can get back on an even keel after all.

  I could do without any more drama, that’s for sure.

  45

  November is always such a miserable month. The early snow from October has disappeared, to be replaced by a leaden sky. The rain beats down relentlessly, the staccato drumming on the windows adding to the pounding in my head. Being stuck in together is taking its toll, and we are niggling at each other. We can’t even walk Buddy. He has to settle for a desultory amble around the garden twice a day.

  We are making progress in boxing up our personal possessions, and tomorrow they will be collected by a local storage company. A charity shop has been to pick up bags of bric-a-brac, unwanted clothing and items of furniture we no longer have any use for. The house is beginning to look vacant and dejected.

  Laurie is sorting out the shed, and I’m at a bit of a loose end. I ring Jenny and ask if she is free to come and have a coffee.

  ‘That’s perfect timing, Fran. I’ve made some banana bread this morning. I know how much Laurie enjoys it. I noticed his car as I was going out earlier.’

  Buddy signals her arrival with a bout of excited barking, and we sidestep boxes of stuff piled high in the hallway.

  ‘My goodness. What’s going on? Are you having a clear-out?’

  ‘Come through,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain everything.’

  Jenny hands me a tin covered in a pattern of sweet peas and a small paper-wrapped item.

  ‘For Buddy. I made a meat pie, and there was some leftover pastry.’

  The bone-shaped biscuit with a cube of steak at its centre is carried by Buddy, like treasure, to a far corner of the room and demolished in a couple of bites.

  ‘Oh my, I will have to make a few more of those. He seems quite partial to them.’

  While I brew coffee, I can hear Jenny talking to Buddy in the front room. She’s lonely, I realise that. It’s going to be difficult telling her our news.

  Laurie is outside, dressed in his waterproof coat, and I bang on the glass to get his attention.

  ‘Coffee,’ I mouth, mimicking drinking from a cup.

  He nods and holds up both hands. ‘Give me ten.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess.’ I can see Jenny looking around in puzzlement as I bring in the tray.

  ‘It looks as though you are moving,’ she says sadly, her hand balancing on Buddy’s head.

  ‘We are, Jenny. I know it seems a bit sudden, but we have had our hands somewhat forced.’

  ‘When will you be going?’

  ‘At the weekend. I’m afraid I can’t say where. You see, we have to leave as soon as possible. It’s not safe to remain here.’

  I have almost finished filling in the background to our imminent departure when I hear Laurie stomp into the kitchen and wipe his feet on the mat. He appears, hair slicked down from the rain and water droplets running down his face.

  ‘Hello, Jenny. Nice to see you. Filthy weather out there. I apologise for my appearance.’

  I fetch a towel and a hot mug of coffee, which I give to him, along with a slice of Jenny’s cake.

  ‘Mmm, delicious,’ he says. ‘I will certainly miss your home baking. Fran has told you of our plans, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, she has. I knew something was going on,’ Jenny says. ‘I recognised a police officer from one of our Neighbourhood Watch meetings sitting in a car outside. I completely understand why you have to leave. Fran has explained everything. That woman sounds unhinged. I will be very sorry to see you all go, though. People are a lot less sociable in the street nowadays, and it was nice to have you as neighbours. I’m just sorry your last memories of here are not pleasant ones.’

  I might have known nothing would escape Jenny’s notice. In anyone else – Avis for one – I would find her watchfulness and level of scrutiny irritating. Jenny, in contrast, is so gracious and thoughtful, I cannot imagine her revelling in gossip. I resist the temptation to say I will come back and visit. Drop in to say hello. Chat about old times. Deep down, I know it’s not going to happen. There’s no point in making promises I have no intention of keeping.

  Laurie is keen to get back to clearing his shed and I have more packing to do. Jenny gets up from her place on the sofa and gives Buddy a quick stroke.

  ‘I was thinking of how I might make myself useful,�
� she says. ‘If you like, I can look after Buddy for a few hours tomorrow. It’s probably best if he’s not under your feet, especially when they come to collect the boxes.’

  Later, as we are sitting in front of the TV, having the last of the frozen pizzas from the freezer before I switch it to defrost, a local news report catches our attention.

