by Steve Finbow
The two Range Rovers slow, pull into a track running from Earl’s Path on the opposite side of the road to Strawberry Hill Ponds.
***
Ozan whispers, ‘Sarah?’
***
‘They’re here. There’s their car,’ Inaccessible points at the Saab.
‘Where have they gone?’ Martin asks.
‘Walked up past the golf course and into the forest. I lost them.’
‘Great. Now fuck off.’
‘I wanna help. I wanna get Balzac. Payback.’
‘Leave it to the big boys. Go on, fuck off and play with your computer games.’
‘I could take the bike, go on the trails.’
***
The Geordie pulls out a map, spreads it open on the headrest in front of him. Ronya batters down the map with the barrel of her pistol, stares at the man.
***
Ozan whispers, ‘Sarah?’
***
‘And scare everyone to death? Jonathan will be here any minute. If you don’t fuck off now, it won’t only be your name that’s Inaccessible, it’ll be your balls. Go on, piss off.’
‘OK.’
***
‘Sorry,’ the Geordie says, opening the door. He climbs out, walks around the vehicle, spreads the map on the hot bonnet.
***
Ozan whispers, ‘Sarah?’
***
Inaccessible starts the motorbike, and then taps Martin Eaves on the shoulder.
‘They’re here,’ he says, pointing to the Aston Martin. He rams on his helmet, revs the throttle, fishtails the back wheel, spreads burned rubber over the road, and attempts to wheelie past Jonathan Eaves and Denman climbing from the car, but the front wheel only rises a foot off the tarmac then skids and Inny barely holds on to the bucking machine.
‘Jonathan,’ Martin says.
‘Martin,’ says Jonathan.
***
Ronya gets out of the Range Rover and joins the Geordie standing illuminated in the headlights, she stands behind him, places her hand on the man’s left buttock. Squeezes.
***
Ozan whispers, ‘Sarah?’
***
‘This is useless, H, we’ll never find her in here. It’s fucking huge.’
‘David Herbert Lawrence once said, “This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”
‘Yeah, great, H, that’s a fat lot of use. I thought you were gonna conjure up a map and a compass, something useful, instead of spouting tosh.’
‘If Sarah is to be found, we shall find her.’
‘I don’t think she’s gonna be in this part of the forest. I mean, if she’s been in here all day, she ain’t gonna be on the edges, is she? She would’ve, no doubt like your thoughts, gone deeper.’
‘Your assumptions may be correct, Balzac. What say we return to the car and then head into the interior?’
‘You got it, Stanley.’
‘Livingstone, dear boy, I would be much more comfortable in the guise of David Livingstone than Henry Morton Stanley. Let’s explore Great Monk Wood, that’s where I would hide.’
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘Following your lead, dear boy.’
‘OK. Now you lead on, Bwana.’
***
The Eaveses stand in the entrance to Chingford station.
‘Jonathan?’
‘Yes, Martin.’
‘Look.’
‘Balzac and Homo Sapiens Sapiens.’
‘Given up?’
‘No. Changing direction.’
‘Let’s wait and follow. For once in his life, Balzac might know what he’s doing.’
The brothers get into Martin’s BMW.
***
‘Was that Jonathan Eaves’ motor?’ I ask H.
‘Yeah, him and his brother have just got into Martin’s Beemer and they’re following us.’
‘Great. Fuck!’ I say and stare up at the sky, hoping the moon becomes daggered and not cloaked.
***
Beyond the road, paths lead into the blackness. She thinks she must be going mad.
***
If I were Sarah, this is where I would hide. The trees are ancient here.
***
She thinks she must be hearing things.
***
The heads of the trees rock in the breeze, causing me to feel dizzy when I look up at them.
***
She thinks she must be seeing things.
***
I turn the car on to a track and in the headlights’ beam catch the red eyes of some creature in the entangling plants. I take the torch from the glove compartment and walk into the woods.
***
She thinks she must be imagining things.
***
I call Balzac.
***
She’s started hearing voices and talking to herself.
