Sixty Seconds (2 page)

I hope I’m walking in a straight line, I’ll find my way out
eventually if I don’t circle. I pass an old oak tree with a deep
slice in the bark of the trunk, that’ll be Dave and his pen knife
again. He thinks he’s a big man with his knife, used to be the
quiet one before he bought that blunt piece of crap. He’s a
show-off now, flicking it open whenever Sharon is around. Wanker,
he knows I had my eye on her first. Who cares if I never said
anything? I don’t know why I touch the incision. Gross. I pull my
fingers away, sticky with whatever’s oozing out of that
tree.
Looks like silver blood.

Getting cold now, too quiet, isn’t there supposed to be
animals at night? Badgers or something? Owls even? The trees look
sort of creepy, like giants with lots of arms. The branches dip low
but I don’t feel a strong breeze, just a chill in the air. I clear
my throat, just to make a noise. It echoes around the trees until
I’m almost convinced someone is out there, mocking me. Probably
Dave, it’d be just like him. I’ll show him. I’m not scared.
Much
.

“
Very funny, Dave. Hil-fucking-arious. Now stop acting like a
twat and help me figure out how to get out of here.”

Nothing. He’s always been a wanker, that Dave. Feels like I’ve
been walking around for hours but I’m still in the middle of a
hundred poxy trees.
Is that the same oak
tree?
Looks like the same cut on the trunk.
Dave’s getting imaginative now, running ahead of me marking trees
so I’ll think I’m lost.

“
Way to be obvious, man.”

My words
echo for a long time, until they sound almost like a little girl.
Is that supposed to happen? Whatever, I have to hurry, get home
before Mam gets home from work. She’ll flip her lid if she finds
out I was hanging out with Dave and all.

What’s that noise?
Maybe I should
slow down, I keep tripping over roots I don’t even see. Can’t see
the wood for trees
.
What’s that even mean?

I must be seeing things, I have to be seeing things.
Is that a girl?
A hot
one, no less. Haha, Dave, you’re missing out.

“
Alright there, love?”

She
smiles at me, beckons me, in her white dress, one strap falling
down her shoulder. I hope my mouth didn’t just drop open. I step
towards her and it’s like the trees have moved out of my way
because I don’t trip up once.

“
What’s your name?” she says. Funny, ‘cos I didn’t see her lips
moving.

“
M . . . Michael.” I barely get my own name out, how lame is
that?

She smiles again, puts her hand on my chest and lowers her
eyes, all coy like.
Up yours,
Dave
.

She’s
not as pretty up close but who cares, she’s wearing a slip of a
thing on a cold night. She’s well up for it.

“
Who are you?” I ask, delighted I didn’t stutter.

“
Deirdre,” she says, her voice like a whisper floating through
me.

“
Nice name.”
Yeah,
right
. “So, where you from?”

“
Here.”

“
What, like the woods?”

She nods and laughs, a nice tinkling sound that doesn’t echo.
Great, she’s cuckoo.
Does that mean I
shouldn’t get my leg over?

I’m trying to think of something else to say when she pushes
herself against me, her face close to mine. Actually, she isn’t
good looking at all now – won’t be telling the lads that. She
presses her mouth against mine and pushes me until my back is
against a tree.
Alrighty
then
.

I grab her backside and pull her against me but she feels
funny. Doesn’t feel like skin. I open my eyes and see a wooden
monster before me. Skin dried up like bark, her tongue slips
between my lips and feels like a twig poking around my
mouth.
What the fuck?

I’m panicking now because she won’t let go. Her hand, or
whatever, is pressed against my chest. I can feel something sharp
pierce into my skin, like her nails are growing into me. I try to
look down but her tongue is growing inside me – at the back of my
throat I can feel it. Moving, living, choking me.
Jesus, help me.

I’m struggling, tears streaming but she won’t let go and all I
feel is pain. She’s eating me, melding into me, pushing me into
that tree while I feel pinpricks of pain all over me. My face feels
wet and all of a sudden she’s pushing me away from her. Releasing
me, setting me free. Except I’m not free. The tree behind me is
growing around me, the trunk gathers, encasing me. The tree is
swallowing me and as she pulls away, she licks my face – the wounds
she’s inflicted. Instead of blood, her lips are covered in silvery
juice. She swallows it and her skin changes slowly. Less dry. Less
wooden. She sucks my chin and I try to scream but there’s something
in my throat. Something hard. I can’t move but she can. She steps
backwards and the trees seem to separate, letting the moon shine on
her. She turns back into the beautiful, skimpily-dressed girl I
first saw.
Please be dreaming.

She
steps away but the tree is still growing around me until I can’t
see. My eyes are gone now, I see what the tree sees. I am the tree.
She smiles at me and places her hand against my trunk.

“
Thank you for taking my place before they cut us down,” she
says, a tear rolling down her cheek. She leaves and I try to follow
but my roots are deep in the earth. I stand there for seconds,
minutes, hours, days. Light then dark. Light then dark.

Dave and
the others come back for me but they seem feeble and tiny. Their
voices echo in the hollowness of the forest.

“
Maybe he ran away,” Dave says, flicking his knife open and
cutting my trunk. I scream with pain and rage but they hear
nothing. My branches sway and Dave looks up, fear flickering across
his face. “Come on, we better go. Don’t want to be here when they
start cutting these fuckers down.”

They leave and I see no way out.
Please don’t let it hurt.
But it
does.

“
Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . years
since my last confession. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“
That’s alright, son. The Lord welcomes you with forgiving
arms, never forget that. It’s nice to see you back.” Father Pat
clasped his hands together, hoping his words rang true. After this
confession, a break. A nice cup of coffee laced with a drop of
whiskey would get him through the day.

