The Killing Woods Read online

  ‘It won’t help.’ But my teeth are chattering too much to get the words out properly. I see something else as he’s struggling with the coat. ‘Wait!’

  The combat shirt he’s wearing has ridden up and I can see his skin. There are goosebumps and bruises all over him, but there’s something else too. There’s a huge tattoo at the base of his spine. I reach out and almost touch it.

  ‘Can I?’ I say.

  When he nods, I lift his shirt a little higher until I can see that spreading out across his entire back is a tree. There are dark curls across his shoulder blades, winding branches stretching towards his armpits, dark and intricate leaves and tiny inked birds. It’s swaying as his body trembles. I almost forget about Dad’s sketch and what it has to mean, forget that Damon and I are even in this bunker. I just see his skin. See him.

  ‘That must have hurt,’ I whisper.

  ‘Like hell.’ Damon pulls his shirt down quickly, covering it. ‘It’s the same tattoo my old man had, exactly. I’ve copied it. He had a thing about oak trees.’

  I think he’s babbling now, nervous, talking in a rush so there’s no silence between us. He’s turning towards me and holding his duffle coat out. I see that his lips are trembling.

  ‘You think it was my fault, don’t you?’ he says. ‘Why Ashlee was here, why she . . .?’

  I know I should shake my head. Because if this sketch does mean that Dad was watching Ashlee before that night, then it’s not Damon’s fault about anything. It wouldn’t matter if Ashlee had been in the car park that night or any other night. It means Dad would have done it anyway. Like the newspapers say. I’m shivering hard.

  I want him to rip up this sketch and burn it in that candle. I want him to tell me we’ll find someone else to blame. But Joe and I already tried that and it didn’t get us anywhere. I want more of his warmth.

  I smell the mud on his duffle coat, the damp in its collar. I watch him lick his bottom lip. I want him to see how I’m not like my dad too, want to show him.

  I notice him go tense. He’s seen me watching him. I feel like an idiot now, like the freak again: like how I did when I pinned him to the forest floor.

  I stand up fast, try to, only I stumble with cold, stiff muscles and have to steady myself on the wall. I let his coat drop. I should keep away from Damon, like Joe says, I shouldn’t screw with his mind. Shouldn’t screw with mine.

  I’m moving my legs on the spot, getting life back into them. Pins and needles shoot up my calves. Then we both hear it, the rain slowing, slowing, stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘For everything.’

  And I don’t know if I’m saying this because I’m sorry about me, or about Dad, or because of this whole messed-up situation.

  34

  Damon

  That girl surprises me again – she’s away and out of this bunker, too quick to stop. As I pick up my coat and put it back on, I hear her feet pounding on the forest floor. I don’t understand her. Why did she just show me this picture? Why did she leave it?

  And why did I hug her like that too?

  Idiot!

  I breathe out in the dark, blow the candle, try to get the lamp turned off. What does Emily Shepherd know? And what is she going to tell? And her last word, still ringing in my ears – sorry.

  Why?

  When I stand, I try not to look at Shepherd’s drawings on the walls, try not to see the wolves everywhere. I’m so damn cold – can hardly think with it. Emily’s expression is still in my head, her eyes focusing on my face, her fingers on my arm. Who is she, really? What does she want?

  I take the picture of Ashlee. Wedging my shoes into the corners of the entrance, I stretch up and out, then skid over ground that’s gone wet and muddy since we’ve been inside the bunker. Maybe Emily Shepherd’s playing me. Giving me this drawing could be some sort of trick to make me go to the police. I got no clue about this girl at all.

  I kick through leaves and search, look up in branches too – anywhere a phone or a collar could be stashed. I still hope. It’s like I’m moving without my brain’s say-so. Like it’s not even me in my body and I’m looking down on this strange person doing strange things from above. On the other side of the clearing from where we arrived, I find a small animal pathway. It’s well worn, maybe from the police investigation, or the animals that use it, or . . .

  I turn my head and check, both ways. I know where this path leads, both sides of it. Course I do! This path is one of the edges of Game Play: a boundary. I pause to take this in. All that time we’d been so close to this bunker! No wonder Shepherd drew what he did.

