The Woman in the Woods Read online

  ‘Oxford Street,’ I say with a grin.

  ‘The MAC counter in Selfridges.’

  ‘The space,’ I sigh.

  ‘Space? Surely you have more space here?’ Tara says.

  ‘Space from people, I mean,’ I say, thinking as I say it that perhaps she isn’t the right person to be saying it to. ‘I’m used to being ignored on the Tube, not being questioned by people in the village shop as to how Rav is doing at work.’

  Tara laughs. ‘Sorry, you probably thought I was a right nosy parker when I started chatting to you that day soon after the baby was born. You’ll be surprised how quickly village intimacy becomes the new normal.’

  Village intimacy? Like, walking through the woods that back onto my garden? ‘Tara, what do you know about the woods?’

  ‘The woods?’ She looks past me, out of the window to the trees. ‘What about them?’

  ‘I know they belong to us technically and they are private property, but do many people use them? I haven’t really seen anyone in there, but it has been a really long, wet winter. I just wondered if many people walked through there, seeing as they do back on to the garden.’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Tara frowns. ‘I mean, maybe some people might use them, but I wouldn’t really understand why. They don’t cut through anywhere into the village, so they aren’t used as a footpath, if you see what I mean. Most people use the land on the other side of the village for dog walking and stuff. That’s where all the ghost hunters go, when they’re on their ghost tours.’ She is quiet for a moment. ‘Why do you ask? Is there something worrying you?’ She leans in close, letting Rufus grab hold of her finger. ‘Have you seen someone in there? Heard something?’

  ‘Oh, not really. Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘OK, I thought I saw someone, just a flash of white as I was standing in the garden.’ There is a faint double thump in my chest as I picture the unmistakable flash of movement through the trees, the sounds of a child’s cry on the air.

  ‘Maybe someone out for a walk.’ Tara shrugs, finishing the last of her tea. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much, if I were you. Perhaps someone got lost, or they just fancied a change on their walk, they didn’t realize that this side of the woods backed on to your garden.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Should I mention the bones? Is that too weird? I mean, Tara has all but said that she doesn’t believe in any of the witchcraft stuff that Miranda is so caught up with.

  ‘You’re not worried it’s the Pluckley Witch, are you, come back to check on you?’ A smile hovers around Tara’s mouth.

  ‘No!’ I let out an awkward laugh, the lie squeezing out between my teeth. ‘I did feel as though perhaps whoever it was might have been watching the house. Maybe.’

  Tara looks closely at me. ‘Watching the house? Have you told Rav?’

  ‘He thinks I was probably imagining things.’ Scratch. Scratching comes from the chimney and I have to concentrate on keeping my eyes on Tara. Ignore it, Allie.

  ‘Like I said, someone might have just been a bit lost, wandered too close to the house. If you’re worried you could call the police but I’m not sure they could do much.’

  Scratch, scratch. I give in and let my gaze go the chimney breast. Tara doesn’t seem to notice the scratching and before I can ask if she can hear it, Rufus goes rigid in my arms, his face turning a deep beetroot and then an unmistakable smell fills the air.

  ‘Oh, blimey, Allie, I’m so sorry. I’ve changed his milk. Give him here.’ Tara is on her feet, holding out her arms and I pass the baby to her. ‘Can I change him somewhere?’

  ‘Of course. Top of the stairs, the door directly facing you, there’s a changing mat and table in there.’

  Tara rummages under her travel system for what she needs and heads upstairs. I hear the sound of the floorboards creaking under her feet as she moves across the landing, her voice murmuring quietly above me as she deals with Rufus. Shrieks and laughter come from Mina’s room, but I still can’t quite allow myself to relax. I wait for the scratching to come again, but there is only silence. Tara isn’t as overwhelming when she is alone, and I feel bad for ignoring her when she called to me outside preschool. I hadn’t realized either that she had suffered postnatal depression with James, and I wonder if I was too quick to judge her – perhaps her image of perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect make-up is all just a façade, a way of controlling the world around her. Maybe I shouldn’t be so suspicious, perhaps Tara and I could be proper friends, like me and Naomi, only without that underlying awkwardness that sometimes rears its head when the subject of babies and pregnancy arises. It was easier to make friends when I was travelling, the idea that I would spend time with other backpackers, drinking, dancing, swimming, and then they would move on, or I would move on, making it easier to allow myself to open up. I’ve always found it difficult to make friends – me and my mum were always a solid unit of two when I was growing up and she never saw any real need for friends – Naomi is the only person I’ve ever really allowed myself to be friends with. Maybe now it’s time to take another step, to let Tara in. She’s not as bad as my first impression of her. I paste a smile on as I hear her descend the stairs, James whining as she reaches behind her to hold on to his hand.

