Killing Woods (2 page)

2

Sunday Morning.

Damon

T
he sun was hot against my eyelids. Bringing my hand to my neck I felt only one dog collar. Hers? I ran my fingers over its worn leather and stiff stitching, touched the tiny rips at the edges, its cold circular tag. Then I traced my fingers over its engraved letters:
DH
.

So where was Ashlee's collar?

And what time was it, anyway?

I patted down my chest, felt over the mattress and pillow. Nothing. But I'd caught her. We'd gone all the way, just like she'd promised. So why didn't I have her collar? Or why didn't she have mine? I tried to force my brain to think, remember. Her sweet rosey perfume was still stuck
inside my nostrils. I tasted mud on my teeth, in my gums; I tasted Ashlee's fairy dust. Forcing my eyes open properly, I made my gaze move across the bed, looking for Ashlee's thin, shiny pink collar. It wasn't on the floor either, hadn't fallen off me in the night. I was curved like a banana on top of the sheets, still in my dad's old combat shirt, still muddy. There was dirt and leaves everywhere, and I was wet . . . soaked through. Sweat? No, rain. There'd been a storm last night. I must've been pretty fucked up not to remember that straight up. Even my boots were still on.

But there was no collar . . . nowhere. Maybe I'd dropped it in the woods? Ashlee would kill me if I'd lost it. They all would. We'd have to get her another before we could play the Game again.

I sat up, immediately wishing I hadn't. My collar felt too tight around my neck and I fumbled to get it off, my hands still drunk and awkward. Touching my neck made me feel even sicker. I chucked my dog collar on to the pillow, then pulled my shirt off too. Pressing my hand to where my tatt started on the base of my spine, I tried to breathe deeper. Everything about me stank, but there was no sick, or piss, on the carpet, not that I could see. I remember Ed boasting once about being so drunk after the Game that he'd pissed in the corner of his room. He'd said something about being as drunk as Mack's dad, then he'd had to duck quick from Mack's fist.

I knew I should text them, find out who won.

I should text Ashlee.

I felt down my damp, clinging combat trousers, but
there was no phone there. Had I lost that too? My head hurt too much for thinking, maybe I'd drunk away my brain cells. We'd been going at it pretty hard in the car park first, and then, of course, in the woods. After Ashlee had given me that fairy dust, the woods had changed into something mixed up.

‘Fairyland,' Ashlee had said, giggling. ‘Just slip down into it.'

But what else had I slipped down into? Ashlee?

I stared at my boots like they could give me memories. Mud was all over them, a leaf caught in a shoelace. They looked about as battered as my brain. I could remember my face against something damp, the smell of earth . . . there were still bits of leaf and bark in my hair. I pushed the boots off me rough, kicked them under the bed. I grabbed the covers and pulled them over my face to stop the sunlight, burying myself. I wanted sleep. I wanted Ashlee to touch me and do what she must've done the night before all over again, but this time so I could remember it. I wanted a cuppa.

I lay there, but no cup of tea or Ashlee magically appeared, not even sleep. Too much head pain. I kept my eyes closed anyway. Last night hadn't been like the other nights, and it wasn't just because of the sex Ashlee had promised. For a start, there'd been that fairy dust. Ashlee had spun some story about fairies in the woods, how we'd see them once the dust kicked in.

‘Just go with it,' she'd said, rubbing that stuff into our gums.

She was good at getting drugs, but she'd never got this shit before. Charlie had laughed like a hyena. I'd seen his face stretch into a snout.

‘You get special treatment,' she'd whispered to me, dusting my gums so much I'd gagged.

And later, we'd been on the forest floor. We'd been going all the way. I tried to remember the feel of it . . . the feel of her. The softness of her skin around me. Her warmth.

Nothing!

What was the point of fucking if you couldn't remember it? What was the point of any of it if you got head pain like this? Had someone punched me real hard at the end of the Game? Was that why it wasn't coming back? Was that why I didn't have her collar, neither? I squinted 'til I finally saw my phone on the table beside the bed. Punched out a message to her.

What you doing sexy?

Did it sound too keen? Like I didn't care about her at all, just wanted the sex? Did I sound like an arse?

I sent it anyway. Then I put my head back on the pillow and waited for her reply. She'd send me something cute, maybe even a photo. She'd been doing that a lot lately: letting me see her in her bed, in her pyjamas, showing me the undies she had on. But right now with the way my head was, even if she just told me she'd had a good time last night, even that would do. Even if she just told me who'd won the most collars, who'd won the Game.

I dreamt she was touching me. I felt her bitten-down
fingernails across my stomach. She tasted of sugar, and her tongue darted around my teeth like a fish. Then she was putting me inside her mouth and she was making me warm. I was having her . . . almost. Then I was almost letting go. I dreamt 'til the sunlight heated me up again and a text message beeped beside my ear. I smiled. I was hard from the dream, ripe, ready for her cute words. Perhaps I'd call her and she'd talk low and dirty in my ear. Perhaps she'd remind me what we did last night.

But it was from Mack.

I read it anyway. Leaning on to my elbows, I stared at the words for ages. The longer I read them, the more I started to wake up.

You heard what's happened? You OK? Come round mate
.

What was he on about?

Did I do something stupid? Was I that drunk and high? I checked through my other messages, nothing from Ashlee since last night. No reply to the message I just sent her either. Was she in a mood? It wasn't like her to ignore me for long.

I frowned. Because there was a word in my brain, coming at me out of nowhere.

Useless
.

Why?

Had she called me that last night? Is that how I'd been when we'd been doing it? Too fucked on the drugs to get it up? Too fucked to care?

In the end I typed to Mack:
What you mean? I'm OK. Headache
.

Mack called. His voice was husky and lacking sleep, had an edge. ‘You don't know anything? No one's been round to you or . . . nothing like that? The police?'

‘Know what? What d'you mean?'

I heard him breathe in. ‘You don't know about Ashlee?'

I was silent. So fucking confused!

‘Come round, mate,' he said. ‘Just come round. We need to work something out.'

NOW

3

Tuesday. October.

Emily

K
irsty has today's paper in her hands. Beth, Jonah and Luke are all crowded around, forming a tight huddle in the schoolyard, shutting me out. And even though Mina is tugging on my arm, trying to pull me on, I don't let her pull me anywhere.

‘C'mon,' she says. ‘Joe's saved us a spot in the canteen.'

But in front of me are my friends, my supposed
best
friends. They're not like Mina, who's just been friendly with me since all this stuff happened with Dad, and they're not like Joe. I've only been tight with Kirsty's group for about a year, and things have changed for me in school since then: I've got popular. Until Dad got
arrested, that is, until these last few weeks.

Now they're whispering about me. Or about Dad. I can tell this by the way they are standing so close to each other, throwing glances over their shoulders towards me. I can't just ignore it. They'll be reading about Dad's plea and case management hearing, yesterday in the Crown Court. Maybe they're reading about how the public gallery was almost full, about how everyone expected Dad to plead guilty to the charge of the murder of Ashlee Parker; about how he didn't. Maybe they're reading about how Dad entered a plea for manslaughter by reasons of diminished responsibility instead.

I still remember how Dad's defence lawyers talked us through all that. ‘He'll plead manslaughter because of his flashbacks,' they'd said. ‘Because he doesn't remember the events of that night, because of his post-traumatic stress disorder.'

But what do my friends believe? That Dad stalked Ashlee Parker and he meant to kill her? That it was an accident that happened because of a flashback? I want to shake them, tell them that Dad only
thinks
he killed Ashlee Parker because he can't remember what really happened. Tell them that if he can't remember, then maybe he didn't do it at all.

Dad's body was curled from the shoulders as he stood in the dock, head down, eyes not looking at me or Mum or anyone.

‘Not guilty of murder,' he'd said. ‘But guilty of manslaughter by reasons of diminished responsibility.'

His words had slammed into me like a punch. The first words I'd heard him say for weeks.

‘Guilty.' Mum had whispered the word too.

There was a film of tears wrapping her eyes. But if Mum felt so awful, why didn't she tell the judge that she knew Dad couldn't have done anything? Why didn't she stop arguing with Dad so much over this past year too, always telling him he had something wrong with his mind and making him believe it? Why did she tell Dad's lawyers about all the flashbacks he'd had?

The prosecution barrister had said she needed more time before she could accept whether Dad was mentally unstable enough to commit manslaughter. She said she needed to get her own psychological assessments done. So the case isn't closed yet. And Dad isn't sentenced. That gives me some hope. Maybe it shouldn't.

I walk forward, shrugging Mina off.

There's a way people look when they talk about Dad – their eyes widen, their voices go high-pitched and kind of whispery. I've heard this in shops I go into, with the teachers at school. But this is the first time I've seen my friends doing it. I focus on the back of Luke's neck, still tanned from the summer, waiting for someone to look over. I can imagine the headlines:
War Damaged Soldier
. . .
PTSD As Defence . . . Murder Or Manslaughter For Shepherd?
Maybe my friends can imagine Dad being a murderer, or a soldier who wanted to keep killing.

Mina is still trailing after me. ‘Come on, Emily, just ignore them. They're not worth it!'

But I thought friends were meant to stick by you whatever happened; I thought Kirsty would.

I shake my head at Mina. ‘I need to speak to them.'

A part of me just wants to read the paper they've got, but another part has finally had enough of how these friends are being. I want to tell them.

The whispers start again when I get near. My friends draw away as if I'm a dangerous animal, or a disease they could catch . . . as if they think I'm Dad. I get how people might be wary of me now; I'm not so stupid to ignore how people look at me like I'm a killer's daughter. But these four people
know
me, we used to speak all the time. Now they look nervous I'm even approaching. Only Kirsty meets my eyes.

‘All right?' I say.

It's the first time I've spoken to her since last week, since before Dad's plea; I hear my voice shake. Her eyes widen like she's surprised I've spoken to her at all. Beth tries to hide the newspaper.

‘It's OK,' I say. ‘I know what you're looking at.'

‘Why'd you come over, then?' Kirsty snaps the words back so fast it's as if she's slapped me with them.

I point at the paper in Beth's hands, not knowing how to explain all these feelings inside me. ‘Do you want to show me too?'

Do you want to at least talk to me? –
This is what I want to add.
Do you want to at least pretend I'm your friend?

Kirsty pushes the front page at my face, but it's too close to read properly. I catch the words:
soldier . . . court
adjourned . . . psychological profiling . . . stress disorder
. . .
combat
. It's all I get before Kirsty snatches it away again.

‘Happy?' she says.

My breath catches.
Happy
is about as far from me as it's possible to be right now. Kirsty doesn't care. So I just do it – I say the words that have been screaming inside me for weeks now.

‘I thought we were friends.'

I risk glances at the others, wait for them to react and, maybe, to apologise. I'm expecting Beth to go all smiley and sweet like how she used to be with me. I'm waiting for Kirsty, or even Jonah, to flash a grin. And I'm waiting for Luke to hug me again. When I look at him, he flicks his eyes towards mine and his cheeks redden. Only Kirsty keeps holding my gaze, her eyes narrowing.

‘Yeah, we
were
friends, Emily,' she says slowly, ‘. . . friends until your creepy Dad went and killed Ashlee Parker.'

I feel the anger rise like it does every time someone says something bad about Dad. Only now it's worse because it's Kirsty who's saying it.

‘You weren't there,' I say. ‘You don't know what happened.'

It's my stock response and it sounds ridiculous, I know, but I won't do it . . . I won't admit my dad's a killer. I can't.

Kirsty's eyebrows rise. ‘Thank God I wasn't there . . . to be murdered!'

‘His plea is for manslaughter,' I correct. I can't believe she's being so mean. It's like she's never been friends with me at all.

‘Whatever. Still means he killed someone. They don't hand out life imprisonment for nothing, do they?'

I shove Jonah aside so I can get to the paper. Life imprisonment? Jail? Our Family Liaison Officer told us that pleading guilty to manslaughter by reason of diminished responsibility would mean Dad would end up in a secure psychiatric hospital instead, somewhere he'd be treated for his disorder, where he could get better. I try to grab the paper from Kirsty's hands, only she holds on to it and it rips, straight through a pencil-line drawing of Dad: an artist's impression. Kirsty laughs a little and that makes me hate her suddenly.

‘Oops,' she says, ‘. . . torn in two. You'll have to put the pieces back together.'

