Trespass

by Michael Campling

And nothing happened. No flashes of light, no strange noises, not even a flicker of colour or a hint of an unexpected reflection. Nothing. “Right,” I growled. “That’s it.”

  I slid across to the edge and lowered myself down. “I’m out of here.” I found my backpack, still lying where I’d dumped it on the ground the night before and as I picked it up, I felt the weight of the old tools inside it. For a moment I thought of throwing the tools away to save carrying them, but the heavy old hammer and the broad chisel were now the only things I possessed apart from the clothes I stood up in and a phone with a flat battery. I was damned if I was leaving anything behind. I shouldered my backpack, took one last look at the block of black stone, then turned my back on it forever.

  I picked a spot on the horizon, a dip that might conceal a town or a road, and fixed it in my mind. Then I stood up straight, as best as I could, and set off down the hill. I didn’t know exactly where I was heading or how long I’d have to walk before I found anything useful, but at least I was on my way. At least I was doing something.

  The slope was quite steep and there was no obvious path through the knee-high grass, but the ground was soft underfoot and it was an easy walk. I almost enjoyed it. Almost. But as I walked, and my stiff muscles loosened and reminded me of their bruises, I started to sweat. When Robbo had kicked me, he hadn’t held back. Soon my legs were throbbing. But I walked on, trying to keep to a straight line, breathing hard. Every gasp of air dried the back of my throat and my tongue was like sandpaper in my mouth. I really had to find some water, and quickly.

  I paused, rubbed the sweat from my forehead, and looked around. The landscape was incredibly lush and green. There had to be plenty of water about somewhere. And water ran downhill, so I was heading in the right direction wasn’t I?

  I set off again, and as I waded through the knee-high grass, the dew soaked into the legs of my jeans. I toyed with the idea of squatting down and trying to lick the dew. Would it be worth it? How much water would I actually get that way? And surely, there would be bugs and slugs and snails all over the grass. No. Running water is safer, I thought, and I kept walking.

  As I reached the lower part of the slope, the grass gave way to bushes and brambles, closely followed by woodland. There’ll be a stream in the forest, I thought. There was sure to be a trickling brook weaving its way among the trees.

  But as I neared the edge of the forest, I slowed my pace. This wasn’t like any forest I’d ever known. There’d be no picnic areas here, no dappled shade or wandering footpaths. The trees grew close together and there was little light beneath the dense canopy. I stopped and rubbed the sweat from the back of my neck. There was something about the forest I didn’t like. It wasn’t just the gloom, the jumbled ranks of tree trunks—there was something else.

  I scanned the edge of the treeline, looking for a path or a gate or at least some sign of a thinner patch of trees where I might walk into the forest without losing the daylight. But there was nothing to show a way in, nothing to suggest that one direction was better than another. “Oh well,” I said. “At least it’ll be cooler.” Surely, that had to be a good thing. And if I kept walking downhill, it would lead me to water. Eventually.

  I pulled at the straps of my backpack and, as I rolled my shoulders, the metal tools in the backpack clanked against each other. As I’d walked down the hill, the hammer and chisel had jangled and bumped against my back with every step, annoying the hell out of me. But now, on the edge of this dark and forbidding forest, it was good to be reminded they were there. I shuddered at the thought of using them as weapons, but it at least I wasn’t entirely defenceless.

  You’re out in the middle of nowhere, I told myself. There’s no one around for twenty miles in any direction. And it was true. I’d seen no signs of civilisation whatsoever. I was much safer here than walking through the town centre after dark back home. I looked back toward the hilltop and then turned to try and find the point on the horizon where I’d seen the sun rise. I needed to get my bearings. But it was hopeless. I’d been on the top of the hill when I’d watched the sun come up. Now, I was much lower and I just couldn’t figure out where the sun had risen. It would’ve been hard at the best of times, but here, there were no farm buildings or roads to use as landmarks. There weren’t even any phone lines or electricity pylons and they were pretty much everywhere weren’t they?

  I sighed. Just keep walking, I thought. What have I got to lose? Besides, the sun was higher in the sky now and I was sweating already. The shade in the forest would protect me from overheating. I had to go on.

