Death in the woods

He had had a rough night. At six the previous evening he had gone to the squat of some lads he hardly knew. He met them in the arcade while he was keeping out of the rain the previous night, making his last few pence stretch far enough for him not to be thrown out by security. They had drunk cheep cider, smoked some s**t, popped a few “Es”, caned the speed he had bought on the campus and ended up sharing some illicitly obtained methadone. He’d woken stinking of his own vomit. His shirt was caked in the dried remains of a half digested flame grilled double cheeseburger. He’d pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered through the mounds of clothing that were his companions. On the settee lay ‘sparky’, whose nickname derived from his ability to get comatose every night and still come back for more. This was his place and he seemed to have the respect of the guys. He must have been a hard b*****d. He lay naked except for a greying pair of once white briefs. His long hair and beard looked like they had not seen soap and water for at least three weeks. His jeans and the rest of his clothes lay strewn out in front of the double settee he now lay upon. Entangled with him was the brunette, ‘Charlie’, so called because of her liking for the more expensive street drugs, which she could afford on the allowance her father provided for her. She was naked apart from the shirt she had managed to pull around her shoulders. She lay on her right side, wedged up against the back of the settee, pinioned by Sparkey’s torso. Her legs were akimbo and the patch of thick black curls at her crotch did nothing to hide the slightly parted lips of her vagina. He exhaled at the sight and began to recall the two of them performing, unabashed, acts of lewd sex. She was only a youngster, probably not even 16 yet, and he wondered where she had learned such a repertoire. He suddenly heaved. He was only half way across the room. He didn’t have control, still half asleep, still in an intoxicated half stupor. There wasn’t much left of the pattie of beef, burger bun and fries but what there was wrenched itself from his convulsed stomach and projected itself across the nearest sleeping bundle on the floor. The bundle leapt up. Big Danny was not pleased. No one upset big Danny if they wanted to avoid the trouble that would come with such a rash move.

“F****n ell, ya wee c**t!!” spat the big Scotsman.

His large expanse of hands grasped at James’s clothes. James tried to take avoiding action but his semi-stupor still dulled his movement and the ranting Scot was on top of him bowling him over another bundle asleep on the floor. They landed with a thud hard enough to dislodge the Celts normally vice like grip. Fortunately for James, Danny had also come to wakefulness.

“Och its you Jimmy ya wee s**t! Dinnae puke on folk whin thir asleep”

With that he pulled James to his feet and propelled him towards the kitchen with an almighty slap on the back, before snatching a dirty threadbare blanket off of another form on the floor and ambling to the nearest corner.

 

James made himself a black coffee, spooning the powder out of a jar heavily crusted in dried Nescafe and pouring the water from the dented old tin kettle into the chipped Leicester City mug. He sat at the Formica table and sipped the coffee slowly. He wondered how he had got into such a state. He thought about his parents and shivered at the thought of them knowing what he was into these days. He drained the mug and leaving it on the table, collected up his jacket, training shoes and Lacoste rucksack from the sitting room. No one noticed him slip out of the flat. He climbed the stairs out of the basement. It was early and the street was deserted. The morning chill hit him and he pulled his denim jacket tight around himself. He turned towards the city centre at a slow pace. He had nothing to hurry to and besides he still felt pretty rough. He made up his mind to head for Terry’s place.

 

 

It took twenty minutes to reach the town centre. After a fifteen minute wait he caught the red Midland Fox Cub bus in Charles Street to Beaumont Leys. There were only a handful of people on the bus. Mainly night workers returning to the council estate on the North West side of the city. Most people would be travelling in the opposite direction at this time, heading for another days work. He sat alone and stared out of the window for the fifteen minute journey. He ignored the pretty blonde nursing assistant coming off duty from her night shift at the Royal Infirmary and he paid no attention to the two print workers who swapped stories and traded tales about their night spent at the presses of the Leicester Mercury. His mind was in a state of suspended animation, a jelly-like empty feeling in his head; he was in a semi-dream. He didn’t hear the gossip exchanged between the group of middle aged women who were returning home to organise breakfast for their children before school, after early morning stints cleaning shops and offices.

