The Jack in the Green

by Lee, Frazer

  They got out, and Holly pulled the driver’s seat forward so Dieter could escape his confinement on the backseats. He clambered out and leaned against the car, stretching his legs behind him, groaning all the while like a runner after an arduous marathon. Tom rubbed his upper arms to keep out the chill that was biting through his coat.

  “Sure there’s someone home? Place looks deserted.”

  “They’ll be in the work sheds no doubt,” Holly said, pulling on a knee-length cardigan that was knitted in the same bottle-green color of her eyes. “Come on, a walk will keep us warm.”

  She strode off in the direction of the metal-roofed sheds and Tom and Dieter followed close behind. The farm was eerily quiet, save for the distant cawing of crows nesting in the trees that overhung the sheds. Ancient farm machinery, caked with rust, stood at intervals along the path. Some pieces were merely fragments—a piece of hoe here, a section of timber saw there—leaning up against the walls of the sheds like forgotten relics.

  Tom studied the corkscrew blade of something that looked like a medieval torture device, its tarnished metal surface turned rust red from age and neglect. If the items had been grouped together under a gallery roof, they would make one hell of an art installation. But lining the path to the work sheds they had a look of foreboding about them; like sharp-toothed warnings. As they neared the last of the sheds, Tom heard a faint metallic clanking coming from within the structure.

  “There they are,” Holly said, quickening her pace.

  Tom and Dieter followed her to the shed, where they found a sweaty, thick-set lad in his early twenties hard at work beneath the crumpled hood of the rental car. He appeared to be attempting to reposition the dented radiator using a monkey wrench, without much success.

  “Hello, Rory, Joe around?” Holly asked.

  The young man started at the sound of her voice. Banging his head on the underside of the hood, he uttered a torrent of curse words before turning to see who had interrupted his labors. Rory had the unmistakable look of his father about him. The same shock of hair atop his angry red face though his hair, unlike his father’s, was thick and black. Tom watched as the young man wiped the oily fingers of one hand across the chest of his overalls. His hands were as big as Tom’s feet. He was still clutching the monkey wrench, with an attitude that made him seem threatening. Tom felt himself shuffle a step backwards, into Dieter’s protective shadow.

  “He’s out,” the lad finally said to Holly, before turning to Tom. “Your car is pretty fucked up.”

  “Can you get it going again?”

  “Aye,” said the lad. “She’ll go, but stopping? Stopping is another matter entirely.”

  Tom and Dieter exchanged glances. Rory walked from the open hood to the side of the car. Crouching next to the wheel arch, he beckoned them over. The wheel itself had been removed and was leaning up against the side door like a discarded limb. Its absence afforded them a view of the axle and buckled metal surrounding it. Tom and Dieter bent down with hands on their knees, peering into the wheel arch. The lad unclipped a small Maglite flashlight, no bigger than a pencil, into the hole.

  “There. See?”

  Tom could not fathom what Rory was getting at. The young mechanic sighed, reached into the crumpled cavity and pulled out what looked like a child’s novelty drinking straw. He straightened the clear rubber tubing and squeezed the end. Oily fluid dripped out, lit by the beam of his little flashlight.

  “Is that…?”

  “Brake fluid, aye.”

  “Explains why I couldn’t stop,” Tom turned to Dieter, whose face had turned ashen.

  “You should sue the rental company,” Holly said from behind them.

  She, too, was peering into the wheel arch, mesmerized.

  “Aye, we should,” Dieter said.

  He was picking up the lingo, blending in, the smooth bastard.

  “They got a beef with you? The rental company?” Rory asked.

  “Not that I…know of,” Tom said.

  “Then I would’nae bother,” he replied. “See this cable here? It’s been cut deliberately.”

  Tom’s eyes widened.

  The little droplets of brake fluid continued drip, drip, dripping from the severed cable.

  “Someone didn’t want you fellers to stop,” Rory said.

  “Fuck me,” Dieter whispered.

  The kid looked blankly at them both.

