Woodhill Wood (8 page)

Ben was no longer lying in the living room. He must have dragged himself to bed and he wouldn't be up for a while. Ben didn't like Sunday mornings: there were no cartoons - only choirs.

At the bottom of the drive Gurde, turned right along the road. He stopped again to look up the face of the Big Drop; the high wall at the bottom of the garden.

The stone hadn't dried from the soaking of the day before and the holds remained slippery and uncertain. He looked up at a sky, spotted with lighter patches amongst a moving mass of grey. Perhaps it would be dry enough by the afternoon to try, before the parents came back to argue in more familiar surroundings.

He hurried down into town. The brown water churning under the bridge was deafening. There was nobody waiting at the bus stop by the clock, so he could relax as he crossed the road. The newsagents was empty apart from old Mr MacKenzie, sitting in his chair behind the counter, reading one of the Sunday magazines.

"Morning, Matthew," he said, "what can I do for you?"

Gurde peered around the shelves, trying to imagine how much he could buy for a whole five pounds. It was a lot but he knew he couldn't spend it all. Gurde liked the newsagents. It was long and narrow, split in two by a long battered counter. Glass cabinets lined the walls, to keep restless hands off the dusty boxes of toys that lay within. The Sunday papers were stacked in teetering piles. If he bought a newspaper for the father then he would be able to spend more money without annoying anyone.

Gurde began by picking two of every kind of sweet he liked from the tray in the middle of the counter.

"I'll just have a few of these," he said, "and the Sunday Times, please."

"Right you are," Mr MacKenzie said, pulling himself slowly to his feet. The old man stared at the growing pile of chocolate and raised his eyebrows. "You'll be ill if you eat all that."

"It's not all for me."

He gave a knowing look and went to fetch the paper from the farthest pile.

"How's your mother?"

"All right."

"An' your father?"

"He's all right."

"I've not seen them for a while."

"No?"

Gurde glanced along the headlines.

"Awful business, isn't it?" Mr MacKenzie said.

"What's that?"

"Terrible business," he said again, gesturing at the big black letters that covered the front of most of the newspapers. The News of the World was the most obvious: KILLER CARVES CHILD. Apart from the headline there was only room for about four lines of news on the page.

"Thanks very much," Gurde said taking The Sunday Times from him. He could scarcely fit the newspaper under his arm.

"Do you want that lot in a bag?" Mr Mackenzie said pointing at the mountain of sweets. "Or should I make that two bags?"

"One's fine," Gurde replied, feeling embarrassed.

"Right you are." He pulled a brown paper bag magically from under the counter. "Anything else?"

Gurde's eyes went back to the headlines. He picked up a copy of the News of the World.

"And this, please."

"Right. That'll be... let's see... that'll be two pounds and sixty four pence, young man."

Gurde handed over the crisp fortune.

"You must have been a good boy."

Gurde tried to think of a clever reply but in the end he just smiled, took the change and carried the weight of paper and sweets out into the street.

He walked back up the hill towards the house, unable to decide whether to let Ben have any. Gurde had bought two of everything - so his conscience had decided for him - and, anyway, if Matt Duff got into trouble for buying them all then Ben would be equally to blame for eating half.

The sky was clearing by the minute. Gurde could feel a good day taking shape. The only problem could be if the mother wanted to talk again when she got back. Still, that was several hours, and several sweets, away.

Gurde pushed the back door open with his foot. Ben was in the kitchen pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

"Morning, scum," Gurde said.

Ben gave him a puzzled look. In return, Gurde gave him a glance at the contents of the paper bag and went into the living room. Ben followed like a puppy.

"What's that?" he asked.

"What do you think?"

Ben shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth without taking his eyes off the treasure. Gurde emptied the contents of the bag on to the table and Ben's eyes widened.

"I'll tell Mum," he said.

Gurde picked one of each kind of sweet from the pile and put it back into the bag. When he'd finished he stood up straight and paused for dramatic effect. Ben's eyes stayed on the jewels scattered across the table.