 

He left the bus several stops earlier than necessary and walked to the ground floor maisonette his friend shared with his young common law wife and their three month old baby. They hadn’t lived there long. When Tina got pregnant her mother threw her out and they had to go cap in hand to the City Council. It took eight months to get the flat; cutting it fine to say the least. They were put on the waiting list and had been offered two places before they accepted this one. James wondered how bad the others had been as he never liked this estate and the maisonette was in quite a deteriorated condition when they had moved in. Terry had done his best to make it habitable but the sort of dampness to which council property seems inevitably prone caused newly hung paper to peal and mould to multiply. He’d known Terry since Longslade Community College, where he had obtained 8 GCSEs and Terry had left after failing every subject except art and craft and design and technology. Terry wasn’t pleased to see him. Their relationship had never been close but they met up from time to time as they both shared mutual acquaintances. They had been to the same parties and had once shared the same girl; she had left Terry and taken up with James shortly after. Terry was ‘seeking employment’ as the market researchers prefer to call it. In fact he had been unemployed since leaving college, only working sporadically in a series of casual jobs. He resented James for his middle class parents who despite James not making best use of his qualifications still supported him. Terry had stopped mixing with the drug culture when Tina became pregnant with Stuart. He still drank heavily but he kept to beer, usually the cheapest beer on tap.  ‘Tiger’ bitter from Everard’s was his favourite and in many places he could still get a pint for just less than two pounds. He was out at least four nights a week, Tuesday to play snooker and Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights down the pub with the lads. In fact Sunday was only meant to be lunch time session, a sort of action replay where they would get together to continue raking over the coals of the latest performance or more usually, under performance of their hero’s from Leicester City Football Club. This usually ended up spilling over into the evening session after a quick visit home to devour Sunday lunch, watch the Sunday match and play with Stuart until opening time. Tina didn’t mind. She was resigned to accepting that this was as good as it gets. She felt lucky to have someone like Terry. He was very affectionate, loved Stuart to bits, and would never lay a hand on either of them. She felt lucky.

 

It was just after eight when he arrived at the Maisonette. Terry answered the door. He was still in his boxer shorts, which he slept in, and he hadn’t wanted to let James in. James was beginning to recover from the effects of the cocktail of drink and drugs. The walk had helped. He smiled broadly and pulled the half bottle of vodka he’d been saving for later from his rucksack. He told Terry it was a flying visit and asked if he could freshen up. Terry was always a soft touch, particularly if there was something in it for him. He snatched the newly delivered Daily Star from the metal jaws of the letterbox and ushered James into the kitchen, indicating that he should be quiet so as not to awaken Tina and Stuart. He pulled two glasses from the kitchen cupboard over the battered and rusting fridge, and poured two generous measures of the clear liquid. He took a couple of chunks of ice from the ice tray in the freezer compartment and dropped them heavily into the glasses letting the Smirnoff splash over the sides. Without asking he topped the iced vodka up with orange juice from a Tetra Pak from the fridge and thrust one of the glasses at James. They talked in hushed tones, discussing the football and City’s latest signing, mutual acquaintances and the Star bird. They were into their second large vodka when Tina, still half asleep, stuck her head round the door. Terry told her that James was making a flying visit and wanted to use the bathroom. She nodded, yawned and asked him to bring her a cup of tea, before retracing her steps, peeking round the door of the baby’s room to check he was still asleep, and slipping back under the duvet. Terry lifted the kettle, weighing its contents, put it back on the work counter and clicked on the switch. He suggested James use the bathroom while he was undertaking the task of getting Tina’s tea. James rose taking the still half full glass and his rucksack to the bathroom. He took his travel case from the rucksack, shaved using a disposable Bic and showered standing under the spray hose attached to the lime scale encrusted taps in the chipped white enamel bath. He let the water cascade through his hair and over his face. He stood and let it drench into him. He was feeling less numb now that the effects of last night were wearing away and he knew the blackness would follow; unless of course he did something about it. He had used the last of his speed at the squat before moving on to the methadone which was being passed round. He turned the shower off and stepped, dripping onto the bathroom rug. He dried on the only towel he could find and took a clean shirt, pants, socks and a pair of Levis from his rucksack. He didn’t brush his teeth so as not to spoil the taste of the vodka and orange, the remains of which he drained before returning to the kitchen. The kitchen was deserted and the flat was silent. Terry must have taken Tina her tea and gone back to bed so he left without a word. As he pulled the door behind him he glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. He decided to head back for the city centre. He would go the University campus where he could hang about without drawing attention to himself. Despite having little money left he would be able to pick up some gear before deciding what to do with the rest of the day.  He wondered how life had got so crazy. Things had gone from bad to worse over the past two years. He felt he had no one, no home and no real future. This wasn’t the way he had rehearsed it in his day-dreams during his early teens when he would lay in his venture scout sleeping bag after his mates had eventually settled from the endless round of jokes, tall stories about their sexual conquests and horror stories, and fallen asleep. He had seen better things for himself. Those days, camping in the woods and earning his arms length of badges seemed so distant now. And the worst of it was he couldn’t remember where or when it had all gone to pieces.

