The Jack in the Green

by Lee, Frazer

  Tom peered into the driver’s side of the car—the undiscovered country.

  “Try it for size. If you don’t like, fine.”

  Dieter smiled, that same winning smile that made the hearts of blue-collar females flutter wherever he went.

  “Just as far as the main road…”

  “Right.”

  Tom climbed in.

  Dieter’s long legs meant the seat was set too far back for Tom to reach the pedals properly. He felt under the seat, expecting to find the lever for seat adjustment.

  “It’s on the other side when you’re in the captain’s chair,” Dieter said.

  He sounded like he was enjoying Tom’s uncertainty a little too much.

  Tom found the lever, overcompensated and shot forward until he was all but impaled upon the steering wheel.

  “Easy, tiger,” Dieter laughed. “You’ll deploy the airbag, then we’ll have to get you cut out of there.”

  Dieter’s joke conjured a series of road-death scenarios too frightening for Tom to consider. He adjusted the seat more carefully a second time and then set to work on positioning the mirrors, as Dieter coached him along.

  “Okay, you’re all set, turn the key and start the engine…no not that way…that’s it, and don’t forget your seat belt.”

  The seat belt was the first thing Tom would normally reach for upon entering a car, especially with Dieter driving—he could be a little trigger-happy with the accelerator at times. Strange that Tom had forgotten it, and as he pulled it across his chest it felt weird pressing against his other shoulder. He’d been a passenger for so long. All his life.

  Tom gripped the wheel until his knuckles were bone white as the car lurched into life and crept down the hill. He pressed his foot against the brake pedal to slow their progress, overdoing it as he had done with the lever under the seat. Trying to listen to Dieter’s continuous instructions whilst getting used to the sensitivity of the brake pedal was proving difficult for Tom. The car kangarooed down the hill in fits and starts, sliding this way and that on loose earth as Tom tried to straighten up.

  All too quickly, Tom could see the junction where the dirt track met the road proper. He glanced at Dieter, who now had beads of sweat on his forehead and a look of consternation plastered unconvincingly across his still-grinning face. Tom hit the brakes again as they veered into the road, but nothing happened. There was a dull snap from somewhere beneath their feet, and the car slid out onto the road, picking up speed. With the road’s gradient providing yet more forward momentum, Tom panicked and steered hard left to try and slow the car down. His maneuver put them into a spin and Dieter cried out as the Focus hit a ditch at the roadside, then hurtled along it towards the trees. Tom shrieked, a feral sound, and put his hands over his face—

  Like that’s going to do anything!

  —still pumping his foot into the unresponsive brake pedal as the car crashed through dense foliage and fallen bracken until slam, it hit a tree and came to a rest some forty yards from the track entrance to the road they had just exited.

  Tom pried himself off of the steering wheel that had all but fused with his rib cage. No air bags had been deployed. Steam hissed from beneath the crumpled hood, fogging the cracked windscreen. Beside him, Dieter groaned. With a yawning grind of metal, Tom opened the driver’s door and tumbled out onto the ground beneath the tree. Positioning himself on all fours, he crawled to the other side of the tree trunk and sat back.

  One of his shoes was missing. The sock of his shoeless foot dangled like a clown’s shoe from his toes. The tree supported him, but the world was still spinning. He heard a crash as Dieter’s door opened then fell off its hinges, followed by an extended bout of cursing from the big man who was now visible through the cracked glass of the windscreen. Tom felt a burning in his lungs, a reminder to breathe. As he did so, he realized the car was a write-off, and they would have to walk back to the village.

  He set about locating his errant shoe.

  “And so ended Tom McCrae’s first, and last driving lesson.”

  The entire pub, it seemed, erupted into raucous laughter. Tom lifted his pint to his lips, wishing he could fall, body and soul, into the glass rather than face the crowd.