  “Will I down tools, or what then?”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Tom said to Rory. He turned to Dieter. “Cops might need to take a look.”

  “I hear you,” Dieter said.

  The boy shrugged and turned off his flashlight. Tom led Dieter to the open doorway of the work shed with Holly in tow.

  “Holly, would you mind giving Dieter a ride back to The Firs?”

  She shook her head, then realized Tom wanted to speak with Dieter in private.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car,” she said on her way out.

  Tom lowered his voice.

  “I want you to call the cops, tell them about the brakes. Then call it in to Head Office. Might be an ill-advised prank on the part of the locals, to scare us ahead of the deal sign-off. But if it’s not…”

  Dieter glanced over at Joe’s boy, lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

  “If it’s not?”

  “It could be a game-changer. Logistics-based risk assessment, that’s one thing, but if the variables include someone trying to have us killed…well, it’s another thing entirely.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “After Holly drops you off, get her to come back and pick me up.”

  “You’re going to try to find Greyson?”

  “Shame if it’s a wasted journey.”

  “Okay.”

  Dieter gave Joe’s son one last cursory glance, then ducked out of the workshop.

  Tom called after him.

  “And before you guys hit the main road—get her to check the goddamn brakes.”

  Dieter paused, and nodded. He looked almost as perturbed as Tom felt.

  Tom returned his attention to Joe’s boy, who was now working on the giant engine of a partially dissected tractor in the back of the shed. He felt a little apprehensive about sneaking up on the kid, especially as he was once again wielding that hefty wrench of his.

  Tom coughed as loud as he could to announce his presence. Rory startled again, swearing like a sailor under his breath.

  “Might you tell me where I can find Mr. Greyson?” Tom asked.

  “He’s out.”

  “Out, yes. You did say that. Out where?”

  “Checking on the Chrimbo trees probably.”

  “Chrimbo trees?”

  “Aye, that’s what we sell in the winter, mister. Pretty much all we sell when the fruit season is over. Rest of the time is pick-your-own.”

  “What the heck are Chrimbo trees?”

  The boy looked at Tom like he was something he’d found caked onto the tractor’s tires.

  “Trees for Christmas of course.”

  “Of course. And your father is checking on them, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  The boy then got back to his work while muttering something about apple trees, an avenue and a right turn.

  “Apple trees, huh?”

  The boy’s accent was so thick, Tom wasn’t sure if he’d followed what he had said. He turned to Holly for help, forgetting for a moment that she was gone with Dieter.

  Rory just grunted back at him, his entire being now focused on hammering the wrench against a damaged section of the tractor’s radiator grille. Tom was about to ask him to repeat his directions but his own voice was drowned out by the clanking.

  He turned and strolled outside in search of apple trees.

  Chapter Twenty

  It didn’t take long for Tom to find the apple trees. After a right turn out of the work shed, he’d followed the indentation of tractor tires along a dirt track past some polytunnels and storage sheds
housing nursery plants and farm equipment. These gave way to avenues of apple trees, which stretched off into the distance for a few hundred meters.

  A cold breeze snaked through the open avenues, causing red and brown leaves to flutter and fall from the branches of the trees either side of him. Now and then, the wind picked up and the leaves swirled up and around him; a benign whirlwind of autumnal colors. With the cool wind, a rich aroma of earth and rotting fruit rose up. Tom paused for a moment and looked down between the roots of the apple trees. Windfall apples lay discarded on the moist earth, decomposing. Fall offspring giving new life to their future spring siblings. With the tree branches swaying all around him, he closed his eyes and listened to the rustle of the drying leaves as they parachuted from their branches. He opened his eyes again and watched the leaves tumble and fall, borne gently to the ground by the wind where they joined the red-brown mulch of apple skins and earth. He breathed deeply, savoring the bittersweet smell, so unlike anything he’d experienced for years back home on the West Coast. Out here, on Greyson’s farm, he could feel the turn of the seasons. In fact, he could smell them, almost taste the world changing.