***
I bet his phone is on vibrate and he can’t feel it. Damn. I try H. His phone is turned off. Figures. He’s with Balzac. Why would he need it? I text Balzac. Let him know I’m here.
***
She’s started talking to herself and hearing voices.
***
I reach into my bag, take out the photo of Sarah.
***
Who’s there? Anyone? Someone? No one?
***
I flash the torch’s light on to the photo and Sarah appears to put her forearm over her eyes to shield them. My heart leaps into my mouth, my stomach flips. I freeze. Has someone found her?
***
No one? Someone? Anyone? Who’s there?
***
‘Turn that thing out,’ I hear her say.
She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices.
I turn the beam down to minimum and play it over her face.
‘Sarah, can you hear me?’
She’s started hearing voices and is talking to herself.
‘Who? I can’t see you. Who are you?’
‘Sarah, I know this will sound strange. But I’m here to help. My name’s Meredith.’
She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices.
‘Look, no time to explain. I can hear you but not see where you are. Are you still in the forest?’
She’s started hearing voices and is talking to herself.
‘Yes. But I’m not sure where. I walked from Epping High Street. I passed two ponds. I think I can hear a road. Or I could earlier. Now it’s late, the traffic has died down. I can’t hear it. I can only hear myself. The forest.’
She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices.
‘From which side could you hear the traffic?.’
‘From both, I think.’
She’s started hearing voices and is talking to herself.
‘Can you see the moon?’
‘No.’
‘Shit,’ I say to myself.
She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices.
‘OK. I think you’re in Great Monk Wood. I’m coming in. I have a torch. I’ll shine it intermittently. Do you have anything with which you can signal me?’
‘No. No.’
She’s started hearing voices and is talking to herself.
‘What about underwear?’
‘I have white pants on.’
‘Take them off.’
She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices, she’s started hearing voices and is talking to herself, she undresses and takes off her white cotton panties, holds them in her hand like a comforter. She stings herself on something but she doesn’t mean to sc
ream out. She’ll leave the forest. Walk to the road again. Phone her parents. Phone the police. Sod it. It’s getting cold. Things zing above her head. Could be bats. Must be bats. Can’t be birds. Maybe there are owls here. But owls would be silent, wouldn’t they? She’s started talking to herself and is hearing voices.
‘When you see my torch, wave your underwear, rustle a bush or something.’
‘Sorry?’
‘A branch. Make a noise. But not too loud.’
‘OK.’
But what if she gets lost trying to find her way to the road? Where is that voice coming from? It sounds so real. She thinks she may have heard it earlier. She’s tired.
***
The earth rushing toward me. The sky and trees somersaulting back. Everything. Balzac!
***
She hasn’t eaten. Earlier, she sipped from a pool of water she found. Maybe it had toadstools or something in it and she’s hallucinating the voices. Maybe those zings above her head are not real.
***
The last thing I feel is the grass and earth pressing against my cheek. Balzac! Then nothingness.
***
She wishes the moon was visible. Or the stars. Not that she would know where she was from the stars. She squeezes her white cottons in her fist and they do provide her with a little comfort – and then she feels something crawl over her foot and she jumps up and stamps with all her strength and something soft dies under her.
***
Cold and damp, my skin, and the fresh laundered smell of the soil.
***
She looks down. Something pliant, yielding, beneath her lifted foot. She flicks at it with her shoes. It rolls over and she sees the soft belly of a hedgehog. She raises her hands, stuffing her white cottons into her mouth but not in time to stifle a cry.
***
A scream comes from within the forest.
***
‘What the fuck was that?’ Martin says.
‘Someone’s found her or something’s frightened her. Come on.’
‘What about her?’ Martin says, pointing at The Mermaid unconscious on the ground before them.
***
‘What was that?’ Ronya says.
The men stop and fan out behind her. Six of them. Darkly dressed, moving quietly, breathing fumes of tobacco and coffee.
***
Jonathan Eaves looks down at The Mermaid’s body and says to his brother Martin, ‘Put her in the boot.’
‘Give me a hand, she’s not exactly small.’
