by Kevin Brooks
Ahead of us the woods were becoming clearer. Clearer, but darker. The tangled thickets were black with rain and the trees were twisted into brooding shapes that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Loops and bowls fringed with hanging roots, jutting limbs, buckled trunks, strange spirals where branches had joined together like coiled snakes …
‘Have you seen this?’
Lucas had stopped by the remains of an old wooden boat. There wasn’t much left of it – half a dozen blackened joists sticking up through the mud, thin slivers of rotted planking, one or two curls of rusted metal.
‘It’s an oyster boat,’ I told him. ‘They used to fish for oysters all around here, across the bay, round the Point—’
‘Oysters?’
I nodded. ‘They’re all gone now.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Fished out, I suppose. Like everything else. One or two of the old boys still go out now and then, but these days there’s barely enough to fill a basket. It’s sad, really.’
‘Why?’
I looked at him. ‘Well … it’s not right, is it?’
‘We’ve got to eat.’
‘But we don’t have to strip every single oyster from the sea, do we? If people hadn’t been so greedy there’d still be some left.’
He picked a shard of damp wood from the wrecked boat and crumbled it in his fingers. ‘Left for who?’
‘What?’
‘Who would they be left for?’
‘Well … for others, for us, for themselves … I don’t know. You know what I mean.’
He wiped his hands on his shirt. ‘What do you think happened to the men in this boat?’
‘Drowned, I suppose.’
He nodded thoughtfully, gazing past the wreck into the depths of mud. ‘They’ll all be down there, won’t they?’ he said quietly. ‘The fishermen, the oysters … they’ll all be the same now …’ His words trailed off as he stared blindly into the mud, and just for a moment everything was silent. The air was still. Nothing moved. No birds, no wind, no waves. I looked at Lucas. I saw his skin, his clothes, his hair, his body, his pale blue eyes, his sad smile, his fleeting presence … and then the air started moving again. A quiet wind whistled across the flats, feathering the pools of surface water, revealing countless tiny seashells dotted in the mud. Pink and white, like tiny painted fingernails, they glimmered in the afternoon light.
I shivered.
It was suddenly getting cold.
Lucas snapped out of his trance. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
‘You first,’ I said.
‘You’re all right, it’s safe all the way from here. Look.’ He pointed at Deefer who was running around in the mud shaking a clump of seaweed in his mouth. ‘It’s solid ground all the way.’
I looked towards the woods. We were closer than I thought. Twenty metres away the mud merged into a narrow beach of dark scrubby sand, and beyond that lay a line of stunted trees, waving us on with their misformed fingers.
‘Don’t worry,’ Lucas grinned. ‘It’s nicer than it looks.’
It’d better be, I thought, as we slopped across the mud. I was beginning to get a bit fed up with the cold and the wet and the confusion of it all. I could do with a bit of nice.
I realise it was a foolish thing to do. Following someone I hardly knew into the midst of an isolated wood, on my own, with no way out, and with no one knowing where I was … God, it was unbelievably stupid. It was just asking for trouble. I can see that now. But at the time it seemed fine. And it was fine. No, it was more than fine, it was wonderful. Apart from that odd little incident at the boat when Lucas seemed to go into a trance for a while, I’d never felt more relaxed in my life. And this was after a day of being spat at, humiliated, terrified, angered, soaked, frozen, and rollercoastered.
Yes, it was a foolish thing to do. But we all have to be fools every so often, don’t we?
* * *
Rain dripped softly from the trees as I followed Lucas along a sun-dappled path through the woods. Although the air and the surrounding vegetation was steeped in moisture, the ground was remarkably dry. It was soft and springy, covered with a carpet of waxy leaves, and it gave off a sweet smell of rich, dark earth. The air was humid and still. Close up, the trees weren’t as weird as they’d first seemed – but they were still fairly odd. I’m pretty good with trees, I know most of the familiar species, but these were new to me. Some were short and squat, with stunted branches growing directly from the trunk, while others were whip-like and twisted, or pale and bare, as if their bark had been stripped by some ravenous beast.
We walked in single file along the narrow path. Lucas led the way, walking with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. Deefer ran around sniffing everything in sight, and I just plodded along behind in awed silence. I’d never been in such a strangely beautiful place. It was so quiet, so still. It felt like the loneliest place in the world.
Through the tangled undergrowth I caught occasional glimpses of the inlet on the other side of the woods. Against the darkness of the dense vegetation, the blue of the estuary shone like sapphire. I remembered Bill telling me how she’d spied on Lucas from a boat out there … we were drifting along with the engine off when Lee spots this naked guy in a pool at the edge of the woods … it was him, the gyppo. Having a bath … I put the memory from my mind. I was here now. I was here. I didn’t want to think about Bill and the others, that was out there. I didn’t want to think about out there.
Ahead of me, Lucas stopped beside a slender tree with a fringe of hanging branches. It looked a bit like a weeping willow, only darker, and heavier, with broad leaves and odd little woody nodules spaced along the length of each limb. Lucas pulled aside the curtain of branches to reveal a small crescent-shaped clearing bathed in pale sunlight.
