Woodhill Wood (23 page)

The Woodhill came into view and the pressure in Gurde's skull lifted leaving him feeling like he had just woken from a restless sleep. He rubbed his forehead. A long intake of cold air and he was ready to go on but he didn't feel like singing any more.

He left the road at the usual spot, cut up between the trees and climbed through the wire fence. He looked up at the face of the Woodhill. It was early afternoon but there were still spots of frost dotted through the grass. The hardened mud on the far side of the fence crunched under his weight.

The sheep were strangely quiet, gathered together for warmth in a gulley across to his right, but none of them looked across in his direction. They knew what was coming. With the sheep silent the only sound was the constant drone of cars entering and leaving the town. Soon there would be another sound.

Gurde took a last look at the climb and then set off quickly, scrambling and weaving through the frost to the first plateau and then on to the second. The second level, where he had sat and cried and hated after the sitting room arguments. The second level, where feet his feet had sunk into the earth. But the ground had hardened there too. Every step broke the crisp surface, forcing a gush of brown blood to spring through the cracks in the ice. Gurde jogged across, using the tips of his toes to drive on, determined that his socks should stay dry.

He leapt on to the next slope, slipping and recovering, using his hands to grip the grass. The slope eased and he reached the main path. He settled into a regular stride, knowing every twist, every detour, every short cut on the way to the waiting pole.

Into the trees and immediately the feeling was different. He had left the winter and stepped back into the last gasps of autumn. Though he was close to the Wizard, he slowed down to sample the soothing smell. On the Woodhill there was no frost, no ice, no harshness; just dark wet leaves and the rolling scent. The path wound on between the trunks, leading him further away from the house, away from the study, away from her.

He passed Mr Gunn's log and gave it only a fleeting glance. Over the crest of the next rise he stepped off the path. He clambered up over the loose ground, using the cold trunks for support, until he reached the clearing where the fallen splinters of rock marked the final approach to the cliff.

Gurde stepped out of the cover and looked up at the rock hanging over him, trying to judge the reaction in the scowling face above. "Well," he called. "Fancy meeting you here."

He hadn't climbed the cliff in months, and never in such cold weather, but there were no doubts as he scrambled over the scree and entered the crack. With the jagged rock surrounding him, the climbing sequence to the top came flooding back.

He rubbed his hands together and started: right hand grip above the moss by his shoulder, left hand high above his head, right foot wedged into the slit by his thigh. And push.

Hold by hold he moved across until both feet were lodged in the narrow groove. Then a series of side steps, each linked to a new grasp. It was easy, the rhythm still there for the taking, needing only the confidence to attack without hesitation.

He reached the end of the gulley and looked up the vertical part of the climb, reading the moves in advance, picking out the holds that could take his weight and those that should flit by giving only momentary support.

A deep breath and he lunged towards the first hold, jamming numb fingers into the cracks, bending them over so that he could pull against them. Right foot up, fingertips reaching, holding, pulling, watching the craggy face slide past his eyes. Left hand, right foot. Right hand, left foot. Steady and secure.

A lump of rock crumbled away under his fingers, raining shards on to his face, making him grasp again. But he was not concerned. Gurde's body stayed fastened. Three more moves and he was reaching over the top, stroking the smoothness, feeling amongst the grass for the hold that he knew was there. He pulled himself up on to the ledge with a last, defiant heave.

He sat on the edge, breathing heavily, dangling his feet out into space, enjoying the sense of achievement. His heart was racing and warm sweat was dribbling on to his lips. There was no wind out across the tops of the leafless trees. The expanse of cloud that had drifted overhead looked dark and menacing but it couldn't prevent the low sun from poking its light beneath the blanket, making the rock shiny and new.

The scaffolding pole was still lying where it had been hidden a few yards above the cliff. He dragged it out and picked off the worst of the mud that clung to the clamp at the end.

"I'm here," he said. "Are you ready?"

