In a Dark, Dark Wood (6 page)

Beneath the sheets I rub my feet together, feeling the pain in one, and the swollen bulge of a dressing on the other. And across my shins … I can feel the stretch and pull of some kind of surgical tape across one leg.

It’s only when my hand strays to my shoulder, my right shoulder, that I wince and look down.

There’s a vast spreading bruise coming out from beneath the hospital gown, running down my arm. When I shrug my shoulder out of the neckline I can see a mass of purple spreading out from a dark swollen centre, just above my armpit. What could make such an odd, one-sided bruise? I feel like the memory is hovering just beyond my fingertips – but it remains stubbornly out of reach.

Have I had an accident? A car accident? Was I … was I attacked?

Painfully, I slide my hand beneath the sheets and run my palm across my belly, my breasts, my side. My arms are slashed with cuts but my body seems OK. I put my hand to my thighs, feel between my legs. There’s some kind of thick nappy-thing, but no pain. No cuts. No bruises on the inside of my thighs. Whatever happened, it wasn’t that.

I lie back and shut my eyes, tired – tired of trying to remember, tired of being afraid – and the syringe driver clicks and whirrs and suddenly nothing seems as important any more.

It is just as I’m drifting off to sleep that an image comes to me: a shotgun, hanging on a wall.

And suddenly I know.

The bruise is a recoil bruise. At some point in the recent past, I have fired a gun.

5

‘
FLO
,’
I STUCK
my head around the kitchen door. Flo was loading the dishwasher with cups. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t be doing that all by yourself. Can I help?’

‘No! Don’t be silly. It’s done.’ She slammed the dishwasher shut. ‘What is it? Anything I can help with? I’m so sorry about the coffee.’

‘What? Oh – honestly, it’s fine. Listen, I was just wondering, what time did you say Clare was due to get here?’

‘About six I think.’ She looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘So we’ve got an hour and a half to kill.’

‘OK, well I was just wondering – have I got time to go for a quick run?’

‘A run?’ She looked startled. ‘Well, I guess – but it’s getting dark.’

‘I won’t go far. It’s just—’ I shifted awkwardly. I couldn’t explain it to her. I have trouble explaining it to myself, but I had to get out, get away.

I run almost every day at home. I have about four different routes, variations going through Victoria Park in fine weather or street runs when it’s wet or dark. I give myself a couple of days off a week – they say you should, to let your muscles repair – but sooner or later the need builds up and then I have to run. If I don’t, I get … I don’t know what you’d call it. Cabin fever, maybe. A kind of claustrophobia. I hadn’t run yesterday – I’d been too busy packing and tying up loose ends – and now I felt a powerful itch to get out of this box-like house. It’s not about the physical exercise – or at least, it’s not only that. I’ve tried running in a gym, on a treadmill, and it’s not the same. It’s about getting out, not having walls around myself, being able to get
away
.

‘I guess you’ve got time,’ Flo said, glancing out the window at the deepening twilight, ‘but you’d better be quick. When it gets dark here it gets really,
really
dark.’

‘I’ll be quick. Is there a route I should go for?’

‘Hmm … I think your best bet would be to take the forest path down— Hang on, come through to the living room.’ She led me through and pointed out of the huge window-wall to a shadowy gap in the forest. ‘See, that’s a footpath. It leads down through the wood to the main road. It’ll be firmer and less muddy than the drive – much easier to run. You just follow it down until you hit tarmac, but then I’d turn right along the main road and come back up the drive – it’ll be too dark by then to run back through the forest, the path isn’t fenced and you could end up going in totally the wrong direction. Hang on,’ she went back to the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer and pulled out something that looked like a set of badly folded suspenders. ‘Take this – it’s a head-torch.’

I thanked her, and hurried up to my room to pull on my running gear and trainers. Nina was lying on her bed, looking up at the ceiling and listening to something on her iPhone.

‘That Flo’s quite the fruitloop, isn’t she?’ she said conversationally as I came in, pulling out her earphones.

‘Is that a medical term, Dr da Souza?’

‘Yes. From the Latin
Fruitus Lupus
, fruit of the moon, associated with the pagan belief that insanity was connected to bathing in the light of the full moon.’

