Black Wood (14 page)

He has a small torch. A penknife. He keeps them on him at all times.

At the end of his bed is a heavy wooden trunk.

‘For your toys,’ the woman told him, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The man came in later. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘some things for you.’

Books, comics. Some Action Men. The one with the eyes that move back and forwards from the little switch on the back of his head.

Eagle eyes.

The boy is not interested in these toys. He puts them in an old shoebox in the back of the wardrobe.

In the toybox, he keeps the Collection.

He lines the things up neatly on the bottom, another layer. Another.

He wonders if the other boy would like to see them.

Decides that he wouldn’t understand.

The Collection is his now.

He underestimates the other boy. Never imagines for a second that the other boy would dare go into his room.

The other boy’s room is stuffed full of all the things that boys like.

Footballs, cricket bats. Books, music. More Action Men. Even a tank.

He has nothing to offer.

He has gone to his room after dinner. Fish fingers again. The woman drank a cup of coffee with them at the table and smiled.

‘I’m still here for you both,’ she said.

It wasn’t the same. Wasn’t enough.

He has the lid of the toybox open, organising the things. He is digging deep inside.

A rabbit’s pelt. The small skull of a vole. Three whole mice.

The animals feel different now. Their fur rough. Their bodies hard.

Their eyes dull without the shining light of life behind them.

In the heat of the house, some of them are beginning to rot.

He barely notices the smell.

It’s when he takes out the head of the badger – the last thing he collected with the man – that he notices that the doors of his wardrobe are open slightly.

He never leaves them open.

He hears the intake of breath.

Sees one bright eye peering out at him, open wide.

He has two options. He has to be careful. It could all backfire on him now. He can pretend he hasn’t seen. Or he can invite the other boy to play.

He feels a fluttering in his chest as he makes his decision.

‘Come out,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll show you.’

He waits.

After a few moments, the wardrobe doors open and the other boy creeps out from his hiding place, eyes blinking from being in the dark.

‘She’ll go mad if she sees these,’ the other boy hisses. ‘They stink.’

‘It’s just nature,’ the boy replies. ‘Nothing to be scared of.’

He offers up one of the mice in cupped hands, and the other boy, shaking, takes it.

Lydia McKenzie hated maths. She hated English too, and French. Come to think of it, she wasn’t that keen on geography, history or modern studies either. God knows why she’d chosen any of them. She’d tried telling her dad she wanted to be a children’s book illustrator, but he’d just laughed.

‘So you go to art college for that, do you?’ he’d said. ‘Hang out with your pot-smoking mates, sitting drinking black coffee and talking about Monet all day, eh?’

For an intelligent man, he really was a first-rate arsehole. He’d blackmailed her into taking a load of subjects she wasn’t interested in, saying he’d pay her two hundred quid for an ‘A’, a hundred for a ‘B’. There was nothing for a ‘C’ and if she failed anything she was getting kicked out and disinherited. Prick.

Lydia wasn’t interested in his money, but it didn’t stop him throwing it at her. It was his way of trying to look after her, he said. Now that it was just the two of them. The two of them plus that gold-digging bitch Louisa who called herself his girlfriend. Poor mum’d be turning in her bloody grave.

She took her mobile phone out of her bag and stared at it. Still nothing. Where the hell was Fraser? Quarter past two at the Track, he’d said, on the note he’d aeroplaned across at her halfway through Baldy Baldwin’s monotonous drone about uniquely shaped rock formations caused by thousands of years of volcanic eruptions. What was that wide one called again? Gorge? Gulley? Something like that. She could do with finding one of them now and flinging herself down it.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to be going near the Track – what with the thing that had happened to Jenny Brownlee. But, really … what
had
happened? Nothing, by all accounts. Jenny had always been a drama queen and Lydia wouldn’t put it past her to make up something like that, although there
had
been a witness, that jogger Dave Morriss. There’d been some rumours about him a while back too. What was it again? Something to do with one of last year’s sixth formers and a pub up town. Not that it was
illegal
or anything, but still, he was a few years older … Ruth Colgan would know. She’d have to ask her.