 

After a short wait, he hopped on one of the frequent Fox Cub buses which always seemed to him to be relieved to be leaving this estate. It was full of pensioners using their bus passes and mothers with toddlers heading for the City so he had to stand. 

***

The traffic wasn’t heavy, the M1 was flowing well. He had joined at junction 24, the Hilton National Hotel junction, after a fifteen minute drive from his cottage just outside Derby, and now fifteen minutes further into his journey he was leaving the motorway to rejoin the less frenetic A50 at junction 22, Markfield in Leicestershire. He didn’t like motorway driving; it was too fast these days. At 70-80 miles per hour the majority of people on the road made you feel you were standing still.  It wasn’t the speed so much as the experiences of traffic suddenly slowed by the action of an articulated truck overtaking a slower vehicle, or watching the people who chose to drive at speed but who patiently did not anticipate and left evasive action to the last; thereby putting everyone around them at risk. He disliked the middle lane drivers and although he prided himself upon not being sexist, ageist, racist or any other “ist” for that matter-he had noticed the preponderance of women and older citizens who perfected this art. Still such behaviour, although inexcusable, was not such a cardinal offence. He reserved this epithet for the bully boys, salesmen and high fliers, in the main, in their Audis, Mercs, BMWs, six series Rovers and four by fours who barged their way, at speed even through the densest conditions; tailgating less moronic road users, swapping lanes without warning, undertaking and cutting in so sharply so as to cause heavy loss of break linings and tyre rubber to the more cautious road user.

 

He saw himself as a sensible and skilled driver. He had years of experience and he drove his two litre, six month old Renualt Laguna with respect. He always looked ahead trying to anticipate. He only overtook when he felt it safe to do so and he remembered that phrase sticking in his head when studying as an eighteen year old for his driving test; despite the fact he knew he didn’t anticipate undertaking such a rash manoeuvre on the day of his test. Now some thirty-six years on he prided himself in his ability to bring his car to a halt from speed using only his gears.

 

The slip road from M1 to A50 was deceptive; a long sweeping stretch with a sudden left hand curve that ended abruptly at the wide, fast roundabout. Deceptive in particular for vehicles leaving the M1 at motorway speeds. The traffic was moderately heavy. He had left in plenty of time for his appointment as he had arranged it to miss the rush hour traffic of the city. He had kissed Mary, his wife of 29 years with whom he had sired two fit healthy children, and climbed into the metallic blue car which he kept in pristine condition. He washed it religiously every week and when the weather was inclement he put it through the car wash. He always garaged it, never succumbing to the urge to leave it on the drive if he had been on a particularly long journey or was returning late at night. He always listened to Radio 4 in the morning, although when driving he seemed to miss great chunks as he concentrated upon his journey and strove to reduce the inherent risks of commuting. As he slowed he heard Michael Beurke challenge some assumption or other in the “Moral Maze”. He saw a generous gap open up after the petrol tanker had swept past and he moved smoothly across the roundabout into the inside lane of the first exit. He moved up through the gears-keeping up with the traffic, until he hit the fifty miles an hour speed limit which he never exceeded, keeping to the limit even when it dipped to forty at County Hall and thirty as he neared the bustle of the city.

***

He watched a young mother playing a game of peek-a-boo with a baby of about eighteen months. His head was clear and he felt the bitter resentment begin to well up inside him. He thought of his own family and how detached he felt from them. Resentment began to grow, as it always did when he began to reflect on his life to date and he began to feel angry. He always felt that he was destined for bigger and better things. Even as a young child he had believed that he was misplaced and that in fact he was the son of some wealthy millionaire mixed up in the maternity ward by accident with some ordinary family’s baby. He yearned to be special. He often fantasised about a different life, definitely different from the one he had known these past few years. Over the last couple of years the fantasies had got him into a few difficult situations and had lead to his trouble with the police.

 

He left the bus in the city centre and decided to walk the rest of the way. He turned left from Charles Street into Rutland Street and carried on until it became Belvoir Street. The streets were bustling even now with shoppers. It always seemed busy in the city no matter what time. It only ever eased off after ten at night, apart from the surge of people at closing time. He turned left into Wellington Street, crossed the road and headed up King Street.  He passed the City Council offices and walked the three hundred or so yards to the traffic lights at the junction with Regents Road where he turned left, heading for the university. Once there he would cadge some speed from ex college mates. He crossed the busy Waterloo Way, passed the strangely named “Enkalon House” and headed for the junction with De Montfort Street. He felt miserable. He had watched the waking of a bustling city and the purposefulness with which most people went about their business. He wondered why he bothered. He deserved something better.

