by Sam Haysom
He steadied himself and stood still in the darkness, breathing heavily and listening. Nothing. The wind was still groaning and in the distance the trees were rustling, but that was it.
A part of his mind tried to persuade him that the foot was already there when he went to bed – in his anger he could just have missed it, after all – but although he badly wanted to believe that was true he just couldn’t do it.
If the foot had been there when he climbed into the tent, he would have seen it. Or Matt would have seen it.
Unless…
Gary cast his mind back to the brief exchange he’d had with Matt before he’d climbed into the tent. He’d brushed Matt off, climbed in, and then Matt had followed him in not long after. But – and here was the real kicker – he hadn’t followed Gary in straight away.
It had been at least a couple of minutes between Gary getting into the tent and Matt joining him; plenty of time to go for a piss, clean your teeth, or maybe – just maybe – leave a nice little surprise for your old friend Gary to find the next morning.
But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Matt wasn’t the type of person to do something like that, and even if he was, where the fuck would he have suddenly found a rabbit’s foot?
What about if he had an ally? whispered the voice in Gary’s head. What if it’s all part of one big plan to make you look like stupid?
Gary thought back to the way Tom and Matt had behaved that afternoon. The talking among themselves. The quick glances. The whispering.
The whispering.
Gary glanced at Tom and James’ tent, over to his left, for any signs of movement. Was it possible that it had been them out there whispering earlier? Maybe the two of them were in on it together, and they’d just planted the foot now. Maybe all three of them were in on it.
Gary swept his eyes in a careful semi-circle around him, peering into the darkness for any slight sign of movement. There was nothing there.
They’ve got you good and spooked anyway, whispered his dad’s voice. You’re so fucking paranoid you don’t know what to do with yourself.
For a brief, horrible moment, Gary thought he might cry. He was standing out in the cold in the middle of fucking Rutmoor, no one was on his side, and even though he was over a hundred miles away from his father he could still hear the old bastard’s voice in his head.
Fuck this, he thought suddenly. If they’re looking for a reaction from me, they’ll get one.
Gary thumbed the light from his watch and held the thing up like a torch in front of him. He pointed it in the direction of Tom and James’ tent, then took a big step forward over the rabbit’s foot and started walking across the grass.
We ’ ll see what they ’ ve got to say about it when I wake them up and fucking ask them.
He was halfway between his tent and theirs when he stepped on something soft. Gary froze once more, fighting the urge to scream, and slowly moved his foot off the thing beneath it. He felt it unfurl as his weight came off it, like rubber. His hands were trembling as he moved the watch into position and thumbed the button.
It was a rabbit’s ear. Gary stared down at it with a dumb, rising horror before the watch light flicked off again. The ear was small and light grey, and he didn’t need to look again to know it had come from the same unfortunate creature that the foot outside his tent belonged to.
He was shaking now, and it wasn’t just from the cold. Without thinking he thumbed the watch once more and began moving forward, scanning the light across the grass in sweeping arcs ahead of him.
The yellow light was weak, and it only reached a metre or so in front of him before it stopped dead against the inky wall of darkness that coated the moor.
Gary almost didn’t see the next piece. He’d been continuing in the direction of Tom and James’ tent and it was lying on the grass to his right, just on the edge of the arc of light cast by his watch. He caught it out of the corner of his eye, a grey shape against the green. Gary walked over to it without thinking, needing to see what it was, vaguely aware that he was now pointing in the direction of the distant copse of pine trees.
Gary moved over the grass and the wind urged him on, whispering in his ear like a hungry voice. When he reached the shape and aimed his watch down at it, he saw it was another paw.
If this is you, Tom, I really have to hand it to you, thought Gary. You’ve certainly been fucking thorough.
He looked away and stepped over the severed paw, suddenly feeling in real danger of throwing up. And there was a part of his mind, a faint voice in the back of his head that was telling him to go, just turn and run back to the tent and wake Matt up, but it was smothered by a stronger voice – not quite his dad’s voice, but close – that told him he couldn’t.
Because what if they were watching him now? What if Tom and James were crouched in the darkness somewhere, giggling and whispering, just waiting for big tough Gary to show his true colours? He knew they’d never have the balls to actually kill a rabbit, there was no fucking way, but maybe they’d found this one already dead somewhere and decided to use the opportunity to have some fun with him?
If he gave them the satisfaction of seeing him scared, he’d never hear the end of it. Shit, he’d fucking die first.
With this thought in mind, Gary kept moving forward across the grass. Whenever the light from his watch went out he’d thumb the button and start moving forward again, sweeping it from left to right. He passed the tents and left the campsite without even realising it.
Ten paces on from the severed foot Gary found a tail, and a further ten paces on from that he found another foot.
The game can’t go on much longer, he thought hysterically, we’re going to run out of pieces soon.
A wild urge to laugh swept over him, and then quickly disappeared five paces later when he found the next item.
This time it was an eye.
Gary stared down at the thing with sick fascination, taking in the red gore and matted hair that still clung to the back of it, the way the wide blank pupil stared up at the stars.