  I made sure the hilltop was directly behind me and walked on. When the first brambles snagged at my jeans, I walked more carefully, picking my feet up higher to avoid them as much as possible. “Bloody things,” I muttered as they snaked around my ankles and caught on my shoelaces. It wasn’t even as though they had any berries on. I licked my lips, thinking of plump, ripe blackberries, almost tasting the sweet juice, imagining the stains on my skin as I grabbed them by the handful. And that was when I fell.

  I hadn’t noticed the thick stem of a tough bramble looping itself around my foot. It brought me to an unexpected halt in mid-stride and I overbalanced. For a split second I realised what was happening and knew I couldn’t stop it, knew I’d land heavily on the tangled mass of sharp thorns. If I put my hands out to save myself, my fingers would be cut to ribbons. I threw myself sideways and managed to half-turn and land on my side, rolling over onto my back. “Bloody hell,” I hissed. I hadn’t accounted for the tools in my backpack, and now, as I landed, they dug sharply into my back, pressing hard against my spine. “Those damned things.” I sat up, wincing at the pain in my back, feeling the pinpricks of thorns through the seat of my jeans. “Damn, bloody, sodding, bloody hell,” I grumbled. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  I sat for a moment, staring furiously at the brambles. What I wouldn’t give for a machete right now, I thought. But I didn’t have anything even remotely like a machete. And I didn’t have any real choice about what to do next. I’d have to get up and I’d have to go on.

  I heaved a sigh and picked myself up, shrugging off my backpack and rubbing at the sore spot in the small of my back. “I’m not putting that bag on again,” I muttered. I held the straps in my hand. I’d carry it like that for a while, so if I fell again, I could just let go of it. And if I did need to get at the tools for some reason, it would be quicker. Why? I asked myself. Why would I need a hammer and chisel? I pushed the thought away.

  I set off again, picking my way more carefully through the brambles, occasionally looking up to get my bearings, and soon I was entering the shade beneath the trees. I stood for a moment and breathed in the cool scents of the forest. The air was deliciously damp and fresh and I took great gulps of it. It cooled my skin and soothed my headache. But it reminded me how thirsty I was. “Oh man,” I whispered. “I really need a drink.” I pictured an ice-cold can of Coke and my throat ached for it. Don’t torture yourself. I ran my tongue over my dry lips and swallowed. It didn’t help.

  “Come on,” I muttered. “Get a grip.” I turned around, looking for a path and listening for the sound of running water. There. A faint whisper. I took a step forward and tilted my head. But the sound faded away. I shook my head. It had only been the shush of a breeze through the treetops. I tutted to myself. I’d have to do better than this. I took a breath and looked around, my eyes already adjusting to the deep shade. The forest wasn’t as dark as I’d first feared, and like the hillside, the forest floor was lush and fertile, carpeted with pale green ferns that grew waist-high. Surely, with all this plant life, there had be water somewhere. And although the undergrowth was dense, it looked harmless enough. “Better than brambles,” I murmured. “Anything’s better than bloody brambles.”

  I walked on, raising my eyes to the leafy canopy as I went along, enjoying the mottled kaleidoscope of daylight as the leaves met and parted. I listened to the songs and calls of unseen birds. I let my hands hang at
my side to feel the gentle caress of the ferns as I passed them by. And despite my thirst and my growing pangs of hunger, my headache finally faded away. I couldn’t help but smile.

  ***

  “Oh bloody hell!” I moaned. I stopped walking and turned full circle. Every tree looked sickeningly familiar. How long had I been walking? When had I last been able to get my bearings? I ran my hand across my forehead and my palm came away wet with cold sweat. I closed my eyes for a moment and a rush of dizziness spun through my mind. I took a breath and opened my eyes. Just keep calm, I told myself. But it didn’t help. A sudden surge of panic rose from the pit of my stomach. I was lost. But that tree—the one wrapped in ivy—I’d passed it ages ago, hadn’t I?

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “I’ve been walking in circles.” But I couldn’t even be sure of that. I turned around again, looking in every direction for some clue, some small thing to latch on to. But there was nothing. Nothing except a dense mass of featureless ferns and a thick throng of almost identical trees pressing in on me from every direction. “What have I done?” I whispered. But I knew the answer. I’d let myself get lost.

