In a Dark, Dark Wood

by Ruth Ware

  ‘We’ve got a young man here to see you,’ she says without preamble. ‘Name of Matt Ridout. Says he’d like to come and visit you if you’re up to it.’

  I blink. I’ve never heard of him.

  ‘Is he a policeman?’

  ‘I don’t know, pet. He’s not in uniform.’

  For a minute I think about sending her back out there to find out more, but she’s tapping her foot, plainly impatient and busy, and I realise it would be easier just to see him and get it over with.

  ‘Send him in,’ I say at last.

  ‘He can only have half an hour,’ she warns. ‘Visiting hours end at four.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Good. That will provide an excuse to get rid of him if he proves awkward.

  I sit up, gathering Nina’s cardie around myself and raking my hair off my face. I look like a car crash so I don’t really know why I’m bothering, but it feels important to my self-respect that I at least make a token effort.

  I hear steps in the corridor, and there’s a hesitant, diffident knock.

  ‘Come in,’ I say, and a man walks into the room.

  He’s about my age – maybe a few years older – and dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt. His jacket is slung over his arm and he looks hot and uncomfortable in the hospital’s tropical atmosphere. He’s got a scrubby Hoxton-style beard and his hair is cropped close to his skull; not a buzz-cut, but something like a Roman soldier, short curls, flat against his head.

  But the thing that I really notice is that he’s been crying.

  For a minute I can’t think of anything to say, and neither can he. He stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and he looks shocked to see me.

  ‘You’re not from the police,’ I say at last, stupidly. He rubs a hand through his hair.

  ‘I— my name is Matt. I’m – at least—’ He stops, and his lip curls into a grimace, and I know he’s fighting back some very strong emotion. He takes a deep breath, and begins again. ‘I was James’s best man.’

  I say nothing. We stare at each other, me clutching Nina’s cardigan to my throat as if it’s a suit of armour, he rigid and tense in the doorway. And then, unbidden, a single tear runs down the side of his nose and he swipes at it furiously with his sleeve, and I say, simultaneously,

  ‘Come in. Come and sit down. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Got whisky?’ he says, and gives a short, shaky laugh. I try to laugh too, but it doesn’t sound like a laugh to me, more like a choke.

  ‘I wish. Hospital tea or coffee from the vending machine, or water.’ I point to the plastic jug. ‘On the whole I’d recommend the water.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ he says. He comes and sits in the plastic chair next to my bed. But he’s hardly sat down when he pushes himself to standing again. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘No!’ I grab his wrist, and then look down at my hand holding his arm, astonished at myself. What the hell am I doing? I let go at once, as though his skin burns. ‘I — I’m sorry. But I just meant …’ I trail off. What did I mean? I have no idea. Only that I don’t want him to go. He is a link to James.

  ‘Please stay,’ I manage at last. He stays, standing, looking down at me, and then gives a short, curt nod and sits.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I wasn’t expecting … You look …’

  I know what he means. I look like I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life and then patched up again. Badly.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I say, and I surprise myself by managing a smile. ‘It’s mainly just scratches and bruising.’

  ‘It’s your face,’ he says, ‘your eyes. I see a fair bit of domestic violence in my line of work, but those shiners …’

  ‘I know. They’re kind of spectacular, aren’t they? They don’t hurt though.’

  We sit in silence for a second and then he says, ‘Actually you know what, second thoughts, I might get a coffee. Want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I’m still coasting on the remnants of the coffee Lamarr brought. I’m not yet desperate enough for the vending-machine stuff.

  Matt gets stiffly to his feet and walks out of the room, and I can see the tension in his shoulders as his back disappears down the corridor. I almost wonder if he’s going to come back, but he does.

  ‘Shall we start again?’ he says as he sits down. ‘Sorry, I feel like I kind of cocked that one up. You must be Leo, right?’

  I almost flinch. It’s such a shock hearing it – James’s name for me – from his lips.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. So James … he told you about me?’

