Killing Woods

by Lucy Christopher

  She’s there.

  Her face is right in front of me. Her blonde hair whips away from her cheeks, flies back with the wind. Her skin is pale and her eyes a dull brown. I want to touch her. She’s floating backwards, across to the part of the Leap with the jagged rocks: Suicide Drop. I follow her around.

  No … Don’t leave … not yet …

  Her voice or mine?

  Her eyes spin like whirlpools, drag me closer. Then she blinks again. Gone.

  I look over. I want her. Right now I think I’d jump off this summit, straight into the jagged part, if it meant I could collide with her first … tumble down with her pressed to me. Feel her for those last few moments, her body up close. One last time. Maybe that – really – is the only way out of this. A huge gust of wind grabs at my clothes, wants to take me over. I glance at the rocks below and I think I see her again, but she’s further away, just a wisp of light, something fading into black. Is she telling me to let go?

  I remember how I was standing up here with Emily Shepherd, how I’d fooled her by jumping on to the ledge beneath. I feel bad about that now – about being so cocky about what I thought I knew. If Emily was here, I’d ask if she could see Ashlee; I might hold on to her instead. Now I grab on to plants and hang over the summit.

  I could let go. I could fall head first. It wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe it’s the easiest way out of this. Then I’d be tumbling into Ashlee, joining her. I’d know the truth – maybe I would – I’d know what I did that night. I loosen my grip, just a little, feel myself slide. I can still catch myself, can still grab on to things or angle myself on to the ledge below, for a few more seconds I can. But I think about Ashlee lying dead in these woods and I want to hit those rocks with my face. I think of her skin cold and rotting, and I want my skull to crack. I want my brains to spill. My brains never did me no good anyway, never told my stupid drugged-up body when to stop.

  And I’m sliding … sliding … but I don’t care. I just want to get close to her, feel her body round me like how she’d promised that night. And I think I’m working out now what Mack’s been protecting me from – I think I’m putting together that other image in my head, the one of me swaying down the high street. Because Mack got me out of these woods that night. He must have. Mack got me home. This means Mack knows. He knows what I must’ve done. This means he’s been hiding me from it. This means what I did must be pretty damn bad.

  43

  Emily

  Ihear Mum going into her room, but it’s too early for bed, even for her. I lie in my own darkening room staring at the ceiling. I thought I’d feel different after chopping up Dad’s uniform. But there’s still this niggling sliver of doubt. It sits at the back of my head like one of Joe’s cracks of light, teasing another world where Dad can still be innocent. It’s dangerous to look at too long.

  So I think about Damon instead: his lips trembling in the bunker, the pause of his eyes on mine, his tattoo full of stories. I still don’t understand why I gave him that sketch. Is he looking at it now? If I knew where he lived I’d go to his house, crawl into his room and steal it from him. I’d take it to Dad – he’s the only one who can tell me what it really means. I’ll tell Mum to tick yes on that form, tell her we have to visit immediately.

  I watch the moon creep into the sky. It’s full, fat and bright – a proper harvest moon. A hunter’s moon too. I go across to the window so I can see it better. But when I get there, I don’t look up, I look down. There are people in my lane, walking from the town end towards the gate into Darkwood. Three people – two tall and one shorter – talking with heads bowed together. I press the tips of my fingers under the bottom of my window and pull it up soundlessly, open it a crack. Something uneasy winds into my throat as I see who these boys are.

  ‘We need to find him.’ That’s the first thing I hear.

  It’s Mack Jenkins’ voice.

  I almost tap on the glass to get their attention – almost call down and ask what’s going on – but there’s something about Mack’s face that stops me. It’s drawn tight with fear, worry. He’s running a hand across his short hair, and his eyes are darting everywhere. I draw back a little. Damon’s other mates – Charlie Jones and Ed Wilkes – are either side of him, and they’re looking strung out too. Charlie is clenching his hands into fists and then opening them again. Ed is glancing in the direction of Joe’s house and scowling.

  ‘He’s going to get us all in trouble if the coppers get to him first,’ Mack is saying. ‘Right now with the way he is, he could do anything …’

  He stops before the gate and turns to the others. He’s talking low and fast. The only other words I catch are find him and split up and quick.