She was positive that Fraser had shagged Lynne Daniels at Ruth’s party at the weekend. The way they’d both mysteriously appeared in the kitchen after she’d hunted the whole house for him for nearly an hour, bumping into Lynne’s boyfriend more than once and finding out he was doing the same. They’d looked at each other, both suddenly getting it, but neither of them had wanted to voice the pain. If you don’t say it, then it’s not true, right? Lynne’s pink flushed cheeks were a dead giveaway. Not to mention the little smirk when she thought no one had sussed them. Bitch. Fraser was a bloody prick as well. What was it with blokes? The only reason she hadn’t dumped him yet was because they were meant to be going to see Foster the People together at the O2 Academy and there was no way that Lynne flippin’ Daniels was taking her place for that!

She was nearly at the second bridge when her phone finally beeped.

Sorry, running late. Wait for me! XOXO

Lydia frowned. Yet again, she had no choice. She could turn and walk back. Slink back into the school with a well-worn excuse. Nobody would give that much of a shit. Or she could wait, and eventually he’d turn up and he’d probably have a flask of hot chocolate and a stack of cheese sandwiches wrapped in foil – which to some people wasn’t worth skipping school for, but for her it was the only time she could have a proper homely treat without someone nagging at her about fat and carbs and the glycaemic bloody index. Oh yeah – not only was her dad a control freak when it came to her grades and what he wanted her to be when she left school, he was also obsessed with her staying a size ten and wearing the right clothes and seeing the right people. In fact, Fraser was a top choice, as he planned to study law at St Andrews and that was as good enough a reason as any to dump him before he humiliated her any further.

He did make good hot chocolate, though.

OK, she decided. Ten more minutes. Fifteen, max. Then she was going home and fuck it if her dad or Louisa were in. She’d say she had a headache. Period pain or something. Louisa would turn her nose up at that. The woman didn’t have an ounce of motherly love inside her fully inflated chest. At least she would leave her alone.

She sat on the concrete blocks at the base of the bridge and took out her phone again. No more messages. She thought about texting Sarah, but she knew her friend wouldn’t be happy at the interruption. For some unfathomable reason, Sarah actually liked maths and was considering becoming a teacher. Lydia often wondered if they’d manage to stay friends if they both went to different universities. She didn’t have many close friends, and Sarah had been there for her when her mum had got ill. No one else seemed to know what to say.

As she scrolled through the messages on her phone, hoping for something to cheer her up, she zoned out. Didn’t hear the footsteps crunching carefully down the siding from the bridge above. A small pile of loose stones and mud skittered down the slope, and finally she turned round, a frown on her face, fully expecting to see Fraser standing there, rucksack slung over one shoulder, sheepish, irresistible smile on his face.

A man stood in front of her. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his face obscured by a balaclava. She gasped, but the pang of fear was soon replaced by a sharp bark of laughter.

‘Nice try, you arse. You shouldn’t be doing that, you know … What if there
is
a nutter up here, eh?’

She took a step forward, hand outstretched, ready to pull off the stupid hat.

He took a step to meet her, and that’s when she realised it was all wrong. He was too tall. Too skinny. He didn’t smell like Fraser, and there was something … something wrong with the shape of his head.

Lydia screamed loudly, right into his face, like she’d been taught by her dad – one of the only decent things he
had
taught her.

The man stumbled backwards, before lurching forwards, making a grab for her bag, catching the strap and pulling her towards him. She let him pull it off her shoulder, but it caught on her elbow as he yanked, and she skidded on the gravel, her legs flying out from under her.

She screamed again, and he dropped the bag at his feet.

Lydia sensed his confusion and took the opportunity to launch herself forwards, kicking out at him. She caught him on the knee and he yelped, retreating like an injured puppy, before finally getting his bearings and fleeing back up the embankment, the way he’d come.

Leaving her panting on the ground, wondering what the hell it was that had just happened.

Gray was stopped twice as he walked back to the station. The first time was Harry Stevens, asking when he was sending someone round to investigate his missing onions. Gray told him they were looking into it.

He’d been to the station three times in the last week.

