Woodhill Wood

by David Harris Wilson

  But the wrong person knew.

  A chill rose up Gurde's spine and filled his head. They had made it so easy, spelled it out, and included the address and telephone number.

  For a moment Gurde believed. Green Valley and St Thomas', and now Edinburgh. He could be out there, watching, waiting in the long grass of the field. Gurde knew what the killer would do if he came. He remembered the bloody ritual of carving that the newspapers had described. Then another smiling face would appear beneath another headline. Gurde crept to the bedroom wall and put on the light, driving any remaining shadows from the room.

  All the information he had needed, from one paragraph in a one leather bound book. The hours Gurde had spent wondering about the pattern, telling himself that it was false, that he was being stupid, and all the time a copy had been in the study, sitting behind the father's head as he worked, screaming to be found.

  No. Even now, it had to be false. Gurde would not accept it even with the words thrust into his face. It was too big. It had been on television. It would not fit into his world. There had to be another reason. Gurde repeated those six words over and over, thumping the rhythm inside his head to keep him from running. There had to be another reason. What had the father done to deserve such attention? He was being stupid.

  Perhaps now was the time to go to the police? They could tell him that it wasn't true, that he was being stupid. The Who's Who entry was enough to convince them that there was a pattern, even if it wouldn't convince the father. Gurde could show the police the entry in the book and then they would put an armed guard around the house, day and night and then, if the man came, they would catch him.

  But they said he was a nutter, and yet he had seemed to avoid them easily, nobody knowing where he would strike, leaving only confusion in his wake. With Edinburgh so close, and the man already back on the road, perhaps tomorrow would be too late, perhaps he was already in the garden waiting for the lights to go out. Gurde decided to telephone the police as soon as the father had gone to bed.

  But if the father slept in the study, Gurde wouldn't be able to get to the phone without him knowing. And the father wouldn't believe him and would stop him phoning.

  The father would believe the police if they told him: if the Law told him then it had to be true. Gurde had to do something: he had to make sure the father didn't sleep in the study. He had to get the parents to sleep together.

  Gurde waited a while before going downstairs. It was a relief just having something to do, instead of dwelling on what might be out there in the darkness. It had taken him an hour to think of how to get the parents talking again. Now it was planned and Gurde was sure it would work. They had to share the same bed for one more night.

  The mother was still sitting in her sofa with her book flat on her lap. Gurde paused in the doorway for a second as she sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. There was a pressure in his throat but Gurde knew he had to disturb her.

  "Mum?" he whispered.

  She looked up slowly, forcing a smile to her lips. Gurde smiled back.

  "You OK?"he asked.

  "Yes, Matty, I'll be all right."

  "Mum, can I ask you a question?"

  "Of course you can."

  Gurde sat down beside her, sliding up against her so that their shoulders touched, faking embarrassment, prepared to sacrifice his pride. "Mum... er... Mum... what's a durex?"

  She shifted away slightly. "Er... well it's... why do you ask?"

  "Well, somebody at school said that if I didn't have a durex then I could get a girl pregnant."

  "Yes, well that might be right."

  "Have I got one then?"

  "I don't know. Have you?"

  "I thought you could tell me."

  She hesitated. "Well, it's not exactly something you're born with. You see, you er... you have to go and buy them."

  "I see." Gurde waited for a few seconds, apparently deep in thought. "Why?"

  "Don't you know?"

  Gurde put on a blank expression.

  "Well... " She put her book on to the floor and took a deep breath. "Well, it's to stop women from getting pregnant."

  "Yes, I know that."

  "It's a little... It's... Is your father still working?"

  "Shall I go and see?"

  "Yes," she said quickly. "I think he would be better at explaining this sort of thing."

  "Do you think? I'll go and get him."

  "No... I..."

  Gurde skipped out of the room before the mother had a chance to stop him. The study door was open, which meant the father was probably in the kitchen. Gurde hurried through and found him stirring a pan of spaghetti sauce on the cooker.

  "Dad? Can you leave that for a second? Mum wants a word."

  "Now?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Doesn't she know I'm busy."

  "Please. Just for a minute."

  "Oh, all right. What does she want now."

  He tutted as he turned off his boiling pan. They walked back through the hall together. As they entered the sitting room the parents' eyes locked and the tension rose. Gurde went over and sat on the piano stool. The father took up position standing against the fireplace with an expression of annoyance on his face.

  "Well?" the father said.

  "Sorry?" she replied.

  The father sighed. "Matt said you wanted a word."

  "Not me. Matty wanted to ask you something."

  He turned towards Gurde. "Yes?" he asked.

  Gurde looked across at the mother, imploring her to speak. The father's eyes turned back to her.

  "What is going on?"

  "Um... Matty wants to know what... he wants to know what a... what a durex is for."

  The father let out a burst of laughter that made him clutch for the mantlepiece. The mother's embarrassed look crumbled and she too started to giggle into her chest. Gurde put on a hurt expression. "What's so funny?" he said.

  "Sorry son," the father said, "it's just not quite what I'd expected."

  "Why's that?" Gurde asked.