  ‘Sorry, Allie, I think we had better go. Rufus is a little under the weather. It’s the milk, I think.’ She rolls her eyes and I laugh.

  ‘I understand. I’m glad you came over.’ I help her to the front door, promising to meet her for coffee after the preschool drop-off at least once this week, and waving with Mina until they disappear around the corner.

  ‘That was nice, to play with James at home,’ Mina says, before she scurries back upstairs to her toys and I have to agree, ignoring the scratch, scratch that starts up again from the chimney as I pass by, heading back towards the kitchen to check on the baby.

  It’s not until later, much later, after Rav has come home (late, again) and sleeps soundly, snoring as usual, that I see Tara left something behind. While changing the baby I notice a scrap of fabric, peeping out from under the changing station. I lay the baby, clean and fed, back in the cot and then, wide awake, I tiptoe towards the changing mat, careful not to disturb the rest of the household. Reaching down I pull at the scrap, holding it up in the thin light that comes from an almost cloud-covered moon. The blue blanket. The one I have seen in my dream, my vision. There is a loose edge, the satin ribbon coming away from the knitted part, and I run my fingers over the stitching, my heart cold.

  Chapter Twenty

  Creeping downstairs, I silently take the bones and the pearls from where I have hidden them in the drawer and take the blanket with me, not wanting to leave it in the same room as the baby. Rav carries on snoring, and I peep in on Mina as I pass her bedroom. The nightlight casts a warm glow over the room, her tiny, dark head just visible on the pillow, her duvet tucked in close around her.

  The living room is all in darkness and I reach for the switch on the lamp, chasing away the shadows that lurk in the corners, filling the room with a dim light. Goosebumps rise on my arms, the night air chilly, and I want to laugh. In any other circumstances I would wrap the blanket in my hands around my shoulders, or drape it over my lap, but instead I lay it on the coffee table, my heart pounding hard in my chest. I can hear my breathing, fast and loud in my ears and I draw in a deep breath and hold it, trying to calm my racing pulse.

  When I first saw the blanket draped over a sleeping Rufus as Tara stopped me in the doorway to the preschool that first morning, I thought it was just a coincidence. Lots of babies have blue blankets – there are so many ones in a similar style to the blanket that sits in a heap in front of me now. But when I picked it up from where it had fallen beside the changing station, I noticed the fraying edge, where the satin strip had come away. In my dream, my vision, whatever it is, the same strip of frayed satin lies across the bed, the image burned into my mind. What does this mean? I reach out and finger the soft, silky edging, the bobbled,
worn knitted main section of the blanket. This blanket isn’t new, bought especially for baby Rufus. It is old, worn, well loved. How could this be the blanket I saw in my dream?

  I get up and start to pace, tiredness tugging at my bones. I don’t have time to waste on sleeping, I need to figure out what this means. Laying the bones on the table, I place the pearls next to them, and then fold the blanket alongside. I feel it again as my eyes wander over the small pile of items. That thick, oily draw that comes from the bones, the sensation that I need to lay my hands on them while simultaneously feeling nauseous and faint at the idea of my fingers touching them again. I reach out, picking up a pearl. Naomi was wrong, I think, they aren’t some cheap bit of costume jewellery, they are real. An image flashes into my mind as I let the pearl sit, warm and hard in my palm, of the pearls bursting as a man grabs a woman (Agnes?) by the throat, the pearls scattering across the room. The image is so real that my hand flies to my throat, sure I will feel the beginning of a bruise. Laying the pearl back down my attention goes back to the blanket. Was Tara telling the truth when she said she doesn’t believe in ghosts and spirits? How could I dream of a blanket that I had never seen before? I wrap the bones and pearls back up in the blanket and begin to pace again, the puzzle feeling too big, too complicated to figure out – the only logical answer that I can find is that something is here, something that shouldn’t be. Haunting.

