Coombe's Wood (8 page)

“Oh, I don’t choose when and where, that’s up to them.”

She spun around and said, “Hey – does that mean you’ve been speaking to the elves about me?” Izzy prodded him in the chest.

“Don’t poke me!” he said, and clasped her hand loosely in his own. “The elves don’t like violence. They won’t want to meet you if you start beating me up.” He reached around and ran his fingers down her side.

“No, no! That tickles!” She squirmed under his grip. “Stop! I’ll do anything, just stop!”

“Okay,” he said, and released her. “Stop going down Coombe Lane.”

“For God’s sake. Enough about the woods. I’m sick of hearing warnings, and I promise you, I’m not going to be frightened by some ghost stories. They aren’t even stories, they’re just silly warnings.”

“But haven’t you seen what a terrible state the road is in? The work crews won’t go into the woods to repair the tarmac. Doesn’t that tell you something, when a crew of muscle bound manual labourers won’t venture between the trees?”

She thought for a moment as she waited hopefully for a shooting star. “It tells me they’re a bunch of over-sized pussycats. Anyway, not that it’s relevant, but how did the road get built in the first place, if not by labourers?”

“All right
…
” Feathers switched tone to conciliatory and reassuring. “Next Saturday, I’ll treat you and Connor to a lunch at the Red Lion. We’ll talk to Bobby and Stan and anyone else who’s at the pub, maybe even Whiskey Dave. You’ll soon understand about Coombe’s Wood.”

“Okay, whatever makes you happy. But you and your friends are going to have a hard time trying to convince me that the woods are haunted. And, frankly, I’m just about full of cautionary words.” She smiled at him. “But, yes, I would love to go to the pub for lunch. And I’m happy to pay my own way.”

“Oh, God no, this is absolutely my treat. On a side note, did you know a beer or two actually does make for a better game of darts? A bunch of students, in their third year of a medical degree, actually experimented with three test groups – sober, tipsy and outright, falling over, drunk.” He shrugged. “Be interesting to try their theories out, don’t you think?”

Feathers moved a little closer, so their faces were only inches apart, and ran his fingers down her arm.

“It’s getting late.” She twisted away from his touch.

“It is?”

“I should go. I’ve work in the morning, you know.”

“Don’t go.” He grasped her upper arm.

“No.” Izzy shook free.

Feathers let her leave, she closed the door on his flat, wondering if he was still out there, or if he’d followed, and was steps behind her. She stared back at his front door, smiled, and crossed the hall.

Resonating snores filled her place. Izzy went into Connor’s room and gave him a gentle push onto his side. He spluttered a last snore out, gasping in a quieter breath. Satisfied he’d stopped, she pulled his door closed, and went to her own bedroom. Tired and woozy from the earlier smoke, she collapsed into bed, her last thoughts a sleepy jumble of electric skin and stars.

She didn’t hear the roar booming out of the woods. A deep-throated snarl and a high-pitched yelp intermingled. Then, the final scream of a fox floated though the open bedroom window. Izzy muttered in her sleep and rolled over. Silence retook the night.

20th July

Izzy drove towards the flats, and pulled up alongside the back end of a hire van. One of the back doors swung on its hinges, exposing the pile of brown moving boxes inside. Flicking the indicator, she turned into the next space and peered in the window. A badly folded map covered the dashboard. A
crumpled pack of cigarettes lay on the chair, and the footwell lay ankle deep in discarded food cartons. With no one in the drivers seat to welcome, she grabbed a bag with milk and bread out of the boot and locked up. Before she got to the main entrance, Cathy opened the door.

“What’s all that about?” Izzy thumbed over her shoulder at the van.

“Didn’t you hear? Someone’s moving into the studio flat next to Feathers. It’s been for rent for a while, you know,” Cathy said.

“Have you met them?” Izzy leaned forward and dropped her voice to a suitable gossiping whisper.

“Not a couple, just a man, and I only saw the back of him. Wait around long enough, and I’m sure he’ll be down for some more boxes.” She suppressed a laugh. “Bet he’s another gay. Gilbert’ll be knocking on his door once he finds out he’s there alone.”

“How can you be so certain he’s on his own?” Izzy switched the milk to the other hand, and glanced at the rental.

Cathy thought for a couple of seconds, then said, “I guess I don’t. But he’s not got much. If he had a girlfriend – or a boyfriend for that matter, there’d be more boxes.”

“Could be she’s minding their child while he’s doing the hard work,” Izzy countered.

“Again, not enough stuff. Kids come with more things than their parents.” Cathy sneaked a quick glance up the stairwell. “I still think he’ll turn out to be gay.”

Izzy laughed. “Well, bring him a welcome bunch of flowers. Remember to take notes on how he accepts them.”

“Good idea.” Cathy nodded. “I’ll add in a trip to the florist to my list.” She chuckled. “And I’ll let you know what happens.” She tapped the side of her nose, and walked off.

Izzy took the stairs slowly, hoping to glimpse the new neighbour. The door next to Feathers’ was closed, and she disappeared inside her own flat, the faint sounds of a jazzy saxophone seeping through the floorboards.

“Connor?” she called out as she closed the door.

“Hi Mum,” he replied from the kitchen.

“Try not to drink all this in the next twenty-four hours, okay?” she said, bending down to put the milk in the fridge.

Connor sat at the table, an array of ingredients set out before him.

“Why aren’t you fat?” Izzy asked.

Connor shrugged, and spread peanut butter on a slice of bread. He sandwiched it, cut it in half and pushed it to the side. He got out another slice, and unwrapped the cheese.

“Maybe you’ll grow.” Izzy snatched one of the sandwiches.

“Hey!”

“Mum tax.” She took a bite. “Want to come on my rounds?”