  Dieter had held the drinkers in rapt attention since he had started his tale, embellishing it with a few carefully plotted additional details along the way. These details were, of course, designed to maximize the comic effect of his story, at Tom’s expense. Dieter went on to describe how he and Tom had struggled out the wreckage and staggered back down to the hill to the village before placing orders for stiff drinks at the bar. They had been there for almost two hours now, Dieter getting progressively drunk and regaling any new arrivals with a newly exaggerated version of his and Tom’s car crash tale. Holly had stood patiently by, looking pleased to see so many villagers patronizing the bar. She looked even more pleased when Dieter ordered another round of chasers—doubles.

  The place must be taking in more than they have done all season, thought Tom, as Holly pulled him a fresh pint of ale. No wonder she’s pleased.

  He recalled the night before, when her plaintive sobs had echoed through the thin walls of his room. The increased bar take would go some way to placating the surly landlord over her handling of the restaurant fiasco. Dieter seemed to have gotten over his disappointment at the facilities, anyhow. Tom peered at him from the bar, marveling at the way the man seemed able to blend in with any crowd. In any social hierarchy or situation, the big man was who you wanted as your wing guy. He was the affable jock, the epitome of the most popular and charismatic headshot in the high school yearbook. Tom had not yet quit disliking Dieter, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon, but he was finding it hard to actually hate him. If anything, Tom was developing a growing admiration for him and his happy-go-lucky style. It rather took the heat off Tom, even if the price he was paying was to become the butt of Dieter’s current humorous tract about “off-road vehicles”.

  As his jovial wingman solicited yet more swathes of guttural laughter from the gathered locals, Tom turned back to Holly and took his pint. Their fingers brushed together for a fraction of a second and Tom felt a surge of electricity pass between them. She smiled at him, a lovely genuine smile of warmth and there-there, dear, he’s only having a laugh before she turned her attention to the customers waiting at the other end of the bar. He watched her go, eyes lingering on her slender form and the way she moved her hips. Casting a furtive glance around the room, he knew he was safe from being caught eyeing up the landlord’s daughter—all eyes were on Dieter, the court jester, after all.

  Tom waited until the laughter had subsided before joining Dieter at his table. He padded over in his sneakers. His search for his missing shoe had been fruitless and he was thankful he’d thought to pack the sneakers. Taking an empty stool at the table, he heard that the conversation had moved on to what the American visitors’ plans were for the duration of their stay in Douglass. It wasn’t long before the Greyson name came up, and an uncomfortable quiet descended over the room. Before Tom could interject, Dieter, bold with alcohol, let slip their plans to go up to the farm and meet the Greysons the following day. Tom could have wrung the big man’s neck—such information about an important meeting wasn’t something he wanted broadcast around the village before it had actually taken place. As it was, he didn’t have to worry. Within seconds, a burly man in his fifties, wearing a scruffy woolen sweater and battered weather cheater, stood up and announced himself.

  “I’m Joe Greyson.”

  He looked daggers at Dieter and Tom.

  Many of the locals averted their gaze from the man’s eyes, peering into the bottoms of their glasses. They were evidently wary of him—afraid, even.

  “There, so you’ve met me already,” he continued. “So there’s no need. No need.”

  Tom put his pint down, cleared his throat.

  “We’d still like to discuss a couple of matters with you if that’s agreeable, Mr.
Greyson. As my friend here has outlined, our ride is out of commission, is your land within walking distance?”

  Your land.

  He had inadvertently let slip what the meeting was to be about. The ale was strong, 6.8 proof, and had clearly loosened his tongue even though he was a couple of drinks behind Dieter. He hoped Greyson hadn’t read between the lines.

  “You’ll need your car checking over, I suppose?” Greyson said.

  “That would be great, do you know where we could…”

  “I’ll have my boys tow it up to the farm,” the gruff man replied before Tom could even finish his sentence. “First thing. We’ll give her the once-over, see what can be done. Although from what laughing boy here tells me, it’s a write-off.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be happy to cover any, um, costs of course.”