  The father laughed again. "Your poor mother." He looked across at her and smiled. She returned the smile and now there was some warmth in their contact. "Come and sit over here." The father gestured towards the space on the sofa beside the mother. Gurde moved across and sat down beside her. It was going well.

  She took her son's hand and patted it. The father moved forward so that he stood over the mother, leaning on the very end of the mantelpiece, showing that they were together in their parental concern.

  "Well now," he began, "you've done Biology so you know all about how you came into this world." Gurde nodded. "Well, sometimes couples want to... make love without having children." Gurde nodded again. "There are various things that the woman can do to stop this happening. There's the Pill and the Coil and the Headache." The mother looked up grinning and gave him a gentle poke in the ribs with her index finger. "Now, the man is more limited.." The mother nodded. "..because as soon as the.. er.. semen leaves his body it is, so to speak, out of his hands." Gurde was now smiling as well. "So, devices were invented to catch it before it could do its business. In the old days they used to use sheep stomach's, didn't they, Pat?"

  "And leather pouches..."

  "Ouch... nasty," he said, screwing up his face. "Well, in these more civilised times, they have invented little rubber balloons that fit on nice and neatly and they..."

  "I know what a condom is." Gurde said.

  "Oh. Well, yes, I thought it was bit odd that you didn't know by now."

  "Ah!" The mother interrupted. "I see now. A durex is just another name for a... condom."

  "OK." Gurde said, nodding appreciatively.

  "Was that the problem?" The father asked. "There you go then. Trade names. I don't know..."

  "Do you use..?" Gurde asked.

  "Well," the father went on, "you know the old saying `That's torn it'..." He smiled again.

  "Wasn't I supposed to happen
then?"

  "Oh no," the mother said, "you were planned."

  "...Ben?"

  The father took over again. "Well, Matt, let's just say Ben was an unexpected pleasure. I don't think you should tell him that though, do you, Pat?"

  The mother took her son's hand. "No. I'll tell him if he ever asks, but you mustn't say anything to your brother. It might hurt his feelings."

  "I won't."

  "Have you got any stashed away, Matt?" the father asked.

  The mother sat up straight. "Roger!" She turned to Gurde. "You don't have to answer that dear."

  The father continued. "Well, it's just that Matt might be needing some before too long and I wouldn't want him to get caught with his pants down." He laughed again. The mother checked that Gurde was laughing too before she joined in.

  "I haven't got any at the moment" Gurde said. "Somebody at school tried to sell me one."

  "Fresh or second-hand?"

  "Eh?"

  "Was it still in its little foil wrapper?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "That's all right then. I wouldn't get a second-hand one if I were you. You don't know where it's been." They laughed again. The father walked across to the cupboard in the corner and pulled out three glasses and a half-empty bottle of wine. He had already poured the wine out before he asked, "anybody fancy a glass?" Gurde nodded vigorously. The mother had relaxed, sitting back into the sofa with her head held up, reaching for her glass with a smile.

  Gurde had to time his exit carefully, to leave them together at just the right moment, to ensure the warmth would go on without him. He drained the glass as quickly as seemed reasonable. It seemed a shame not to be able to enjoy it but he had to be free to go.

  The moment to leave didn't take long to come.

  "Where shall we go on holiday this year?" the father asked. "Any preferences, Matt?"

  "Oban?"

  "Well, we were up there just a couple of weeks ago but I don't mind going up that way again. Perhaps we could go right out to the Isles, rent a place for a few days. What to do you think Pat?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "No? Didn't you like it up there?" he said, surprised at her lack of enthusiasm.

  "It's not that, it's just... "

  "What then?"

  Mum glanced across at her son. Gurde picked up the signal and prepared to leave.

  "We didn't really enjoy ourselves last time, did we?" she said.

  "I don't know. I quite it enjoyed it really but I... "

  "It wasn't like it used to be.. " She crossed her legs and picked a hair off her skirt.

  "I'm sorry about that. It was just that.. "

  "I'd better be off to bed," Gurde said, "I've got to be up early tomorrow."

  "Why's that?" Dad asked.

  "Um.. I just feel like an early start."

  They both smiled as Gurde stood up and left them to their discussion. He glanced back just before he left the room to see the father refilling the mother's glass from the bottle. Then he climbed the stairs and settled down to wait.

  The parents climbed the stairs together two hours later. Gurde had started to think they were going to talk all night, so it was a relief to hear them getting ready for bed: the sink running in the bathroom, the sound of scrubbing teeth, the toilet being flushed, the door closing and silence falling over the landing.

  There was a certain satisfaction that Gurde had managed to bring them together, even if it was only for one more night. He wondered what they would think if they knew he had planned it that way or the reason why he had done so.

  Gurde waited another quarter of an hour before he crept out on to the landing and tiptoed downstairs, carrying the black book, carefully avoiding the two creaky steps on the bottom flight.

  He shut the study door without a sound. The Chronicle Yearbook slid neatly back into position on its shelf. Gurde had already taken a written copy of the Who's Who entry and hidden it with the collection of newspapers.

  The telephone was sitting on the far corner of the desk surrounded by scattered sheets of paper covered in the father's scrawled notes. Gurde sat in the chair where the mother performed her conversations and stared through the gloom at the numbers on the dial. He took a deep breath, planned his opening line and reached for the receiver.

  It seemed heavier than usual as he put it to his ear and grew heavier still as he tried to imagine what the police would say. A wave of doubt crashed over him and Gurde put the receiver back.

  The room was dark, lit only by bright moonlight. He hadn't dared to put the lamp on. The shadows of the bare trees against the garden wall lay across the floor and Gurde imagined seeing the shadow of a crouched figure creeping amongst the uprights, sniffing the air, watching.

  Once again Gurde snatched up the receiver and held it tightly to his ear. He put a finger on to the number nine and tried to distract himself as he turned the clicking dial forward and back three times.

  A gruff male voice came on the line. "Emergency. Which service do you require?"

  "Er.. Police!"

  "What's the problem?"

  "I think... I think that man in the newspaper is... is coming to kill my Dad." It sounded ridiculous.

  "Name?"

  "Can I have the police please!"

  "If you don't give me your name, I can't help you."

  "Are you the police?"

  "Name, sonny."

  "I..."

  "Come on, son. You're keeping off somebody who really needs to..."

  Gurde slammed the receiver back down and held it there, trying to squeeze any remaining life out of it, cursing how he must have sounded to the man in the white room at the other end. He thumped the desk, buried his face in his arms and stayed there until he was afraid he might fall asleep and have to explain it to the person that found him in the morning.

  He didn't feel like crying. He felt nothing, as if this was the way it was going to be no matter what he did. There was no reason to feel. All he could do was wait.

  As Gurde slipped back into the hall the pounding six-word thought returned: there had to be another reason. It was too big. Gurde glanced towards the front door, expecting to see the handle moving in the gloom and a silhouette leaning against the wall. A noise from the kitchen sent him scuttling upstairs towards the covers, even though he knew it was only the washing machine changing cycle.

  The sun and moon shared the morning sky. Gurde had not slept well. He ran down the frost-covered road to buy the newspaper.

  "You again?" Mr MacKenzie said from his chair. "You're getting to be regular. Let's see? News of the World, is it?"

  "Er... yes please."

  "Anything else?"

  "I'd better take a Sunday Times as well."

  "Right you are." Mr Mackenzie prised himself upright and tottered to the far end of the counter to pull the papers from their piles. "No sweets?"

  "No thanks."

  "You no' finished the last lot?" Mr MacKenzie said with a wry grin.

  "No. They weren't all for me, anyway. They were for a party."

  They exchanged money and Gurde hauled the newspapers back up the hill towards the house. As he climbed he looked around, watching for figures amongst the trees. He tried to guess what the black letters would spell out. It was too cold to take his hands out of his pockets. He waited for the warmth of the bedroom before opening the paper and reading the new headline.

  Gurde threw the heavy paper on to the dining room table and carried his own lighter read up to the room. He unrolled the paper across the bedclothes, wondering what clues the fresh black letters might spell out. His guesses at the headline were wrong, but it was up to their usual standards: KILLER HEADS NORTH.

  He read the few words on the front page. Then he opened the paper to be confronted by a pencil drawing that filled half of the third page. It was a side-on, head and shoulders sketch of a man with thick, dark curly hair and a long sharp nose. The eyes were drawn wide and staring and seemed to bury into his head under a wide brow.
The bones of his cheeks were drawn long and black and he had a short slit for a mouth.

  Below the sketch was printed a short explanation claiming that this was the man, as seen running away from the scene in Edinburgh.

  As Gurde stared at the picture, he was aware that he had never tried to imagine a face, as if by denying the man humanity he could more easily keep him away. Without warning, it was no longer just a bad dream, but real, made of flesh and blood. Even if the drawing looked nothing like him, the man suddenly had a nose and ears and eyes and so could breathe, hear and see. He looked young, almost normal, apart from the size of his eyes and the way they had distorted his profile to make him look mad.

  Gurde stared at those eyes, putting colour into them, making them flit back and forth and roll in their sockets to turn to look straight back. Another of the familiar shudders wormed its way up Gurde's spine and ran its fingers around the back of his neck. It was like the face staring out from behind the darkened mirror.

  He climbed off the bed and walked across the room to pull out the other newspapers from their hiding place behind the chest of drawers. He laid the headlines across the floor in front of him and added the latest one to the end. The words seemed to have become increasingly desperate as time had moved on.

  The man would be reading this too, knowing that his time was shortening. He would be looking at their pencil drawing of him and inspecting his own face in the mirror.

  Gurde had telephoned the police but they hadn't believed him. Should he try again while the study was empty? The parents were still in bed, the same bed. That might never happen again. Gurde had expected the police to listen and yet there in the newspaper was the repeated demand that anyone with information should come forward, and there was even an interview with one of the Kent mothers pleading for the same. If only his voice had been deeper they might have listened, but he couldn't expect them to believe that a boy of fourteen could have the answer. How many similar calls must they have had to turn away since the story laid claim to the news? Yet the papers still cried out that there was no pattern, that the killings were random and brutal.