‘I need to report a crime,’ he’d said to Beattie, who was standing behind the desk looking bored. ‘Some little bastard has stolen my onions again. Giant Whites, they were. I was growing them for the county show …’

Gray had clocked Beattie’s eye-roll and decided to deal with it himself. ‘Hello, Harry. Do you want to come through? We can have a cuppa in the interview room and you can tell me all about it.’

The old man had looked at him like he had two heads. ‘I’ve no time to be sitting about drinking tea, son. I’ve work to go to. The bus’ll be there now.’ He’d turned and walked back out, muttering something about time-wasters as he went.

Gray smiled inwardly at the irony and picked up the phone. ‘Sheila? Davie Gray. Aye, no problem. He’s just left. No. No. Don’t be daft, Sheila. OK then. Right then. Bye.’ He put the phone back in its cradle and shook his head sadly.

‘I don’t know how you’ve got the patience,’ Beattie said. ‘That’s the third time this week.’

‘Let’s just hope you never have to deal with old age, eh? Happens to us all, Callum. You need to stop thinking you’re invincible.’

Beattie looked suddenly pained. ‘Sorry, boss. I wasn’t thinking.’

Gray had waved the conversation away with his hand, like he was fanning away the cloying heat that seemed to have seeped into the station when Harry had left the door open. Beattie was young. He wasn’t being malicious. Gray couldn’t expect him to know how it felt to lose a loved one to dementia. His mother had died last year after six years of it, and if he was honest, it was a blessing for everyone who knew her. She was never herself after the day his dad had dropped dead on the way to buy a paper, five years before her mind started to fall apart, like an old photograph slowly fading in the sun.

The second person to stop him, just as he was crossing over from the bank, was Marie Bloomfield.

‘Hello, Davie,’ she’d said, looking up at him through dark mascara’d eyelashes. ‘Anne says you’re joining us for dinner on Thursday?’

Gray felt himself shrinking into a slouch to get closer to her. It was automatic. Marie, at five foot three in her immaculately polished burgundy Doc Martens, was nearly a foot shorter than him. She was pushing forty but could pass for twenty-five with her clean, unlined skin. Her hair was like it had been when he first met her, twenty-odd years ago: shaved except for fringe and tails. She was wearing her usual attire, which was a tailored pinstripe suit jacket and neat black pencil skirt. They’d gone on two dates about ten years ago, but she hadn’t asked for a third. She’d taken his awkwardness for disinterest, and he hadn’t had the heart to put her right. Maybe it was time to fix that.

‘News travels fast, eh, Marie? I’m looking forward to it, actually. Be nice to get out. Not to mention have someone cook my tea.’

Marie beamed, then a thought seemed to strike her and her face fell. ‘I heard about the attack up at the Track, Davie. Terrible thing …’ She let her sentence trail off when he didn’t react. Realising that he wasn’t going to say anything else, she stood up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips felt like velvet. ‘See you on Thursday.’

She took off at a pace, leaving Gray standing at the edge of the pavement, wondering what had happened. The kiss on the cheek had felt nice. But he was concerned by what she had said. So it was an attack now? This town and its Chinese bloody whispers.

By the time he got back to the station, he felt flat. Like someone had punctured his football and stamped on it until it sunk.

So he wasn’t really expecting the scene that greeted him as he walked inside.

Martin Brotherstone had hold of his son, Pete, by the hood of his Iron Man sweatshirt. He was almost chest to chest with the Big Ham, who had clearly decided to grace them with his presence for a few hours.

‘Talk to him yourself, Hamilton – he’ll tell you – he didn’t see anything else …’ He paused briefly to pull on the hood, causing the lad to cry out. ‘Did you, Pete? Tell the inspector …’

On the other side of the counter, Beattie and Lorna the analyst were studiously ignoring the fracas. Lorna was banging on the keyboard so hard that Gray expected to see a fountain of little black boxes spray out from behind the screen where she was, ineffectively, trying to hide. Beattie was stand ing by her side, inspecting his nails as if he’d grown a new microbiological specimen underneath.

Between the two scenes, a girl with mascara-streaked cheeks was sitting on one of the plastic seats looking like she wished she hadn’t bothered to come in. Gray took it all in. Sucked in a deep breath. It was something he’d learned from his martial-arts training.