It’s still early when Ellie grabs her school rucksack, a favourite beanie and her skateboard from the hall and slips quietly from the cottage. Pulling the woollen hat low on her head, she makes for the campus perimeter and glances around before slipping through a narrow gap in the tall laurel hedge. It’s a quick stumble down the grassy verge onto Thorncombe Lane and then she’s on her board, skating towards town.
It’s a relief to get away. She’d startled awake in the early hours to the shrill sound of the phone, followed by her mum’s concerned murmurs. A phone call that early was never good news. Ellie had waited, rigid in her bed, expecting at any moment for her door to fly open and her mum’s horrified face to appear. Instead, the call had ended and was replaced by the sound of the shower. Seizing the moment, she’d dressed quickly and made her escape. There was only so much time. She had to go now if she was going to stand a chance of staying one step ahead.
The lane is deathly quiet, the cold air a welcome slap to her cheeks as she weaves along, rubber wheels gliding over the dimpled asphalt. She’d been exhausted falling into bed the night before, having spent the rest of the day nursing her hangover and her guilt like a heavy sickness, standing for far too long in the shower, scrubbing and scrubbing, removing every last trace of blood from beneath her fingernails. She’d thought she’d be out for the count as soon as her head hit the pillow, the idea of oblivion a welcome one. But sleep hadn’t come. As soon as she’d closed her eyes, she’d been back in the woods with the dark towering trees and the flickering bonfire. It was as though the acrid scent of smoke had permeated everything – her skin, her bedcovers… a queasy feeling churning violently inside her. When she did sleep, it was restless and short-lived. She’d startle awake with the memory of warm blood sticky on her hands and a girl’s name playing on her lips.
You’re fucked, Ellie Chase.
The guilt rises from the pit of her stomach. Breathe, she tells herself, forcing her lungs to inhale and release in time with the motion of her foot pushing the skateboard. Breathe.
The autumn trees slide past in her peripheral vision, drifts of leaves turning to a dull sludge at the roadside. A flash of colour in the hedgerow ahead catches her eye. Drawing closer, she sees a criss-cross of blue-and-white police tape blocking access to the woodland path. Her heart sinks. The police? Already?
Beyond the tape, all she can see are the tightly clustered trees and the path disappearing into the woods. No sign of any police officers. No sign of anyone to stop her. With a final check up and down the lane, she stashes her board behind a tangle of ivy, hoists her rucksack higher onto her shoulders then ducks beneath the tape, starting up the trail on foot.
Two-thirds of the way up to the escarpment, she peels off the main track to take a secondary trail bisecting across the slopes to the quarry. The trees here are in full autumn dress, a palette of Turner-esque colours, burnt umber, ochre and sulphur-yellow. She circles the upper rim of the basin, eyeing the dark scar below where their bonfire had burned, the red scrawl of paint sprayed onto rock, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she weaves along the top edge until she is scrambling a less well-trampled path leading beneath the stone escarpment, the solid wall of it towering over her like a predator hunched over its prey.
At the path’s end she comes face to face with the metal safety grate set into the rockface, tinged with age, the faded sign beside it almost completely obscured by tangled vines and brambles, making it virtually impossible to spot unless you knew what to look for. NO ENTRY. DANGEROUS MINE. BAT ROOST.
Spears of morning light pierce the canopy. It’s eerily quiet, not even the faintest trill of birdsong, just the soft sound of the wind moving through the trees, as if the wood is whispering its secrets. Ellie twists the screw holding the grate in place – already loose, as she knew it would be – then tugs at the cover. It lifts easily, up and over in one smooth, well-oiled motion. She turns on her phone torch and clambers into the hollow space, pulling the grate shut behind her with a clang.
The air inside is dank and fetid, with hints of wet earth, mushrooms and burnt wood, as if the smoke from the bonfire they’d lit on Saturday night had somehow drifted here and got caught. She doesn’t have much time, but she doesn’t need it – she’s not going far. She never does. Her stash is hidden near the entrance, tucked in a dark corner. To go deeper into the cave might risk getting lost in the twisting maze of quarry tunnels beneath the escarpment or disturbing the bats roosting down below. No, thank you. Up here nearer daylight is just fine.
She grabs her supplies and stuffs them into the empty front pocket of her school bag, then gropes for the plastic bag hidden at the bottom of her rucksack to throw it into the depths of the cavern, when she feels a current of cool air slide against her neck. She stiffens, goosebumps rising on her arms. She is afraid to turn around, afraid not to. There’s a presence lingering in the shadows. Someone, or something, watching her. She’s certain of it.
‘Hello?’ Her voice echoes, high and uncertain. She swings the torch beam. ‘Is someone there?’
The light illuminates an object deeper inside the cave. A grey bundle slumped on the ground next to a pile of ash. There’s something else, too, shining a little further back, too far away to make out. She thinks about the bat colony deep underground, leathery little bodies suspended in sleep, black eyes blinking open at the sound of her call, wings unfurling, claws twitching. She is in their space. To disturb them is a crime. She needs to leave.