"That lot's for you," Gurde said.

Ben's eyes widened yet further and he looked to check it wasn't a joke.

"Eh?" was all he could say.

Gurde left him to it. He positioned The Sunday Times on the corner of the dining room table so that the father would see it as soon as he got back. Then Gurde went back upstairs and locked the door.

The headline was still there. Gurde had to turn to page two, three, four, five and twelve to find out more. A child had been killed and his right hand had been cut into pieces. There was no mention of why it had happened, just an overly detailed description of how it was done and what his mother had said about it afterwards. It was really nasty and even the paper said that it didn't make any sense.

Gurde flipped through the magazine. He was surprised to see bare breasts on some of the pages. He didn't think that was allowed on Sundays, especially in colour. He thought of locking the door but then remembered he had already done it.

There was nothing else of any interest in the magazine. Something about the story in the main paper still tugged at him. Gurde picked it up and read pages two and three again. It was in disgusting detail but there was something else. As he got to the end he noticed the name of the of the boy's school: Green Valley Primary in Kent. That was familiar but Gurde couldn't remember why.

Puzzled, he put the paper down and opened a chocolate bar. It was like Easter all over again. That was when it looked like all the chocolate would last a week but it never lasted more than a day. Gurde bit into the first layers of toffee, caramel and chocolate and chewed away. He forgot about the newspaper and began arranging the goodies on the floor in order of preference. He soon had a long line. Gurde decided to start at the least favourite end and work towards the best.

He stared out of the window as he chewed. It seemed to be drying out outside. The sun was even threatening to come out. Gurde got up and opened the window, letting cool air into the room. He went back to the line of sweets meaning to pick up the next least favourite. Somehow he managed to pick up the most favourite instead and carried it out to sit on the narrow balcony outside the window.

The garden looked green in the clearing light. Another few weeks and the winter would start. Gurde liked the winter. He could put on lots of clothes and look bigger than he really was.

Gurde recognised the sound of the father's car long before he saw it. It pulled up at the bottom of the drive, manoeuvred quickly, reversed up and jerked to a halt with its red lights blazing. The gap was narrow but the father never missed and took pride in reversing the car at speed. Gurde pressed the button on the watch: it was only one o'clock.

He swung back inside the room and shut the window, stuffed the News of the World behind the chest of drawers and bundled the line of sweets into the top drawer amongst the vests and underpants. He'd have to arrange them all over again next time.

The car doors clunked and Gurde heard the back door open. There was a moment's silence before he heard Ben's voice. Gurde could imagine him trying to explain all his sweets to the mother. He unlocked the bedroom door and hurried downstairs.

The mother was holding Ben's sweets in her cupped hands.

"You're back early." Gurde said.

"What's all this?" she replied.

"What?"

"How much have you spent?"

"Less then three pounds, honest." Gurde rustled in his pockets and handed her the pile of loose change and the crumpled notes. "I bought you a paper."

"You left the house? After all I told you?"

"Only for a minute, Mum."

"I'll talk to you later!" She carried Ben's sweets into the dining room.

Ben called after her. "Aw, Mum. They're mine. Matty bought them for me. Mum? It's not fair!"

"I think you've both had quite enough already. Well Matty? Have you any more surprises for me?"

"No, Mum. Look," Gurde said pointing at the table, "I've bought you a paper."

"Go and help your father with the suitcases."

Gurde bowed his head and went out into the drive to where the father was unloading the back of the car.

"Hello, Matt."

"Hi, Dad."

"Had a good time?" The father asked routinely.

"OK, Dad. Quiet. How about you?"

He sighed. "You know what your mother is like."

"Why are you back so early?"

"Get that case, will you?"

"OK."

Gurde grabbed the case and staggered back into the house. Ben was still following the mother around, hoping for the return of at least some of his sweets. She saw her son come in and gestured towards the hall. "Thank you, Matty. Take it upstairs for me, will you?"

