Black Wood

by SJI Holliday

  Because tonight was a special night.

  Pete closed the gate quietly, stopping briefly to listen for sounds coming from the neighbours’ gardens, or anyone out at the Track. He knew that people had been avoiding it at night, since the thing that happened to the girls.

  He knew he’d been good. He’d done the right thing, taking the masks down to the police station. He had to punish Jake, for shouting at him and not acting like his friend.

  Because Jake was his friend. They’d met three hundred and twenty-three days ago – all thanks to his dad. Sometimes his dad did do nice things. It made up for all the times he just shouted and screamed and told him he was a useless excuse for a son. Pete didn’t really understand why he would be an excuse for son. He was a son. Sometimes his dad said things that didn’t make sense.

  Pete had gone to a school in Edinburgh that was full of kids who didn’t get on very well at the usual schools, like the one in Banktoun. Some of the kids were in wheelchairs, or they spoke in funny strangled voices, or some were just like Pete – which was normal, but not normal (as his mum used to say, before she gave him a big squeezy hug). He’d never really understood what that meant either.

  When he left school, Pete told his dad he wanted to be a bus conductor so that he could check the tickets and because he knew all the bus routes in the whole of Scotland off by heart. His dad had laughed at this and told him that buses didn’t even have conductors any more, but that didn’t make sense because then who checked that people had the right tickets and knew where to go?

  Anyway, his dad had got him an even better job than being a bus conductor, and because of that he got to do loads of really cool things – and he got to meet Jake, who was his best friend in the whole world.

  One time he’d thought that Anne was his best friend, but he realised he’d made a mistake with that. Because she was his dad’s friend, wasn’t she? His special friend. He’d seen them together that night. Heard them laughing together, although Anne’s laugh had sounded funny and not the usual one she did when she was with him, and she’d been saying, ‘Don’t be daft, Martin, you know I don’t want this …’ and Pete didn’t understand what it was that she didn’t want. That was why he had followed her.

  He followed her to the park. He wanted to know what she didn’t want, and he wanted her to be his special friend. Not his dad’s! His dad had loads of friends. Anne was supposed to be his! So he had grabbed her and cuddled her, but she hadn’t liked it and she’d run away from him and she fell, and that was when he got a bit scared and ran back home.

  He never told anyone what had happened.

  That was in their old house, though, when they lived near the park. He was sad that Anne had never come round to look after him in the new house. He’d asked his mum about it and she’d told him he didn’t need a babysitter any more, and she was right because after that his mum and his dad never went out at the same time, and then not long after that his mum had got ill and then she had died. He missed her. He missed Anne too. He was just glad he was still allowed to go and see her in the shop.

  He’d loved going to his job. He still didn’t know why his dad had told him he wasn’t allowed to go any more, since that day the policeman had come to the house.

  He remembered the day he started. He replayed it over and over in his mind, like watching a really good film like Star Wars or The Empire Strikes Back.

  When the car pulled up outside the gates, Pete had started to feel all sick in his stomach. It had started at home in the morning. A strange squirmy feeling like wriggling worms.

  ‘I don’t think I can go in, Dad, I’m not feeling well. I’m scared I might be sick …’

  Being sick scared him. He remembered the horrible scratchy pain in his throat from after it happened one time when his dad had made him eat prawns for dinner. He hadn’t wanted the prawns because they were pink, but his dad said that when they were in the tomato sauce they’d be red and that they’d look just like baked beans … and they sort of did, but they’d tasted really different from baked beans and just before he went to bed that night he started to feel dizzy like the room was spinning round and round and then he was sick. He’d been so scared of the sick when it came out, yellow and hot, and his dad had promised him he wouldn’t ever have to eat prawns again, so Pete thought that meant he wouldn’t be sick again. But he’d felt sick again, sitting in the passenger seat of the car outside the gates to his new job at the big yellow factory where they made lawnmowers and things for all the farms, like baling machines and even tractors. Or so his dad said.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Petey – it’s just butterflies … You’ll be fine when you get in there. Think about all the things you’ll be able to do … You know they have to count out hundreds of nuts and bolts and all sorts of stuff like that to make those machines? I’ve got you a job as the chief counter – they’ll all be coming to you for the bits they need. Give it a go, eh, son?’

  Pete had been confused about the butterflies. He hadn’t eaten any butterflies, so he knew it wasn’t that making him feel sick, but before he could think any more about it a man had come out and knocked on the car window, making him jump right out of his seat.