  Then it sinks in where exactly this path leads, both sides of it. If I turn right, I’d get to that hollow Ashlee took me to that night. And if I turn left? Well, that way I’d link up with the main track of Darkwood. And if I crossed that and kept going? I breathe damp, heavy air as I realise it: this path turns into Ashlee’s shortcut track home – it’s the very same path! I take another breath. I turn left and walk a little way. This means that this path is a direct route between the hollow and Ashlee’s shortcut, this means that Shepherd’s bunker is in the middle of them both. Did Ashlee use this path to get to her shortcut that night? Is this how Shepherd heard her?

  I could’ve used this path to get home that night too.

  I kick through dead leaves, look in branches, still hoping for that collar and phone. Nothing! There are deer prints on the ground too, though, pointing me on like arrows. I follow them and keep going towards Ashlee’s shortcut, towards my own way out of here, towards Mack who I got to speak to more than ever now.

  There are still things I don’t understand – that dragging sound I’d thought about in Shepherd’s car, the anger I’d remembered feeling that night, Ashlee’s missing collar and phone. It’s like there’s something big I’m on the edge of understanding. Something I’m scared of pressing at. Something more.

  I walk a few more metres down this path, and that’s when I see it – it’s got to be the biggest, widest oak tree in Darkwood. And it’s got branches stretching out to me, waiting. I go towards it, almost like I’m being pulled there, stumbling off the path. My fingers crash into deep, ridged bark that smells sharp. Tree sap sticks to my fingers. It’s strange, but something about this tree feels safe. I touch the bark and it all feels so familiar. I dig my fingers into it, see parts of it splinter off and get under my nails. I’ve held on to this tree before. It’s like my skin is remembering it.

  Why?

  I wrap my arms around the trunk and I kick it. Over and over. I grasp at it like I can pull it from the ground. I want to shout. I’m going mad to think I know a fucking tree!

  That’s when the tips of my fingers catch on something. There’s a hole here, round the other side of this trunk. I pull my face away to see. As I look at it, I’m getting hit again with that strange, heavy feeling. Like I’m knowing something. Like I’m remembering.

  I step round so I can peer inside. There are feathers and twigs and dried leaves, but the hole goes deeper than this. There is something else inside. I stretch to reach it, and this heavy sense I’ve got gets worse. I know what this is, what it has to be. It’s been hidden here.

  I pull it out.

  In my hands is a pink sparkly dog collar, soft wool on its inside. Hanging off the side of it is a heart-shaped dog tag, small and silver. That tag has two letters on it – two letters that were engraved into it in a pet shop and paid for by me: AP.

  I run my finger over them, wipe dirt off the dog tag ’til it shines again, ’til I see my ugly, shitty face staring back.

  Ashlee’s collar.

  Finally.

  Here.

  I look back into the hole. But there’s just this collar. Nothing else. Her phone isn’t here.

  I squint back towards where the bunker is. Shepherd could’ve come down this path and hidden this collar here. But why not the phone too? I turn the collar over: it’s stained with dirt. I press my nose to it, but her smell has gone.r />
  Nothing feels right about this. I’ve got this weird sick feeling winding around inside me. I have to walk. I shove the collar deep inside my cargos pocket, take it with me, though part of me wants to forget I’ve even seen it here at all. I don’t feel no relief in finding it like I thought I would. I walk the path towards Ashlee’s shortcut track, towards the main car park too, towards town, and towards Mack.

  35

  Emily

  My phone beeps. A voicemail, someone must have left it when I’d been in the bunker. I pull my phone out and check. Joe. He’s apologising for the way he was earlier – he must be. He won’t want me to stay angry with him for long. I lean against a tree and listen. His voice is hesitant, quieter than usual, but not apologetic.

  ‘I’m right about Damon,’ he says. ‘He is suspicious, not who you think.’ He breathes in and I can tell he’s trying to work out what to say next. ‘Just call me back, Emily. You need to know something.’

  I press myself to the damp bark behind me, remember how Damon’s arm had felt heavy and warm around my shoulders in the bunker. I think of Damon’s tired eyes too, how sad he’d looked when I’d shown him the sketch. It was so obvious what Damon saw in it.

