Guy Smith: The Wood

Carol felt her senses start to swim, almost fainted. She was all alone in a remote tract of countryside at the mercy of a sex-killer who had dominated the media coverage lately. She remembered his picture on TV. It had to be him, even though it was dark and she couldn't see him properly. Oh, Merciful God!

'It was her own fault I killed her.' Sadness, almost an apology. 'I didn't want to, I really liked her. But she screamed and struggled, would have gone to the police if I'd let her go. Even now they'll have to go to a lot of trouble proving it was me. You won't tell them, will you?' Pleading, playing with her. 'The feeling came on me real strong a short time ago,' he continued, 'so I pulled off the road and wanked. But it didn't do any good, didn't give me any pleasure, and I knew I'd have to find a girl. I couldn't believe it when I saw somebody as pretty as you standing there. Tell me, do you masturbate or does this boyfriend of yours satisfy you so that you don't need to?' 'Sometimes.' Tell him the truth, you've got nothing to lose. 'Not as much since I've been going with Andy as I used to in my 'teens. Everybody does it at some time, though, it's nothing to be ashamed of.'

'See what just talking to you has done to me.' He moved her hand downwards and she tensed, almost snatched it away as she felt the rigid protrusion inside his trousers. He was opening her fingers out, guiding them in a slow rub up and down the stretched material. 'I'll bet you've got a lovely little cunt.

Carol.'

Her heart was beating crazily. Any minute she would panic, become hysterical, and that was how that girl had died earlier in the week. Calling on every vestige of cunning and guile, remembering an old worn-out joke some film actress was once supposed to have made — 'When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it'. Carol Embleton certainly would not enjoy it but she was determined to cling on to life as long as possible. Oh Andy, I need you, darling.

'OK, I'll let you,' — she tried to play-act an enthusiastic feel at his erection — 'but only if you promise to let me go afterwards. Promise me that and I'll try and make it real good for you. Otherwise I'll scream and struggle and you'll end up by killing me. And then it won't be much of a screw, will it?'

'I promise.' A schoolboy who has suddenly been promised an unexpected treat.

'I'll let you go afterwards, I promise.'

She was shaking, fumbling at the fastener of her jeans, preferring to strip herself. That would make it easier. It isn't James Foster, that's just one of the stupid rape fantasies you used to have years ago. It's Andy, he's feeling you up, going to make passionate love to you. It's Andy. Andy. Andy.

It almost was Andy, he even lubricated her enough so that it didn't hurt when he penetrated her. But once they were coupled Andy disappeared and the lusting spectre of James Foster was back again: stifling peppermint breath that almost suffocated her, wild thrustings as he bit her neck, squeezed her breasts until she cried out aloud, hoping he would mistake her shrieks for those of orgasmic ecstasy.

Make it good for him, it's your only chance of staying alive! He was bucking faster and faster on top of her, his eyes ablaze, his body lathered in sweat. Once his fingers caressed her neck; she nearly screamed but they dropped down to her breasts, began to twist and pinch.

An idea, a faint glimmer of hope because there was nothing else left to grasp at. She faked groans of delight hating him for every deep thrust, convulsing; somehow got him into a position where they sat facing each other. Then she went on top of him.

Oh Christ, it was awful, repulsive. She tried to close her mind to it. I have to do this if I'm to stay alive. Gyrating on top of him. You bastard, you've killed a girl but you're not going to kill me. Speeding up, she felt him going tense in every muscle, starting to shudder, on the verge of his climax. And then came the moment she had been waiting for, the fierce shooting warmth of a male orgasm, his fingers grasping for her to pull her right down on to him. Her timing was perfection, coming off him in one fast movement, using her legs to power her backwards, at the same time pressing down the door handle, using her weight to push it open. James Foster grabbed for her, missed her. And then she was gone, bounding away naked into the darkness of a rain-soaked autumn night. Running blindly, taking advantage of those few seconds' start afforded her by the rapist's orgasm. Fifteen, maybe even thirty seconds' grace, the time-span of a male ejaculation that would hold him there. After that he would come after her, determined to vent his terrible revenge on the girl who had spurned him, deserted him at the very peak of his lust. Headlong flight, bumping into a tree, squelching in thick mud. Only after several minutes was she aware that she had blundered into Droy Wood, that she had panicked. Too late to retrace her steps, floundering on, stopping to listen. Oh God, what a fool I am! No, you stand a better chance in here: out there on the road he would run you down, overtake you; kill you! You have a chance here, in a thick wood with a thousand and one places in which to hide. Listening, shivering with fear and cold. Silence at first then she heard him, splashing footsteps which had her pressing herself back against the bole of a huge alder. She had anticipated the sound of frantic rushing, one way then the other. Instead the watery footfalls were steady and deliberate, systematic, the slow approach of the big-game hunter who has followed his wounded prey into a dense swamp. Faint moonlight slanted in, broke up the dense patches of shadow, glistened on lying water.

Closer, coming this way. Oh, thank God he hadn't stopped to find a torch before setting out after her. She closed her eyes, an ostrich's futile hope that it would not be seen. If she had had some means of killing herself she would have done so there and then. Oh Andy, where are you, darling? I'm so sorry.

Her pursuer was only yards away now, his breathing laboured. He paused. She cringed; surely he must spot her at any second.

But he did not appear to, wading on, cursing beneath his breath, talking incoherently to himself, dead branches snapping off, cracking loudly like pistol shots. Going on, deeper into the wood.

Carol Embleton scarcely dared to hope, told herself that he must find her soon. But the sounds of his search were becoming fainter and fainter until finally she could not hear him at all. Relief escalated into euphoria. She was alive, free; all she had to do was to retrace her steps back to the road, run until she came to the stile.

Hesitantly she stood up. The moon had clouded over again and it was raining hard, all about her were shadows, some darker than others. The road could not be far away, fifty yards, maybe less in a straight line. Panic threatened to engulf her again. That way, surely. which way? If only she could still hear her pursuer then she would know which way to go. But there was nothing but total silence.

It had to be that way, straight ahead of her, through that patch of mud. Fifty yards at the most.

Trying to move quietly, the ground cold and slimy, the rain driving into her face. Slipping, almost falling, but saving herself by grabbing a branch. It creaked alarmingly but did not snap. Anticipating firmer ground at every step but still her feet sank in, the bog gurgled, giving off a nauseating stench of stagnant water.

And still bog. Deeper in some parts so that she had to back off, try and find a way round. Perhaps it was bigger than she had imagined and on her headlong flight she had been fortunate in finding a reasonably firm crossing. This had to be the way, it had to. There couldn't be any other, the road was only a matter of yards away.

It wasn't. Thick mire, pools of water lying everywhere so that she splashed noisily. Listening constantly but there was no sound of the rapist. Off to the right, firmer ground here, resisting the temptation to run, looking up but the moon was blanketed by thick clouds.