Coombe's Wood (23 page)

Izzy ignored him and continued to push the horn.

“George, go away. Do you
really
think I’m going to come out by choice?” She knew her speaking in a mocking tone was probably not the best thing to do, but no matter what she said, or how she said it, he’d get riled.

She pressed the horn again to seal her words, and to irritate him a little more.

“Where you going? You going to live in your pitiful excuse for a car?”

He laughed, and tried the handle again.

“I did you a favour, this piece of shit is going to get crushed into a square lump of metal,” he indicated the size with his hands. “Then what’re you going to do? Can’t do your kind of work without a car.”

He banged on the window, trying to get her to look. She stared away, into the woods.

George’s arms fell to his side. In his anger, she could see he’d overdone bashing at the window. The sides of his fists glowed a bright red, the dark hairs on the back of his hand standing out.

“Fuck this,” he said, and walked off.

She couldn’t believe he’d lost interest just like that. Not George. This rant was just beginning. She peered into the side mirror, leaning forward to watch him stride off. His middle had rounded over the last year, a firm tyre of fat jiggled over the waistband of his trousers.

He walked around his open door, where the pounding base still disturbed the air. He bent down into his seat, and Izzy’s eyes widened. He’d actually given up. He was getting into his car, and he was going to back away down Coombe Lane, abandon her in the woods. She dared a sigh. Maybe he had started to change for the better. Her heart fluttered as he leaned further in. She could give her car a rest, let the extra petrol drain out of wherever it floods, and drive home. She peered up through the trees, and muttered a quiet thank you, and then twisted around in her seat, she needed to be sure – she might have a chance of leaving the woods alive, or at least unharmed. She stared between the seats and across the small stretch of lane.

Behind George, the boot popped up. He backed out of the car, closed the door, and paused to grin at Izzy. He caught her by surprise, and she swivelled back, guiltily. She felt like a peeping tom, but unable to stop watching, she used the side mirror.

George sauntered to the rear of the car, leaned deep inside the depths of the boot, and emerged with something long and thin in his hand.

She couldn’t see exactly what it was. The dirt on the side mirror blurred the reflection. Izzy leaned forward and tried to make out what he was holding. As he came closer, the image focused, and with a gasp, she realised what it was.

George strolled towards her carrying a long chunk of metal. He bounced the tire iron in his palm, a calm smile on his face.

“Oh, my God!” she shrieked, jumping to see from another angle. The tire iron remained securely in his gorilla fists.

Suddenly, there was no time to wait. George was almost to the car, his arm raised loftily in the air, the metal rod colliding with low branches. She searched around the car again. She needed a weapon. There was an empty sandwich container, and the half-drunk bottle of Fanta that Connor had left. There was the Toyota manual in the glovebox, and a map of Berkshire. She would have her own tire iron in the boot, along with a spanner and the jack. But she couldn’t get to any of that. Her eyes alighted on the passenger seat, where her bunch of keys for the morning’s rounds lay. She hooked each bunch through a different finger. A homemade knuckle-duster, it would have to be enough. She could hit him, or slap the across his face. He was nearly up to the car. She hid her key adorned hand between her legs, crouched down on the seat, and waited.

“Bitch, time to come out for our talk.” He grinned, his lips thin red strips. They glistened, and his tongue flicked out and around his mouth. One arm held the iron high, ready for attack. The other hand crept to the front of his trousers. She fought against nausea. He was erect, his left hand grasping the ridge of his cock. He had a plan to execute. Smashing her car window and dragging her out, only being the start.

“Please, George, just leave me alone,” she shouted. “I won’t tell the police if you just go away. Please don’t do this.”

A shriek escaped her as his raised arm twitched. He laughed in his
huh-huh-huh
way, no tone, no inflection, no humour, and rubbed his left hand up and down his erection.

“Go on, little girl, run away,” he said, laughing again. His arm twitched again, and this time she didn’t flinch. “I dare you. Open the door, and see if you can get away.”

“George, think about this. You will end up in jail. I’ve already spoken with them about the rabbit. They have your name on the file. My friends know you’re here in the area. I told the police I saw you in Pangbourne.” Her words tumbled out. Something had to make him stop.

“Why would they waste time looking for you?” His eyes rolled up for a second as he pinched at the tip of his penis. He rubbed along the shaft again, and then leaned over to peer in through the window. “You’re insignificant. No one cares. You’re just a lump of worthless meat.”

“Shut up!”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that. Got something to say, bitch?”

“Stop! Please, what can I do to make you stop?” The keys dug into the flesh between her legs. She pushed her hand down further. She didn’t want his to see.

George brightened. “There are lots of things you can do,” he said, a grin covering his face again.

“You need to promise not to hurt me,” she said, looking around the woods.

“I’ve never hurt you. You know that. It’s not my fault you’re so clumsy.” He stood aside to let Izzy open the door.

“I don’t trust you, George, what’re you going to do to me?” She rocked in her seat. She wanted to be locked in her flat drinking tea and munching custard creams and spreading crumbs.

“Oh, come on, just get out of the bloody car!” he shouted, and pulled on the handle again. “Look, I’ll even throw this away.” He chucked the tyre iron to one side, but not far away.

“No, George. I’m not coming out!” She pushed the horn again.

More birds took flight, too high in the trees to see this time.

“There’s no one here. No one is racing through the bushes to save you. You really are a pathetic little girl, aren’t you? Did you think that Goddamn hippy would save you? What’s he going to do, throw essential oils on me? I’ll break him like a twig, into little pieces, and it’ll all be your fault. That’s where I’m going next, after I’m done with you.”