  It takes me a while before I return Joe’s call. It’s going to be hard to tell Joe everything that just happened – because this is it then. Joe’s the last person to believe in my dad. I feel like a traitor, a kind of Judas. I’m almost glad when I hear that Joe’s phone is turned off now – I don’t leave a message. It’s weird, though. Why would he turn his phone off if he wanted me to call him back? Come to think of it, why is he being so odd about everything?

  I start walking for his house, realising that if Damon does show the police that sketch, Joe needs to listen to me, and fast. I also need to tell Mum.

  36

  Damon

  People get out of my way, all down the high street. People are parting to let me pass. They’re staring. Maybe they think I’m one of those crazy, drunk war vets that hang out under the railway bridge. I keep my head down, cover up my old man’s shirt with my coat. I keep hold of the picture in my pocket. When I start thinking about Emily Shepherd’s eyes again, I stomp through a puddle. I go straight past the entrance to our flat and I don’t buzz the intercom. If Mum was bothered about me she would’ve called my phone. I think I’m going mad with all this – literally, fucking MAD. If I don’t straighten out something soon I’ll be like those figures in those drawings on Shepherd’s bunker walls – the ones of the hangings, the guns against the heads, the disappearing into dark, swirling holes . . .

  Maybe.

  I need to see Mack. Get warm. Things’ll make sense after that.

  I go straight to Mack’s garage and bang hard on its side door. He don’t answer for ages and I’m almost about to bang again, when I hear the lock turning. He opens it a crack, I see immediately that his eyes are bloodshot and he’s just woke up. He stinks of booze.

  ‘Been waiting for you to show,’ he says.

  He don’t look happy. He don’t even look like he’s going to let me in. I push past him anyway, heading for the couches. I’m about to launch into what just happened with Emily Shepherd and what I got in my pocket – I’m even about to pull out Ashlee’s collar – when he grabs my arm and turns me back.

  ‘What happened to you?’ He’s speaking in a hoarse whisper, frowning at my clothes.

  ‘Got wet, didn’t I?’

  ‘I meant last night.’ He chucks me an old towel. ‘You haven’t been in the woods all this time, have ya?’

  I shake my head. I smell cigs and whisky and hangover in his breath. I wonder how long him and the boys stayed out for? Did they play another Game? Drink in the car park?

  ‘So, where’d you go?’ Like the people on the High Street, he’s looking at me like I’m a full-blown Crazy. ‘Why’d you run off like that?’

  This is my chance, to tell him about being with Emily in Shepherd’s bunker, to explain all that stuff I’d thought last night – those images I’d had.

  ‘Just let me sit down at least!’

  His eyes are narrowing in confusion. I want to tell him – and I will! – but right now I want to get inside properly, I want to sit on one of Mack’s couches and get warm, just want to not be hassled for a moment, let the words come when they’re ready.

  ‘We looked for you,’ Mack whispers. ‘Me and the boys – for ages.’

  Now I see why Mack’s annoyed – because I ran off from them last night, because I didn’t explain, because that’s the sort of thing a soldier would never do in a real combat situation. And why’s he whispering anyway?

  ‘Could’ve called my phone,’ I say. ‘Could’ve come after me.’

  That uneasy feeling’s back as I remember who did come after me. Wilder. And that’s as strange as the rest of all this.

  I go across to where the telly and couches are. I just want this to be an ordinary Saturday morning; I want to be playing video games half the day and go into the trance of it. I don’t want to have to think or work anything out. But I have to, don’t I? And it hits me like a hammer to the skull all this stuff I got to think about. I fooled about with Ashlee in that hollow. I think I passed out. I think she walked back past Shepherd’s bunker.

  I found her collar.

  I knew it was in that tree.

  ‘Emily Shepherd knows,’ I blurt out. It’s a start.

  I hear Mack stop behind me. ‘What?’

  And I’m about to tell him everything – even about that dragging sound that’s still going round in my brain, even how it’d felt familiar to have my hands tightening round Ed’s neck – but I see the others. Ed’s sprawled on the big couch, his coat over him like a blanket. Charlie is curled up tight in the beanbag. I’m so surprised to see them that I just stand there, staring. I’m jealous of the way they can sleep like that.