  ‘A bit, yeah. I know you were … I dunno. What would you call it? Childhood sweethearts?’

  For some reason the words bring a rush of tears to the back of my throat and I feel my lip wobble as I try to answer. Instead I just nod, silently.

  ‘Fuck.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry – I just – I can’t believe it. I was only speaking to him a couple of days ago. I knew there was stuff … things going wrong … but this …’

  Things going wrong?

  I want to ask more, to probe, but I can’t quite get the words out, and Matt’s still speaking.

  ‘I’m really sorry to barge in like this. If I’d known how ill you were I wouldn’t have … the nurse didn’t say. I just asked if I could see you and she said she’d find out. But I heard from James’s mum that you were with him when he—’ He stops, gulps, and forces himself on ‘—when he died. And I know how much you meant to him, and I wanted—’

  He stops again, and this time he can’t carry on. He bends over his cup, and I know he’s crying, and trying to hide it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says at last, his voice croaky, and then he coughs to clear his throat. ‘I only found out last night. It’s been … I can’t get used to it. I kept thinking there’d been some mistake but seeing you like this … it’s kind of made it real.’

  ‘How … how did you know James?’

  ‘We were at Cambridge together. We were both into theatre – acting, you know, plays and stuff.’ He rubs his face on his sleeve, and then looks up, smiling determinedly. ‘Goes without saying, I was shit, but luckily I realised that in time. Didn’t help that I was acting next to James. Nothing like seeing the real thing for showing up the fake.’

  ‘And you kept in touch?’

  ‘Yeah. I used to go and see him in his plays every now and then. Everyone else in our year became bankers and civil servants and stuff. Felt like he was the only one who made it, I’m kind of proud of him for that, you know? He never sold out.’

  I nod, slowly. Yes, that was the James I knew. The man he’s describing is painfully familiar. He is my James. Completely unlike the unreal, materialistic person I’ve been hearing described all weekend. I thought James had changed. But perhaps he hadn’t. Or not completely.

  ‘So what happened?’ Matt said at last. ‘At – at the house? They said a shotgun went off but it just seems … why was he even there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shut my eyes, and my hand goes to the hot, sweaty dressing over my forehead. ‘I never asked. When we heard him walking around we thought he was a burglar.’ I don’t go into the rest of it – the door swinging wide, our stupid hysteria. It seems like something out of a horror movie, clichéd, ridiculous. ‘I suppose it was a prank, the groom turning up to surprise his future bride in bed.’

  ‘No,’ Matt’s shaking his head. ‘I really don’t think— he wouldn’t have gone up there uninvited.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well first of all, you just don’t, do you? You don’t crash your girlfriend’s hen. It’s kind of … crass. It’s her last chance at being single, you’d have to be kind of a wanker to take that away from her.’

  I guess. But I don’t say anything. I’m waiting for the second reason. Matt takes a breath.

  ‘And second … well … they weren’t getting along that great.’

  ‘What?’ I know as soon as I’ve said it that
my voice is too loud, too emphatic, too shocked. Matt looks up, startled.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to overstate it but … yeah. Did Clare not say?’

  ‘No … at least … I don’t think so.’ I think back, trying to remember what we talked about. But I know Clare. She would never admit to any kind of problem. The facade always had to be perfect, the mask never slipped. ‘What was going on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘I don’t— We never really talked about it. I’m guessing it was just the usual pre-wedding jitters, right? I’ve seen enough mates down the aisle to know how it goes – perfectly normal girlfriend turns into bridezilla, everyone gets tense, families chip in, friends get involved, small stuff is suddenly blown up into major feuds and everyone takes sides.’

  ‘So why was he there?’ I say at last.

  ‘I don’t know. I can only guess … someone asked him to come.’