  A sound shattered his reverie; just the sharp snap of a twig breaking, but out there in the apple groves it was as loud as a warning klaxon. He whirled around to find the source of the sound, eyes darting this way and that between the rows of trees. Then he saw it, a figure standing no more than twenty meters away. Perhaps Rory had followed him up there.

  “Hello?” he called out, but he already knew it wasn’t Joe’s boy standing there in the shadows cast by the taller, older trees.

  “Mr. Greyson?”

  But he knew in his heart that it wasn’t Joe either, even before the words had dried up in his mouth. This was the same man he’d seen from his hotel window, standing at the edge of the trees, watching; Tom felt sure of it. He could not see the man’s face as it was hidden in the shadowy folds of a hooded greatcoat the texture and charcoal black color of oilskin. In the partial shadow of the apple trees, the figure had taken on something of the aspect of the red-eyed demon that stalked him in his nightmares. Tom’s eyes widened in fear as the man raised his right hand, revealing what he held there.

  An axe.

  Without a further thought, Tom took a deep breath and ran toward the end of the apple tree avenue. He could see the sharp green turrets of fir trees up ahead. Tom’s heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest as he reached the end of the avenue. Younger saplings were growing down this end, opening up the avenue into a junction. Tom skidded to a halt, almost slipping and falling on the uneven ground. He dared not turn around. Which way to go? Left, or right?

  Straight on, Tom’s senses screamed, into the trees. Lose him in the forest.

  He ran on, straight ahead, his stomach doing somersaults as he went. His mouth was dry with fear and his throat began to burn from running in the cold air. Tom chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, but saw only a blur of green and gray. He pushed on, farther into the dense forest. Glancing again, he almost collided with a tree trunk. Instead becoming tangled in one of its lower branches, he was forced to stop and take stock.

  Panting for breath, he peered into the distance, expecting his pursuer to come crashing through the foliage any moment. He put his right hand to his chest, willing his heart palpitations to stop. But just thinking about how panicked he was had the reverse effect. The act of becoming aware of how fast his heart rate was actually triggered it to beat faster. Tom grabbed the branch beside him for support, gripping it for dear life as he took great gulps of air. He began to wonder if he had imagined the man in the trees, to wonder if maybe his eyes were making a mockery of him. He blinked, and saw the shape of that axe head again; silhouetted razor sharp against his vision.

  He’s a phantom, he thought, though his blind panic was telling him otherwise. He’s a figment. He can’t be real, can he?

  Then—snap.

  Another twig, somewhere among the trees he’d careered through just a few moments ago. Cursing his pounding heart, Tom pushed himself off the branch and ran again.

  This time, Tom did not pause to look back over his shoulder until he felt like he’d put some distance between him and his pursuer. Only when he neared a dip in the ground that opened up into a narrow path through the trees did he slow his pace enough for a backwards glance.

  No one there.

  He turned; now walking backwards slowly as he surveyed the shadows between the rows of tall firs. Still no one there. He had either outrun the axe-wielding stranger—or imagined him entirely. Tom felt unsure about which outcome was worse, but was glad of the opportunity to pause for breath. He was about to turn and stop walking backwards when he stumbled and fell down a sudden, steep slope.

  Tom tumbled painfully down the slope, jarring his shoulders and neck as he came to a crashing halt at the bottom. He heard his clothing rip and felt the burning sting of sharp needles penetrating the flesh of his arms and back as he rolled to a stop. Rising to a kneeling position, he spat little needles from his mouth and raised his head to see where on earth he’d fallen to.

  All around him were the sharp, spiky branches of Christmas trees. He had managed to fall directly into the plantation Rory had mentioned back at the work shed. Tom got to his feet gingerly, wincing at the sharp sting of yet more needles tearing at his flesh as he stood up. The plantation was vast, with festive trees of all shapes and sizes stretching as far as he could see to the very periphery of his vision. Some were fat-bodied Norwegian spruces, their limbs like the bristly blue legs of huge tarantulas. Others were the deeper green firs native to Douglass, many of which stood a full adult human in height above their Nordic cousins. All were pregnant with needles, each tiny pinpoint seemingly designed by nature to wound his tender flesh should he be fool enough to go any farther through their ranks.