  Scratch. Scratch. The noise from the chimney stops me in my pacing and I freeze on the spot. ‘No,’ I whisper, hoping that I will hear Rav’s footsteps on the stairs. Silence for a moment, then, scratch, scratch, scratch.

  ‘Enough. That’s enough now.’ My voice is loud in the thick quiet of the room, the tiny Turkish lamp in the corner giving out barely enough light to see by. Rav complains about it, says there is no point in a lamp that barely gives out any light, but usually I like it. It’s cosy, warm. Now though, I wish I had a lamp of surgical levels – especially as the overhead light bulb blew the day that we brought the baby home, and neither of us have remembered to buy a replacement. The noise comes again, and I feel it as well as hear it this time, as if tiny hands are digging tiny claws into my skin. I move to the fireplace, creeping silently, waiting for it to come again. As I move across the room, something – someone – rushes past the doorway into the hall, a black blur in the corner of my eye. Freezing on the spot, I turn towards the doorway, aware as I do so that the air around me is disturbed and scented with the faint smell of rosemary, a perfume that seems to grow stronger as I breathe in.

  ‘Rav?’ I whisper, barely able to hear myself over the banging thud of my pulse. ‘Rav, is that you? I’m in here.’ I don’t know why I’m whispering, who I am afraid of disturbing – the children wouldn’t hear me upstairs. There is no response, but the rosemary still lingers in the air, thick and heavy, so strong I can almost taste it. I inch my way towards the empty doorway on silent feet, pausing as I reach the threshold. I peer out, into the darkened hallway, making out the outline of the coat stand by the door with Rav’s coat and Mina’s tiny jacket hanging from it. There is no one there. The hallway is empty, but I would swear on Mina’s life that someone rushed past the doorframe just seconds earlier. I stand there, my bare feet cold on the ancient quarry tiles, waiting in the dark, but there is nothing. Not even the scent of rosemary on the air now, almost as though I imagined it. Turning back to the sitting room, my feet glad to be leaving the cold tiles of the hallway, I realize if it had been Rav in the hall then I would have heard his footsteps, but there were none. Whatever I saw moved silently.

  Scratch. Just one barely there scratch, but it’s enough. Crossing the room almost at a run, my nerve endings taut and singing, I pick up the wrought-iron poker that sits in a set of fireside tools (another gift from Avó) on the hearth and angle my body so that my shoulder is under the chimney. And then I shove, upwards, quick and hard, swearing under my breath as the poker meets resistance. There is something up there, and I thank God that although the winter was long and wet, Rav had stuck to his guns on not lighting the fire too much until we could arrange for the chimney to be swept. A smattering of soot and ash, and grains of dirt tumble down into my face and I close my eyes, spluttering, before I push the poker up again. I am gentler this time, pushing it insistently into whatever is lodged there, wriggling the poker as more and more dirt and soot tips down onto my hair, my face, grit flying into my eyes. Coughing, I cover my mouth with a grey and dusty hand as I give the poker one last shove and whatever is blocking the chimney comes tumbling out onto the hearth, grey dust showering the hearth and floor in front. Leaning away from the mess, I cough, hard and sharp, my mouth feeling dry with grit. Finally able to catch my breath, I wipe my hand over my face and crouch down to inspect the detritus that has fallen from the chimney. There is nothing alive, thank God, I didn’t see anything scurry across the room and out of sight. Although what does lie in the heap of soot and dirt is not terribly reassuring either. Among the ash and the remnants of what looks like a nest of some sort, there is a tiny carcass, something that on first sight I think might be a bird. I snatch up a crayon, left on the coffee table by Mina, and poke gingerly at it. Tiny, bleached white bones, covered in soot and dust are tangled together and once I have prodded them and turned them using the crayon, I think that maybe it’s not a bird after all. A tiny squirrel perhaps. My eyes go back to the now silent chimney. A squirrel would make sense … maybe. Their tiny claws would definitely make a scrabbling noise, although I’m not sure how likely a squirrel would be hanging around a chimney pot. And how could a squirrel, so long dead he is only a set of bones, scratch at the inside of a chimney? But it is not the set of miniscule bones that set my teeth on edge. Rather, it’s the other item of any substance that has fallen out on to the hearth that makes my blood run cold.