I began laughing as I pulled off my jeans and yanked on my thermal running leggings and top.

‘
Lupus
is Latin for wolf. You’re thinking of
luna
. Where are my trainers? I left them by the door.’

‘I chucked them under the bed. Anyway, werewolves turn crazy at the full moon. Same diff. Speaking of crazy, are you going out?’

‘Yes.’ I bent to look under the bed. There were my trainers, miles underneath. Thanks, Nina. I knelt and began fishing with my arm, my voice muffled by the bedclothes as I asked, ‘Why?’

‘Let me see.’ She began ticking off the reasons on her fingers. ‘It’s dark, you don’t know the neighbourhood, there’s free wine and food downstairs – oh, and did I mention it’s
pitch fucking black
outside?’

‘It’s not pitch-black.’ I looked out of the window as I tied my trainer laces. It was pretty dark, but it wasn’t pitch-black. The sun had set but the sky was clear and still illuminated by a diffuse pearly-grey light in the west, and a round white moon rising from the trees in the east. ‘And it’s going to be a full moon, so it won’t be
that
dark even after the sun sets properly.’

‘Oh really, Miss Leonora “I’ve lived in London for the past eight years and never strayed more than fifty yards from a streetlamp in all that time” Shaw?’

‘Really.’ I double-knotted the trainers and stood up straight. ‘Don’t give me grief, Nina, I’ve got to get out or I really will go crazy, moon or no moon.’

‘Huh. You’re finding it that bad?’

‘No.’

But I was. I couldn’t explain why. I couldn’t tell Nina how it had made me feel, having strangers picking over my past with Clare downstairs, like someone picking at the edges of a half-healed wound. I’d made a mistake in coming – I knew that now. But I was stuck here, car-less, until Nina chose to go.

‘No, I’m fine. I just want to get out. Now. See you in an hour.’

I set off down the stairs, with her mocking laugh following me as I slammed out the door.

‘You can run … but you can’t escape!’

Out in the forest I took a breath of the clean, crisp air and began to warm up. I stretched my limbs against the garage, looking out into the forest. The sense of menace, nearing claustrophobia, that I’d had inside had gone. Was it the glass? The feeling that anyone could be out there, looking in, and we’d never know it? Or was it the strange anonymity of the rooms that made me think of of social experiments, of hospital waiting rooms?

Out here, I realised, the sense of being watched had quite gone.

I began to run.

It was easy. This was easy. No questions, no-one prodding and poking, just the sharp, sweet air and the soft thud of my feet on the carpet of pine needles. It had rained a fair bit, but the water could not sit on this soft, loose-draining soil the way it could on the compacted rutted drive, and there were few puddles, or even boggy bits, just miles of clean, springy pathway, the drifted needles of a thousand trees beneath the soles of my shoes.

There are no other runners in my family – or not that I know of – but my grandmother was a walker. She said that when she was a girl and in a rage with a friend, she used to write their name on the soles of her feet in chalk, and walk until the name was gone. She said by the time the chalk had worn away, her resentment would have faded too.

I don’t do that. But I hold a mantra in my head, and I run until I can’t hear it any more above the pounding of my heart and the pounding of my feet.

Tonight – although I wasn’t angry at her, or at least, not any more – I could hear my heart beating out her name:
Clare, Clare, Clare, Clare
.

Down, down through the woods I ran, through the gathering dark and the soft night sounds. I saw bats swooping in the gloaming, and the sound of animals breaking from shelter. A fox shot across the path ahead and then stopped, superbly arrogant, his slim-nosed head following my scent as I thumped past in the quiet dusk.

This was easy – the downhill swoop, like flying through the twilight. And I didn’t feel afraid, in spite of the darkness. Out here the trees weren’t silent watchers behind the glass, but friendly presences, welcoming me into the wood, parting before me as I ran, swift and barely panting, along the forest path.

It would be the uphill stretch that tested me, the run back along the rutted, muddy drive, and I knew I must make it to the drive before it got so dark that I could not see the potholes. And so I ran harder, pushing myself. I had no time to keep, no target to make. I didn’t even know the distance. But I knew what my legs could do and I kept my stride long and loose. I leapt over a fallen log, and for a minute I shut my eyes – crazy in this dim light – and I could almost imagine that I was flying, and would never meet the ground.