“Would you let me go if I
…
” She took a deep breath. “If I agreed to do some things to you?”

“What kind of things?” His hand dropped from the front of his trousers.

“You know
…
sexual things. I could
…
I could give you a blow job.”

She swallowed as her stomach performed a sickening tumble, then closed her eyes for a second, and tried to stop herself from vomiting. She looked out the window. George was smirking. His thin lips stretched across his teeth, and the
huh-huh
laugh hiccupping from him, arms on hips, and the crowbar scarily close by.

“That’s all?”

“Can’t we take things slowly, work up to more
…
another time.” A couple of tears escaped. She wiped at them. “I can’t lie, George. I couldn’t have sex with you now. Not willingly. I don’t get horny when I’m scared.”

Slowly, he bent over and stared in the window, millimetres from her face, and drew a finger across his neck. Izzy put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and dry. Then, quickly, before she could think it through, she dropped her hand down, and twisted in her seat. With one swift movement, she unlocked the door, flicked the handle, and smashed her feet into the door panel.

The door flew into George, knocking him off his feet, and into the bushes. The full force of the blow landed on the top of his shiny head. She jumped out, not sure what to do. George remained where he had fallen. She edged towards him, to see how badly she’d injured him. She had visions of blood pouring from him. An uncomfortable sensation of relief followed this picture. She took another small step, peering down. His scalp had ruptured. George lay there, unconscious, painting a small patch of the woods red. Izzy hesitated. Could she leave him to die? She moved a little closer. Maybe she should take his pulse. Suddenly, one of George’s gorilla hands balled up.

“Bitch!” he shouted, his voice slurred.

He flopped over onto his side. She didn’t need to see more.

She ran, feet pounding the lane. She searched the woods for Bodu, sneaked looks behind for George. Her lungs burned, and after a few minutes her side was racked with stitch. The exit out of the woods was just ahead; she’d crashed not far from where the green tinted shade of the woods gave way to blinding yellow light, only a few more steps to go.

From behind, she heard an engine rev. George’s car squealed into reverse, and headed back down the lane. But she didn’t slow, the woods still held the beast. Safety waited in the sun, where the elves force field sprang up from the ground.

Each running step hurt. Her heart pumped in sharp painful bursts. Her face burned from effort, her skin prickled. She imagined the hot breath of the beast blowing down her back, giving her a last burst of speed into the force field. It grasped her and threw her onto the side of the road, out in the sun, where she lay wheezing for breath.

The whining of George’s transmission filtered out of the woods, the sound alternatively high and low pitched, as he negotiated the twists and turns of Coombe Lane. His sore head might be slowing him. Maybe he had double vision. As if in answer, a loud bang echoed from the woods, and a tinkle of glass.

She climbed onto her hands and knees, and forced her body up. Her legs buckled, and she locked her knees, and stood facing the woods. How angry was George? Furious, she reckoned. He’d be planning to come looking for her as soon as he escaped the lane. She’d be safer behind the locked and bolted door of her flat. She forced one foot out, and then the other. With each painful step, she wobbled a few inches closer to home.

“Feathers, Feathers, let me in!” Izzy shouted, banging on the door. “Feathers
…
”

The door opened, and a rush of scent hit her. Feathers’ pyjama bottoms poked out from under a long t-shirt that he’d put on inside out and back to front. He pulled his hair back and wrapped it in a hairband.

“Izzy? What’s wrong? Did he call again, is there
…
” Feathers peered past her. “What’s happened?”

She didn’t talk, and staggered past him and into the living room. She paced the length of the room, and then collapsed onto a sofa. Connor looked up from the other, rubbed his eyes and gave his head a long scratch. He reached down for his glasses, pushed back the covers, and padded across the hall to the bathroom.

Izzy waited until he closed the door, and said, “George chased me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He caught me on my rounds this morning, hit my back bumper. I took Coombe Lane to lose him, but there was a tree down in the road, I almost ran right into it,” she said. Her eyes were hurting. She tried to slow down, to stop the tears before they started. “I did hit the tree, I actually, rammed one side of the car against the trunk. I thought I could get by.” She burst into tears. “He was going to kill me, Feathers! He got a tire iron out of his boot
…
I smashed the car door into his head. He fell down
…
I waited until he moved, then I ran out of the forest. Feathers, he was going to kill me!” She grabbed a pillow and cried into it, with big hiccupping sobs. “He was going to kill me!”

“My God.”

Feathers leaned forward and took her hand. She pulled him forward, and wrapped her arms around him. He held her for a moment, the warmth of his embrace drawing the pain out of her. Izzy shuddered against him, and then breathed deeply, trying to gain control. She pulled away, wiping her face, and curled back into the sofa.

“What happened to him? You said you left George there?”

“Bodu didn’t come,” she said.

Feathers looked at her wide-eyed. He could say “What a pity,” and the look would be right.

“The beast didn’t come. I kept George there best I could, considering the circumstances. Beeped my horn. He was shouting loud enough for the birds to fly off. I waited, but the damn thing stayed away.”

“Oh.”

They sat there, silent. The toilet flushed and Connor came back in, still rubbing at his eyes and yawning. He dived under the blankets, staring at Feathers and his mother’s sombre expressions.

“Who died?” he asked.

“No one. Unfortunately,” Feathers replied with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

He leaned over to play-punch Izzy in the leg. Halfway through the motion, he changed his mind, but he stopped a little too late. He caught her leg with a gentle grazing blow. She flinched. Connor watched the atmosphere growing awkward, and sat up on the sofa.

“Should I go?” he asked. He climbed back out of the covers, and walked towards the door. “I’m not stupid. I know something’s going on,” he said.