‘After you,’ he said.
I looked at him for a moment then stepped through into the clearing. It was a sheltered glade about the size of a small front garden, hemmed in by rhododendron bushes and raggedy clumps of trees, and spread with a carpet of bright green mossy grass. The grass looked as if no one had ever walked upon it. At the edge of the clearing a freshwater stream flowed gently over a bed of pale pebbles. I moved further in, walking gently, enjoying the softness of the mossy grass beneath my bare feet. The damp moss was jewelled with tiny blue flowers and pearls of rain.
Immediately to my right a length of khaki blanket was draped between the branches of two trees, the trees about three metres apart. Coils of twine and lengths of reed were hanging on a line suspended between another two branches, and an assortment of fishing poles and sharpened sticks were propped against one of the trees.
As I stood there taking it all in, Lucas stepped around me and pulled back the blanket to reveal a cosy little shelter cut into the heart of the trees. It was roofed with plastic sheeting interlaced with branches, and walled with a mixture of mud and reeds. I stepped closer and looked inside. At the front of the shelter I could see the remains of a fire on a blackened slab of rock. There was a tree stump for sitting on, and at the back I could see a bed of ferns.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said.
Lucas went in and fumbled around in a black bin liner, fishing out some dry clothes. They looked exactly the same as the clothes he was already wearing – only drier, of course.
He smiled awkwardly at me and gestured at the den. ‘Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be back in a minute.’ He disappeared around the back of the shelter to get changed.
I sat down on the tree stump and gazed around the interior of the den. It was quite dark, but not gloomy, like the inside of a tent. The air smelled pleasantly of damp vegetation. I imagined Lucas sitting in here, all snug and warm, with the rain ticking on the plastic sheeting, a wood fire smouldering, the smell of the smoke drifting in the rain … and I was reminded of a book I’d read when I was a kid – My Side of the Mountain by Jean George. It’s the story of a young boy called Sam Gribley who
runs away from his New York home to live in the burnt-out trunk of a hemlock tree in the Catskill Mountains. He learns to live off the land, eating berries and roots, trapping deer and rabbits … he even tames a young falcon to help him hunt. There’s a scene in the book where Sam’s sitting inside his hemlock tree in the middle of the forest on a cold winter’s night. It’s snowing. It’s quiet. He’s lonely. He looks at the falcon on its perch, preening and wiping its beak, and he wonders to himself – what makes a bird a bird, and a boy a boy?
I always liked that bit. What makes a bird a bird, and a boy a boy?
I can’t remember how the story ends …
Yes, I can.
The boy’s loneliness gets the better of him and he leaves the forest and goes back to live with his family in New York.
I never liked that ending.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the shelter, I began to notice more detail: a small pile of tattered books in the corner; a candle stub in an empty crab shell; bunches of dried herbs; a notebook and pen by the bed; and on the wall, a faded photograph in a small wooden frame. I got up to take a closer look. It was a picture of a pretty young woman sitting cross-legged on the floor of a sparsely furnished room. She was slim, about twenty years old, with spiky blonde hair, sad eyes, and pale red lips. She was wearing a plain white cotton dress strung with bits of ribbon and leather and beads, and blood-red Doc Marten boots. The smile on her face was remote.
I heard footsteps outside and turned away from the wall. Lucas came in with Deefer trailing along behind him. He’d changed into fresh clothes and scrubbed his hair dry. He glanced at the photo on the wall, then at me.
‘She’s pretty,’ I said. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’
He laughed. ‘Not exactly, no.’
He knelt down by the blackened rock at the front of the shelter and started making a fire. His hands moved quickly, gathering up kindling from a pile by the wall, then adding small sticks and logs to form a neat little wigwam on the rock. As he worked I noticed a whitened scar on the inside of his left wrist – a faint puckered line, the size and shape of a shallow smile. It looked old. It looked part of him.
‘It’s my mother,’ he explained, nodding at the photo on the wall. ‘That was taken about fifteen years ago.’ He struck his lighter and touched the flame to the base of the fire. A wisp of smoke emerged, the kindling crackled, and pale flames began licking at the twigs. Lucas watched the flames for a while, making sure they caught, then pocketed his lighter and stood up. He looked at the photo again. His face was expressionless. I looked at the picture of the young woman. I could see the resemblance now. The inner sadness, the remoteness, the quality of being somewhere else …
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, looking away. ‘I think she’s probably dead.’
‘Don’t you know?’
He shook his head. ‘I never knew her. When I was born she couldn’t look after me … she had a lot of personal problems. She wasn’t well.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me. ‘Are you all right? I’ve got a jumper somewhere if you’re still cold—’
‘No, I’m fine.’
I wanted to ask him more about his mother, but I didn’t know where to start. Instead, I took off my hat and cape and warmed myself at the fire. It was burning nicely now. The smoke drifted upwards and disappeared through a flap in the roof, leaving behind a sweet smell of wood ash.
‘My mother’s dead,’ I told him, surprising myself. ‘She died when I was five.’
Lucas nodded. ‘That must have been hard.’