***
‘Sounded like a cry or a moan. Coming from over there,’ the Geordie points ahead and to the south-east.
***
‘I can’t touch her.’
‘Jesus, it’s been five years, Jonathan. Get over it. How do you know about this place?’
‘Meredith and I used to come here. We’d leave the car and walk into the woods. Remembered it as we came up the hill.’
***
‘You stay here,’ Ronya says to two men, and to the others, ‘Follow me.’
They do. The Geordie’s shotgun soaks up the darkness, includes it in its mass.
***
Martin hoists The Mermaid on to his shoulder, throws his brother the key. Jonathan opens the BMW’s boot. Martin places The Mermaid in the boot, angling her head over her outstretched arms.
***
Ronya checks her handgun. Sights it through the trees at rising shadows.
***
‘You going to take her home with you?’ Martin says.
‘Just leave her. OK?’
Martin doesn’t lock the boot, he rests its bulk against the lock, hopes Meredith will wake up, go back to her small flat on Green Lanes. His brother doesn’t need this right now. Really.
‘And bring that torch and photo,’ Jonathan says.
***
The only sound made by Ronya’s men is the gentle imprinting of their tread in the earth, that and the slight whistle emitting through the gap of the Londoner’s two front incisors.
‘Over here,’ Ronya says.
***
‘Where’d they go?’ I say to H. I look over and shudder as H blinks in and out of my vision.
‘They were following us, then they disappeared halfway up the hill.’
‘I’ll call Ozan, see where he is.’
‘Tell him to rendezvous with us.’
‘Shit. Missed call. The Mermaid. Fuck!’ I dial her number. No answer.
‘She’s left a text. It says, “Turn your phone on, idiot. Great Monk Wood Picnic 2004. Remember?” She’s only here. I told her to stay put. Bollocks.’
‘Are your mnemonic faculties capable of retrieving said location?’
‘Er… 2004, jeez. That was years ago. Picnic. We came late one summer night. Hold on. Coming back to me. Come on, there’s a good memory. OK. The Mermobile. Hamper. Parked the car. Carried hamper between us into the woods. Shit! It was back where the Eaveses turned off. Bitch!’
‘Come again, old man.’
‘She must’ve gone there with Jonathan when they were seeing each other.’
‘The psychic and the psychopath picnic. Conjures up images, dear boy.’
‘Yeah, right. Now, H, turn this fucking jalopy around and let’s go find The Mermaid and the Brothers Crim.’
‘And Sarah.’
‘Oh, yeah. Forgot about her for a sec.’
***
Their breathing can be seen. A susurration. Thorns. Things passing in the night folded back over the scream. They go to the heart. The hare in the headlights. Dead fingers. Gestures.
***
‘Where are you?’ I ask Ozan.
‘On the Epping New Road by some sort of pond.’
‘Epping New Road by a pond,’ I say to H.
‘Wake Valley Pond. Tell him to stop there and make his way east through the woods.’
‘Stop and make your way east through the woods.’
‘Where are you?’ Ozan says.
‘I have no idea, mate.’
‘Tell him we’re heading north through the same woods. Keep his mobile on silent.’
‘Same place as you. We’re heading north. Apparently. Schtum your moby.’
‘There. Martin’s BMW.’
‘Ozan, stay in contact.’
H parks the motor and we walk to the car.
‘No one about, they must be in there,’ I say pointing to the trees.
‘The boot is open. I will see if they have left any form of illumination,’ H says.
‘Torch, you mean?’
Silence.
‘What animals live in there?’ I say, nodding towards the deep foliage.
‘Nothing that can harm you, dear boy. Foxes. Badgers. Deer.’
‘Deer? What, with antlers and such?’
‘The 14th century Japanese Buddhist priest Kenko wrote, “You should never put the new antlers of a deer to your nose and smell them. They have little insects that crawl into the nose and devour the brain.”
‘Great help. Cheers, H. I’ll remember that when I come across a charging stag. Not to get me schnozz too close to the sharp end. Torch?’