  CHAPTER 3

  2018

  CALLY BREEZED IN THROUGH THE SWING DOORS that led to Exeter University’s History Department and marched along the corridor. She paused at the door to her tutor’s office. Doctor Seaton’s note to her had been unusually abrupt: See me today, 5:30 p.m. – my office, without fail. It was out of character. Usually, the old man was all charm and flattery, especially to the female students. Cally wrinkled her nose. There’s charm, she thought, and then there’s sexual harassment. And now, here she was, meeting him alone in his room. And for some unexplained reason, this appointment was much later than usual. Normally, she’d have put good money on the doctor being at the bar in the pub over the road by this time on a Friday. She raised her hand to knock then hesitated. What was Seaton up to? What did he want? Cally shuddered. Not that, she thought. Please don’t let it be that.

  She sighed. Seaton was supervising her final dissertation, and she needed his support. She wanted that first class honours degree. She wanted to go on to postgraduate work and get her Ph.D. She wanted to be published; a respected authority in her field. This was right for her. It was what she was meant to do with her life. And things had all been going so well, hadn’t they? She was already making great progress with her dissertation. She’d done all the preliminary research, she’d combed through all the available literature. Dr Seaton had seen her ideas and he seemed to approve. It was all going according to plan. And then, suddenly, out of the blue, there was this enigmatic note.

  “Come on, let’s get it over with,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

  She waited, expecting Seaton’s usual cry of “Advance and be recognised.” But there was nothing. Silence. Cally checked her watch. She wasn’t late. Perhaps he’d forgotten all about her and cleared off to the pub after all. Cally lifted her hand and rubbed the stiff muscles in the back of her neck. She’d just finished a long stint in the library and she still had a mound of work to get through when she got home. I’ve got better things to do than stand around here. She looked up and down the empty corridor. The doors to all the other offices were closed. The corridor was completely silent. The whole department felt deserted. And she’d waited long enough. She turned on her heel, but as she stepped away, there was a sudden sound from Doctor Seaton’s room; perhaps the creaking of a floorboard. She stopped and turned to face the door. There it was again. And again. The sound had a rhythm. And it could only be one thing: footsteps. Cally swallowed hard. Again, she looked along the corridor. I should go. She took a step backward. And another. The handle on Seaton’s door rattled and then, very slowly, it began to turn. Cally gasped. She should never have come. Not on her own. What was she thinking? She stared at the door, transfixed. Another step backward and with a jolt, she came up against the wall. She cried out—she couldn’t help herself: “Bloody hell.”

  And at that moment, the door swung open.

  CHAPTER 4

  2014

  TOM RAN A HAND OVER HIS FACE and slumped back in his plastic chair. “No,” he said. “Of course you wouldn’t hit him. Where would that get you?” He looked around the group of lads, every one of them lounging back on their chairs, every one of them trying so hard to show they didn’t give a damn. They all wore the same defiant smirk. Sometimes, I feel like banging their heads together, he thought. But that wasn’t why he was here. He glanced up at the CCTV camera in the corner, counted five blinks of the red light, and his anger faded away. For a moment he wondered if anyone up in the detention centre’s control room was watching, laughing at his efforts to get through to these lads. And that’s all they were, just lads. He couldn’t give up on them. He had to give them a chance; the same chance he’d had at that age. “Anybody?” he asked. “Anybody hazard a guess at exactly where that course of action could lead?”

  A couple of the lads fidgeted on their seats. One lad, Steve, stretched out in an exaggerated yawn, deliberately reaching his hand toward the lad sitting next to him; a heavyset youth named Jesse. Steve paused, savouring the moment, then flicked Jesse’s ear as hard as he could. In an instant, Jesse turned in his seat, his face a mask of cold hatred, his fist raised. “Try that again,” he snarled.

  Steve’s face lit up with a savage smile, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  Tom glanced around the group. The rest of the lads weren’t slouching now. They sat bolt upright, on the edges of their seats, their shoulders back, their fists ready. A few of them were licking their lips. And every single one of them was thinking quickly—choosing sides and calculating the odds. Their minds were working faster now than they’d ever done in classrooms or exam halls. You could cut the tension in the air with a butterfly knife.