  His dad had pressed the button and the window slid down inside the door and he spoke to the man and said, ‘Ah, Jake, here’s your man. Can I trust you to show him the ropes?’

  The man called Jake had leant into the car. He smelled like soap and the oil from car engines. His breath warm with the fresh smell of cigarettes. He wore a green overall that looked a bit like he was in the army, and Pete suddenly felt the sickness go away and he knew – he just knew – that this was going to be OK.

  Pete climbed out of the car, taking his bag with his cheese sandwiches and his can of cola and his plain crisps and followed the man to the factory. When they went inside, Pete had felt wobbly with the sounds of screeching metal and the hot air that smelled of fire. He’d tried to back out, but the man called Jake had taken him by the elbow and leant down and spoken into his ear and said, ‘Don’t you worry, Pete – I’ll look after you now.’

  And Pete had smiled and said back, ‘Where are the ropes?’

  ‘What ropes?’

  ‘My dad asked you to show me the ropes. Can I see them?’

  Jake laughed and shook his head. ‘Let’s get you some overalls first, eh? Then I’ll show you the ropes.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  But Jake had broken that promise. He had never, ever on any days he’d been there, shown him any ropes.

  And he’d broken his promise again tonight, because he said he was coming to see him and that they would work on the Collection and that everything was going to be OK.

  Pete stepped into the shed and flicked on the light. Everything was just as he’d left it. The shelves along the back wall were filled with neat little cardboard boxes, tied with string. Each one was labelled with what was inside.

  Rabbit. Vole. Sparrow. Mouse. Rat. Badger.

  (These ones were the big boxes for the whole animals.)

  Fox tails. Rabbit feet. Claws (assorted). Small bird heads.

  (These were for multiple animal parts.)

  Each box was dated, and the approximate location marked, like Jake’s favourite one: Badger, Black Wood, April 1988.

  Pete lifted the badger box down and untied the string. The animal inside was just bones now. Pete and Jake had cleaned it carefully, pulling off the last of the rotted flesh and fur, wiping the bones with bleach until they shone. Then they’d rearranged them back so it looked almost like it was joined together again.

  Jake had told Pete that he was ‘very honoured’ that he was to be the ‘custodian’ of the Collection. He said he’d been looking for a good place for it for years and years, and as soon as he’d seen Pete, he knew that he was the best man for the job. Jake told him that a custodian was a very, very important person and that they could only do the job if they didn’t tell anyone else about the job ever, ever
. Not even his dad.

  Pete put the badger back in the box and placed it back on the shelf. He looked at his watch – a big square-faced one with chunky numbers that his dad had got him for his sixteenth birthday – and wondered again where Jake was. He was scared that he wasn’t going to come, even though he had promised.

  Jake had been really angry after Pete had tried to play the Game with the girl in the town. He didn’t even care that she had cut Pete’s face when she’d hit him as she’d struggled to escape. Jake’s face had been bright red when he’d shouted at him, saying,‘What have you done? What have you done?’ and then Pete had felt a bit sad that Jake shouted at him so he had tried to get him in trouble – just a little bit – so he took the masks to the police station and pretended that he’d seen someone drop them at the cut-through. He wanted Jake to get in trouble now, just for a little while. So he might know what it was like when someone was bright red and shouting in your face and making you feel horrible and sad.

  Jake should’ve been happy! Pete had done it as a surprise for Jake – he wanted to show him that he could play the Game, not just watch it. Jake had been really, really happy when Pete had watched him play the Game with the two girls at the Track – when he watched it all on the telescope. Jake said that maybe next time they could record it on a video, so it would be like a film and they could watch it over and over again.

  Together, like best friends do.

  Jake had never told him that he couldn’t play the Game too.

  Pete knew that he would have to tell someone about the Game one day. He wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret forever. It would spin around his head until it finally burst out.

  Maybe he’d tell Anne about it, next time he was in the shop. Or maybe that policeman, because he’d been nice to him when he went to the station and hadn’t shouted at him or shaken him like his dad did.

  Not tonight, though.

  He smiled as he looked over the Collection one last time, then he turned off the light and closed the door of the shed.

  THE WOODS

  The field is longer than he thought, and by the time he and the other boy have made it out of the woods, the girls are blurred spots in the distance.

  He starts to run.

  His heart is hammering in his chest. He didn’t plan this. Doesn’t know how it’s going to end. He knows that the other boy is following at a distance, knows he doesn’t want to get involved.

  That’s OK.

  This works better as a one-on-one. He has no interest in the plump, snivelling little girl in the dungarees.