Gurde dragged the case into the hall and looked up the first flight of eleven stairs. He dropped it on to the bottom step and slipped out of the front door.

Gurde sprinted down the road. The parents were back from their trip and he was free to leave the house and feel the wind in his hair without feeling the weight of guilt.

The Wizard was beckoning. Gurde fixed the image of the fall, the splintering of stone, the roar of pain, the silence as the rock parted and exploded into the trees. He felt the cool longing for that crashing noise tingle through his spine. The last time he had been on the Woodhill he had been taunted, humiliated. The Wizard had merely played with the scaffolding pole before tossing it aside, keeping Matt Duff from school, knowing he would be belted for staying away.

The feeling of sudden freedom deserved celebration and Gurde wished he'd had time to collect some of the sweets from upstairs before leaving the house. He had escaped without the mother knowing, without her warnings, without hearing her tales of how difficult the father had been, of how miserable she was, of how selfish Gurde was being by avoiding her. And now she would have to wait.

The hills were calling. A cool afternoon in the sunshine and there was something special on the way.

It took half an hour to reach the point where he had to leave the road and turn towards the hill. Gurde broke into a run for the last few yards. He leapt the small burn, hit the far bank and rolled over the grass, keeping control, so that the roll became a run once more and he was in the trees before he was caught in the open...

…he reached the first trunk and used it to steady the arm that clutched the imaginary rifle. Peering through the telescopic sights he scanned around, sweeping the cross-hairs in long arcs, looking for signs of movement on the slope. The thin, silver trees of the Woodhill ran away in a thickening maze, providing excellent cover in the shadow country. It seemed safe. He moved on, weaving from trunk to trunk, throwing his back against each in turn, and clutching the rifle to his chest. He grabbed for the walkie-talkie, pulled up the aerial and held it close to his mouth.

"Control, this is Walker," he whispered, "I'm going in now. Cover me."

He heard control answer, "Good luck, Charlie. You're going to need it."

"Thanks," he said before sprinting out across the open path and diving between the roots of a scarred tree on the far side. There didn't seem to be any fresh footprints on the path itself; either he was in luck or they were getting more careful. They knew he would try again and there would be new traps laid on the hill. Only skill could save them now. He lay listening for unfamiliar sounds amongst the trees.

The grass was wet, so he crouched and peered up towards the shelter where the enemy gathered to play cards and drink rum in the darkness. He panned the rifle sights from trunk to trunk. The walkie-talkie crackled back into life.

"Walker," he said.

Control spoke out. "They've taken the top, Charlie. You're on your own now."

"What about backup?"

"Sorry."

"Thanks, Control. Thanks a bunch!"

"Nothing we could do. You're our last hope, Charlie."

"I won't let you down. Ten-four. Out."

He pushed the aerial back into the body of the box. He moved on up, keeping to the wider tree trunks, staying low, making sure he stepped over the branches that might snap underfoot and give away his position.

As the slope steepened, he threw the rifle over his shoulder and used his hands as he climbed, glancing towards the place where the shelter was hidden, feeling his heartbeat quicken, expecting to hear their laughter erupt from the hut at any moment. A grenade through the window should take out most of them, and he had the advantage of surprise. Not far now...

...Gurde knew the old man was on the hill before he heard the yap of his terrier. He forgot about the imaginary men in the shelter. He listened to the wind instead. The old man often chose the same times as Gurde to be on the Woodhill, perhaps drawn to the trees for the same reasons. Gurde dropped to the ground and stared through the uprights, trying to make out the familiar movement on the path above. The man usually walked alone, although Gurde had sometimes seen him with another older man who staggered between two gnarled sticks. Gurde hadn't seen the other man for months.

He spotted the light colour of the jacket and, as usual, waited until it had passed before heading in the opposite direction to resume his climb.