***

He had been to Leicester before on several occasions; mostly to bring Mary shopping when she was fed up with Derby or Nottingham. Leicester was his least favourite of the three. He didn’t mind bringing her as he would do anything for her. He couldn’t understand though why it was necessary when they could get anything they needed in Derby. He was vaguely familiar with the general lay out of Leicester city centre, and was confident that he could follow the verbal directions that he had been given. He had felt he was making good progress and knew that he would be in time for the arranged appointment if his luck held. He hated being late. Cleanliness and punctuality, his father used to say, were the making of a man. He prided himself on both. He had come in off the A50, down Woodgate, through the curiously named Frog Island, into Northgate and turned left at the filter into Sanvey Gate. He had crossed the dual carriageway, turning left onto St Margaret’s Way. It was a short hop to the junction of Burleys Way and he had remembered to stay in the middle lane so that when he swung left he was in the correct lane. He also remembered to cross three lanes of Burleys Way and to get into the lane that would have him sweep up over the flyover and into St Matthews Way.  He always found it confusing and needed to concentrate. He went straight across the A47 roundabout into St George’s way, passing the imposing Leicester Mercury building on his right. The lights stayed in his favour as he followed the road round past the station on his left and continued on the dual carriageway into Waterloo Road. He knew he was nearing his destination. Regents Road was his next landmark. At the junction the lights were on red. He joined the small queue that had built up on this fast stretch of road and signalled his intention to turn into Regents Road. The lights changed to green and he turned left. He had only gone a short way when he realised with the sort of feeling that seems someone has squashed your stomach that he did not know where he was. He had less than five minutes to his meeting time. He began to panic; it would take three minutes to park, lock the car and walk to the office reception. He saw the young man with sandy hair and the black rucksack slowly walking away from the city centre; a student on his way to lectures. He signalled and pulled into the kerb.

***

He’d made his mind up to get some cash. He’d stooped to mugging and street robbery since he had no other source of money. He had to be inducted into it by “Spliff” who was practised at the art. He’d met Spliff while dossing at the hostel. They’d got on well and Spliff always seemed to have enough money to eat. He didn’t have much else. He was a most unfortunate guy who, born with a hair lip, had been rejected by his Asian parents and had been in care all of his life. While in care he had learned to cope with the bullying by becoming the provider. He would always mysteriously have cigarettes, booze and sweets to share. Latterly, before he had to leave care on reaching nineteen, he had also supplied illicit drugs. James had tried to turn his hand to begging but he found this humiliating and didn’t wish to be seen by anyone he knew in his hometown. He wasn’t very good at it in any case as he couldn’t bring himself to approach people, relying on them to respond to him sitting on his blanket with a cardboard sign asking for money for food.

 

When Spliff left the home he had no money and nowhere to go so the Social Services department had put him in touch with the hostel. Soon after his arrival he had met James and they had teamed up. Spliff persuaded James to act as a lookout during the first robbery they had undertaken together. A man returning to his car in a town centre multi-storey car park. They had been lying in wait and had seen the man enter the car park and take the stairs to the third level. They had followed him, taking care to keep their heads down and their collars up to avoid a positive ID on the security cameras. It had been easy. When the man entered the floor James stayed at the stairwell to warn of anyone coming up the stairs or in the lift. He was to whistle if they were disturbed. Spliff followed the man and pulled a large carving knife from under his coat before hissing menacingly for the man to hand over his cash. The man had not resisted. Spliff had laughed when he and James had been sitting on the park bench counting the money and James had asked if he’d been scared. He told James that it was s**t scary but that the adrenaline buzz was worth it. Hunger can drive you to strange things he had told James prophetically. No he had never used the knife but most people did not resist when they saw his mean looking snarl and the size of the blade. On the odd occasion when someone look like they might resist he had legged it. No point going further he had said-wasn’t worth the risk; the next “John” would simply roll over; easy pickings really.