‘Not really. Not for me, anyway. I was too young to understand. I can’t remember very much about it. I just remember her not being there … one day she was there, the next day she was gone. I suppose when you’re five years old it’s easier to accept the things you don’t understand. You’re used to it. You don’t understand most things. It was incredibly hard for Dad, though … he’s never really got over it. I think he still blames himself.’
‘What happened?’
I sat down. ‘They were coming back from a party in London to celebrate the publication of his first book. It was late at night and the roads were icy. Dad had been drinking, so Mum was driving … I’ve never had the guts to ask if she was drunk, too, but from what I know of her, I think she probably was. She liked a drink as much as Dad.’ I looked down at the floor. I could feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I’d never told anyone about this before, and I didn’t know why I was telling it now. I took a deep breath and carried on. ‘There’s a lonely stretch of road about three miles from the island that cuts through a forest on a hill. You probably walked past it if you came here from Moulton.’
Lucas nodded. ‘A pine forest?’
‘That’s it. There’s a sharp corner at the bottom of the hill … they must have been going too fast or something, or maybe they hit a patch of black ice … nobody really knows … anyway, they lost control and went off the road, flew over a bank and smashed into a brick wall. Mum died instantly.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘Well, he’s never really talked about it, but my brother told me that because of the bad weather and the remoteness of the location, no one called an ambulance until about an hour after the crash. A passing motorist just happened to stop for a wee or something. He saw the wreck of the car and dialled 999. When the ambulance finally arrived Dad was still sitting in the passenger seat holding Mum’s hand. His head was all cut to pieces and the blood had dried on his skin. When one of the paramedics asked if he was all right, Dad just looked at him and said, “I’ve killed her. God help me, I’ve killed her.”’
The fire crackled and a glowing ember spat from the flames. Lucas nudged it back with his foot.
He said, ‘It’s always hard to lose somebody. It leaves a hole in your heart that never grows back.’
I couldn’t speak for a while. Deefer was lying on the ground beside me and I busied myself stroking the heavy grey hairs on his head. They were wet and glossy, the texture of fine wire. As I preened him, his eyes gradually closed. I felt a little dozy myself.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ Lucas asked after a while.
‘I can’t really stay long—’
‘It won’t take a minute.’
Before I could say anything else he’d fished out a couple of battered old pans and was fixing them up over the fire on a contraption of wires and sticks. A tied leather bag appeared from somewhere, a wooden spoon, the canteen of drinking water, and he was away, cooking up a meal of secret goodies. As I watched him I thought of all the questions I’d wanted to ask, but just then they didn’t seem to matter. They had no relevance to anything. The only things that mattered were the simple things – heat, cold, wind, rain, food – and even they didn’t seem to matter that much. As long as the world kept turning we’d be all right.
‘Your brother,’ said Lucas, stirring his pots. ‘Is he the one with the dyed blond hair?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How do you know? Have you met him?’
‘No, I’ve seen him around, that’s all. I thought he looked something like you.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘No, I didn’t mean he looked like you … you know what I mean.’
‘Yeah, well … just as long as you don’t think I’m anything like him.’
‘Why? Don’t you get on?’
‘Not at the moment, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a long story.’
He adjusted something on the fire, then sat to one side and rolled a cigarette. He took his time, concentrating on the tobacco and paper, getting it shaped just right, and then he placed it in his mouth, plucked a taper from the fire, and lit it.
‘This long story,’ he said, blowing out smoke. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with that muscle man at the cliffs, would it?’
‘Muscle man?’
‘The well-bred hunk with the broad shoulders—’
/> ‘Jamie Tait?’ I said, shocked.
He grinned. ‘That sounds about right.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Not much. I’ve seen him on the beach a couple of times—’
‘When?’
‘Late at night, mostly, hanging around with the rest of them.’
‘Who?’
He shrugged. ‘The rich girlfriend, the stone-thrower and his sister, your brother, a bunch of others – bikers, young girls, hangers-on …’ He looked at me. ‘It’s none of my business, Cait, but they’re not the nicest people in the world.’
‘I know.’
‘They’ve got spite in their blood, especially Tait and his girlfriend. They’re sick with it.’ He looked at me. ‘The blonde girl I asked you about before, the faceless one—’
‘Angel?’
He nodded, gazing deep into the fire. ‘She’s looking for things she shouldn’t be looking for … not with them. They’ll take her down, Cait. They’ll bury her. And they’ll take your brother down, too, if he’s not careful.’
I looked at him. ‘What do they do on the beach at night?’
He looked back at me, tapping ash from his cigarette. ‘They ruin each other.’
It was a strange way of putting it – kind of old-fashioned, especially for a young boy – but somehow it sounded just right.
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
He just shrugged.
‘I don’t know what Dominic’s playing at,’ I said. ‘Hanging around with people like that … it’s like he’s suddenly become a different person. You’re sure it was him?’
‘Cropped blond hair, brown eyes, medium height …’
I shook my head and sighed. ‘He’s so stupid.’
Lucas just shrugged again. ‘We all do stupid things now and then.’