Gurde nearly kicked the dog as it sprang out in front of him. He stared in disbelief at the pathetic creature. It had never strayed this far from its master. The dog fixed its black sparkling eyes as the growl grew. Gurde backed a few steps away and the dog advanced into the empty space. Then the growl exploded into a series of high-pitched barks and the dog began to jump around as if the ground were too hot to stand on. Gurde glanced up the slope, but he couldn't imagine the old man sliding down to see what was going on.

The yapping stopped and the gritty growl returned. Gurde grabbed for a stick and lifted it high above his head, but the dog ignored the threat and only seemed to become more excited. The growl vanished and it began to hop around, then sprinted away a few yards, skidded to a stop and came tearing back. Gurde raised the stick higher and the dog began leaping up, yapping frantically, then it repeated its sprinting and skidding routine.

Perhaps there was a way out after all. Gurde turned and threw the stick spinning down the slope through the trees. The dog was off and running before the wood had left his hand. The stick rose through the branches and crashed to a splintering halt. He could hear the animal sliding and bouncing down over the loose stones and leaves. Some of the distant yapping sounded less than comfortable and he hoped it didn't hurt itself. He could only just bear to listen.

A broken voice called through the trees.

"Spike?"

Gurde couldn't tell which direction the voice had come from but he knew he had to move before the dog returned. He continued scrambling along the hill, jumping over the gulleys where the water had run, heading for the black rocks where he could climb to safety.

He had run about thirty yards when he heard a scratching sound and glanced over his shoulder. The dog was racing in his wake with the stick firmly fixed between its teeth.

"Spike?" The voice from up the slope sounded more urgent, but the dog didn't seem to hear or, if it did, it wasn't interested. There was no point in trying to outrun the animal, so Gurde stopped and turned to face it. It was only a few seconds before the dog skidded to a halt in front of him.

"Spike," Gurde whispered, pointing hopefully up the hill, "go to Daddy."

The dog dropped the stick at his feet and stood with its pink tongue hanging out of its mouth, panting furiously.

"Spike, go home." Gurde said quietly but firmly. Spike tipped his head to one side and pricked up both his ears, then picked up the stick, dropped it again and took a step back, his front legs quivering in anticipation. Gurde shook his head. "No. No more sticks." The dog tipped his head to the other side and barked.

"Spike. C'mere boy." This time the dog looked up the hill for a second. "Spike!" The dog gave a last, warning growl and then trotted off up the hill wagging its stumpy tail. Gurde sighed and turned to move on. "Who's there?" Gurde peered up the slope but he couldn't see the old man. "Who's down there? Who's been scarin' my dog? Come out, you, where I can see you." Gurde took a few tentative steps away. "What you afraid of? Come out and show your face." The old man's voice rang around him. Gurde stood wondering whether to run, but it seemed ridiculous to creep away from an old man. Gurde wasn't guilty of anything. "Come out, if you're there." It would do no harm.

Gurde climbed up the few yards to where the top path ran through the trees, and stepped out into the space. The path was empty.

"It's you," the voice said. "I knew it'be you."

Gurde looked in the direction of the sound. The man stepped out on to the path from behind a bush. There was purpose in his stride, timing his steps with a twisted walking stick. He had a stoop and, with a tweed cap pulled over his brow, his expression remained hidden in shadow. Then, when he was a few paces away, his face lifted and he grinned.

"I knew it'be you, didn't I Spike?... Spike?" He looked down at his feet and then spun around but there was no dog. "Spike!" A crashing sound heralded the return of his terrier. Spike fell down a muddy bank on to the path, shook himself and then came barking onwards.

"Didn't I tell you it'd be him? Didn't I tell you?"

Spike scuttled around Gurde's legs and yapped in agreement.

"I didn't scare your dog," Gurde said.

"Aye! Nothin' scares my dog. It's part of my family."