  Police are appealing for help in tracing the whereabouts of thirty-eight-year-old Melanie Ingram from Willington in Derby. She is wanted on drug and kidnap charges. These form part of an ongoing investigation involving East and West Midlands Police forces. She fled the scene as police were making arrests at a property in the village of Willington. She has links to Derbyshire, Birmingham and Rotterdam in the Netherlands. Ingram is of medium build and is approximately five feet six with shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes. Police urge you not to approach her, but instead to ring the numbers at the bottom of the screen.

  A photo of Mel appears on the screen with police contact numbers underneath. I feel the hairs rise on the backs of my arms.

  ‘I wish they would hurry up and catch her,’ I say. ‘It’s horrible having to be on our guard all the time. I can’t imagine her rocking up here, though. Her best bet, surely, would be to get out of the country.’

  Laurie reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

  ‘And our best bet is to get away as soon as we can. I suggest we go before the weekend. There’s no point in hanging around any longer. By tomorrow, we will have finished what we need to do here. We can leave on Thursday and drop the keys off at the estate agent’s on the way.’

  The nightmares have returned with a vengeance. In this one, I’m running through a forest of tall pines. Someone is chasing me, and my feet are tripping over boulders and tree roots. My breath is ragged, heart bursting with the effort. Suddenly the ground gives way beneath me. I scrabble, arms and legs flailing, desperately trying to keep my footing, but I tumble down, down, leaf litter and pine needles raining down on me until I’m covered in a dense blanket of decaying matter.

  No psychologist needed to interpret this one.

  It’s still dark when I wake, gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. Not wanting to disturb Laurie, I ease myself out of bed and grab my dressing gown from behind the bathroom door. The air is cold, and my breath mists as I exhale. The security beam triggers, and a splinter of light glints through a gap in the window blind.

  I draw the blind up a fraction and peer out, expecting to see a fox or some other nocturnal creature.

  There’s nothing moving out there. Just an eerie glow cast by the LED, illuminating an expanse of frozen lawn.

  46

  There are so many decisions you can make in life. So many turns in the road available to you, especially if you have access to resources. We are lucky. I know that others in society, for varying reasons, have not been dealt such a fortunate hand. Mum always believed in paying it back if you had an excess of good fortune. It’s not fair, I would wail as she dragged (she would say encouraged) me to accompany her to yet another feed-the-homeless event, some community fundraiser or flag-waving march for an obscure, under-represented group she felt was deserving of her time and energy.

  There’s even a photo of the two of us at Greenham Common, joining in an anti-nuclear protest. I’m a bashful teen, head down, curly perm covering my face, whereas Mum is looking straight at the camera, eyes alight with fervour. Out of sight are the bolt cutters she would later use to cut a hole in the perimeter fence. The spark she lit in me to speak out against unfairness and injustice is there in Alice, too. That’s your legacy, Mum. That’s how you go on. Your influence passing down through the generations and on into the future.

  ‘C’mon, Fran.’ Laurie breaks into my thoughts, his voice impatient. ‘We need to get a move on. The storage guys will be here soon.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about Mum for some reason. About how fair she was and how much she hated inequality. I’m thinking that when we get ourselves settled, whenever or wherever that is, I’d like to give something back to the community. Maybe do some voluntary work? What do you think?’

  Laurie doesn’t reply. He is wrestling the fridge out of the very tight corner where it’s positioned. A pool of water has gathered underneath from where it has defrosted. I get the mop and swirl it around. There’s a metallic clink, and I bend down to untangle an object from the woolly fronds of the mop. It’s a fridge magnet.

  Mum brought it back from holiday one year. Knowing how much I hated anything cluttering up the face of the fridge, she declared I should make an exception in this case. Behind its resin face, a group of trees stands tall and straight, not unlike the copse of conifers you come to as you enter into the wood through our garden gate. The words written across the front are the first verse of a poem by Edward Thomas. It was a favourite of Mum’s, and I read it at her funeral.

  I have come to the borders of sleep,

  The unfathomable deep

  Forest where all must lose

  Their way, however straight,

  Or winding, soon or late;

  They cannot choose.

  The magnet is dusty and faded. It must have fallen behind the fridge some time ago without me noticing. I hold it in the palm of my hand, then press it to my lips. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  There’s a knock at the door, and I go to answer it. It’s Jenny. She’s come to collect Buddy.

  ‘Is three o’clock a suitable time to bring him back?’ she says. ‘I have a hair appointment soon after that. Now that Tash is unavailable, I’m going to try this woman in the village. She’s meant to be very good, but I miss Tash. She always did such a good job on my hair.’

  I’m unsure how much Jenny knows about Tash and Alex’s connection to the drug gang. I haven’t told her, and I don’t feel like mentioning it now. I hand over Buddy, and when I have waved them off down the path, I search for a notepad and pen in a folder jammed full of correspondence and household bills. I feel I owe Sal and Al an explanation for our sudden departure, and with their mobile number on my lost phone, writing to them is the only way I can communicate what has happened.

  The boxes have been collected and are en route to the storage facility. I have a plastic container with a few food essentials, including leftover slices of bread and a chunk of dry cheddar. We are both peckish after all the effort, including giving the house a final hoover and dust.

  ‘Doesn’t look very appetising,’ I say. ‘We should have picked something up for lunch.’

  ‘I really fancy some fish and chips,’ Laurie says, licking his lips in anticipation.

  ‘Then go and get some. If we have something substantial for lunch, we can just have bread and cheese for supper.’

  ‘No way. I’m not leaving you here by yourself.’

  ‘Honestly, Laurie, I’ll be fine. I’ll get the kettle on. You’ll be back in no time. Post Sal and Al’s letter while you’re out, will you?’

  ‘Okay. I won’t be long.’ He grabs his coat and puts the envelope into his pocket, then kisses me on the cheek. ‘Put the chain on the door after me.’

  I put some plates on to warm and fill the kettle. The radio is playing quietly in the background, and I hum along to a tune I recognise vaguely from childhood. I think it’s called ‘Bad Moon Rising’. Picking out the odd words I can remember takes me back to childhood and dancing in the kitchen with Mum.

  I whirl around a few times, then freeze on the spot. Standing in the open doorway to the garden is a figure dressed in a baggy, grey tracksuit, a small rucksack strapped to their back. It’s difficult to tell if they’re male or female, as the hood of their top is up, partially obscuring their face. Escaping strands of straggly, dark hair are plastered to the sides of cheeks wet with rain.

  ‘What the fuck…’ The shock makes my voice waver, and I swallow hard. ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  They take a step forward. The trainers they are wearing are smeared in wet soil, and the bottom of
their joggers are flecked with mud. There’s a sense of familiarity. A flutter of recognition. I have a flashback to when I interrupted someone on the porch: Slight of build, androgynous, wearing a grey tracksuit. This is the same person I bumped into that day. I’d lay money on it.

  ‘What do you want? I don’t have any money. I suggest you piss off pretty quickly. My husband will be back at any moment.’

  They stop a couple of feet away from me. I can feel a tremor at the base of my throat as my heart begins to pump faster. I back away. There’s a smell in the air of sweat, damp clothes and outdoor air. Whoever this is, they’ve been outside in the rain for a while. Perhaps even living rough.

  One hand is holding the end of a sleeve in their palm, and the other reaches up and pushes back the hood to reveal an unkempt bob of near black hair. A woman, then.

  Her eyes are lowered, and when she raises them, I recognise immediately the shards of blue ice gleaming beneath wet lashes.

  I suck in a breath, then exhale slowly. ‘Mel?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. The one and only. Like the new hairstyle?’ she says, her voice hoarse.

  She flicks a lock of hair, and her eyes scan the room. She seems agitated, and I take another step back to put some distance between us.

  ‘How did you get in, and what do you want?’

  ‘Weeeell, the first question is easy to answer. Your gate was unlocked, and the shed was open. I hid in that bush by the front door and sneaked into the shed after the removal men had finished loading. Going anywhere nice, by the way?’ The question drips with sarcasm.