  Witch’s ladder. I don’t know how I know, but I know that this is the name for what I am holding in my hands right now. A thin braid of hair tied together at the top and bottom with what looks like garden twine. Entwined in the cord of hair are black feathers – some tiny, others large and ragged, the fibres coming away from each other into uneven clumps. These are accompanied by several tiny bones, all tied to the braid and similar to the ones I found hanging in the trees. I drop it as if it has burned me, and I fancy I can feel the branding of it on my fingertips, an oily film left on my skin. The hair is dusty, but the same bright, pale blonde as mine. My hand creeps to the base of my neck and I finger my hairline, sure I will find the stumpy ends of tresses snipped clean off. An image of myself, sleeping the thick, heavy sleep of painkillers on the sofa, while Naomi looms over me with a pair of scissors in her hand rises bright and clear in my mind and I shake my head, feeling my legs begin to tremble. Naomi wouldn’t do something like this. I don’t know where the image has come from, but it has the same suffocating feel as the dream. The dream that feels like a memory.

  ‘Allie?’ I tear my eyes from the coil of hair on the floor, something sinister emanating from it. Something almost solid and real on the air. A smell, thick and haunting, worse than anything emitted by the bones. ‘Allie. What the hell is going on?’

  Rav is standing over me, his hair mussed up and wearing only a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. Glancing towards the window I see the darkness outside is no longer thick and complete, purple and peach hues rest on the horizon as the sun begins to climb in the sky, another day breaking.

  Looking at up him from where I crouch on the floor, I say, ‘It was in the chimney.’

  ‘What?’ Rav crouches next to me, seemingly not caring about the dust and grit under his bare feet. ‘All this was in the chimney? Allie, it’s four thirty in the morning, what are you doing down here, poking about in the chimney?’

  ‘I heard … the noise, I heard that scratching sound that I told you keeps coming from the chimney.’ I glance down again at the heap of dust, the witch’s ladder laid on the top. ‘I thought if I shoved the poker up there, I could dislodge whatever it was that was making the noise
.’ It’s driving me crazy, I want to say, but don’t.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Rav’s hand reaches for the witch’s ladder and I grab his arm, my fingers locking over his tanned skin.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ I say. ‘Can’t you feel it?’ Malevolence oozes from the twined hair, so thick I can almost taste it. It’s like a heavy shroud on my shoulders.

  ‘Feel it? Allie, it’s just some grubby trinket that some mad old woman has shoved up the chimney. There’s nothing to feel, and there won’t be anything to see in a minute.’ He snatches it up and a gasp sticks in my throat. I follow him through into the kitchen, Rav holding the witch’s ladder between finger and thumb, until he opens the pedal bin and tosses the hair inside.

  He turns to face me, dusting his hands on his pyjama bottoms and I fancy I can see traces of black dancing across the fabric, the stain of the witch’s ladder. ‘Allie, what’s going on? I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say shortly, desperately averting my eyes from the bin. It’s as if the witch’s ladder is calling to me, a low tugging in my stomach. ‘Nothing is going on.’

  ‘It’s four thirty in the morning – you should be in bed, next to me, making the most of the fact that you have another two hours of uninterrupted sleep until Leo wakes for a feed, if you’re lucky.’ He cups my face with his hands, and I try not to flinch. I can smell the dust and dirt on his fingers. ‘I don’t understand why you’re down here, digging around in the chimney. I don’t know what’s going on with you.’

  Just not quite right. I recall Naomi’s words to him. ‘I’m fine, Rav.’ I pull away from him, opening a nearby cupboard and pulling out a frying pan. ‘I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I came downstairs and I heard the scratching and I thought I would sort it. I’ve been waiting for months for you to call the chimney sweep and get the chimney done and you’ve always been too busy. Nothing more than that. You don’t need to worry.’