  Tom knew exactly what they were feeling: blood buzzing in their ears, pure adrenaline coursing through their bodies, snapping every dormant muscle into life, sizzling through every nerve. They felt fantastic. This was what they lived for. This was what they were good at.

  But Tom just sighed. He’d seen it all before. He sat up and raised his voice. “That’s enough,” he warned. “Any more of that and you know what happens—you don’t come next week.”

  Steve and Jesse scowled at each other. But they knew Tom was serious. He’d kick them out of the group in a heartbeat. And the group was a soft option. It was easy time. Time away from the drudgery, the monotonous routine, the confinement. Nobody wanted to miss out on that, and Tom knew it. It was the one thing that gave him power over them, the single chink in their armour. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could work on. And week by week, if he was lucky, he’d get a few of them to let their guards down long enough to face what they’d done.

  Jesse shook his head in disgust and sat back with his arms folded. Steve smiled and followed suit. The rest of the lads slouched back on their chairs, disappointed.

  “OK,” Tom said. “Back to the situation we were talking about. You’re out having a drink with your mates, and someone, a complete stranger, pushes past you and makes you spill your drink. Danny here said he would hit the stranger. Steve, perhaps you could tell the group where that response could lead.”

  Steve tilted his head and stared at Tom. The lad’s eyes were glassy, emotionless, the pupils unnaturally constricted. Strung out, Tom thought. Where the hell do they get it from? But he pushed the question from his mind. Crystal meth, heroin, ketamine—whatever you wanted, there was always a way to get it. Tom knew that better than most. But Steve had no right showing up in this state. The lads were all supposed to be clean before they were allowed to join the group. There were meant to be urine tests. Perhaps someone at the centre was getting sloppy and skimping on the routine. Tom made a mental note to check the paperwork later.

  Suddenly, Steve sat up straight and leaned forward, fixing Tom with a hard stare. All heads swivelled to watch. If Steve was going to kick off, they didn’t want to miss
a single moment.

  “Is it true?” Steve said. “What they say about you—is it right?”

  Tom shook his head wearily. “Not this again. Listen, we’ve been through all this.”

  “No,” Steve said. “No, we haven’t. You’ve never owned up to what you did.”

  “You know what I did,” Tom said. “I got mixed up with the wrong crowd, I dealt in drugs, got into fights. But that was all years ago. I’ve done my time. I’ve put it behind me.” He looked around the group for support. “And so can you—all of you. If you want to.”

  But Steve was smirking and shaking his head. “No way. You can’t get away with that. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Tom looked Steve in the eye. “No,” he said. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” He let the silence hang in the air for a moment. “But do you know what?” He looked around the group and forced himself to smile. “I reckon it’s time for a break.” He looked over to the guard by the door. Dave Howard was one of the older prison officers and he knew the drill. Generally, he stood quietly at the back and made himself invisible. He knew Tom needed to handle the group in his own way, but he’d step in soon enough if the situation called for it. Tom guessed this was a soft option for Dave, too; indoors and not too much to do. “That all right with you, Mr. Howard?”

  Dave nodded and took up position by the door that led outside to a small yard.

  Tom rubbed his hands together. “OK then. Ten minutes. And then be ready to participate in the group, OK?”

  No one answered. Instead, the lads pushed their chairs back and stood, already pulling crumpled packs of cigarettes from their pockets. Then wearily, as if they’d just been asked to climb a mountain, they shuffled to the door. Tom watched as, without being told, they formed a patient line in front of the prison officer. Look at them, he thought. They look like little children queueing up for the morning break. They’d only been in the centre for a few months and already, they were institutionalised. Tom stood up. For a moment, he was tempted to join the back of the queue and go out into the yard for a smoke. But no. He hadn’t smoked in years. He lived a clean life these days. No cigarettes, no alcohol, nothing. Not since…He shook his head to dispel the thought. A cup of tea. I need a cup of tea. Dave would watch the lads for ten minutes while Tom slipped back to one of the staff rooms. A nice hot cup of tea and he’d be ready to get the group back on track.