  ‘Someone asked him? But – but …’

  But who? Clare? No. No way. She of all people knew what it would mean if James turned up at the house; there was no way she wanted me and him shut up together in the same place for two hours, let alone twenty-four. It would have resulted in me storming out, or an unholy row, and she knew it. That was why she hadn’t invited me to the wedding. One of the others might have done it out of ignorance, or malice. But there was no way Clare would purposely ruin her own hen weekend. Why would she?

  Flo? Could she have done it as some kind of joke? She knew nothing about my past with James. She could have done it as a jolly jape to crown off her ‘perfect’ weekend. And, after all, Melanie had gone. There was a spare double room. And then that might explain her abrupt breakdown: not just guilt over waving a loaded gun around, but guilt over having set up the whole prank-gone-wrong in the first place. But then surely she would have known it was probably James coming up the stairs. Why would she have fired the gun – even supposing it was unloaded? I had seen her face as that shadowy figure rounded the corner of the stairs. She had looked genuinely frightened. Either she’s insane, or the most fantastic actress of all time.

  Could it have been Tom? Had there been something about that row with Bruce, something that would have made him want to set James up for a fall? Or Nina, with her weird, twisted sense of humour, playing a practical joke? But why? Why would either of them do such a thing?

  I shake my head. This is sending me crazy. No one in that house invited James. No one. There’s no way the shooting would have played out that way if they had.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I say into the silence. ‘You must be. He must have just decided to come. If he and Clare had argued he might have wanted to patch it up, don’t you think? He was always …’

  ‘A bit of an idiot?’ Matt says. He gives a shaky laugh. ‘I guess maybe you’re right. He’s not known for his forethought. I mean—’ He stops and I see his fist on his knee is clenched ‘—I mean he wasn’t.’ He stops. There is another silence, both of us thinking of the James who lives in our heads, in our thoughts. ‘I remember,’ he says at last, ‘I remember one time at uni, he climbed the college walls and put Santa hats on all the gargoyles. Idiot. He could have been killed.’

  As the last word drops from his lips I see him realise what he’s said, and flinch, and before I can stop myself I put out a hand.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he says. ‘I’m— I hope you’re better soon.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. And then, forcing myself on, because I know if I don’t say it I’ll regret it, ‘Will you – can you come back?’

  ‘I’m going back to London in the morning,’ he says. ‘But it’d be nice to keep in touch.’

  There’s a pen on the chart, and he pulls it off and scribbles his number on the only bit of writable surface around – the side of his coffee cup.

  ‘You were right,’ he says, as he puts the cup carefully on my bedside table. ‘Water would have been preferable. Bye, Leo.’

  ‘Bye.’

  The door swings slowly shut behind him and through the narrow glass hatch I watch his silhouette disappearing down the corridor. And it’s strange for a person who lives alone, for someone who’s been craving solitude since I came here, but suddenly I feel very lonely … and it’s a very foreign, peculiar feeling.

  26

  I’M EATING SUPPER when a knock comes again. It’s not visiting hours, so I’m surprised when I look up and it’s Nina sliding round the door with a carrier bag. She puts her fingers to her lips.

  ‘Shh. I only got in by pulling the old “Don’t you know who I am?”’

  ‘Did you tell them you were Salma Hayek’s cousin again?’

  ‘Purlease! She’s not even Brazilian.’

  ‘Or a doctor.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, I said I’d be quick so here you go.’ She throws down a bag on the bed. ‘I’m afraid they’re not exactly haute couture. In fact you’re lucky they’re not pastel velour. But I did the best I could.’

  ‘They’re great,’ I say thankfully, riffling through the anonymous grey sweats. ‘Honestly. The only thing I care about is that they’re not open at the back and logoed with “Hospital Property”. Truly, I really, really appreciate it, Nina.’

  ‘I even got you some shoes – only flip-flops but I know how grim the hospital showers can be, and I thought at least then if they kick you out at short notice you’ll have something to walk in. You’re a six, right?’