“
Really, father, I’m sorry. I’ve fucked up, fucked up big
time.” The priest heard the anxiety in the young man’s voice and
groaned inwardly. Not another one.

“
Not to worry, penance will fix everything.” The priest tried
to tell him but the man wouldn’t listen. They never did. Not
anymore.

“
I killed him, father. In cold blood. It was me or him, I swear
to you!”

Father
Pat rolled his eyes. These youngsters, always so dramatic, with
their sex and their rap music and all that shoving powder up their
nose. It was better in the old days, when the biggest problems in
his confession box were the drink and a few battered wives who
wouldn’t dare talk about it anywhere else.

Once
upon a time, the youngsters came to his confession box in their
droves telling him how they cheeked their mammy or stole a pound
from their Da’s wallet. Now? Nobody came to the church, only the
old ladies looking for gossip and the devout foreigners. The
foreigners were keeping the church going – shivering together in
the depths of winter when there wasn’t enough money to turn on the
radiators.

The
young lad was panting, Father Pat could hear him. “Are you alright
there, son?”

“
Father, did you not hear me? I killed a man.”

“
Ah, well, I’m sure you’re sorry.” The priest’s stomach
growled. A nice pub dinner might be in order.

The
confessor banged his hands against the grate. “Why does nobody
care? It’s a big fucking deal! He’s dead, he’s dead, I told
you!”

“
Language, boyo. This is God’s house.” No respect. None at
all.

The lad wept next to him. The sound of sorrow made Father Pat
uncomfortable.
I’m too old for
this
.

“
Now, now, it’s time to move on. What’s done is done. Jesus
loves all his children. Quick now, go home and do your penance and
all will be well. Hurry, it’s someone else’s turn.”

“
There’s nobody else out there, you doddery old fool! Fuck you
and your penance!” The lad kicked the door open and stalked away.
Father Pat blessed himself.

Muttering under his breath and holding his hands together to
stop them shaking, he decided a pub dinner was definitely in
order.

He drove
carefully to the pub that served the most generous portions. His
eyesight was going so he had no choice but to drive slowly. The pub
was a nice warm relief from the cold outside, the cold in the
church, the cold that sank into his skin in the confessional box,
the cold that warned him God was ready to take him home. But the
priest was not ready for that.

“
Ah, Father Pat, the usual?” The priest’s heart sank when he
saw the ugly server approach him.

“
I suppose so. A nice big piece of steak and extra gravy on the
mash.”

“
Would you like a drink, father?”

“
Maybe a little one.”

Father
Pat savoured every mouthful of his meal. The meat was barely
cooked, pink and moist and delicious. He sank down two pints with
his food and felt his body warm up slightly. Apart from that
niggling chill deep inside, the one that irked at his
conscience.

After
the meal, Father Pat lingered at the counter, hoping someone would
offer to pay for it. Nobody did. He reluctantly headed to the exit
when a large hand slapped him on the back, making him choke out a
cough.

“
Alright, Father Pat! Here, I’ll buy you a pint, sit down next
to us.”

The
priest sat in the middle of a group of young men and tried to
figure out who owned them all. When they put a pint in front of
him, he stopped caring.

One of
them, Graeme, he called himself, kept a full glass in front of the
priest for the next few hours. They laughed and joked and made
sleazy remarks that made Father Pat snort into his pint. But his
thoughts kept going back to the confession box. How could he enjoy
his pint when there were so many crazed youths running around the
parish?

In the
bathroom, he hurried to unzip himself before he had an
accident.

“
Old age,” he said, smiling apologetically to the lad at the
urinal next to him.

“
Fuck you, Father,” the young man said with venom in his eyes.
Father Pat started, urine dripping onto the leg of his trousers as
he realised it was the same lad who had confessed to him. Fury in
the boy’s eyes burned Father Pat to the core, melting the chill. He
hurriedly fixed himself and left the pub, slipping on his way to
his car.

“
Drank more than I thought,” he said to himself, shaking with
nerves. The lad stood at the door of the pub, just staring at
him.

That’s
why the priest reversed his car in such a hurry and why he broke
the speed limit on the way home.

The fact
he couldn’t control his car when it swerved onto the other side of
the road and smashed into another car, wiping out a family, was
probably down to the alcohol.

The fact
he died instantly and didn’t have to live with his conscience was a
gift from God.

“
I don’t want to.”

“
Ah, go on. It’s your turn. I’ll keep sketch, I
swear.”

“
But Joey, it’s really,
really
dark.”

Joey
looked down on his little sister and folded his arms. “I’m the
biggest, I say it’s your turn. Or I’m telling Da it was you who
broke his crappy CD.”

“
It wasn’t me! It was you!” Tears filled Natalie’s eyes but
Joey remained unmoved.

“
Who cares? Da always believes me. Go on, it’ll be funny.” He
pushed his sister forward and hoped Mam wouldn’t catch him. She
hated when he got Natalie in trouble. Natalie looked so scared, it
was worth the risk.

Natalie
gazed up at the dark building and wondered who she was afraid of
most, the old woman who lived there or her big brother Joey. She
looked at him once more but he was determined, she recognised the
cruelness in his eyes. She had her answer.

Natalie
took a deep breath and stepped closer to the gate. Daddy always
said the old woman who lived in the creepy house at the end of the
cul-de-sac was a witch but Mammy said she was a harmless lady who
deserved to be left alone. Joey never left her alone, he was always
persuading the kids to play knick knack on the woman’s door or
throw things at her windows at night.