‘Nothing to light our way, dear boy.’
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Aniseed, garlic, and a soupçon of Chanel No. 5, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not.’
‘The Mermaid?’
‘Evidently.’
‘With the Eaveses?’
‘–––-’
‘Nice response, H.’
I close my eyes and try to picture The Mermaid. I can, but the positions she’s in and the kit she’s wearing are not going to help us tracking her through these bloody trees. I reckon she knows where Sarah is. Done one of those picture-mind things she does. But she can’t be helping the Eaveses. Can she? I can’t have pissed her off that much. No. Coercion is the Eaveses’ middle name.
I’m not looking forward to this. None of it. It’s fucking dark in there. I prefer the feel of asphalt beneath
my feet to the intangible give of mud, the halted sway of buildings to the nodding heads of trees, the cat-tongue rasp of walls to the needled whisper of nettles. I prefer The Mermaid’s sarcasm to her wrath.
‘H?’
‘Balzac.’
‘Wait for me, mate. Wait for me.’
***
The brothers climb over branches, duck under others, forearm their way through plants, stumble over stones, thorns catching, twigs cracking like little fingers. Jonathan makes his way through the forest. Martin follows.
***
I rub the back of my head. A large bump, pulsing and angry at the base of my skull. The boot of that car smelled like aftershave and golf clubs. I bet it was that bastard Jonathan. Three months of bad food in overpriced restaurants, the fumblings of a man too impressed with himself to ever learn how to kiss properly, and a technique that owed more to Viking films than Valentino, more to battering rams than Boccaccio, but still after – What is it? Five years? – he gets all lovelorn and piney. At least Balzac has… Well, he’s… And there’s the… Yeah. I open my bag, take out a set of chopsticks, spiral my hair on top of my head, fix it there. Now I’m pissed off. Piney? Balzac!
***
‘Slow down,’ Martin says, ‘I can’t keep up with you.’
‘Then, stay here,’ Jonathan says.’
‘What’s that?’ Jonathan ducks down and pulls his brother with him.
‘Where?’
‘There,’ Jonathan whispers.
Two men stand with hands clasped behind their backs. Jonathan wags his finger to the right and moves left. Martin follows the path of his brother’s gesture.
***
It wouldn’t have been Martin who thumped me. He’d have put his hand over my mouth to silence me, tied me up, thrown me in the car. No. It was that dipshit Jonathan. Had to be. His sad revenge on me for dumping him. Got his little – and I do mean little – thrill from that. While I trudge into the forest, here’s a few things you might want to know about Jonathan bloody Eaves. He doesn’t drink. Can’t hold it. Many a time did he look around askance while I tried to unbuckle my seatbelt before throwing up Pinot Grigio and lobster thermidor all over his hand-tooled, uh-hmm, leather dashboard. He’s pathologically uncultured – I’d mention the Sufi poet Rumi and he’d go on about how he had to move out of his Harrow mansion because there wasn’t enough space; I’d bring up awakening and enlightenment, bodhi and satori, and he’d change the subject to Naomi Campbell and chicken covered with peanut sauce. I took him to a few modern art exhibitions. He just stood and stared, shrugged his shoulders. I even bought him a few books, – things I thought he’d like – Elmore Leonard, James Ellroy, some new guy called Jake Arnott or something -– he’d thumb through a few pages and then chuck them to his boys to read, like so many discarded bones. But do you know what made me leave him? What sealed it? Why he’s like he is? One night, we went out for dinner, then to a drinking club he owned (he had tonic water – Slimline), when we got back to the pile, we sat side by side on the eight-seater grey suede couch and watched The Long Good Friday for what must have been the fiftieth time and, as the credits rolled, Jonathan fell asleep, and he started to snore, a low grumbling, gargling sob, and it reminded me of Morocco’s choleric camels, it reminded me of Balzac, his questions and jokes, the brightness of his eyes when I was talking, when he was listening, really listening. And I got up from the sofa, slipped on my high heels, and left the house. Jonathan called and I didn’t answer. He still calls. He still hangs up. Arsehole.