The hole he had chiseled in the Skull had weathered to match its surroundings like a healed wound. He slid the pole down the slope to the top of the cliff, keeping a firm grip on the rusty metal, and lined up the far end against the mouth of the hole. The silence was begging to be broken and he began to imagine the roar, remembering the sounds of the Wizard's hands and arms as they had fallen to smash into the trees below, knowing that this time would be different, that this time he would change the world that Mr Gunn's father had created.

In those seconds he would make the Woodhill his own.

Gurde clambered up the slope to the top of the pole. This time there would be no mistakes. The Wizard would not rob him again. The Skull would fall and crack and he would be free.

He crouched down and removed the lace from his right shoe. He wrapped one end of the lace around his wrist and tied the knot tight. Then he passed the other end through the eye of the clamp and tied the second knot tighter.

Now the pole was attached to him, part of him, making it impossible for the rock to snatch it from his hands as it had done before. His hours of planning had not been wasted. This time there would be no mistakes.

It was all so familiar. He had done it a hundred times in his imagination. Now, for the last time, he lifted the end of the pole and walked it towards the edge, passed the cold metal hand over hand. It rose and rose and then, as it reached almost vertical, the far end slipped into the scar and it stood upright, rocking back and forth.

But this time Gurde did not step back to admire his work. Instead, he kept his grip on the lever, feeling its solid bond with the rock. Now the Wizard and his body were one, linked by an umbilical lace and a rod of steel.

"Have a look down there," Gurde sneered. "That's what you'll be."

The Wizard was beaten. Gurde could feel rock tremble as the excitement took hold. He wrapped his clenched fists around the icy metal.

"Die!"

And then Gurde threw his weight back, driving against his knees, knowing that the strength of every muscle was needed. The first heave came to nothing. He slumped forward panting with the effort, forced to step towards the edge as the pole sprung back upright.

With clenched teeth he drove again, feeling the pole bend and fight back, trying to catapult him out into space. There was a sound like a breaking twig from somewhere near the Wizard's heart.

He heaved again to open the new wound and then released once more. His breaths were quicker and some warmth was returning to his rust-covered fingers.

He drew in a long chestful of air and threw himself back for a third time, digging his heels into the ground, feeling the ache in his arms beginning to spread. He heard another twig snap inside the rock, then another, and he found more strength and pulled again and a gunshot rang out, and then another twig, and Gurde had no more to give.

But the chain reaction had begun. The song of cracking and splitting was beautiful. Gurde relaxed and listened as the bonds with which the Wizard gripped the Woodhill cracked and broke one by one.

"Die!"

The rock was filled with panic, struggling to find a hold, but each too late. The splintering grew louder, like the rattle of typewriter keys. Then, with the glorious roar of rock against rock, the Skull was gone.

And Gurde flew after it, whipped forward by the lace as the scaffolding pole followed the Wizard down towards the trees. He glimpsed the wet rock at the cliff edge as it flew towards him. It smashed into his face. The lace pulled taut and the weight of the pole wrenched his arm in its socket. He screamed and was vaguely aware of the echo thrown back by the trees as he felt the thump of the Skull hitting the bottom and exploding. His lips were jammed against the cold rock and his own warmth dribbled its saltiness into his mouth. But through the high-pitched whistle in his ears he could still hear the Skull thudding into the trunks below.

The sound of rolling went on and on. It was quieter for a time, a rushing rustling, before another eruption of splintering rocked the Woodhill.

And finally it was over. Gurde lay with his eyes closed listening to the distant pattering as the fragments of the Skull returned to earth. The Wizard's dying curse. His arm was still attached: the constant pull against his burning shoulder was proof of that. His right hand was hidden, hanging over the edge, but he could see the lace drawing blood around his wrist.

There was no choice. Gurde had no knife and the knot was too well made to be undone. He would have to pull the pole up the cliff after all.

He reached over with his free hand and tried to take some of the weight from his bones, but it made no difference. He could feel the pole swinging back and forth below, bumping against the cliff face, digging the lace deeper into his skin. He snorted away the blood that blocked his nose, dragged himself on to his knees and began to heave himself back away from the edge.

The lace was short and the top of the pole soon appeared. It slid mercifully towards him, grating against the rock like a tubular bell. It flopped on to the grass. And Gurde lay still, rubbing his shoulder and staring up into the darkening sky.

It was a long time before he sat up again. He struggled to free the wet knot with teeth and numb fingers. Once it was free, he rolled the useless pole back over the edge and waited for the clang as it hit the rocks at the bottom.

The low sun that had lit the rock was fading. Pitying flakes of snow began to flutter down to dot his clothes. Gurde moved his arm around in its socket, testing how far it could be raised. He dabbed at the rising lump on his forehead, wiped streaks of blood from his nose and mouth. He got up and staggered back along the path. Even in death, the rock had left its mark upon him just as he had left a mark upon the hill. Gurde didn't to look over the edge to see what the impact of the exploding Wizard’s Skull had been.

Despite the pain, Gurde managed to climb the five bar gate at the base of the hill. It was dark and snowing heavily. He was relieved to be back in the amber glow of the streetlights and longed for the warmth of the house.

The walk down the hill had been slow and awkward with the lace missing from his shoe. At first the snow had melted away as it landed on the hillside but it had grown heavier, gradually covering the way ahead. By the time he left the path it had turned everything to grey in the fast fading light.

And now the flakes were cascading through the darkness. Gusts caught the whiteness and sent swirling blurs into his eyes. He rubbed the bump on his forehead again, feeling for a break in the skin, circling frozen fingers around the tenderness. The Wizard was dead but it had gone down fighting. Gurde paused as he stepped into the fresh tyre tracks. He lifted his arm and cursed the stab of pain across the right shoulder.

There were lights on in the house casting squares of brightness across the top of the drive. Gurde crunched through the snow and bathed in the light pouring from the open back door. He closed it and heard the lock click shut.

The kitchen was silent until the kettle began to whine and bubble and whistle and finally fade. He cupped the tea to his chest and felt the surging return of blood, making his numb fingers throb and burn. He sipped at the mug unsure if he had been the loser in the final battle on the hill.

Still, the Wizard was gone, scattered through the trees at last and there was no second chance to watch it fall.

"Dad?"

The study door was open. Gurde peered inside, expecting to see the father slumped in his armchair, a full glass clasped in his hand, a distant look in his eyes. The chair was empty but the dip in the seat showed that he had been there recently. Gurde wondered if the mother had been back. Perhaps they had talked.

"Dad?"

The two whisky bottles on the desk were both empty. There was another one in the waste paper basket by the bookcase. The room smelt of something that wasn't the musty smell that made the study special. Gurde returned to the fresher air of the hall.

"Dad? Hello?"

Gurde climbed the stairs. As he passed the parent's door he peered in. The father was lying on his back on the far side of the bed. He was fully clothed. There was a half-finished bottle of whisky on the table by the bedside light.

"Dad? Are you asleep?"

There was no movement. Gurde walked around the bed and saw the yellow sick that filled the father's open mouth and streamed down his cheeks to the pillow.

"Dad!"

Gurde ran the last two steps and shook the father's arm. The father didn't respond. His eyes were closed as if in deep sleep. His face was a grey-blue colour. Gurde shook harder. The crusted drying sickness blocked the father's nose and throat but there were no bubbles.

"Dad."

He felt for the veins in the father's neck. There was a movement of pulse beneath the cool skin. Gurde's fingers plunged between the father's still lips, scooping out the stickiness and flicking it away. There was no sound; no gurgling from his throat. Again, Gurde slipped his fingers past the sharp teeth to scoop at the blockage.

"Dad!"

Gurde tipped the father's head and tried to roll him on to his side so that the vomit could drain from his mouth. He was heavy. Gurde dug both palms under his back and lifted, fighting the jab of pain that sprang from his shoulder. The father's body rolled over but his arm remained limp behind his back. Gurde kneeled over him on the bed and felt again for the pulse. The father didn't respond.

Gurde left him lying there. He sprinted across the landing and leapt down the stairs, each flight flying beneath him, each impact sending him sprawling. He almost jumped the long flight but caught himself just in time.

The telephone on the study desk gave its oblivious buzz. He stabbed his finger into the number nine circle and turned the dial three times.

"Which service?"

"Ambulance!" he panted.

"What's the problem?"

"My Dad's... dying!"

"Putting you through... Ambulance service. Can I help you?"

"Yes! My Dad's choked on his... sick... I... I think he's dying... his heart's still... the pulse is still..."

"I'll get an ambulance to you right away, son. Name?"

"Duff."

"Address?"

"14, Glens... "

The telephone went dead. It stunned Gurde for a second. He hammered the button above the dial but there was no longer any tone.

He dialed again, forcing the numbers around, but the phone had become a useless lump of plastic on the desk. He slumped back into the chair, unable to think, with the receiver still clasped in his hand.

Only a few seconds passed before a window in the kitchen shattered. Gurde heard the glass tinkle on to the fitment and then scatter on to the floor. A window catch clicked and he heard a window slide upwards and he knew why the phone had died.

The panic sent him scrambling back up the stairs. He stumbled over the last steps but he kept his feet long enough to reach his room. He slammed the door, turned the key and threw it into the corner. Gurde was shaking as he slid under the bed.

There were noises in the kitchen, cups and plates rattling in the sink under the window, then slow footsteps moving through into the dining room. The door into the hall opened. Gurde pushed his body tighter against the wall, making himself as small as possible, wishing he had grabbed something to cover himself with. His ears switched to full power, filling his brain with the thump of his heart and the deafening footsteps that struck out on to the hall tiles.

Someone started to climb the stairs. One. Two. The creaking third step. Four. The creaking fifth. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven steps to the first landing.

There the man paused, listening too.

Then the three steps to the left. The killer paused on the next landing and snorted. The sound brought a sickness into Gurde's own throat. He swallowed and pushed his trembling body further into the darkness.

The last seven steps took forever. At last the floorboard at the top of the stairs groaned its complaint and the man was close. Gurde could hear the rasping breath. There was no other sound. Gurde knew that the man was looking around, choosing a door, trying to smell where the father was hiding.

The man walked into the parent's room and saw the father lying as Gurde had left him with his still, sick caked face pointing towards the door.

And then the man howled. The whine started from deep in his chest and then rose to become a cry so intense and bitter that Gurde had to cover his ears against it. Then it cut off and there was silence once more. Gurde held his breath.

The silence was broken as glass smashed against a wall, curtains ripped and crashed to the floor, furniture thumped, more glass shattered, on and on, and then it stopped except for a rhythmic thud. And then there was silence.

Gurde brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them. He closed his eyes against the darkness and tried to hold back the sobs that were his greatest enemy.

Another sound drifted across the landing to torture Gurde's brain, a different sound, a sound that couldn't be kept out. The sound of something hard striking something soft and the soft thing sucking back, like a boot being driven into mud. Again and again the soft thing slurped but Gurde's mind would not give him an answer. He would not let it. He had to control the pressure that was building in his chest, demanding to be released. The noise stopped and again he was forced to listen.

Footsteps moved through the parents' room, down the landing and stopped outside his bedroom door.

The man seemed to know exactly where Gurde was, as if he had been watching, remembering who drew the curtains in each room, planning every step. Gurde was unable to breathe as the handle on the door rattled and turned and a weight pushed against the hinges.

Gurde tried to move his legs, ready to run, but he was frozen against the floor.

There were two steps back and then the full weight of the man rammed against the door. The shock jolted through Gurde and he was free and scrambling out from under the bed. The man heard him move.

Another thump exploded against the lock followed by a short deep grunt of discomfort. Gurde stood and stared. Another two steps back and again the man threw his full weight against the door, splitting the thick wood around the lock, but still the old door held.

Gurde sprinted across the room, released the catch on the bedroom window and heaved it upwards, allowing the cold air to rush in. Another heavy thump against the door and the splitting noise was more definite. Gurde clambered out into the snow on the balcony. He stood on the edge, as he had so often done, and tried to judge if he could reach the white lawn across the white tarmac.

The next thump struck and the door flew open. It crashed into Matthew's desk, knocking over the pots of pens and pencils and scattering them on to the floor.

Gurde leapt into space.

An icy wind whistled across his face. The grey ground shot up towards him. He put his hands out in front and braced himself for the impact.

Gurde's feet hit the tarmac with a crunch that was not just the snow. He toppled forward. His hands scraped over the jagged surface and he was lying on his chest. He tried to get up to run but his ankles were soft and folded beneath him. He fell forward, burying his face into the snow and crying out in pain. His palms were bleeding. He rolled over on to his back, instinctively reaching down to clutch at his ankles and then releasing them as his touch only increased the pain.

Gurde glanced up at the balcony through water filled eyes. A shadowed face appeared over the edge, stared down at him and then vanished.

He had to go on. The snow helped him slide. He grabbed handfuls of grass, digging at it with his fingers and pulling himself forward over the ground. He flailed with both hands and pulled again. The sudden strength in his arms shot him onward and the pain vanished under a wave of desperation. Tears began to carve warm paths down over his cheeks. He knew that he had to reach the road. He had to reach the road before... Someone would be there. So, with his heart pounding in his neck, Gurde dragged himself down the lawn like a beached seal sprinting for the sea.

He heard the front door of the house fly open and heard the slow footsteps in the snow. Why didn't the man run? Run. Please run. Gurde quickened his slide, dragging his limp legs behind him. But it was no use, the gate was too far, and so he slumped exhausted into the whiteness and waited for the hands to come. Instinctively, he grabbed for the silver nugget in his pocket and clutched it hard in his bloody right fist.

The slow footsteps crunched down the lawn and stopped somewhere beside his shaking body. Gurde could hear that breathing again, fast and even above him, but still the hands did not come. It had to be ended...

"Help! Someone help m..."

...and a rough hand slapped over his mouth and Gurde was turned on to his back and the weight dropped on to his chest and the man's knees pinned Gurde's arms into the grass. Gurde had no choice but to look up.

The wide green eyes blazed down for a second from beneath a verge of greasy hair. The man turned to rummage in the plastic bag that lay by his side. His face was unshaven and his lips betrayed the foul taste in his mouth. The collar of his long coat was turned up against the cold, masking the shape of his jaw, casting a blackness about him.

Gurde tried to bite at the palm that covered his lips but the man simply, expertly, lifted his hand away and pinched Gurde's cheeks between thumb and forefinger, driving Gurde's flesh between his teeth so that all he could do was splutter. The man's free hand lifted a ready-cut strip of sticky tape from the bag. He wiped it across Gurde's lips. It was smoothed down and then the hands lifted away. Gurde tried to struggle but his arms were trapped beneath the man's knees.

The man sat upright, looking down, his face tense, his eyes unblinking. "The elder son," he whispered. He rummaged again in the plastic bag and pulled out the scalpel and the long knife. He held each up in turn to inspect it against a clouded sky. The man paused. "How frightened was he?" he asked, staring down. "All those years of waiting and he's dead. Coward. Tell me he was scared. Tell me he knew it was all about him. All those lives."

Gurde shook his head, pleading with his eyes. He struggled again, rocking his body from side to side, trying to wriggle an arm free, but the man simply squeezed his thighs tighter, holding Gurde in position.

The man lifted Gurde's right wrist to be level with his eyes. He inspected the closed fist, turning it back and forth as if interested by something. It was the silver nugget from inside the Woodhill that had his attention. He prised open the fingers and picked it out, holding it up, puzzled. Then he snapped out of his trance, tossed it into the snow and picked up the scalpel. He showed Gurde the edge of the blade before he brought it up to scrape it against the skin at the base of his index finger. The man leaned forward, bringing those green eyes close to the hand, concentrating on the only part of Gurde that held any interest for him.