  Could he be talking about Damon? Could Damon still be in Darkwood? Still where I left him in the bunker this morning? Why else would his mates be looking for him? I think of the dark sketches on its walls, the hangings and guns and death, and I shiver. But if Damon is still there, then it means Dad’s sketch of Ashlee as a deer is still there too.

  ‘We got to find him before he does something stupid,’ Mack says again, his voice fading as he starts opening the gate. ‘You know what he’s like … fucking phone’s even off!’

  Each of them looks around before they slip through the gate. Mack goes through last, hesitating for a moment on the other side, looking out of the woods and towards our house. For one second I think he looks right into this window, right into me. He shakes his head once, almost like it’s a warning, almost like he knows I’m here, watching. But he can’t know this. I’m stood back from the window, deep in the darkness of my room. A second later, he turns around to the other two and they’re off again.

  ‘Damon’s not himself …’ I hear him saying, ‘… the last thing Damon needs …’

  Then they’re gone into the woods, even though it’s pretty much dark now. Why are they so desperate to find him? What do they think he’s done? Or is going to do? I turn from the window, grab my coat and go swiftly down the stairs. If Damon really is still in the bunker, only me and the police, and maybe Joe I guess, can find him there. Damon’s mates will have no luck. Perhaps this is my chance – to get that sketch back and make Damon explain Joe’s story, both at the same time. And I’m not scared of him like Joe thinks I should be. I know Damon’s not who Joe suspects.

  I’m out of the back door and spilling into the lane. I go to the gate and peer up the track into Darkwood. I can still, just about, make out the path. You’d think I’d hear Mack and the others walking down it, though, you’d think they couldn’t just melt into these woods. They’re boys after all, with heavy boys’ footsteps, and they don’t know this place like I do.

  I hesitate, looking up the path. If Damon is in the bunker he won’t have phone reception, he’ll be cut off from everything – no wonder his friends are frustrated. I keep myself moving forward by telling myself that I don’t have to stay long, that I can just get the sketch and speak a little to Damon. I can slip back into the woods before he even knows where I’ve gone. I don’t even have to go inside the bunker.

  It’s darker the further into the woods I go, despite the bright moon. I listen for anything, listen with my skin. I shouldn’t be in these woods right now, even with a full moon, even if I know this place just by feel. Weren’t these always Mum’s rules when I was younger – never go into the woods at night and never go into them alone? Now I’m doing both. But the closer I come to Damon, the more I know it’s the right thing. I feel that too, in the way my feet step out the path without me even looking down. There’s this strange sort of pull to him. Maybe it’s a little like how Joe felt with Ashlee in the woods that day – maybe I shouldn’t want this, but I do.

  I trip over briars as I hear the roar of a stag. It’s not close, but his noise is desperate and deep; he’s either protecting a herd or challenging for one. His roar masks the sound of my footsteps, hiding me. I’m careful as I get near the bunker, hovering the other side of the hawthorn hedge and looking acro
ss. There’s no light coming from inside it, but Damon could have pulled the cover over the entrance like Dad did sometimes. Like Dad, Damon could be sitting quietly in a corner. Again I hear that stag roaring, though further away now. A barn owl shrieks. I make myself think about getting that sketch back, and I slip through the hedge. I go to the bunker entrance, silent and quick. I pull back the lid.

  ‘Damon?’ I call down. ‘Are you in there?’

  44

  Damon

  I’ve seen something.

  It’s something far down the rock face, wedged between the rock and the jagged boulders. I’m trying to look for it again. But I’m scrambling and falling, grabbing at smooth stone. And I’m too late – I’m going over, over the edge of the Leap.

  I’m practically headfirst when I hit the ledge below. Somehow I grab at something, hold it, throw myself into the cave. I press myself against stone ’til I’m steady. Breathe.

  I look over again. Even in the full moonlight, it’s hard to make out. But there’s something, far below. I’d only caught a glimpse of it because I was looking at those jagged rocks so long, looking for Ashlee. It sparkles, glints. I rub my hand across my eyes, blink. It’s still there. I’m not just imagining it.

  First Ashlee’s ghost, now this.

  45

  Emily

  There’s no answer from inside the bunker. No sound, nothing. How many times have I done this same sort of thing with Dad, searching for him in the dark?

