Guy Smith: The Wood

All lies. Fred Ewart's goddamned lies. But you never fully convinced yourself of that.

A shout went up further down the line. They'd found the parachute. The terrier was yapping and the Alsatian was barking fiercely. Now the animals had a scent; the hunt was on.

Eager as the searchers were, somehow old Ewart dictated the pace as though he was in charge of the whole operation; a slow gait, his ash stick prodding the ground in front of him, forewarning him of soft squelchy patches. Flies swarmed, buzzing black clouds in search of human prey. Victor Amery came upon the old house suddenly, paused in amazement, experienced a sense of revulsion. Once it had been a fine mansion set on firm ground in the middle of a wide clearing. Stately gables had crumbled, there were holes in the roof where slates had fallen and smashed. The glass had long gone from the windows and they frowned down like eyeless sockets, the broken doorway twisted into a snarl of malevolence. Go away, you have no business here!

Somebody had to check the interior. The party had bunched together, looking at one another, frightened glances, hanging back. Victor Amery almost cocked his gun, his thumb beginning to pull the hammer back. Not me, no, not me!

As though in response to some mute order they all went, five of them, Ewart in the lead, his ash stick tapping eerily, the strong smoke from his pipe wafting back at them, thick twist fumes that reminded them of a city not so very far away that still burned. And the dead whose flesh singed in the fire. A ruin, nothing more. Stone floors where weeds struggled to sprout through the cracks, broken doors leading from one large room to another; all the same, empty and thick with the dust of ages, cobwebs strung between the beams, all the furniture long gone. Silence except for their hollow footsteps and the constant tapping of Ewart's stick. He was getting on all their nerves. Upstairs, a precarious ascent, the timbers of the stairway groaning its protest at their weight and their intrusion. Bedrooms; just one single remaining item of furniture, a rusted iron bedstead. Once somebody had slept in it, maybe copulated upon it. It had seen birth, possibly death. Now its time had come and gone. It would remain here forever. Nothing. An eager descent to the hallway, for once not waiting for the old man to lead the way back out into the clearing where hazy sunlight greeted them. Nobody spoke, there was nothing to say. We didn't find him. Nor we won't. There's probably a cellar. If there is we're not going back in. You can tell there's nobody in there — at least. not alive.

Fanning out into a ragged line once more, every one of them sensing the deepening depression amongst them, the futility of it all. He's not here, let's finish and be away from this godless place.

The dogs were silent, seemed to pick up the mood of their masters. It occurred to Victor that the animals had not followed them into the house, had skulked outside instead. Everybody was hurrying now, even Fred Ewart stumbling in his haste to keep up with them. And what tales I'll have to tell in the safety of the Dun Cow snug. Because I saw what you didn't see. The smell was stronger now, a cloying putrefying stench that they tasted, had them spitting out saliva. Some of them recognised it only too well — the smell of death. In all probability it had wafted on the wind from the bloody carnage of last night's bombing.

Following tracks, forcing their way through clumps of reeds where there was no path, wary of bogs that gurgled hungrily when they inadvertently stepped into one. No longer searching, only wanting to be out of Droy Wood. If the German was in here then he would surely remain there. There's more than one person gone missing in the wood over the years. 1932. Oh Christ, shut up, damn you, save your stories for the Dun Cow.

Finally they emerged into daylight, a boggy reed bed that led up to the pastureland where Captain Cartwright and his companion awaited them, perched on shooting sticks with all the arrogance of landed gentry. Relief on every face, the terrier beginning to yelp and dash about excitedly again; old Ewart cutting up another plug of twist.

Victor Amery glanced up. At first he thought there was a thunderstorm threatening in the hazy sky, the sun a pale red ball that was fast becoming obscured. But no, they were not clouds which were drifting across from the marshes, rather ringers of white mist creeping over the land, spreading out, billowing. Hiding every landmark.

'That damned mist's coming in off the coast,' Cartwright's voice was slightly unsteady, a kind of Well, we've had it for today, chaps. 'Another hour and it'll be like a November fog. I guess the Boche has given us the slip. That damned wood's too big and thick. We'd need a whole army to search it properly.'

'He'll no' trouble anybody again.' Ewart's features were pale, his eyes gimlets that sent a chill through any who looked into them. 'Nobody gets out of Droy Wood when the mist comes across. We were lucky, Captain.'

The atmosphere had suddenly gone much colder. And now they smelled the stench of death even stronger than before.

It was a long time since Carol Embleton had last gone to a disco. She hated it, she didn't have to be here; she could have been back in her parents' small house on the edge of the village. Except that they would have asked questions and right now she was in no mood to answer anybody's questions. Her anger showed in her expression, her actions, as she took up the fast beat, punched the air with vigour. Her auburn hair turned yellow, green, blue all in a matter of a minute as the coloured lights flashed crazily; lit up her eyes, a savage scintillating red glow in tune with her fury. Then the colours faded, the bulbs dimmed and she was just a flitting shadow swaying venomously. A bystander might have been forgiven for presuming in the half-darkness that she was overweight. Five foot eight inches, big-boned, but her waistline slimmed delicately between her full shapely breasts and her wide hips. Agile, twirling, challenging the beat to go even faster, her wide mouth compressed into a bloodless line of fury.

Damn Andy Dark! Yesterday she had loved him, today she hated him. She saw his features before her eyes, couldn't get them out of her mind; that was what being in love did to you. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, his long dark hair was thinning at the crown and he would be balding by the time he was thirty, but what the hell. Slim, always dressed in jeans and a rough plaid shirt, the binoculars strung around his neck as much a part of him as that sailor's beard which she had got to like so much after detesting it initially. A slow deceptive drawl that rarely altered. 'Sorry I can't make it tonight, darling, but there's a team of naturalists coming all the way up from Sussex to film that colony of badgers I was telling you about the other day.' You didn't tell me and even if you did I wasn't listening because I'm not bloody well interested. Most chaps of twenty-eight finish work at five and take their girlfriends out in the evening. Girlfriend, not fiancee, because I've taken the ring off and left it at home. I'll post it back to you tomorrow. I won't register it and if it gets lost in the post then that's your bloody hard luck!

Sweating, moving away a few paces in search of a vacant place. Those youths who had just come in from the pub were edging their way on to the floor and no way did she want to give them the impression that she was jiving with them. A lot of girls danced on their own, preferred it that way. Certainly tonight Carol Embleton wanted it that way. She had made a big mistake, ought to have realised months ago that this was how it would be if you dated a nature conservancy officer. They were all married to their bloody wildlife, you were the 'other woman'. Sorry if I've come between you and your badgers, darling. Don't mind me, I'll stop at home and wait till you call me. I'll be a good girl, I won't even look at other men. Like hell; but she wasn't going to let those yobs pick her up. There was a limit.