The old man rested his boney hands on his stick, one on top of the other, and leant forward to inspect me. He was wearing a tartan tie under a dark green sweater. Over these he wore the tweed jacket with black patches at the elbows. There was a shiny thistle badge on his left lapel.

He sucked a long breath through his teeth and then spoke again. "Aye," he said, rocking his head to one side as his dog had done. The word was said with special meaning, starting low and rising suddenly to a squeak, like the call of a woodland bird. Spike trotted over and sat down at his master's feet.

"Aye," he called again, "I knew it'd be you."

"How did you know?"

"I just knew, eh Spike? Folk don't ask me why. I've seen you here. Up on that rock," he gestured up towards the Wizard's cliff with his stick, "wi' all your bangin' and bashin'. I've seen you and your pals."

"With my pals? What pals?"

"Aye. Pals, that's what they were. Fifteen o'them. Maybe twenty. Spike saw to them, didn't you, Spike?" He pushed his tweed cap back off his forehead and sighed again. The freed skin sagged down his face.

"What you starin' at, son? You, no' seen a face like it? No? No, I didnae think so. Aye, well, it's not the best face ever, but I've seen worse. Yours is'nae too brilliant, I hav'tae say. Now, I've seen folk without a face, eh? Now, that's no' a pretty sight."

"No. No I can imagine."

"Aye, you can imagine," he nodded in agreement. "Aye, right."

"Anyway," Gurde said, "I'm sorry if I worried you. I'd better be getting on."

"No' got time for an old man?" He leaned forward a little on his stick and raised his eyebrows. Spike pricked up his ears. "Dinnae worry yoursel', son. You didnae worry me." He grinned again and looked down at his dog. "Aye. Come wi' me a minute. I'll show you somethin'."

Gurde wasn't sure if he was talking to his dog. The man stood up straight, and Gurde thought he caught a twinge of pain flicker across the eyes before he set off up the slope with his dog padding along beside him. Gurde stood, watching the figure striding away, uncertain if he was supposed to follow. The man walked a few yards then looked back over his shoulder.

"Well, you comin' or no?"

After all that had happened in the last few days Gurde was beginning to wonder if things would ever be as he expected.

He caught up with the old man and matched his pace. The man strode on, digging his battered stick into the ground in front of him before each stride, then planting his boot firmly in the mud ahead of the stick and throwing himself forward. Spike's legs were a blur of movement trying to keep up.

They walked in silence for a while.

"There," the man said suddenly, pointing his stick at the edge of the path. Gurde looked in the required direction but couldn't see anything in particular. "That's my log," he said triumphantly, "where I've sat every day since."

"Since when?" Gurde asked.

"See there," he said, pointing to far end of the fallen tree, "that's where I sit."

"Really?" Gurde said.

"Aye. An' see there," he said, swinging the end of his stick to the other end, "that's where I sit on Fridays."

Spike hopped over the log to probe the leaves on the far side.

Gurde sat down and Spike wandered back from his digging. Gurde gave the dog a tentative pat on the head. Spike growled and then went back to his panting.

"Aye," the old man sighed, "good Spike. Me and Spike are the same age."

"Yes?" Gurde said.

"Aye... I'll tell you somethin' else. All animals are just the same. Just the same... Aye... Big, wee, makes nae difference. It's just the clock tickin'. Every dog, man, mouse; same number of heart ticks before the end. It's just a mouse ticks faster so it does'nae live as long. Me and Spike are the same age, eh Spike? Did you know that? No... See, old folk know things, an' you thought I was stupit."

Gurde looked at the old man and thought hard. Spike panted on, looking up wisely through dark eyes. There was silence as the old man waited for Gurde to absorb the words.

After a few minutes he spoke again. "What did you say your name was, son? John?"

"Matt."

"Aye. Well, John. I'd better be headin' on. No point sitting in the trees for long when the sun's out, is there? It's best to catch it while you can. No' that you get much of it these days. Now, when I was flyin' my plane it was always sunny."

"You were a pilot?"

"No."