  ‘Damon, are you here?’

  I jump down. In the dimness I see the same candle stub still burnt to the same level, the old lamp where I left it. I guess my theory was wrong about Damon being here. It’s obvious no one’s been here since this morning. That means Dad’s sketch isn’t here either. I slide down the wall and sit on the cold floor, pull my coat tighter around me. I’m empty now, used up. Damon’s got the sketch and he’s skipped town with it. He just hasn’t told his mates, that’s all.

  I lean my head against the wall. I could sleep like this, I could dream. Maybe, in another life, I’d be waiting for Damon to come find me here and it wouldn’t be for any reason to do with death or pain. In that life Ashlee wouldn’t be dead, and my dad wouldn’t be in prison. Damon and me would talk for hours, we’d keep the hatch open and look up at the moon and stars. I’d know Damon wasn’t bad; I’d know Dad wasn’t either.

  I dig my hands into my pockets, scrunch my fingers to keep warm. I look at the ribs of the corrugated ceiling, the concrete walls. There’s enough moonlight to see the pictures, all those scrawls there, those wolves. They all have the same dark eyes, sometimes with red rims too – the only bit of colour here. These eyes are excited – eyes that want something. In one of the sketches the eyes are rolling back into that wolf’s head, just like that wolf is crazy … half out of its mind. I can’t recognise Dad in these wolves’ faces, not one bit, and I’m trying to.

  I stand up, get closer. I’m thinking about what Joe said about Damon now too. Can I see Damon in these wolves’ faces instead? I’m walking around the bunker, looking at each sketch carefully. I’m half-listening to the wind outside, thinking that it’s howling like a wolf too. Then I pause, tilt my head and listen harder.

  That’s not the wind.

  I go extra still, straining to hear, then stand and press my face to the gun slit. This isn’t my mind playing tricks; it’s something else. I listen harder and … yes … it’s there … that howling noise again. It makes me think of the last time I couldn’t sleep, when I’d been woken from my dream. It makes me remember standing at the window the night of Ashlee’s death. There’d been strange noises in the woods then too. My breath is tight in my throat as I try to hear the howling noise again. One long shiver travels down my spine as I do. This noise is coming from deep inside these woods. I look up at the moon, but it is silent and watching me, waiting too.

  46

  Damon

  I hear them howling. They can’t be playing another Game, though, not after last time, not without me. Are they looking for me instead?

  One howl, two … I wait for the third. A gust of wind blocks my ears. I hunch in tighter to the rock face. It feels like I’m on the run, like I’m playing the Game for real and the boys are hunting me out. But maybe it should be me hunting them out – for not telling me how they played the Game with Ashlee, because Ashlee told me a secret that night that they might’ve been a part of.

  Slowly, slowly, by feel more than sight, I move down the rock face. I’m on the wild, empty side that no one gets to know. Maybe I’m wrong about Mack keeping people’s secrets. Maybe he’s told Ed and Charlie everything he knows about that night – and maybe now they’re coming for me. What do they all think I’ve done? Are they coming to tell me? Are they coming to tell me to run?

  I’m aiming for those rocks that jut out below me like teeth – the boulders – for the crevice I saw in between them, for what I think I saw inside it. The full force of the wind is blasting at me, but I’m glad of it – it’s knocked some of that haziness from the joint out at least. I’m glad of the moonlight too. While the wind tries to drag me off, I stay clinging like a limpet, my fingers and toes wedged into tiny cracks. I’m feeling the rough, grainy texture of the limestone, the electricity in my fingers. I sense the empty space of air around and below me. If I slip I’ll be heading for that, I’ll be free-falling to the bottom. I have to force myself to keep going. Seems this isn’t called Suicide Drop for nothing.

  It’s easier once I’ve got both feet on a boulder; I lower myself ’til I’m curled between it and the rock face. I don’t look at the drop beyond. Sharp wind pierces into my lungs, whirls round me. But there’s another sound too, isn’t there? Something from the summit? A voice? I don’t look up to check, can’t risk losing my balance. I wedge myself in tighter to the rock instead. If there is anyone up there, they won’t be able to see me here. When I bring my fingers away from the stone they’ve gone white and stiff, hard to unclench. Very slowly I shuffle sideways across the boulders. I move to the crevice I saw from above. Then I tip forward to the gap and push my arm inside it. The wind is whooshing into my face and making my eyes stream but I keep digging about. I feel moss and pebbles and wet leaves. I force my eyes open against the wind, drop on to my belly, put my face close to see.