James had tried this on the next victim and had been so taken aback at the ease with which the man had given up his wallet that he’d stood for a couple of seconds and simply stared at the poor bloke. Spliff had rushed across, thinking something had gone wrong, and had grabbed James by the arm and yanked him away. He opened the wallet, pulled out the folding money and threw the wallet, otherwise intact, back at the victim who stood frozen as he watched the events unfold. Later he had explained some of his rules of conduct: never use violence unless really necessary to allow escape, use plenty of aggressive movements and snarl and look wild. Always demand money; never take jewellery, watches or credit cards.  Cards, he had warned, were a risk not worth taking; they are traceable and difficult to dispose of. Cash is untraceable. Besides he had said, if they only loose cash they feel they’ve been lucky and are often reluctant to report the incident or leave it until later, giving plenty of time for escape.

 

James had learned well. Although he felt himself too sophisticated for simple street robbery and only undertook to practice this art when he had no other way of getting money, booze, food or drugs; he had though taken things one step further as he felt Spliff”s carrying of a f*****g big carving knife rather barbaric. He was better than that. Besides he didn’t know if he could bare the thought of using it. He had been afraid of sharp knives as a child, which he put down to his mother having constantly reminded them as children of safety in the home. Never put sharp knives in the washing up bowl she had told them. And never leave them on the edge of kitchen worktops where little children might reach them. The constant health promotion warning had had its effect and as a young boy he could imagine the slicing feeling of a knife across his palms in his minds eye.

The metallic blue car pulled up along side him. He saw the passenger side window slide down and the middle-aged driver lean across the passenger seat and catch his eye. Nervously he tightened his grip on the strap of his rucksack. The man looked harmless enough and smiled broadly.

“Excuse me. I’m a little lost. He said, “Can you direct me to Princess Road West; I know it’s near here somewhere?

He hesitated briefly. Should he tell the man; after all it was only a street or two away. Something made him stop. He walked to the car door pulled it open and half bent down.

 

“I can do better than that” he said half leaning into the cab, “I can take you. I’m going that way.”

 

He swung his rucksack from his back, jumped into the passenger seat and placed it across his lap as he pulled the door shut with a thud. The man did not look at all put out.

 

“That’s very kind. Are you sure I’m not putting you to any trouble?” he asked

 

James looked at him; he must have been about fifty he guessed and quite smartly dressed in a grey flannel suit. Like the ones his dad wore to the office.

 

“No problem, straight on and first left.” James directed, “it’s not far.”

 

The man was looking in his offside mirror, signalling to pull away from the kerb. A stream of traffic had just moved through the lights and he had to wait for the last vehicle to pass before pulling out. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and looked over his shoulder to make sure the path was clear. As he was doing so James stuffed his hand into his rucksack and felt the adrenaline buzz as he touched the cold metal. He could feel the fear well up from the pit of his stomach. The car was away from the kerb and signalling a left turn. As they rounded the corner the man asked if James was at the university. James said yes, that he was studying law.

 

At the junction James told the man to turn left again, onto London Road. He was thinking fast. He was not sure what he wanted to do but he had decided that the man had to be easy pickings. He told the driver to carry on straight, which took him down past the British Rail mainline station again and then sharply right as Waterloo Way swept into St George’s Way. If he were to direct him to Princess Road West he should have directed him straight over Granby Street and then left into Belvoir Street or told him to take the next left into Charles Street. But he didn’t; he let him follow the road as it circumvented the city centre. They crossed two roundabouts and were arcing round so that the man might have believed they were still heading in the right direction. James directed the man to go over Burley’s flyover and told him to take the centre lane bearing right as they passed St Margaret’s bus station. The man seemed to be a little puzzled as this now seemed to take him away from the town centre. He glanced momentarily at James but had to concentrate on the traffic as it was flowing into St Margaret’s Way. They were in the left hand lane and James told him to turn left again into Sanvey Gate. At the end of Sanvey Gate the lights had just changed to red. A bus was still moving in the bus lane and pulled out into the right turn lane in front of the Renault now stopped at the staggered junction. The man look puzzled, furrowing his brow. He turned to speak. James pulled his left hand from the rucksack and rammed the gun under the man’s ribs making him wince. He looked like he was about to protest so James snarled at him to shut up and keep driving. He hissed that he would ‘f*****g’ shoot him if he didn’t do as he was told.

***

The young man looked decent enough. As the car pulled to a halt at the kerb he pressed the electronic window button in the drivers door and the window glided open. He tried to catch the young man’s eye, saw him hesitate as if unsure about stopping and concluded that he was probably late for lectures. Then as they made eye contact he was blurting out his request for directions. The boy moved towards the car and unexpectedly opened the passenger door. He seemed quite agreeable, but took him by surprise when he threw off the rucksack he had been carrying and leapt into the passenger seat. His mind was on getting to his appointment; he hated being late. He knew that he didn’t have time to spend trying to follow half baked directions so he accepted the young mans boldness. He followed the instructions that he was given. From his vague knowledge of the City he was aware that they were seemingly going round again. His passenger seemed to know where he was going.

 

He was a little puzzled when he found himself being directed over a fly-over. Even more so when at the next junction he was directed to go right, away from the city. He followed the instruction to turn left, noticing a seedy pub and a Plumb Centre on the right. If they went left, his good sense of direction told him, they would be heading back towards the city centre. The young man said right, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it correctly; he was beginning to feel even more puzzled and had a creeping sense of foreboding. He was about to turn to his passenger and query the instruction when he was aware of a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. He felt the sudden pain in his side as something hard was rammed into his ribs. The passenger was snarling like a cornered cat.  His mind was numbed; he was trying to comprehend the sudden change in circumstances. He glanced down at the instrument poking into his side. The sight of the gun made his stomach fall through the floor. He felt cold, exposed and very confused. He began to feel nauseous; fear was beginning to grip him. This could not be happening. Only minutes ago he was safe, secure and in control. Now he was in turmoil, his mind racing and yet numb, it felt like watching an old 8mm real of film running off of the spool. The lights changed and the passenger poked the gun into him for emphasis. He turned right as instructed. In the mirror he could see they were leaving the city centre behind.

 

He was ordered to stay on the main carriageway. He noticed it was the A50, which he found in some way reassuring. He was at least heading towards home. His passenger said nothing other than to give him instructions as they climbed Groby Road and approached a large roundabout that took them passed Glenfield Hospital. The road dropped steeply as they passed the white edifice of the County Hall building and the passenger had told him straight ahead at the next roundabout. He kept to the speed limit. He was afraid yet too confused to be frightened. He was glad it was not a knife; he hated knives and had a recurring dream as a young man of being stabbed. He knew he was in the young man’s hands; he was no hero and even if the gun was a fake he didn’t think in his middle-aged state of decline he would stand a chance against such a well built and obviously unstable, aggressive younger man. His mind raced. He thought about his appointment. When he failed to turn up they would contact his home number and his wife would know something was wrong. She knew him to be punctual and very reliable. She would worry and before long would alert the police.

 

He was glad he was driving; if he hadn’t been he was sure he would have wet himself. Having to cope with driving and the traffic on this fast duel carriageway road kept him from losing his nerve completely. The speed limit was fifty. There was a moderate flow of traffic and he kept to the inside lane. His speed dropped to forty as his attention wandered. Cars passed them, most sticking close to the limit because of the threat of speed cameras which were advertised on the signs erected on short poles every few hundred yards. They hit another large roundabout with signs for Markfield and Coalville straight on and works access off to the right.  After a few yards a small rectangular sign declared “Field Head”, more speed camera signs on both sides of the carriageway, he saw the signs ordering reduced speed and the warnings for a sharp bend. The road curved in a tight arc to the right and he noticed blue words on a white background proclaiming Grenadier Garage set back from the road on his left. He was taking notice of his surroundings now. Trying to remember landmarks because he recalled that was what kidnap victims were supposed to do according to fiction. At least he was not blindfolded. He read a lot. The kidnap in Gerald Seymour’s novel, “Redfox” began to fill his head. Did the girl and boy kill the industrialist? He could not remember the detail. He was in a panic he had to remember. He was watching the signs closely, he noted the next sign M1, Coalville, Stoke-on-Trent and the A50 just before the Coach and Horses public house on the left, a local sign for Coalville and Markfield straight on and Newtown Linford and Bradgate Park to the right. To his right, on the junction, the Field Head Hotel.

 “Right at the roundabout” ordered the passenger.

 He did as he was told. The road swept down a winding lane with houses on the right. They were a mixture of mature detached and semi-detached homes and, on the left, larger properties on some kind of parkland. The sign they passed said Newton Linford. The road swept down towards a left hand bend.

“Slow down” ordered the passenger, “left just after the bend”.

***

He still hadn’t any real idea what he wanted to do. He knew he would rob the man. He thought he might also take the car. He felt the adrenaline rise and he felt powerful, the man put up no resistance and was obviously scared. He was elated and yet afraid. Afraid of discovery, the way he had been when as a lad he was caught up to mischief. He suddenly wanted to go somewhere safe. Here was somewhere safe. Suddenly he knew where he was heading. It was close by and he now felt calmer. It was a place that had long held pleasant memories for him of happier times when he had felt he belonged. For too long he had felt alone, abandoned and soulless. He was coming home.

 

They had turned left off the main road on the bend. The track they were now on was rough and pot holed with the hard ridges where four wheel-drive vehicles had left tyre casts. On their left, a wooded area and on their right an open field, across which they could see Bradgate Park spread out neatly across the horizon. They drove for a couple of hundred yards until the track ended at a barred metal farm type gate. A sign declared “Private-Johns Lee Wood-Access only-No tipping, offenders will be prosecuted-No parking”. He ignored the no parking sign and ordered the man to pull over to the right of the gate where the track indented toward the open field by a style. The signs proclaimed the area to be National Trust property. Pushing the gun into his left cheek he told the man not to turn the engine off. When he pulled it away there was a reddened weal where the mouth of the gun had left its mark. The man was staring wide-eyed and was no threat but he didn’t want to take the chance. He needed to keep on top; show him who was in control. He sat silently. This place had a lot of meaning for him. He had spent happy times in this place with his companions in the Venture Scouts. They had set up camp not far from where he sat, in a clearing about a half-mile west of the car park. He remembered the sense of camaraderie, the friendship, the challenge of braving the elements and the ink darkness of the nights. He recalled the comfort of campfires and the feeling of togetherness that helped to stem the fear of being exposed and cold and alone in the darkness of the woods.

 

Suddenly he wanted to be out of the car. He pushed the door open and turned to the driver, levelling the gun at his face. He held his hands out for the keys. The engine died as they were pulled from the ignition and dropped in his outstretched palm. He saw the man wince and pull away in fear. He pushed the mussel of the gun at him.

 

“Get out and don’t be stupid”

 

The man spilled from the car his feet scrabbling and crunching at the shale as he tried to keep his balance. He moved towards the rear of the car keeping the gun trained on his victim over the roof of the vehicle as he motioned for him to do likewise. He opened the boot with the key and looked inside. The boot was tidy with very little other than a car tool kit, a spare tyre and the remains of an old tow-rope neatly coiled. He took the rope and slammed shut the boot. He looked around to make sure they were alone. Keeping the gun pointed at the man he stood and listened.

 

Complete silence. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air and took in the familiar scene. There was a whitewashed farm outhouse on the left and looking along its side into the next field he could see horses grazing peacefully. The open field to their right was surrounded by a new post and wire fence. A sign on a post erected on the other side of the style read “Bridle way ends here”. He pushed the gun into the small of the man’s back and herded him toward the gate. To the right of the gate nailed high up to a tall tree another sign read, “These premises are secured by Elite Security-Private Property.” On the gate The Scout movement symbol and another sign reading “Leicestershire District Campsite, Johns Lee Wood, Car Park.”

***

He suddenly felt exposed. Being out of the car with a stiff breeze didn’t help. He felt more secure in the confines of the metal jacket of the car, especially when they were in transit and he was unlikely to come to any harm. Now it was different. They had driven off the main road for about half a mile and had turned up the track. The silence spoke of his isolation and he shivered. They seemed totally alone in this remote spot which was obviously a scout camping site, probably used most during the summer months. He saw his captor take the rope from the boot of the car and he assumed he was to be bound. That didn’t frighten him; it was the thought of being left all alone in such a remote and isolated place that made him afraid. He didn’t think the young man wanted to kill him, but he was scared of his strange and intense stare. He thought he was to be robbed and his car taken. He hoped that his credit cards and his personal things would not be taken. Money and the car didn’t seem that important at this moment in time. He was forced at gunpoint through the gate and into the woods. They passed a monument of some description in a clearing to the right of the gate, set back from the track. They walked at the young man’s direction for a few minutes. When finally they stopped he was pushed from the path into a clump of pine trees. He was ordered to sit at the base of a tree and his hands secured behind his back around the tree trunk with the rope. The young man paced up and down as if deciding what to do. Suddenly he took off back in the direction of the road, disappearing from sight.

 

He waited for what seemed an age hoping to hear the car engine cough into life. He heard nothing. He didn’t try to free himself in case the young man was lurking in the woods behind him or in case he returned. He strained every molecule of his body trying to listen for a footfall or some sign that he was safe to move. He wondered if the screen of trees would shield the sound of the car start up and drive away. He stayed still and listened. He chanced turning his head for a moment and thought he heard the sound of banging carried in the breeze. When he listened again it was to the silence of the woods and the gentle rhythm of the wind stroking the leaves.