“I’ve got homework,” he said, and cut the cheddar. “Think I’ll stay.”

“Okay. Later.”

Izzy drove slowly past the van, once again peeking in the back. There seemed to be fewer boxes. He must have been up and down the stairs while she chatted to Connor. Funny how life
could
be a series of mistimed events.

Some of Izzy’s clients had caravans on the coast. One had a cottage on an unpronounceable hill in Wales. Another had poorly parents who required regular visits. Today, she needed to visit
a retir
ed and dedicated traveller-by-coach, for a key pick-up.

“Hello, Izzy,”
Mrs Grey said.
Her name suited her. A shrunken old lady with hair a dark shade of steel,
she
opened the door wide.

A little tabby, with stripes to match her owner in colour, ran out from the living room. He stopped to stretch, mid-bound. He took off again,
then flopped onto
Izzy’s feet.

“Hi, big guy.” She crouched and rubbed his belly. “Where’re you off to this time?” she asked Mrs Grey.

“Frankfurt for ten days with my friend Dora. Bit of a long journey – longest we’ve ever travelled in a coach.” Two keys
hung
from her fingers. “I’ll give these to you now, so I don’t forget. Oh, and I’ve moved the kitchen around a bit, so I’d better show you where everything is.”

Izzy followed her, passing dark wooden furniture, photographs documenting almost a century crowding the surfaces, and vases full of dried flowers that reached out to snag her clothes as she moved past. The house smelled musty, of old books and mildewed corners.

In the kitchen, Mrs Grey opened up the cupboards and showed Izzy locations of cat biscuits and tins of wet food.

“Before you go, Izzy, I hope you don’t mind me saying.” She fiddled with the hem of her cardigan. “I understand you’re using the old Coombe Lane to drive here.”

Izzy clung onto the keys, so as not to drop them. Her lips pursed into a miniature ‘O’ expression.

“I’m sorry if this is a little uncomfortable, and perhaps unexpected. But I’m asking, please don’t use the lane. Will you promise me?”

“Why shouldn’t I drive there?”

A stifling silence filled the kitchen. Mrs Grey, unable to maintain eye contact, grabbed the dishcloth and cleaned nonexistent dirt from the counter.

Izzy forced back an unexpected anger as it grew inside her. Heat crept up her neck, surely colouring her face bright red. Her hands clamped into white-knuckled fists. The hand holding the keys pinched against the sharp metal edges. Izzy squeezed harder.

Mrs Grey cleared her throat, and said, “Many accidents occur out there. The route twists and turns, quite unexpectedly. We’ve lost dozens of locals over the years to that road. A group petitioned to close off the woods, but the council refused. They never seem to know what’s actually best for us residents.” She flicked a brief smile at Izzy, and left the kitchen. The old lady stopped at the front door. “You won’t use the lane, will you?”

Izzy stretched her mouth into the semblance of a smile and shook her head.

“Here are the dates.” She pulled a scrap of notepaper from her pocket and handed it to Izzy. “I realise you’ve probably got them in your diary, but you know me, can’t help myself.”

“Have a fabulous trip. Hope the weather’s sunny for you.” Izzy backed away, bumping against a basket of trailing lobelia and rubbing against a fuchsia with enormous purple flowers. She couldn’t keep her balance, her gait was almost drunken.

“Don’t go down that lane,” Mrs Grey called out.

Izzy nodded, and then collided with a prickly rose bush covered with perfect pale pink buds. They’d probably open while she visited Smidgen. She rubbed at the scratches from the thorns, and pulled her keys from her pocket. With a sigh of relief, she fell into the drivers seat. Mrs Grey waved good-bye and receded from view.

Inside her car, Izzy watched the front door click closed. She started the car, and before driving away, with some apprehension, locked the door.

Two roads later, she indicated for the turn into Coombe’s Lane. At the last moment, she changed her course, and kept going straight.

22
^nd
July

“I was at old Mrs Grey’s house the other day, picking up keys,” Izzy said as they walked down the lane to the pub. “And you’ll never guess what she said.” Izzy rolled her eyes,
and added nonchalantly to Feathers, “‘Don’t cut through the woods,’ she said. ‘Don’t use that old Coombe Lane, when you come here.’ Really, can you believe the nerve?”
 

Connor looked back from the hedgerow he was
inspecting.

“She’s at it, as well?”

“Seems to be.” She watched Connor, skipping along like a much younger child, stopping every few meters to peer between the plants. She fancied he was searching for elves.

“Mrs Grey
…
” Feathers scratched his beard, fluffing it up. “Don’t tell me
…
one cat, a tabby, named – Smidgen!”

He laughed, stroking his beard back into shape. When his hand fell, his fingers brushed across Izzy’s.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, and replied quickly, “Yes, that Mrs Grey. But how on earth did you know about her cat?”

“I am a man about the village. I know things.” He tapped the side of his nose. “So, what else did she say about Coombe Lane?” He smirked. “Something along the lines of what I already told you?”

“You mean, nothing of substance?” Izzy crossed her arms.

“Okay
…
So what did
you
tell
her
?”

“Nothing, really. Shook my head at the appropriate moments, and got out as quick as I could, in case it was catchy.”

“What was catchy?”

“Insanity
…
” Izzy pulled a face. “Seems like the whole village’s infected. Connor and I don’t stand a chance.”

The wind caught Feathers hair, and as it flapped in the wind, she realised it was as long as hers. He reached over, put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief squeeze.

“Don’t worry, the sickness doesn’t last long.” He grinned.

“She did say the road’s sometimes closed – because of the weather.” She shrugged. A heavy scent wafted off Feathers’ skin, still stuck from the day before, some mix of Jasmine. She breathed deeply.