  He looked back the way he had come. The slope down which he had fallen was sheer, and he doubted the journey back up it would be as easy as his descent. Still, he had to try—the alternative would be to put his body through the mess of pine needles jutting out all around him. Treading carefully so he could squeeze between the branches of the trees lining the foot of the slope, he made his way painfully slowly to the edge of the tree line. Once there, he surveyed the slope. It offered little in the way of foot- or handholds. He located a single, jutting root and grabbed a hold of it with both hands, pulling himself up onto the slope. His feet slid on the muddy surface and the root pulled away from the ground, snapping off in his hands. He fell again, not as hard as before but again felt the unwelcome sting of pine needles as he came to a rest among the tree trunks. Tom lay there for a few moments, uncertain of how to overcome his predicament, when his pursuer decided the outcome for him.

  He came out of nowhere, the axe-wielding shape, descending from above as though he had glided down the slope on a carpet of mist. He smelled the man’s breath, rotten to the core, bearing down on his face like poison rain. He felt the cold kiss of the axe blade, biting into his throat as the man held him down with his free hand.

  Tom thrashed wildly, kicking his feet and smashing his fists against his assailant’s bulky form. He had no doubt now that the man was real. Kicking harder, he managed to slide from under the axe blade and get himself into a seated position. His eyes met those of his attacker. They burned red like hot coals from the dark of his cowl, just as they had from the fireplace of all his childhood nightmares. Tom kicked his legs up and under his body and bolted into the thick of the trees, careless of the death trap of needles all around him. The stiletto fronds slashed at his cheeks and a hot flush of blood blossomed there, warm trickles streaking his face. He ignored their sting, intent on outrunning the assailant at his heels, to be rid of his dark swinging axe for once and for all.

  Driven by panic, Tom ran into a nest of pine branches thick as a nest of knitting needles. This time he did cry out; they tore through his sleeves and trouser legs, making mincemeat of his skin beneath. He thrashed and tw
isted, kicked and turned, but succeeded only in driving himself deeper into the lethal nest of needles. His mind raced, and he imagined the families that would come to this place in December, picking out their trees with babes in arms. The tree plantation was meant to be a haven for festive family activities. But now he was trapped inside it, it had become an arena of pain.

  Desperate to escape he dropped to his knees and crawled like a child beneath the branches. Loose needles scraped his chin, hands and knees as he crawled—as low as a snake—to pass through the smaller, younger specimens. He kept crawling, blood from his wounds trickling into his eyes, turning his vision to a crimson wash. Remembering his recurring nightmare, he felt the dreaded touch of those hideous baubles, raining blood from the branches of that hellish Christmas tree.

  And they were all around him now, those branches, brimming with pain, spiked with death. But Tom could now see there was light beyond them; an escape tunnel of light between the trunks of the saplings, some two hundred feet away. Tom gritted his teeth and crawled for it. When he finally emerged from the plantation, still crawling, sobbing with pain and fear, Tom crashed into something soft; something that enveloped him and held him fast.

  A soft voice worried over him, told him to be still, asking what on earth had happened, where on earth he had been.

  It was Holly. As Tom lay there, bleeding in her arms, he could not speak for lack of breath. His eyes were still fixed on the blanket of Christmas trees, through which he had made his escape, and the dark beyond them where the axman lurked. As the sensation returned to his fingertips, then his hands and wrists, Tom recalled the touch of that cold blade on his throat—and he shivered.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tom pushed away from the cloying warmth of Holly’s arms and marched off into the trees.

  “Where are you going? Car’s this way, back at the farm,” she called after him.

  Her words fell on deaf ears. Tom was already several meters away, striding purposefully to God only knew where.

  She followed.

  “What’s wrong, Tom? When you came out of the trees I thought you’d been attacked.” A thought struck her. “Were you attacked? Did Joe’s boys rough you up in there?”