  The girls are sticking to the edge of the field, where there is a well-trodden path of hard-packed mud. People walk their dogs down this way. There is a stile at the end of the field that takes you out onto the main road. He assumes that’s where the girls are headed. On their left is a barbed-wire fence that holds in the small trees and bracken that line the burn.

  The girls stop.

  He slows down and listens to the gentle burbling of the water as it mixes in with the ragged sounds of his breath.

  He is right behind them.

  ‘Oi,’ he says, directing it at the girl in the red skirt. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  She whirls round and, for the first time, he can see panic in her big brown eyes.

  The other girl is whimpering like an injured puppy.

  ‘I’ve got a knife,’ he says. His hand is in his pocket. He’s holding onto nothing, but they don’t know that.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘We’ll go away.’

  He considers this.

  Behind him, he hears the footsteps and ragged breaths of the other boy as he struggles to catch up. ‘Just leave it …’ he shouts.

  He frowns. Ignores him. Addresses the girls again.

  ‘OK. I’m going to let you away. This time. But you’d better go away. And you’d better not come back. Or else …’ His threat trails off into the ether.

  He watches as the girl in the red skirt prises apart two strands of the barbed wire to let her friend crawl through. They’re not walking to the end of the field. They’re going to cross the burn. Here? There’s nowhere to cross here. They’ll get wet. They’ll get a telling-off when they get home.

  They’re gone.

  Stuck on a knot of barbed wire, fluttering softly in the breeze, is a little ragged square of fabric, from a torn red skirt.

  He can hear their voices drifting up from the burn. They’re arguing. The little girl won’t walk across. He walks over to the fence and hunkers down near the section where they squeezed through.

  He can see them through a gap in the bushes.

  The little girl is standing on a flat rock in the centre of the burn. The water is almost up to the top of her wellingtons, but another big step and she’ll be across on the other bank. She won’t get wet.

  ‘Oh come on!’ The taller girl’s voice is exasperated, pleading. ‘Just take a step. You don’t even have to jump! I’m the one who’s going to get soaked here.’

  ‘I can’t!’ the little girl shouts back at her. Her voice is thick with snot and fear. ‘I’ll fall in!’

  The other girl shakes her head. ‘I’ll catch you. OK? Just take a bloody step …’

  The little girl starts crying again. Big, angry sobs. ‘Stop shouting at me. This is all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to go in the woods. I told you I just wanted to go home … I—’

  He’s sick of her whining. He picks up a stone, raises his hand. But before he can let go, a rock breaks free from the packed mud at the edge of the field, tumbles from the bank, splashes into the water below.

  The girl in the red skirt sees the rock hurtling towards them both and she jumps back, her foot sinking into the burn. She stumbles, rights herself. She screams, ‘Bloody hell, this is all your fault!’

  She shoves the other girl.

  Hard.

  The little girl slips backwards on the flat rock and lands awkwardly and her voice is cut off by the sound of a splash, a sickening crack.

  Then there is nothing but the sound of the water burbling round the rocks.

  He slaps a hand over his mouth, stifling a gasp, but it’s too late.

  She turns to face him, squints up at him, and he realises that he is still holding his hand high, the stone gripped tight in his fist.

  He pulls back.

  But he’s already seen the flowering puffs of red swirling in the water around her feet. The little girl lies flat out on the rock. She’s not moving.

  She turns away, and he watches as she slowly looks up and down the path to see if anyone else has heard, or seen.

  He hears heavy breaths behind him, turns around. The other boy is there.

  ‘Your mask,’ he whispers.

  The boy leans towards him and pulls on the elastic strap. He must’ve snagged it on the barbed wire, exposing his face. Did she see his face? Doesn’t matter now. He lets the boy adjust his mask. Stares into his glistening eyes. They communicate without words.

  What have we done?

  Nothing. We weren’t here.

  They edge backwards.

  An ear-splitting scream.

  ‘Help! Someone … please. Help! It’s my friend … she’s hurt …’

  The boy clenches his entire body, sucks in a deep breath. Feels that prickle. Pushes away his excitement as he slowly exhales.

  Not now, he thinks … later.

  He grabs the other boy’s arm and they run off down the side of the field, out onto the main road. Hearts thumping. Chests bursting. Panting.

  We need to get away …

  Away from the thing that he wants.

  The red-skirted devil.

  COPYRIGHT

  First published 2015

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2015

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 969 2 in EPub format

 
ISBN: 978 1 84502 953 1 in paperback format

  Copyright © SJI Holliday 2015

  The right of SJI Holliday to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay