Woodhill Wood (6 page)

"It's not fair," he said quietly.

"What's not fair? Now, come on, don't be like that. I thought you'd like the idea of having the place to yourself. You can watch the television as much as you like and stay up as late as you like."

"Yes... but..."

"We might not be gone for the whole time. In fact, we might come straight back and I want you to be here if we do. It's important. Your father has been under a lot of pressure recently, as I'm sure you know, and we need some time alone to talk about things away from here. On our own for a while. You can understand that, can't you Matt? You know how edgy he's been getting. I need you to do this for me. It's all... has he spoken to you? Has he said anything. It's all... it's all getting too much and I need to get away. Your father and I need... before it's..."

She grabbed for her cup of tea and took a few more sips. Gurde noticed her fingers were trembling. A strange look crossed her face but she shrugged it off with a last, long swallow and put the cup down.

"Right. That's settled then."

She picked up her cup again and began to turn it around in her hands.

"Can I go now?" he asked.

"Yes dear, of course you can."

Gurde stood in the hall for a few seconds wondering whether he should go upstairs. Instead, he opened the front door and stepped out into the cool evening air. The sky was dark and a steady drizzle had started to fall, whipped by the growing breeze to strike heat into his cheeks. And Gurde felt the scream rise and lodge in the back of his throat. He paused on the bottom step and then he ran.

He sprinted down the lawn, concentrating on the wall at the bottom of the garden as he sped towards it over the wet grass. He slapped both hands on to the curved top and levered himself up, turning in the air so that he landed sitting facing the house. There was no time to see if the mother was watching as he pivoted around, lifted the legs over and pushed off into space. With thoughts burning, Gurde wasn't prepared for the long drop to the road. He hit the pavement awkwardly, crumpling across its jagged surface, feeling the loose gravel cut slices into his hands.

He scrambled upright and ran on towards the hill, ignoring the pain that was back in his palms. As he ran faster, the cold drizzle began to prick at his cheeks.

The slope past the church was steep. A shallow river ran across and Gurde jumped it but as he landed he staggered forward and lost the rhythm. The tarmac snatched at his feet and in that instant he lost control and flew down into the darkness, each stride seeming longer than the last, arms flailing, trying to keep upright, feeling as though he was being dragged forward by a rope through his face, sure that he would slide into the gutter like a puppet with severed strings. The wind whistled past. Gurde closed his eyes, fighting against the powers that conspired to throw him sprawling to the wet black ground. But as he braced for the impact with outstretched bloodied palms the road flattened out and the legs were under his control once more.

The eyes sprang open and he felt new anger, determined to show the road that he could not be beaten. He could taste the sweated rain that trickled over his lips. The breaths were shortening and he started to puff out his cheeks and felt the first wheezing deep in the lungs.

On he ran, and the legs beneath began to wobble. On he ran, but he was not far enough away and dug for more. And soon every part begged to stop but he refused to allow it and staggered on for a few more strides and a few more strides. Finally, his legs rebelled and he snorted a lump of hot phlegm into his mouth, spat it out and collapsed on to an open patch of grass by the side of the road.

Gurde sucked in the cold air with rasping gasps. He lay back on the damp grass and let the rain play across his face, waiting as the breathing settled.

He had come a long way: nearly a half mile out of town. Over the rusty wire fence a few sheep grazed on the base of the hills. Gurde peered back along the road in the direction of the house. He could just make out the red road sign at the bottom of the slope but beyond that all was grey in the evening drizzle.

He stared straight up into the thick grey sky. It was hard to believe that it had been only a few hours since Stewart had raised his leather arm. Then the ache in the hand had been welcome. Now that same palm was cradled against his chest like a sick pet, embedded with black, blood-covered grains. He picked the larger splinters of gravel from under the skin and watched as fresh beads of blood rose to the surface.

The sound of a car engine brought him back. Gurde stepped from the road, climbed through the loose wire fence and listened from behind a tree to the hiss of passing tyres. He rested his back against the tree until he could hear no sound from the car.

When it was gone he stood up. The sheep on the hill lifted their heads together, as if they were all part of one huge animal, and eyed him suspiciously. Gurde picked out a damp face at random and stared back at it. It kept its eyes locked on for a minute or more before it gave up and dragged its wet fleece away across the slope, taking the other sheep with it. One of the animals higher up let out a complaining bleat. Gurde almost bleated back. Instead he set off through the wet grass and began to climb.

The ground was soft and several times his feet slipped from under him as he trudged upwards. The drizzle that had cooled his face had been replaced by a fog heavy with the smells of old bracken and sheep shit.

He reached the top of the first slope. The ground leveled off and became boggy. He looked down at the circles of mud on the knees of the school trousers. The elbows of the pullover were also caked and strands of grass were stuck to it. He tried to brush it off but the motion only smeared more stickiness on to his hands, streaking the spots of blood across the palms.

At the bottom of the next slope lay a shiny flat rock. He sat down and felt the dampness seep through to his skin. Without warning, a sickness rose through Matt and Gurde allowed him to cry. He rested his elbows on his knees and let the violent jerks rock the body back and forth. The thick air laid its comforting arms around his shoulders, snuffing out the sounds as soon as they had left the body. Gurde had to seize each brief respite to gasp in a breath before the next rush came. The waves emptied themselves on to the hillside. Then, as quickly as it had come, the sobs became sniffs became hot spits.

By the time it was quiet Gurde knew every blade of grass between his feet. He looked back down the hill and was surprised to see that the streetlights along the road were now flickering red through the mist.

A feeling of calm descended and he thought of the mother's face looking down with a telephone receiver clutched like a dagger in her hand. She would already be on the telephone, telling her friends how it had gone, how her son had reacted, and what she had thought it all meant. He could imagine her reeling off her story of despair, then quickly replacing the receiver, flipping through her book of numbers and dialing the next.

From where he sat, he was about the same distance from both the house and the cliff where the Wizard's Skull still waited. He pictured the rock, trying to judge if he should go there, but it was dark and it was wet and he felt nothing.

Gurde could listen to his instincts on the Woodhill, in the rain, on his own. The Wizard was not calling, that was certain, so he would have to go back to the house. There was nowhere else to go and he was beginning to feel cold.

He stood up and looked back along the hills towards the town. Tomorrow Bairdy would be sitting up at the dam, fishing for trout, and waiting but Gurde was to be caged for the weekend while his parents went to bicker elsewhere.

He had to try and telephone with an excuse for not going - "my Mum's keeping me in" was not what someone who had just been belted should say - but the mother would be waiting. The way he had left her sitting there would only have frustrated her. She would be pacing around, reciting her lines, intent on keeping Matthew away from the telephone while she talked into the night. If the parents left early in the morning, Gurde might be able to telephone Bairdy before he left for the dam. The triumph would soon be forgotten by the people at the back of the bus. Gurde had to seize the chance.

Gurde slipped and skidded back down over the wet grass towards the trees at the bottom of the slope then swung through the wire fence and dropped on to the wet road. He marched with determination, keeping his eyes fixed on the white lines that stretched into the distance.

The speed-limit signs shone through the night at the bottom of the slope. Gurde picked up a jagged rock from the side of the road and hurled it at one of the bright circles. The deafening clang lingered as he pounded on up past the church towards the house.

He reached the bottom of the drive and stopped to peer up, trying to see if anyone was moving about near the back door. But it was too dark to tell, so he continued along the pavement to the front gates. Gurde thought about opening them, but instead decided to climb over the garden wall from the field. From there he could check whether it was quiet.

The grass in the field whipped against his hands as he sprinted past the plum branches to where there was a foothold in the wall. He reached the crack, put his hands against the stone and quickly planned a route up over the moss-covered dampness. The heartbeat made him feel like a burglar, afraid of the eyes that might be staring out into the night, waiting for the son's return. Gurde put the edge of the right shoe into the crack and pushed up, placed both hands on to the top of the wall and then peered over into the garden. But the climb had placed him directly opposite the study - the lights were on and his face was caught in the glow, so Gurde dropped back into the darkness and moved further along the wall.

Twenty feet away was another crack and, though it wasn't as good as the first, it would keep him in the shadows. Gurde pushed up and lay flat along the curved top, feeling the water run out of the moss as he gripped the stone. He lay still and listened for a sound from the house. Satisfied that the mother wasn't near, he swiveled so that the legs hung into the garden and then dropped into the vegetable patch.

They would either be in the kitchen, the sitting room or the study - but they would be separate. He kept low as he crept through the crunching lettuces, and then hurried across the path to the back wall of the house. Study first.

Gurde edged towards the small window from where light was streaming into the drizzle. At the edge of the light he stood and listened and heard the familiar voice. She was speaking to someone, and he could tell by her confident tone that she was on the telephone and that the father wasn't in the room.

She normally sat facing the wall when she was telling her stories so he risked a glance. There she sat with her back to the window, lost in her monologue. Gurde pulled back, paused, then looked in again. Her head was bobbing up and down as she spoke and she was doodling aimlessly on a piece of paper on the desk. He couldn't hear the words but he could imagine what they were. Gurde turned and hurried back along the side of the house knowing he had to be quick if he wanted to get upstairs before she finished her conversation.

Around the back of the house the kitchen lights were on. He kept to the darkness and slipped behind the old apple tree in the corner. Gurde knew the father would be staring out into the night from the kitchen window, wishing he could get back into the study. He was where he always stood, drawing on his cigarette, lost in thoughts, a severe expression on his face. Some nights, the father would stand there for hours as she talked on in the other room, thinking out things that only he would understand, planning his twisting words, laying his traps.

Gurde had to move fast. He hurried back through the lines of vegetables, and stopped briefly at the study window. She was still talking. He crawled along the tarmac under the window and then ran round to the front of the house.

The outer front door was open. The inner glass door was not. He was bathed in the glare from the hallway. The glass panes in the inner door were loose and seemed to rattle their alarm no matter how carefully the door was moved. Gurde pushed the handle down and leant forward to ease the door open. It clicked but it was too late to go back. He opened a narrow gap and slipped in, closed it quietly and tiptoed down the hall. The study door was shut. He could hear some of her muffled words.

"...it's just one of... ...and I... ...absolutely terrible..."

He gripped the banister and strode up the first eleven steps two at a time. He passed the first landing and stepped up the central three steps in one, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard in the middle. Only seven to go. Below, in the hall, out of sight, the study door opened. Gurde froze.

He could hear her foot tapping on the tiles as she stood in the doorway. His heart thumped so loudly that Gurde was sure she would hear it. The moment lasted an age before, thinking she had been mistaken, she closed the door again and went back to her audience.

Gurde climbed the last seven steps then crossed the landing. As he approached the bedroom door he was struck by the thought that she might have locked it and removed the key to ensure there was no hiding place. He clutched the handle and prayed the door would open. It did. Gurde turned the key in the lock and staggered across the room to the bed.