At last I could see the road, a pale grey snake in the deepening shadows. As I broke out from the woods I heard the soft hoot of an owl, and I obeyed Flo’s instructions, turning right along the tarmac. I hadn’t been running for long when I heard the sound of a car behind me and stopped, pressing myself up against the verge. I had no wish to be run down by someone not expecting to find a runner out at this time.

The sound of the car came closer, brutally loud in the quiet night, and then it was upon me, the engine roaring like a chainsaw. My eyes were dazzled by the blinding headlights – and then it was gone, into the darkness, only the red of its rear lights showing like ruby eyes in the darkness, backing away.

Its passing had left me blinking and night-blind and even though I waited, hoping my eyes would readjust, the night seemed infinitely darker than a few moments ago, and I was suddenly afraid of running into the ditch at the side of the road, or tripping on a branch. I felt in my pocket for Flo’s head-torch and wrestled it on. It felt awkward, tight enough for the buckle to dig in, but loose enough for me to worry about it falling off as I started up again. At least now I could see the patch of tarmac in front of me, the white markings at the side of the road glittering back at me in the torch beam.

A sudden break on the right showed me that I was at the drive, and I slowed and turned the corner.

Now I was grateful for the head-torch, and it was not a matter of running any more, but a sort of slow, cautious jog, picking my way around muddy troughs and avoiding the potholes that might break an unwary ankle. Even so, my trainers were caked and every step felt like I was dragging a brick – half a pound of clotted mud on the sole of each shoe. I’d have fun cleaning them when I got back.

I tried to remember how far it was – half a mile? I half-wished I’d gone back through the wood, dark or no dark. But far up ahead I could see the beacon of the house, its blank glass walls shining golden in the night.

The mud sucked at my feet, as if trying to keep me here in the dark, and I gritted my teeth and forced my tired legs to go a bit faster.

I was maybe halfway when there was a sound from below, back on the main road. A car, slowing down.

I didn’t have a watch, and I’d left my phone back at the house, but surely it couldn’t be six yet? I hadn’t been running for an hour, nothing like it.

But there it was, the sound of an engine idling as the car made the turn, and then a gritting, growling roar as it began to plough up the hill, bouncing from pothole to pothole.

I flattened myself against the hedge as it got closer, and stood, shielding my eyes from the glare, and hoping that the car wouldn’t splash me with too much mud as it passed, but to my surprise it stopped, its exhaust a cloud of white against the moon, and I heard the whir of an electric window and a blast of Beyoncé, quickly muffled as someone turned the volume down.

I took a step closer, my heart pounding again, as if I’d been running much faster than I had. The head-torch had been angled to point at the ground, for walking rather than talking, and I couldn’t work out how to adjust it back up. Instead I pulled the apparatus from my head, holding it in my hand, and shone it into the pale face of the girl in the car.

But I didn’t need to.

I knew who it was.

Clare.

‘
Lee?
’ she said, as if in disbelief. The light was full in her eyes, and she blinked and shielded them from the torch beam. ‘My God, is it really you? I didn’t … What are you doing here?’

6

FOR A MINUTE
I didn’t understand. Had there been some horrible mistake? Was it possible she
hadn’t
invited me at all, and this was all Flo’s stupid idea?

‘It— I’m— y-your hen,’ I stammered. ‘Didn’t you—?’

‘I know that, silly!’ She laughed, a nervous gust of white breath in the cold air. ‘I meant, what are you doing out here? Are you training for an Arctic expedition or something?’

‘Having a run,’ I said, trying to make it sound like the most normal thing in the world. ‘It’s not that c-cold. Just a bit nippy.’ But I
was
cold now, standing still, and I ruined the last words by shivering convulsively.

‘Get in, I’ll give you a lift up to the house.’ She leaned across and opened the passenger door.

‘I’m … my trainers, they’re pretty gross—’

‘Don’t worry. It’s a hire car. Get in already, before we both freeze!’

I squelched round to the passenger side and got in, feeling the heat of the car strike through my cold, sweat-soaked thermals. The mud had penetrated my trainers. My toes were squishing inside the lining in a way that made me shudder.