That faraway part of his mind was back again, shouting at him to just turn around and get out of there, that none of his friends would ever cut out a rabbit’s fucking eye just to teach him a lesson, but now he barely even heard it.
He stepped over the eye and moved forward again, his legs seeming to move independently from his brain.
All his jumbled emotions – the uncertainty; the anger; most of all the fear – felt distant as he moved across the grass. It was like they belonged to someone else.
Just got to keep following the trail, he thought. Like Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods.
Gary’s feet were numb from the dew. Every now and then he’d step on something – a couple of thin twigs, once a small and pointy stone – but he hardly even felt it.
He heard a whispering sound, much closer this time, and suddenly realised the copse of pine trees was now directly in front of him. They stood tall and clustered around him like ancient wooden sentries. The darkness between them seemed almost solid.
Just on the border of the trees Gary found another foot, and then as he stepped over it and into the copse his light fell on a larger shape. It was 10 paces into the trees, and before he’d even reached it he knew what it was.
The rabbit’s body was a mangled pulp of flesh, bone and hair. Its eyeless, earless face stared up at him from the grass. Patches of drying blood lay on the grass around it.
From somewhere behind Gary, a tree branch snapped.
The sound jolted through him like an electric shock, and the strange blanket dampening his emotions was suddenly whisked away. Gary realised with terror where he was, and what was lying on the grass in front of him.
He spun around in the darkness, certain he was going to see a woman standing there in a white dress, but there was no one behind him. He peered back the way he’d come, straining his eyes to see the campsite, but it was lost in the gloom.
Gary felt freezing cold, and
his whole body was shaking. He could no longer feel his feet.
Swept in a wave of fear and no longer caring if anyone could see him or what his dad would think, he sprinted out of the copse and headed back in the direction he’d come from.
The wind rushed past his bare arms, scraping his skin like fingernails. The frame of his watch dug into his clenched palm. Blood pounded in his ears, a quick thud-thud-thud that sounded like a second set of footsteps chasing him.
For one sweet, brief moment as Gary flew across the grass away from the copse, he thought he was going to make it. He could just see the shapes of the tents beginning to emerge in the gloom, and it was as he put on an extra burst of speed that he lost his footing.
He went down hard in a heap, scraping his side and winding himself. The thudding in his ears grew louder, more insistent.
Gary struggled to pick himself up, numb feet slipping on the grass.
He was up on his knees when he heard something move behind him.
2015
Thursday, Part Six
Sure enough, his mum had been worried about him. Almost as soon as he’d climbed into her purple Clio at Brockenhurst train station and kissed her hello on the cheek, the interrogation had started. Was he feeding himself properly up in London? Getting enough sleep? Was he worried about anything? Why was he so quiet?
Yes, no, yes, and no comment, he’d thought in his head. But of course he’d reassured her that everything was okay, and kept a smile fixed firmly on his face during the drive home.
Now that he’s back in his old room and he’s said goodnight to his mum, he starts unpacking his bag. Not the walking bag – that one’s all ready for the weekend, and he leaves it standing in the corner by his old desk – but the briefcase containing all the folders.
All his work.
The ceiling light is on in his room and he spreads everything out over the bed, so it’s nice and well-lit. His bedroom hasn’t changed much since he left it for good after his third year at uni. It’s like it’s frozen in time. There’s a Pulp Fiction poster on the wall next to his wardrobe. His old PC, which he used to sit in front of for hours playing strategy games like Red Alert, sits dusty and unused on his desk.
Looking down at the documents spread out across his duvet, he moves the folder marked ‘News Cuttings (1951–1998)’ over to the left, and places a slightly smaller folder – this one marked ‘News Cuttings (1998–2015)’– over on the right.
He takes the Polaroid photo of them all together at the campsite and puts it in the middle and slightly above everything else, thinking of the way detectives always map out crimes in the TV series he likes to watch.
It’s getting late now, and he needs to get a decent night’s sleep – he’s got a big day ahead tomorrow, and he’s getting picked up early – but he can’t turn in just yet.
His hand hovers over the bed, then moves to pick up the folder marked ‘News Cuttings (1998–2015)’.
He’ll get to bed in a few hours. His adrenalin will be up tomorrow, anyway, so he should be fine.
For now he has some reading to do.
Tom (2002)
1
Tom Carpenter opened his eyes and turned over onto his back.
Judging by the faint greyish light shining through the material of the tent and creating a swampy glow, it was the morning. Tom rolled onto his side, checked his watch, and saw it was just after seven.
He glanced over at Tramper and saw him sprawled on his back with his mouth wide open, snoring lightly. He’d half-kicked his sleeping bag off in the night and it lay partly off him, exposing one bare, meaty thigh. As Tom watched, James muttered in his sleep and twitched, before falling back into a regular breathing rhythm again.
Bad dreams, thought Tom.
Tom had had a couple of bad ones himself, but he could barely remember them now. He thought one had been a replay of the fairly dramatic events of yesterday morning –‘the fight’, as James had started calling it – but Tom knew he’d had other dreams too. Nightmares, really.
At one point he’d woken up sweating, sure that he’d heard something or someone screaming, and when he looked at his watch he’d seen it was after 02:00.