  ‘Heavy night, then?’ I say.

  Mack tries a smile, which I don’t return. Because that should be me sleeping there; those two never used to stay over after a Game. I start backing up, away from the boys and the telly, back to the main part of the garage. What was I thinking anyway? Playing video games all day like nothing’s up? Like I’m normal?

  ‘What are you on about, Emily Shepherd knows?’ Mack says. ‘Knows what?’

  I lean against the bench, but there are three dead rabbits there – fresh, like the boys caught them last night. Mack steps in front of me before I can check them out, forces me to look at him instead. ‘I thought you were staying away from that girl, anyway?’

  He’s trying to say this casual, almost like it’s a joke, but I know he’s freaking out, I can tell by the way his temples are pulsing and how his jaw’s gone tight. I run a hand through my hair, rest my forehead against a shelf of Mack’s games. I could shut my eyes. I could faint from this tiredness. Again, I get that sense that I’m looking down on me from above, watching the movements I make: tracking me like I’m a criminal in some film.

  ‘Emily Shepherd knows about the Game,’ I say eventually. And my voice sounds kind of spaced.

  Mack takes this in, watching me. ‘You sure? She told you?’

  ‘Not as much, but . . .’

  I feel the picture in my pocket, the collar next to it. What do I show him first?

  ‘Come on then, explain.’ Mack pushes a rabbit across the bench towards me, he slides a skinning knife across too. ‘Do this same time.’

  I look at the rabbit’s draping back legs, the rigid neck. I don’t pick it up, or the knife.

  ‘She knows,’ I say again. ‘I got proof.’

  I take out Jon Shepherd’s picture and hold it out.

  ‘Shepherd drew this,’ I say. ‘Months ago. Emily found it in his car. And there are other drawings in his bunker, ones like the wolves . . .’

  Mack’s eyes flick to mine when I say the word bunker. ‘You went there too? With her?’

  I shrug. ‘Wanted to see.’

  Mack sucks in air through his teeth. ‘I’m
worried about you, mate. This is morbid, what you’re doing. It’s wrong!’

  So I explain the picture how I see it. ‘Shepherd’s drawn the Game . . . there’s Ashlee, the rest of us . . .’ I point out the deer and the wolves, but Mack still doesn’t look like he’s getting it. ‘I’m chasing her,’ I say, my finger hovering over the wolf in front. ‘Through Darkwood. Shepherd must’ve seen me do it, seen all of us. He must’ve been looking out. His bunker’s on the edge of Play!’

  Finally, Mack takes the picture. ‘But this is just a wolf, a deer . . .’

  ‘It isn’t.’ I step forward and point out what Mack hasn’t seen yet, what I’ve hardly admitted to myself. ‘That wolf is wearing a collar.’ I pause. ‘ And that deer looks like Ashlee!’

  ‘Ashlee?’ Mack shakes his head fast, too fast. ‘Nah, mate, you’re seeing things.’ He throws a glance towards the couches, goes back to the picture. ‘Firstly, that collar is just a darker line in the drawing. Secondly, how can a deer look like a person?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I shrug. ‘But it does. Look properly.’

  He keeps staring, but again he shakes his head. ‘You gone mad, mate. Why are you even worried about this? It’s a picture of animals!’

  I remember the intense way Emily stared at me as I looked at this sketch. She knew. She saw it.

  ‘It’s Ashlee,’ I say. ‘It’s us. Emily Shepherd gave it to me because she knows about the Game too. She even said she was sorry . . . like she was sorry she knew, or sorry she was going to go to the police or . . . I dunno, sorry about something. It was odd.’ And now I’m feeling really mixed up.

  Mack waits, frowning.

  I throw my arms wide. ‘If Emily does go to the police with this, then the police’ll come after me, and I’ll have to tell them . . . tell them . . .’

  My head reels as it hits me: what else I’d have to tell the police once I start . . . how I’d been in the woods and chasing Ashlee just like in this picture. How I’d lied about walking Ashlee to that track that night. How I don’t remember what’d happened at the end of the Game.