Chapter 5

Edmund woke early, as he always did. Well usually, at least. On a Sunday, his alarm was set for 08:15, giving him an extra hour of sleep. He was usually awake well before that every other day, without the need for any digital assistance. His body clock had been the subject of much cursing from him throughout his life, prodding his eyes open even on his days off but, at least, on a Sunday, it gave him a reprieve.

Even if, however, he’d been due his allotted lay in that morning, he doubted it would have happened. Sleep had been fitful, dodging his needs like a politician at Prime Minister’s Question Time. It remained just out of reach of his grasping hands. He’d nodded off at most, and the pieced together periods where he’d succeeded in not being conscious would only have reached a couple of hours. Less than four, definitely.

He got up, boiled the kettle while brushing his teeth, then made a strong coffee – which he didn’t drink. The urge to not be confined in the suddenly claustrophobic room was enough for him to forego his daily kick start.

When Edmund stepped outside, the air greeted him with a damp coolness, echoing the reception the night before. He could feel it seep into bone and thought alike and flexed his fingers to remind himself he wouldn’t succumb to its lure.

Black Thickett looked different in daylight, something he’d forgotten from his arrival less than twenty-four hours ago. It was less ominous, perhaps, but no more comforting. The mist that shrouded the previous night was thankfully banished, leaving behind an accusatory clarity. Look, it said, this is what we’re really like. Don’t be so quick to judge. The buildings stood crisp and defined, the shadows sharp along their edges, their stronger delineation a deliberate act for his benefit alone. It was a show anyone else would have missed. It wasn’t for them, so could only be witnessed from exactly where he stood.

His plan had been to find breakfast. It should have been available in the pub, but he’d heard no movement from where he assumed the kitchen to be, and didn’t want to push the landlord into feeling he had to cook something. The man’s body clock might have been more forgiving than Edmund’s. No matter. It would be a simple task.

As he crossed the square, drawn by the dull rattle of the shop shutter being dragged up and the open-closed sign being flipped to the former, he saw her.

Mrs Pollitt.

Helen?

She stood outside the shop, wearing a faded cardigan that would have given no warmth. Her hair was still pulled into a bun, but it was looser now, suggesting she’d slept in it. She was struggling with a small handful of coins, the change slipping through her fingers no matter how she cradled it.

Edmund slowed. He could easily have walked past and almost did. He doubted she’d notice his passing. The way her shoulders hunched from an unseen weight would narrow her focus, but also drew him in.

“Morning,” he said, offering a cautious smile.

To his own ears, he sounded too cheerful. Too forced. She jumped, dropping the remaining coins, then looked up at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red – someone else who’d not slept much and, possibly, had spent numerous hours crying.

“You mentioned my son yesterday. Last night in the Swann.”

There was no reproach in her tone, only acknowledgment. Perhaps… gratitude of the recognition?

“I’m sorry,” Edmund replied. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t. Most won’t say it. They won’t look at the posters. Won’t look at me.” She gave a brittle smile, one that could break either itself or her if spoken about. “Ignoring him might bring him home or make it like he never was, maybe. But it won’t. And he was.”

She crouched to retrieve the change. Edmund instinctively started to do the same, wanting to help, then hesitated. She was fragile. The slightest touch could make her crumble. He stayed where he was, guiltily watching her fumble with the money.

“He wasn’t unhappy,” she said suddenly, and the words had the tone of something repeated often. To strangers, friends, the police and herself. “People think unhappy boys run away and, if someone’s gone, they could only have run away, so must have been unhappy. He didn’t run. He walked.”

She met Edmund’s gaze and, for a moment, there was a fierce brightness in her eyes. She was, briefly, defiant.

“Straight into the forest. Into those trees.”

A chill seeped through Edmund like last night’s fog. He tried to swallow it, but his throat was parched, and the action gave it further entrance.

“I’m sure they’ve searched…”

“The woods?” she interrupted. “No. No one goes in there far enough. Not anymore.”

Her hands paused over the coins, forgetting their task.

“Not since the others.”

Edmund’s pulse paused, too, then stumbled back into rhythm.

“Others?”

“Others. Not all were missing. Some came back. Some came back… wrong.” She looked away and shook her head. “Just draws things he shouldn’t know.”

Her voice softened, and the corners of her red eyes brimmed with tears.

“Tommy Greaves, my Jack’s friend” she said. “Sweet boy. He’s not the same now.”

She finally managed to corral the coins and slipped them into her pocket with a trembling hand. She sucked in an equally unsteady breath and stood.

“Sometimes I hear him,” she whispered. “Jack. He’s not the boy I remember. It’s not quite his voice, but close enough that I almost answer.”

Edmund felt the skin along his arms prickle.

“At night?” he asked.

“Of course. Always at night. Well, sometimes in the early morning mist, like we had today before the sun shooed it away. Mostly when it’s dark, though, it feels like the woods are breathing him out.”

She stared past him, toward the treeline at the end of the road. Involuntarily, he followed her gaze.

“The forest takes what it wants,” she said quietly, not wanting it to hear her. “It doesn’t give it back.”

“What does it want with you?”

It’s a forest. Just trees. Nothing more. It doesn’t – can’t – want anything.

“Not me.”

Her eyes settled on him. He could feel their weight. Measuring. Knowing. They were imparting wordless knowledge.

“But it looks at you. I can tell.”

A coldness spread up from Edmund’s calves until it crossed his chest. He imagined he could see his own breath. He wished he could, which would give a physical explanation to the sensation.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

His reply was too quick. Too obviously in the zone of not believing and not wanting to believe but possibly believing if he thought about it too much.

“Is it?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. What could he say?

For a moment, they stood in silence as the village around them stirred. A door slammed somewhere. A kettle whistled behind a cottage window – people still had those? A dog barked once, then fell silent, as if reminded it should hush. Not draw attention.

He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Sorry. I… I was just after some breakfast.”

“You’re not intruding,” she said, smiling anaemically. “But you should be careful. People like us…”

She hesitated.

“Like us?” he prompted.

She gave a small nod.

“People who’ve lost something. Someone. The forest knows. It feels it. It’s hungry for it.”

Edmund let out a disbelieving sigh. She was crossing into silly superstition now, something he refused to dabble in. He shouldn’t accommodate her.

“It’s just trees,” he affirmed, doing his best to sound authoritative.

“Is it?” she repeated. Her voice carried the same soft cadence, as if she’d asked the question many times herself, and never received an answer she trusted.

The shop door opened abruptly behind her, startling them both. The shopkeeper, a stout man with thinning, greying hair that was too long and in need of washing, nodded at her.

“Morning, Helen. I’ve got your paper in.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was suddenly stronger, masking her vulnerability, and she followed the man inside

Before the door closed again, she looked back at Edmund.

“If you hear him,” she said softly, “my Jack’s voice.” She wrapped her arms around herself, stopping the door with her foot. “Don’t follow. No matter how much you want to. Just don’t.”

Then, she stepped into the shop, the door closing behind her with a muted chime and soft click.

Edmund stood alone in the square, suddenly colder, though he was certain the temperature hadn’t changed. He tried to laugh at himself, at the superstitions – stupidstitions he’d say to his mum, who never put new shoes on a table or walked under a ladder. The laugh failed to expel the fear stalking the edges of his thoughts like shadowy predators.

It was just a village. Just a forest. Just trees.

As he turned to leave, thoughts of breakfast gone along with his appetite, he sensed something skittering down the back of his neck.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hungry.

And the trees at the end of the lane, still as stone in the morning light, seemed almost to lean a fraction closer.