Black Wood
Authors: SJI Holliday
‘A fast-paced and chilling psychological thriller from an exciting new talent. If you liked
Broadchurch
, you’ll love this.’ – Mark Edwards and Louise Voss, authors of
From the Cradle
‘In her atmospheric debut, Holliday effectively and spookily evokes small-town claustrophobia and backbiting. An edgy and authentic new voice in crime fiction.’ – Anya Lipska, author of
Where the Devil Can’t Go
‘A dark and complex tale about small-town life,
Black Wood
will appeal as much to fans of outsider fiction like
Vernon God Little
as it will seasoned crime readers.’ – Nick Quantrill, author of
The Crooked Beat
‘Darkly atmospheric and utterly absorbing.’ – Jane Isaac, author of
The Truth Will Out
‘A plot which weaves and twists its way around a tight knit community… [where] old sins return to haunt some damaged people and the atmosphere is thick with unspoken dread … You won’t read a more shocking, or satisfying, thriller this year.’ – James Benmore, author of
Dodger
‘A deeply unsettling story of bad deeds, complex loyalties and secrets better left buried,
Black Wood
is a thrilling debut which grips from the very first page and doesn’t let go.’ – Eva Dolan, author of
Long Way Home
‘Holliday has a knack for creating fascinating, well-observed, and sometimes quirky, characters.
Black Wood
is dark and twisty with a creepy atmosphere that pervades this compelling tale from first page to last. I was gripped. A fantastic new voice on the block.’ – Amanda Jennings, author of
The Judas Scar
‘Hugely satisfying twists and great characterisation, creepy and astute.’ – Sarah Hilary, author of
Someone Else’s Skin
‘A chilling exploration of the darkness that can hide in even the smallest of communities. A superb debut.’ – David Jackson, author of
The Helper
‘In
Black Wood
, S. J. I. Holliday has created a small town whose inhabitants are full of dark secrets, rumour, betrayal and murder. A touch of humour, a twist-filled plot and the writer’s obvious skill in creating an unsettling and yet all too familiar backdrop, make this a hugely enjoyable page-turner. A must-read for crime fans.’ – Steve Cavanagh, author of
The Defence
‘I was drawn into
Black Wood
– drip-fed with intrigue, mystery and menace. It has an absorbing storyline with interesting and engaging characters. An exciting debut novel.’ – Mel Sherratt, author of
Watching Over You
To Ali Bali Bee, for letting me read the scary books.
I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Thank you RJ Barker. I meant it when I said I would never have got anywhere with this book if you hadn’t read those opening chapters and told me it was worth finishing. Thank you Eva Dolan, Fergus McNeill and Luca Veste for the early feedback that turned the book into what it became, and an extra thank you to Luca for introducing me to the best agent in the world, Phil Patterson, who believed in me from the start. Thanks to all at Marjacq, who I am proud to be represented by, and to Keshini Naidoo, whose fresh pair of eyes helped me push it over the line. Thank you to everyone at Black and White Publishing for showing such enthusiasm for this book from the start: Campbell for signing my very first author contract, Janne for keeping me on track with
everything
, Ali for the fantastic cover, Laura for the great publicity planning and to Karyn, my fantastic editor, whose insight helped me polish this book to a shine – thank you for making my first experience of being edited so painless.
I’ve met so many readers, writers and bloggers via social media and various crime-writing festivals and events, many of whom have gone on to become friends in real life and without whom I couldn’t imagine continuing this journey: thank you, all of you. And a special thanks to Lisa Gray for my first newspaper feature and for lending her surname to my much loved Sergeant.
To my husband and self-appointed manager, JLOH, thank you for riding the never-ending rollercoaster of book publishing with me, for keeping me in tea and toast, and for the enthusiastic distribution of my business cards. If there’s
anyone
in the UK who hasn’t received one, I want to know why. And finally, to my family, and to all of my friends, old and new – thank you for supporting me through this madness, for always believing in me: I love you all.
THE WOODS
He spots the two girls through the cracked screen of beech, sycamore and leg-scratching gorse: a flash of red skirt and a unison of giggles.
He waves a hand behind him, silently gesturing for the other boy to stop walking.