  Joe Greyson seemed satisfied with that. He finished his drink and wiped the foam from his graying whiskers. He pulled a wide-brimmed, waxed, brown canvas hat from his pocket and strode over to the exit.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said, his voice heavy as a thunderstorm.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Tom watched the farmer leave, and felt the oppressive atmosphere of tension leave the room with him. Within minutes, the bar was once again filled with the happy hum of inebriated conversation. It was like someone had opened the window to let a bad smell out, and the fresh air in. Refusing the offer of a refill from Holly, Tom bade farewell to Dieter and his new fan club, and retired to his room.

  He felt tipsy, and suddenly sick with fatigue. For some reason, he remembered the dying trees at the electricity substation, their trunks oscillating nauseously at the throbbing edge of the dense forest where their cousins stood in dark droves. Perhaps he felt like them; on the wrong side of the fence, an outsider looking in on an alien world, shaken by the power of his masters to do their bidding.

  He went upstairs, lurched into his room and kicked off his sneakers before lying down on his bed, very quiet and very still. Downstairs, the low murmurs of pub patron conversation continued with a soft, altogether human power all their own.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tom was running, lost in the forest and all alone. He careered into a tangle of low-hanging fir branches, almost losing his footing as he scrambled through to the other side. The branches clung to his clothing and tore at his flesh as he wrenched himself free of their grasp. Gasping for breath, he stopped and turned, attempting to find his bearings in the cloying gloom of the forest. Looking down, he realized he was no longer standing on bare earth, but had strayed onto a gravel path. As he walked along the path he began to recognize his surroundings. When he reached the high green fence his suspicions were confirmed; his panic had led him back to the electricity substation. He walked alongside the high fence, feeling that low hum throbbing against the soles of his bare feet. Warning: Danger of Death proclaimed the yellow sign, mounted on the fence like a grim portent. The hum at his feet certainly felt dangerous. Its powerful resonance was at its greatest when he passed the high gate, behind which stood the leprous forms of the dying trees.

  The surging throb of power in the earth rooted him to the ground, and he looked up at the trees. To his surprise he saw a gigantic fir standing proud right in front of the gate. He couldn’t remember seeing it before; if he had, then him, Dieter and the company man would have had to walk around it to access the power plant.

  Strange, he thought, pulling his pajamas tighter around his neck.

  A cold wind was blowing through the forest, making the branches sigh and sway. Tom heard a distant rumble and looked up at the evening sky. Great rolling clouds were moving in overhead, spreading their dark shapes across the sky like oil in water. The throb of electricity at his feet was now vibrating up his legs. His legs began to tremble and his knees buckled from the effects of the power emanating from the ground. He fell to his knees, sharp gravel penetrating the tender flesh there. Every hair on his body was standing on end as the clouds thundered overhead. He was sandwiched between the electrical power from the ground and the static electricity above him.

  A deafening peal of thunder exploded above and around him like a huge gunshot. He clamped his hands over his ears to blot out the terrifying sound, which echoed through the forest. Then, just a few feet away from him, a massive bolt of lightning lit up the night sky like a white-hot flame. The lightning shot down through the twisted branches of the tree that stood in front of the gate, its electricity seizing hold of the trunk. Tom felt the raw power of the lightning meet that of the ground. The tree’s branches had begun to smolder and he wanted to back away from it but was rooted to the spot, still on his knees.

  With a horrid wrenching of torn wood and flayed bark, the tree split down the middle. Flames erupted from its center, filling Tom’s vision with black smoke. He gagged on the stuff as it billowed from the rotten core of the tree, which seemed to be oozing shadows that had been trapped inside for an age.

  Scrambling to his feet now, Tom backed away in fear of the dreadful shape forming at the crux of those shadows. The black shape was that of a man, his eyes burning red like hot coals. The man’s fingers clawed at the destroyed trunk of the tree as he stepped from his prison, pausing for a moment to take in the fragrant night air, heady with the scent of electricity, fire and dead, burning leaves.

  Then, those awful red eyes locked on to Tom’s gaze and the great, black shape closed in on him like a charnel shroud.

  Tom woke with a scream dying in his throat, and the stench of burning in his nostrils. He looked around, fearful he might see that great shadow standing at the foot of his bed.

  But instead of shadows and stench, he found morning had come—and with it the smell of fresh roast coffee and a song of angels.

  “Morning, Mr. McCrae…”

  The soft musical voice was unmistakably Holly’s. He rubbed his eyes, bringing the world into focus, and was relieved to see the red-haired beauty standing at his bedside.

  “Time to shake a tail feather,” she said.

  Tom sat up against his pillows and gathered his bedclothes around him; a reflex action.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty,” she said, setting down a small tray bearing a cafetiere filled with steaming black coffee on his nightstand.

  “Eight thirty?” He grabbed his smart phone from the bedside and tapped the screen, which confirmed the prognosis. “I must have forgotten to set the alarm. Strange, thought it was on repeat…”

  “Enjoy yourself last night, Mr. McCrae?” Holly chuckled. “More than a few sore heads in Douglass this morning I’ll bet.”

  She crossed to the window and opened the curtains, letting the morning light in. Diffused by clouds and the net curtains the light cast a halo around her feline form. Tom studied her curves. She turned sharply and caught him in the act.

  “Tom. Please call me Tom.”

  He turned his attention to the coffee, feeling his cheeks flush a little as he fumbled with the plunger.

  “I’d let that brew a couple minutes more. I’m afraid the old skinflint buys the cheap stuff. It’s fine enough, but needs a few minutes more than regular coffee to get…convincing.”

  She beamed at him, a twinkle in her eye.

  Tom breathed a sigh of relief as she crossed to the door.

  “Is Dieter awake?” Tom asked, desperate to sound businesslike.

  “Who do you think sent me up here with coffee? He’s on his second breakfast already. Don’t know where he puts it all. Anyway now, I’ll be getting the car ready. See you in a bit, Mr. McCrae—when you’re decent.”

  “Please—Tom.”

  “Okay. Tom.”

  With another smile the lovely creature left Tom alone in the tangle of his bed sheets. The sound of her speaking his name jangled in his ears like wind chimes. He took a few moments to compose himself then pressed the plunger down on the cafetiere. Pouring himself a cup, he lifted it to his nose and inhaled. It smelled good, like the earth in the forest beyo
nd his window, and dispelled the last wisp of noxious fumes from his nightmare.

  He drank deep.

  Feeling compos mentis again after a breakfast of more coffee and several slices of buttered toast topped with a mountain of scrambled eggs, Tom followed Holly and Dieter to her car. It was a Mazda hatchback, with lime-green paintwork and rust above the wheel arches. The car looked tiny after their rental car, and Dieter had great difficulty clambering into the rear seat. He positioned himself sideways on the seat so his legs would fit as Holly pushed her seat back into place. He looked like a daddy long legs that had been trapped in a child’s matchbox, ready for a bout of show-and-tell. Tom smirked, glad to be riding shotgun.

  They passed the spot where Tom had totaled the rental car, and he saw a smattering of debris by the tree where they had come to an abrupt stop. Muddy tire marks had been left behind on the road, presumably by Joe Greyson’s boys when they’d towed the vehicle away. Farther up the road Tom saw an old VW camper, parked in a lay-by on the edge of the forest. Its windows were curtained off on the inside.

  “Odd place to stop for a vacation,” he thought aloud. “Aren’t there any campsites up here?”

  Holly glanced into the rear-view mirror.

  “On the other side of the forest, but some folk like to be in the thick of it. Get a lot of walkers up here, even off-season. Shame they didn’t check into the pub last night instead of bedding down in that old thing. We could do with a few more guests at this time of year. Or any time of year for that matter.”

  Tom nodded, keeping quiet and letting her navigate the twisting country road. If his meeting with Joe Greyson went according to plan, Holly could expect a lot more visitors to Douglass very soon. A few minutes later, Holly swung a right onto a dirt track that led them through the trees and out onto open farmland. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Holly slowed the Mazda to a crawl, parking up near a row of sheds with curved, corrugated metal roofs.