***

He didn’t know what to do. He was certain he would take the car. He wanted to commit the perfect crime. A random murder no one could link to him. He had often thought of doing so in recent times. He didn’t know why. He stayed by the car for half an hour pacing and trying to pick up the courage to carry the deed out. He wasn’t sure he was ready yet. He was about to get into the car when a sound carried to him in the wind. It was the sound of a man crying out for help.

***

He hammered in another nail to hold a slate in place. He had been on the roof carrying out repairs to the winter wind damage since early morning. It was now approaching midday and he would be taking a lunch break in about half an hour. If he made best use of the next 30 minutes he reckoned it would only take him to one-thirty to complete the job. He could knock off then as the job had been scheduled to take the whole shift. He fancied getting home early and putting his feet up. He began thinking of the weekend ahead. He would go down to Welford Road as “Tigers” were at home….he heard a cry. It sounded like someone shouting help. He thought the woods were deserted. He slipped down the pitch of the roof and clambered to the top of his ladder. He stopped to listen and heard the faint cry repeated. He looked out around the woods from his vantage-point and could see nothing. He supposed it could be a walker fallen and twisted an ankle, but during the week that would have been unusual. He supposed it could be someone from the nearby village of Newtown Linford out walking a dog-calling it to heal perhaps. The silence returned. He clambered down the ladder and across to the path, which lead to the car park. He followed the path to the car park listening as he went. The car park was deserted. The sound not repeated. There was no sign of anyone on the path in either direction. Could have been a crow or some other bird he had heard. He returned to his roof and struck another nail. He listened between hammer blows but there were no further sounds.

***

It must be safe now he thought. It was a good half an hour since the young man had departed. If he’d had any sense he would be miles distant by now. He wondered what it had been about. He still had his wallet watch and wedding ring. The car he imagined would either be found abandoned or be set alight in some remote spot. He listened again; nothing but silence. He feared being left out alone in the wood all night and decided to call for help. He hoped that maybe a rambler, farmer or dog walker would hear his cry. He shouted cautiously at first; listening for a reply after each shout. Then he yelled at the top of his voice.

***

He sprinted through the gate and down the path. The old b*****d would give the game away if anyone heard his cry. He needed time to think, time to get clear. He covered the ground quickly, slipping once on some rotting vegetation on the floor of the wood. He reached the spot. He saw the terror in the man’s eyes when he approached. He said nothing. He reached for his belt, unfastened it and slipped it smoothly through the loops of his jeans. He moved behind his victim. The man tried to turn and watch but he had tied him well. He threw the belt round the man’s throat and began to pull it tight. The man quickly turned red. He was angry and scared. The man tried to thrash about and free himself. He was salivating and spitting trying hard to suck in air against the pressure on his windpipe. James pulled tighter and the man continued to struggle. His eyes were bulging like they would pop. He was turning a deeper colour of red. His cry was now choked and his head suddenly fell forward against the belt toward his chest. James kept the pressure up.

“That’ll teach you to shout for help you b*****d” he muttered. After a few moments the man jerked uncontrollably for a matter of seconds and slumped, a dead weight supported by the rope to the tree.

***

Suddenly the young man was in front of him. He saw the look in his eyes and felt the panic rise in himself. He felt helpless. The belt was around his throat he was struggling to suck in air and the pressure on his windpipe caused such pain, he could barely swallow. He felt his head swimming as he tried to struggle free. His arms were tightly bound to the tree which gave him little lateral movement, his neck firmly pulled back and clamped with the inch thick leather belt. He felt warm urine spill down his crotch soaking into the cloth of his trousers and wetting the earth beneath him. His head was light and swimming and he could see bubbles floating in the air before his eyes. He felt himself weaken and begin to slip from consciousness……

***

James stood for a second. He looked at the belt and began slowly to thread it though the loops on his jeans. He was fascinated by his action but felt some disappointment that the end had not been as dramatic as he had imagined. He turned and headed back to the car.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Claire Twinn]

Wow! This was absolutely horrifying! Like your first chapter the two voices makes it feel so real and you can feel what the characters are feeling. The last part is so shocking because of the senselessness of it, it doesn't seem to fit with James's previous experiences. I also wonder how this links to the rest of the story, as James doesn't appear to have a history of mental health problems. I expect all will be revealed soon though!

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Thanks Claire, he was being treated for a mental disorder. It is true and mainly factual. I went to the wods to get the sense of atmpsphere and drove the same road he took. It will come together although the events are all unconnected other than being committed by mentally ill people.