They hunker down behind a giant felled oak, and watch. The one with the red skirt sits astride a rusty water pipe that juts out through the hard-packed mud on either side of the burn. Her long, skinny legs dangle like the branches of a weeping willow, her sandalled feet almost skimming the water that bubbles beneath.
‘Come on, scaredy-cat!’
Her face is turned in the direction of the far bank, watching the path that runs down the side of the neat little row of square seventies housing where all the
nice
families live with their panel-fenced back gardens and their rabbit hutches and their Swingball sets. Where the other girl stands: shorter, plumper and dressed in denim dungarees and a pair of blue wellingtons.
‘I can’t. It’s too fast.’
The water is high from the rain that has barely stopped for weeks. The ground is soggy, and the boys’ footsteps have disturbed the mulch on the floor of the wood, releasing a stink that reminds him of clothes that’ve been left too long in the washing machine mixed with the tang of fresh grass from the bucket on his dad’s lawnmower.
He hears the snap of a twig close behind him and whirls round.
‘Ssssh, you idiot. Don’t let them hear us.’
The other boy mumbles a sorry.
The girl with the red skirt turns back to face the wood and he holds his breath, desperate not to make a sound. She frowns and shakes her head and dark little curls bob around her face. She is younger than he is. A couple of years. Maybe the same age as the pudgy-faced one in the dungarees, but even from this distance he can tell she’s going to be a heart-breaker before long. He stares at the long bare legs straddling the pipe and feels the stirring in his trousers that’s becoming increasingly familiar.
The other girl takes a tentative step towards the pipe.
‘I’m not going over it like you,’ she says haughtily. ‘I’ll get my dungarees dirty.’
The other girl lets out a dirty little laugh and shuffles over to the end of the pipe, then leans forward and grabs the protruding roots of the ancient oak that overhangs the waterway. As she pulls herself up, the front of her baggy T-shirt gapes open and he strains his eyes to see what’s concealed beneath. The other one steps onto the pipe and, with arms held out like a tightrope walker, slowly makes her way across, until she is close enough to grab onto her friend’s outstretched hand.
He waits until they are both safely away from the bank before he grabs the sleeve of the other boy and they both stand up. The smaller girl sees them first and she lets out a strange little squeak and jumps back, grabbing onto the other girl’s T-shirt, revealing a flash of milky-white shoulder.
He grins.
The routine calmed me. Smoothing an eyebrow upwards, pulling the skin taut, gripping a wiry little hair between sharp metal pincers.
A little nugget of pain. Just for a moment.
Sometimes, if it was a particularly deep-rooted hair, or if I’d dug in just a little too hard, a little bubble of blood would form: a dark, shiny pearl. When that happened, I’d stop for a minute and just stare at it until it sealed itself over before I continued.
I placed the hand mirror and the tweezers by the side of the bed and kicked off the tangled sheets; the movement caused a waft of fetid air to puff out from the bedding. My stink, mixed with Scott’s. His imprint burned into the fabric.
Sun was streaming through the blinds; the only sound was the persistent whine of next door’s dog. I knelt up on the bed and stared out of the window. Bob the terrier was sporting his usual ridiculous red bow. The barking had always annoyed me, but I knew I was going to miss that silly little dog. I watched him for a moment, running about on the small patch of lawn, sure that he preferred that to being carried in Mrs Goldstone’s oversized shopping bag. No animal liked to be trapped.
I glanced around the room, at the piles of clothes and half-packed suitcases. The wine glass by the bed, tinged with red. The big green numerals on the alarm clock taunted me. Seven fifty-eight … -nine. I couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘Bob, come on, baby – breakfast’s ready … Bob? Where are you, Bob?’
Her shrill voice penetrated my already banging skull. I slid off the bed and crouched low. I didn’t want her spotting me. Bridie Goldstone would have a field day when she found out I’d gone.
Scott would be inundated with offers of home-cooked meals and his washing put on. She’d think it was me who left him. I could hear her now: ‘I always thought she was a bit flighty, that one.’ She had me all wrong. She had no idea how I felt about Scott. It’s just that sometimes I wasn’t very good at showing it. I was grateful, though. Grateful that he’d gone and left me to pack up my three years’ worth of things with a little bit of dignity.