  It’s there!

  Just like I’d thought!

  Wedged inside this crevice is something pink and sparkly.

  It’s Ashlee’s phone cover. Maybe her phone’s there too.

  I try to breathe deep, try to stop myself from moving hasty. With shaking fingers, I stretch to grab it. The phone cover’s material is sodden through, cold. As I dig about I feel the phone is also here, but it’s in several pieces – smashed. I take a hold of what I can and wrench my arm out, pull myself back ’til I’m leant against the rock again. I’m trembling, and not from the cold. I look out to the sky and the dark sea of trees below for one second, two …

  Ashlee’s lips were pink and sparkly that night, the same colour as this phone case, they’d smelt like raspberry.

  I take a breath and look at it all in my hand. The phone has split apart. The back of it is detached, the screen a faint cobweb of cracked glass, the battery separate again. How hard was it hurled down here for it to break like this?

  I didn’t throw it, did I?

  I don’t remember it.

  I stare at these bits in my hand like they can give me some answers. But nothing comes. If I was spinning so much that night that I don’t remember getting home – that I don’t even remember when I last saw Ashlee – how could I have climbed up here to throw this? I rest my head against the cold rock and try to think. But all I’m getting is some random conversation I had ages ago. I’d been propped up at the bar of the City Arms by Mack’s dad – maybe the first time I ever got proper drunk. Mack’s dad had held court, telling the whole place about one of his mates:

  ‘He got so drunk once that he chucked his wife off a balcony,’ he’d said. ‘Sevent
h floor and all! It was an accident, though, they were arguing, they was just having a holiday! It just got a bit out of control, like!’

  I think that’s how it went. I remember Mack’s dad explaining that when his friend woke next morning and was arrested, he could remember nothing – he even asked where his wife was.

  Is that like what’s happened to me?

  Is there a whole story of terrible things I did that night, that I don’t remember? Did Mack see it all? Did he take me home and away?

  My throat goes tight. Maybe I should be checking into a mental hospital rather than a police station, maybe Mack was right when he said I was going loony. Maybe Mack saw me going loony that night. Maybe I don’t know anything about who I am – what I’m capable of.

  I put the phone cover in my pocket with Ashlee’s collar, then lay the pieces of her phone out on the rocks. I get an ache thinking about the phone being whole, being held by Ashlee. My hands start shaking again and I almost lose all the bits.

  Could Jon Shepherd have thrown it down here instead? I remember Emily telling me that he was scared of heights, but she could’ve been lying. Couldn’t she?

  I slot the battery in. I have to wedge the back of the phone in hard to make it stick. I turn it on, expecting nothing, and nothing happens. I bang it against the palm of my hand. Now there’s a flicker on the screen: tiny, but there. A spark. I bang it again. And somehow, it works. Somehow this battery still has juice!

  Ashlee’s home screen comes up. It looks kind of disjointed, and the cracked glass doesn’t help, but straight away messages are coming through, hundreds of them it seems, all from me or her friends or her family. They’re all asking the same things – where is she, is she safe, what’s happened – they get more desperate as they come. It hurts to look – it hurts to hold this tiny part of Ashlee in my hands but not the rest of her. It hurts to know that she never read these words.

  I run the back of my hand over my eyes and click on to anything just to make the messages stop. I open up her picture folder, and I feel kind of desperate now. I’m scrolling back to her earlier pictures fast, just wanting to see Ashlee from months ago, wanting to see her alive. I find all the pictures she took and sent me of her in her underwear and pyjamas, but these don’t make me feel no better. I want – need – to see a picture of her and me. In the photo I finally click open and stare at for ages, Ashlee’s got her mouth pressed against my cheek, biting me gently, and I’m staring straight at the camera and grinning like a loon. I got no right to be that happy. It’s not fair that the grinning, thoughtless loser in this picture gets to keep hugging her for always.