What had that dream been about? Tom thought hard, summoning up images that were now like shadows disappearing as the sun goes in. For a second he almost had something – a faint sensation of running along a dark corridor – but then it was gone again.
Tom sat up and reached for his bottle. He took a swig of water that was flavoured with the sharp tang of purification tablets, resisted the urge to spit, and swallowed it down. Mr Stevens might be annoying, but his constant comments about the importance of staying hydrated had clearly had some effect.
Tom wondered if the others were up yet. Mr Stevens and Tim struck him as the early riser types, but Matt liked his sleep, and Gary…
Gary.
For a blissful few seconds Tom had forgotten about everything, but the thought of his so-called friend’s name brought all the worries – which had been nagging at him pretty much constantly ever since he’d punched Gary in the face the day before – back to the front of his mind.
He knew guys like Gary – there were more than a few on the football team at school and at the Sunday five-a-side club Tom was a part of – and he knew they could be incredibly stubborn. Gary was arrogant, jealous and bitter, and Tom thought it would be a long time before he came around.
Tom had tried talking to him yesterday afternoon, and Gary had blanked him.
But he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?
James had thanked him afterwards and Matt, although he hadn’t said much about it, had nodded when Tramper told Tom he’d done the right thing. He’d been sticking up for a friend, after all, stopping a bully who’d been allowed to get away with things for too long.
So why did he feel so shit about himself?
Tom unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up. He decided he’d go outside and get some fresh air, maybe take a short walk around the campsite. That’d help clear his head. Being as quiet as he possibly could and stealing the occasional glance at Tramper to make sure he wasn’t disturbing him, Tom slipped on his walking trousers and a t-shirt and then laced up his boots.
He unzipped the tent flaps and stepped outside.
The first thing that struck him was how nice a morning it was. The fog and drizzle that had hung over Rutmoor since they arrived had vanished and been replaced by a mostly clear sky; there were still clumps of grey cloud on the horizon, but the patch directly above their campsite was a bright blue.
Tom closed his eyes and stretched. The light breeze felt nice on his skin.
Glancing around the campsite, he saw no sign of anyone else. The tents looked quiet and undisturbed, and their little campfire was exactly as it had been left the night before.
Tom did a slow 180-degree turn, taking in his surroundings. They were in a rock-strewn valley between two tors, and aside from a small copse of trees about 50 metres ahead of him, there wasn’t very much to look at.
New day, thought Tom. I’ll make a special effort with Gary, maybe take him to one side and say I’m sorry and I was being a dick. Things will work out.
He smiled and began walking in the direction of the trees. He thought he’d head over there, do a quick lap of the little copse to stretch his legs and then head back. Although Tom’s thigh muscles were aching from yesterday’s walking and he could feel a small blister on the little toe of his right foot, he didn’t think he was in such bad shape. In fact, he thought he might—
The thought snapped off as Tom heard a rustling sound behind him. For some reason he felt a momentary lurch of fear in his stomach and he spun round towards the source of the sound, then let out a breath when he saw Matt’s head emerging from the flap of the other tent.
Matt was rubbing his eyes and blinking, and when he saw Tom he raised one hand in a wave. Tom grinned and waved back.
‘Hey!’ yelled Matt with a grin, but he paused when Tom put a
finger to his lips and nodded his head in the direction of his own tent. Tom mimed a sleeping gesture and then jogged over to join Matt, who had pulled back the flap of his tent and was kneeling in the morning light.
‘What time is it?’ mumbled Matt. He wiped the sleep from his eyes again and ran a hand through his messy brown hair.
‘Not sure exactly, maybe 7ish?’
Matt groaned. ‘Jesus, I thought it was much later than that. I saw Gary had already packed up his stuff and I thought you lot might be getting ready to leave without me.’
‘Eh?’
‘I said I thought you guys might have already eaten and be getting ready to go.’
‘No, what did you say about Gary’s stuff?’ Somewhere deep down in his stomach, Tom felt something like unease beginning to stir.
‘His stuff’s not in the tent,’ said Matt. He looked past Tom at the empty camp ground. ‘Where is everyone, anyway.’
Despite the morning chill, the skin on Tom’s back had started to prickle. He resisted the urge to push past Matt and look inside the tent, and instead took a deep breath.
‘Matt, what the hell do you mean his stuff’s gone? I haven’t seen him this morning, I thought he was still in the tent with you.’
Matt stared back at Tom for a few seconds, frowning. He started to say something and then stopped, staring out across the campsite. Tom recognised his expression – the furrowed brow, the slight squint – as Matt’s thinking face; he’d seen it plenty of times during the maths classes they shared at school.
‘Last night…’ Matt glanced at Tom and then looked away again, biting his lower lip.
‘Last night what?’
‘I don’t know, I just thought…’
‘What, for fuck’s sake?’ Tom’s tone, which had come out a little sharper than he’d meant it to, caused Matt to jump.
‘Nothing, I don’t know. I was just trying to remember a dream I had last night, but…’ He trailed off again, but this time Tom forced himself not to interrupt. If there was one thing he’d learned from sitting next to Matt in maths, it was that his friend always got to the answer in the end, but only if he had time to think.