  ‘Five, actually – but don’t worry, six is brilliant. Here,’ I pull off her cardigan and hold it out, ‘take this.’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry. Keep it until your own stuff turns up. Do you need money?’

  I shake my head, but she pulls out two tenners anyway and tosses them onto the locker.

  ‘Can’t hurt. At least then if you get sick of hospital food you can grab a panini. OK, I’d better go.’

  But she doesn’t. She just stands there, looking down at her short, square nails. I can tell she wants to say something and – with uncharacteristic nervousness – is holding back.

  ‘Bye then,’ I say at last, hoping to jolt her into speaking, but she just says, ‘Bye,’ and turns for the door.

  Then, with her hand on the push-panel, she stops and turns back.

  ‘Look, what I said, earlier – I didn’t mean—’

  ‘What you said?’

  ‘About James. About the motive. Look, I didn’t really think you’d ever … Fuck.’ She thumps her fist gently on the wall. ‘This isn’t coming out right. Look, I still think it was an accident, and that’s what I told Lamarr. I never thought this had anything to do with you. But I was just worried, OK? For you. Not about you.’

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and swing my legs out of bed. I walk uncertainly over to her and give her a hug.

  ‘It’s OK. I knew what you meant. I’m worried too – for all of us.’

  She smooths my hair, and then I drop my arms and she looks at me. ‘They don’t think it was an accident though, do they? Why on earth not?’

  ‘Someone loaded that gun,’ I say. ‘That’s the bottom line.’

  ‘But even so – that could have been anyone. Flo’s aunt could have done it by mistake and been too scared to admit it to the police. The police keep banging on about the clay-pigeon shoot – was the ammunition properly secured, could anyone have got unsupervised access to a live round. They obviously think the cartridge came from there, or that’s what they’re trying to prove. But if one of us wanted to kill James, why the fuck would we lure him out to the back of beyond to do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. My legs feel tired and wobbly from the effort of standing just for this short conversation and I let go of Nina’s arm and walk shakily to the bed. All this talk – of guns and bullets – it’s giving me a queasy feeling. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I just think—’ Nina starts, and then she stops.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just think … Oh screw it. Look – whatever unmentionably awful thing happened wit
h you and James, I just think you should tell them. I know—’ She holds up a hand ‘—I know it’s none of my business and I can fuck right off with my unsolicited advice, but I just think, whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as you think, and it’ll just look a whole lot better if you tell them now.’

  I shut my eyes tiredly, and rub at the bloody bastard itching dressing on my forehead. Then I sigh and open them. Nina is standing there, hands on hips, looking an odd mix of belligerent concern.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. ‘OK? I will. I promise.’

  ‘OK,’ Nina says. Her lower lip is stuck out like a child’s, and I know if she still had it she would be clicking the ring she used to have there against her teeth. I remember the sound of it during exams. Thank God she took it out when she qualified. Apparently patients didn’t like seeing a surgeon with holes in her face. ‘I’ll get going. Take care, Shaw. And if they kick you out at short notice, call me, OK?’

  ‘I will.’

  I lie there after she’s gone thinking about her words, and thinking about how she’s probably right. My head is hot and itching and words like bullet and spatter and cartridge are clattering around inside, and after a while I can’t bear it any longer. I get up, walk slowly across to the bathroom with my old-woman gait, and click on the light.

  The reflection that greets me inside is, if anything, worse than yesterday. My face feels better – much better – but the bruises are blazing from purple through to yellow and brown and green – all the shades a painter might use to paint the Northumberland landscape, I think with a twisted smile.

  But it’s not the bruises I’m looking at. It’s the dressing.

  I begin to pick at the corner of the tape, and then, oh the relief, off it peels with a kind of delicious tearing pain as the tape takes off the small hairs at my temples and hairline, and the dressing itself plucks at the wound.

  I’d expected stitches, but there aren’t any. Instead there’s a long, ugly cut, held together by small strips of tape and what looks like … Can it really be superglue?