by Peter Laws
He shook his head and turned onto his side, distracted by the loudest question of all.
– And why’s that fat bugger from the church looking at my daughter like that?
They had three more days to go in Hobbs Hill, land of the wooden crosses, then they’d all return to London to wait for the answer of whether Wren got this job or not. And all he could think was that he hoped she didn’t.
I don’t want her here. I don’t want my family here.
He stared up, watching the black fingers caressing the cottage. Eventually they moved softly enough to stroke him into a deep, haunted sleep.
‘Daddy?’
Amelia’s voice came from somewhere under the water. He looked down and she was gazing up through the darkness of the lake, skin blue with the night moon. Her face was shrivelling.
‘Daddy?’ Her voice, trapped in a bubble. ‘I can hear them. Can you hear them?’
He reached down and put his hands in the lake. Ice-cold water spiked up into his fingertips, deep like needles and all he could do was snap his hand back and suck his fingers as she drifted down, down and down again.
Her mouth was moving and though he couldn’t hear it he could see the shape of ‘verecundus’ on her lips. Over and over. She sang it like a nursery rhyme as she went down. Her tiny blue eyes, the last things he saw, shimmered in the dull light before the black reeds slowly – horribly slowly – wriggled themselves around her face and body, covering her cheeks, her chin, one of her eyes. And with a sharp, hard yank, dragged her into obliv—
‘Daddy!’
His eyes fluttered open.
‘Daddy, you’ve got to wake up.’
Little fingers pushed at his shoulder. He sucked in a long chest-filling breath. Amelia was standing at the side of the bed in her favourite nightie. The one with the cartoon moon on it with its winking eye and its two thumbs up. All aboard for Dreamland it said. It looked frankly psychotic in the light.
‘What’s wrong?’ He pushed himself up on his elbow and clocked that Wren was still snoring softly beside him.
He tapped the backlight on his watch.
3.01 a.m.
Amelia’s chin was trembling. ‘Daddy, I can hear children.’
‘Huh?’
‘Little children. I think they’re near my window.’
He sighed and swung his legs over the side, feet touching the cold wooden floorboards. Then he knelt down and wrapped his arms all the way around her. ‘It’s a bad dream, okay. I’m here.’
‘I’m seven. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. You should check.’ She pursed her lips. ‘They’re crying.’
When he stood he heard the creak of the floorboards before realising that actually the sound came from his knees. She led him by the hand to the door in nothing but his boxer shorts. The day had been hot, but the night had a bite of cold about it. So he grabbed his dressing gown from the hook on the wall and he stepped into his Yoda slippers.
He glanced across the lump of Wren in the bed to the curtainless bedroom window above her. It showed the same relentless channel it always did. Forest by day, forest by night. He squinted. The trees had shuffled themselves closer to the house. They seemed to do that at night, as though the entire wood contracted in the cold.
His trusty little torch (a stocking filler from his mum, years back) sat on the dressing table. He grabbed it but didn’t switch it on.
He put a finger across his mouth, shhhhhhh, as they slowly pushed open the bedroom door. He and Amelia crept along the landing to the other side of the cottage where her room was. Boards creaking beneath them, like they were living in a huge wicker basket of a house.
The landing was a surprisingly long and lonely walk in the dark. Old paintings of hunting dogs and wild-eyed, red-jacketed men on horseback glared out: pub wall images that were bland and innocuous in the daylight but looked mad and deranged at night. Even the normally enigmatic Shore family photos looked a little unhinged in the dark.
Two stuffed weasels sat on the side table along the wall, looking like they might suddenly wiggle their backsides like a cat and pounce, despite being dead.
So this was the walk Amelia had to do each night when she went to the toilet? Across this wooden floor, past those eager little weasels and the black gaping mouth of the staircase. All because she was the only one without an en suite in her room?
It made him want to scoop her up and let her sleep in their bedroom for the rest of the holiday.
They passed Lucy’s room where the floorboards creaked louder than at any other part. He winced, pulled up his foot and took a double step over them. He lifted Amelia over like it was a ravine.
Her bedroom door was next. Half open. Lights off inside. He closed it softly behind them and stepped over the teddies that lay on the floor and past her telescope that stood on its tripod, aimed up at Orion’s Belt.
They both knelt at her window, which, like all the others, had no curtains. Their arms and faces quickly glowed bright in a sharp block of moonlight falling into the room.
‘I’m going to push the window open, alright?’ he whispered.
Her body tensed. ‘Don’t fall out.’
‘Not planning to.’
The hinges on these windows were wide enough to push each window all the way open, fully flush with the external white walls of the cottage. Suddenly there was a rectangular hole in the wall. No glass at all between them and the forest.
He heard the low hum of a breeze running through the trees.
‘Why would children even be in the woods?’ she whispered. ‘At this time of night?’
‘It’ll be owls or something.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘You’re safe, okay? I’m here.’
Calming words that did absolutely nothing to change the look of dread on her face.
For a few minutes they just watched the dark garden and listened to the crackling trees. The torch wasn’t much use, due to its limited range, but he still swung his little beam about and swept it along the hedge. He stood up. Leant out.
‘Daddy, careful!’
Lucy’s room was on this side of the cottage too. As he leant out he noticed that her window was open halfway. Thick vines crawled like a beanstalk up from the ground and gathered round the glass and the—
Crack.
Amelia jumped.
‘What was that?’ She tugged at him to come back inside.
It was the faintest sound coming from somewhere in the garden. Or just beyond it. A twig snapping? He flicked the torch over. Nothing. He slowly moved the torch to shine out into the woods. Beyond the nearest trees the feeble beam of light faded into nothingness.
It happened again.
Crack.
Quieter this time.
Blood pulsed loudly through his head. Instinctively he went to push Amelia back. ‘Get down,’ he said to her. ‘Go on.’
She started to crouch on the floor, and it was just as she put her head on the carpet that the other sound came. Not a crack this time, but a sound so terrible that Amelia threw her hands over her ears, crying into the floor. ‘I told you. I told you.’
A cold shiver shot through his chest as a child screamed, deep in the woods.
‘Jesus.’ He locked his legs against the window sill then leant further out, as far as he could without falling.
‘Daddy, don’t.’ Her voice was muffled, because her hand was clamped over it. ‘You’ll fall.’
‘I just want a closer look.’ He clamped the torch between his teeth, moving his head so the beam crept along the hedge. Which was when he saw it.
The tip of a brown hood, dropping from sight behind their hedge.
Then the unmistakeable cracking of twigs as someone ran off.
‘Hey!’ When he shouted the torch dropped clean from his mouth and bounced silently on the grass below. The beam lit a jagged path across the garden. ‘Who’s out there?’
Amelia burst into louder tears and grabbed his legs, hugging them, heaving him back in so that he started to lose
his balance.
He clamped both hands on the sill. ‘Stop pulling me!’
Heartbeat, clicking fast now.
The hedge was long and thick enough so that whoever was there could have easily run around the entire perimeter of the cottage and stayed unseen. They could have run straight off into the woods if they’d wanted.
He pushed himself back inside and Amelia finally let go.
‘I told you,’ she whimpered, shaking against him.
He picked her up and she gripped him painfully tight as he rushed back onto the landing, his breath shallow in his chest. Wren and Lucy were already emerging from their bedroom doors, bleary-eyed.
‘What’s with the shouting?’ Lucy rubbed her eyes.
‘Wren, get the girls into our bedroom. Go!’
The sharpness in his tone shocked them fully awake and Wren rushed over. ‘What’s happening?’
Amelia was sobbing, but she managed to speak. ‘There’s someone out there. Watching the house. They’re killing little kids.’
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘No, they’re not.’ Matt handed Amelia over. ‘Just calm down, Amelia. Stay with your mum and sister. And Lucy?’
She looked over at him, eyes wide. He could tell exactly what she was thinking. That her dad had finally got himself out of prison and had tracked her and Wren down. Climbing up the vines as they spoke.
‘Don’t worry, okay? Don’t worry.’ As soon as he said it he thought, how the hell do you know it’s not him?
The two girls raced towards the bedroom but Wren told them to wait. Instead she ran to grab Matt’s arm, halfway down the stairs. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To have a look.’ He cleared the last few steps in one stride, then grabbed his keys from the little basket by the phone. He picked up one of the iron pokers from the fire, holding it up like a light sabre.
‘Don’t,’ she called after him.
‘I can catch him,’ his keys were in the door now, ‘if I’m quick.’
‘Daddy, no!’ Amelia yelped desperately. It was a heartbreaking sound. Lucy stayed silent.
‘Let’s just call the police,’ Wren said.
‘He’ll be long gone by the time they get here. Now please, Wren. Go back upstairs.’
When he pushed the front door open a cold breeze slammed into him like it had raced through the woods all in one moment. The entire dark forest seemed to swing in his direction.
So, we’ve got your attention now? You’re finally coming out to play? He saw the shadows between the trees. Thought of those two foxes striding out.
‘Just don’t,’ Wren said, more pleading than a command. ‘You’re being stupid.’
He hovered for a moment.
‘Matt, please. What are you doing?’
He sighed, frustrated. Unsure how to answer. Then slowly, he closed the door and locked it tight. When he turned back she was already jabbing at the 9’s on the phone.
He reached out. ‘I’d better do it. I’ll tell them what I saw.’
She passed him the phone.
‘Hello,’ came the police voice. She had a buzz for a voice, a pissed off robot. ‘Which emergency service would you like?’
‘Police.’
He talked as he walked through every room on the downstairs floor, shocked at how vulnerable he felt having no curtains anywhere. He wandered past each dark window, heart bracing itself to see a hooded figure there, scratching its fingernails on the glass. But there was nothing apart from the dull silhouette of him in a dressing gown. Then after what seemed like a million questions the woman on the phone said they’d send someone out. Wren had already gone back upstairs and after hanging up the phone he rushed up too. He found all three of them huddled on the bed. Wren with her arms wrapped round her young like a seagull in the storm.
When he ran to them, Lucy was the one he hugged first and, although it could have been his imagination, he thought he felt her muscles relax a little as he did it.
‘Don’t worry, the police are on their way.’
But he knew.
He knew full well that the second he closed that front door he’d missed his chance. And whoever it was that had been lurking under Amelia’s bedroom was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
They ran together.
Leaping over loose logs and crooked tree stumps because God had given them eyes that could see in the dark. For the most part they moved fast. But every now and again they’d have to slow down. Out here at this time of night, it was easy to lose your way home.
Soon there’d be street lights. If they were moving in the right direction, they should emerge at the far edge of the wood. And the harder they ran the more the tree trunks seemed to glow.
Gradually, the eyes of civilisation blinked themselves into view. Seeing those lights told them that they’d been clever and fast. That they’d run far enough away to breathe again.
It was as they were pushing through the wall of trees and out onto the long empty road that he started to struggle. Maybe it was the relief of having an entire forest between them and the cottage. But now he could actually feel his body. The creaking pain of it. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribcage like a rabid dog fighting to get out of him, so he pressed a hand up there to keep it from splitting the skin.
Then, as the silent moonlit road took a hefty curve upwards, he slowed to a stop. He leant over and grabbed his knees for support. Stephen kept on running.
‘I can’t, Stephen,’ he gasped, trying to call out. ‘Just stop a second.’ He grabbed the edge of his hoodie, finally confident it was safe to pull it back from his head. His chest pulled his breath in and pushed his body up and down, up and down. It made him feel dizzy, like he wasn’t just standing on the road but falling through it.
Stephen was fifty feet ahead now, on the brink of the hill. From this angle it looked like his silhouette was standing flush with the star-covered sky. Like it was all some big black stage curtain, and he might slip between the folds of it at any second. But then Stephen finally turned. His cheek shone blue and he sighed as he headed back down.
‘What you stopping for, dingbat?’ Stephen said. ‘We’re almost home.’
‘I can’t. I need a rest. Just sixty seconds.’
Stephen’s eyes moved towards the forest, just to make sure that Professor Hunter hadn’t followed them. ‘Okay. Sixty. But for God’s sake, let’s get out of sight.’
This part of the road was lined with cornfields. Perfect to hide in. So Stephen pulled some of it back like a door. Once they stepped through he let go and the corn sprang back, letting the field swallow them up. They found a section where they could sit and both dropped to their knees, crunching the corn beneath them. They felt the sheer beauty of rapidly filling lungs.
Sixty seconds passed and he was about to stand up when Stephen turned his head and said, ‘Just haaaaaang on a minute.’
‘What?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘What do you think? We need to talk about you. And your issues.’
‘What issues?’
‘About her.’
‘I just wanted to pray for her.’
‘Oh, really?’ Stephen’s smile looked crooked in the moonlight. ‘That’s all? That’s all you wanted?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s why we came all this way tonight? To pray?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bollocks. I saw the bulge in your pants when you were under her window.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Quite a package you’ve got—’
‘Shut up! It’s not like that. I just want to get her ready.’
‘Can’t help but notice …’ Stephen giggled as he looked down, ‘the bulge is still there. You should sort that out. Make it go away.’
‘Stop it, please.’ He didn’t like it when their conversation turned this way.
‘Go on. Just get unzipped and sort it out. I bet it’ll make you
run faster.’
‘I don’t want to. It’s not right.’
Stephen groaned. ‘Oh and you think keeping all that tension in is the right thing? You need to get it out of your system. You know how it works. Externalise what you want to do with her. It’s quicker that way, especially now you’re getting on a bit. Then it’s out of you and we can forget it and get on with the real stuff.’
A breeze ran through the corn and all of it swayed to the left at the same time. ‘I don’t know, it just feels wrong. God doesn’t like it.’
‘You think tossing yourself off is wrong but you can strangle Tabby Clarke? Just like that?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it?’ Stephen started edging a little closer. ‘Listen … if you don’t want to do it then … let me do it for you.’
The shock of what Stephen said made him spring to his feet. ‘Don’t ever say that. That’s disgusting.’
Stephen lay flat on his back, laughing. ‘I’m kidding you, gay-boy. Wow, you are so uptight.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘No, I mean we need to get home. Maybe he followed us all this way.’
‘Nah, he’s still at the cottage. I saw him open the door and shut it again. He chickened out.’ Stephen snorted a laugh. ‘He’s a wuss.’
‘Then come on. Let’s go.’
‘You know, you’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Or I swear to God your penis is going to explode. Boom!’ Stephen sat back up and reached up his hand. ‘Help me up.’
He waited for a moment, not sure if he wanted to touch him. Then before he knew it Stephen’s hand was in his and he was already on his feet.
Suddenly, Stephen wouldn’t let go of his hand. ‘What’s this?’
‘What?’
‘Your fingernails. Why are they so dirty? There’s soil under them.’
‘We’re in the forest. I must have slipped.’
Stephen frowned and held up his own fingers. ‘Mine are clean.’
‘Well, hooray for you,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘At least I got to pray for her. That’s what matters. It’s good to prepare the ground, Stephen.’