She pushes the bits of paper into my hands and I can see the picture as well as the whole article. I scan for the words
life imprisonment
, then keep looking at that pencil-line drawing. It's a mock up of that night – an artist's representation of Dad carrying Ashlee Parker from the woods. The artist has got it all wrong though, drawn Ashlee with her shirt unbuttoned and her shoes gone, and has made Dad's pale blue-grey eyes black. No wonder my friends believe Dad's a murderer. In this picture Dad looks like an angry psychopath.

‘Ashlee shouldn't have been anywhere near that bunker.' Kirsty's voice is low, her finger jabbing at the paper. ‘It was nowhere near her route home. Even if she was drunk she wouldn't have gone that far off track!'

I bite the inside of my lip, look away. I know all this.

‘They're saying he stalked her,' she continues, ‘. . . lured her there . . . they say his screwed-up mind isn't any excuse for what happened.' Kirsty is jabbing so hard at the paper she's making it rip more.

‘He didn't do those things.' I stare at the drawing, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘It's just the reporters jumping to conclusions . . . making a story.' I'm repeating Mum's words now, what she says when I start raising questions. ‘They don't have any evidence for him stalking Ashlee.'

Newspaper headlines are screaming in my mind though:
Darkwood Hunter
. . .
Soldier's Killing Woods
. . .
Woodland Murder
.

I sense Luke crowding in beside me, looking over my shoulder to the drawing. ‘He's sick,' he hisses. ‘Your dad's sick and twisted.'

Kirsty chucks the rest of the paper at my feet. I want to pick it up so I can read it all later, slowly, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I want something from her. I don't want to give this so-called group of friends anything at all.

‘Dad's not convicted,' I say.

‘So, he's innocent?' Kirsty raises an eyebrow. ‘He still did it! The number of years in prison – or wherever – won't change that.'

I look to Beth for support, but even she is looking at Kirsty. It's like Kirsty is some sort of gladiator about to whack me in the skull: she's even enjoying the attention.

‘You're all weirdoes,' she tells me. ‘I see it now: your freaky dad, your mum, you . . . all hiding out in that
creepy bunker in the woods. Just another weird army family.'

Why aren't any of the others talking her down? Why isn't Beth? I want to run, escape somewhere quiet and alone.

‘You know, Emily,' Kirsty adds. ‘They say it runs in families. I've heard there's a murder gene – that once someone in the family has killed a person . . .'

My face goes hot and I push into her chest, wanting her to shut up. Before I know it she's falling back towards the grass and her fingers are in my hair taking me with her. She makes an oomph sound as she hits the ground.

‘It's not true!' I shout. ‘Take that back!'

But she won't. She tries to roll on top, maybe to hit me, but I'm suddenly strong – mad with it. I won't let her.

She scratches her nails against my cheek instead. ‘Get away from me!'

I slam her shoulders against the ground. ‘Shut up, then!'

I force her head back. With her neck tilted like this, she can't move. I could curl my fingers around her; I could hurt her in the same way she thinks my dad hurt Ashlee. I start breathing harder.

‘Get off!' she shouts.

I make myself blink, pause. This is Kirsty. One of my best friends. Or was. My heart is beating so hard I'm surprised I'm not shaking. Perhaps I am.

‘Freak!' Kirsty spits the word in my face, punches me like this. ‘Scum family!'

My fingers tighten in her hair.

There's yelling behind me, jolting me back to where we are. I hear Jonah and Luke shouting, but there's a crowd around us too, people jostling for a view and screaming for a fight. One voice cuts through it all, getting closer. Then someone is grabbing my shoulders, pulling me off Kirsty as easy as if I were a piece of rubbish. That person is dumping me on the ground and, before I can roll away, he's pinning my arms still, leaning his head right up close to mine.

‘What's going on?' he growls, his eyes widening as he sees who I am.

I search for air, gasp. Close up his features are blurred, but I can still make out his copper-coloured eyes, the downward curve of his lips. It's not because he's on top of me that the words won't come. It's because of who he is.

Leaning down into me, stopping my fight, is Damon Hilary. Sports prefect. The most beautiful boy in the school.

Also, Ashlee Parker's boyfriend.