She turns back to the grate, her torchlight bouncing off the surrounding walls, then stops and frowns, noticing something new. Something alarming. A series of dark scrawls covers the rockface, black letters daubed in chaotic repetition, leaping out in nonsensical order. Words and pictures. Things she’s certain weren’t here the last time she came.
‘Hello?’ she calls again, more tentative now. Someone has been here. Someone might still be here.
The silence is broken by the sound of tumbling rocks. She swings the torch behind her again, but the beam isn’t strong enough to penetrate the dark and she’s frightened now, so she legs it towards the metal grille, wrenching it open and clambering back through, falling into daylight.
It’s Saturday night and everything that happened, it’s messing with her head. But those sounds. The feeling of being watched. Just the bats, surely? She inhales deeply, trying to calm herself. Still, those words and pictures. Creepy as fuck. And worst of all, she still hasn’t got rid of the plastic bag and its contents burning a hole in her rucksack. She needs a Plan B.
Her unease remains all the way down the trail but checking her watch, Ellie is relieved to see she still has a little time, so instead of turning back to school, she skates further along the lane until she is gliding beside a high chain-link fence, beyond which she can see the overgrown meadow bursting with dry thistle heads and brambles. She reaches out and trails a finger along the metal barricade. It’s only been up a week or so and its presence is still jarring. Further along she comes to a huge new advertising board. Her quiet rage begins to swell as she reads its headline. COMING SOON: FOLLY HEIGHTS. EXCLUSIVE NEW HOMES FROM EASTON ESTATES, YOUR TRUSTED LOCAL DEVELOPERS.
The image on the board shows a CGI sprawl of identikit Lego houses fanning out in a series of neat cul-de-sacs, each one built in custard-yellow brick, each with an immaculate postage stamp garden of fenced grass. There are CGI children kicking a ball on a tiny CGI green as a smiling woman pushes a pram along a pavement. Figuring she’s got nothing left to lose, Ellie pulls her beanie a little lower, unzips her rucksack and pulls out one of her cans. With a quick glance up and down the lane, she sets to work.
Five minutes later, back on her skateboard, Ellie spots her Plan B. An old grit bin lying half buried beneath the bushes at the side of the road. She swings the lid open and is relieved to find it almost empty, just a couple of crisp packets and a crushed Coke can resting on top of the dwindling salt supply. It doesn’t look as if it’s been filled in a while. She pulls the plastic bag from her rucksack and stuffs it down into the bin. The lid swings shut with a thump.
A stream of sleek Mercedes and gleaming Teslas are pulling out of the iron gates as she reaches school, the vehicles, having disgorged their day pupils, roaring back down the country lane, scattering leaves in their wake. As she approaches, another vehicle slides up behind Ellie and slows at her shoulder. She steps onto the verge to allow it to pass, her gaze tracking to the words painted on the side of the white van. AVON VALLEY NEWS.
She wonders if the van will turn through the school gates, but instead it crawls past, then pulls up short and makes an awkward U-turn in the narrow lane. In the front passenger seat is a familiar-looking woman. Chic brown bob. High cheekbones. Red lipstick. Ellie’s eyes widen. She recognises her as a journalist from a local evening news programme. What the—? First the police tape barricading the woods. Now a news crew?
She is ten minutes late for registration. Her tutor, Mr Morgan, or Edward as she’s allowed to call him, using teachers’ first names a privilege reserved for the sixth form, glances up as she enters the classroom. She braces, but there’s none of Edward’s usual joshing, no pointed, ‘Good afternoon, nice of you to join us.’ Instead he’s solemn, and the rest of the class sits in strange hushed silence.
He taps his watch and then gestures to the beanie still on her head, which she tugs off, ruffling her hair as she heads for her seat.
Jasmine acknowledges her with raised eyebrows. She spots Danny sitting just behind, his eyes tracking her across the room, the bruise on his cheekbone seeming worse today. She gives him a nod, but he frowns and turns away. ‘All right?’ she whispers to Holly, her usual desk companion. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Nothing much.’ The girl leans in to whisper, twirling her thick ponytail between her fingers. ‘Edward was late, too. He’s in a funny mood. All the teachers were called to a staff meeting first thing.’ Holly glances around before continuing, ‘My friend’s sister is in the local Girl Guides group and she said something happened in the woods this weekend. Something bad.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Has your mum said anything?’
Ellie’s stomach clenches. Hold it together, she wills. She shakes her head and sees Holly’s visible disappointment.
Edward has begun to read out the class notices, messages about upcoming sports fixtures, drama auditions and a history trip to the French battlefields all delivered in an unusually flat monotone. Most mornings he’d perch on the edge of his desk, an informal air about him as he’d pull a couple of ties from his desk drawer with a flourish, then allow the students to choose which one he should wear. His argument was that a shirt and tie wasn’t a look you could successfully pull off while riding a motorbike into work, which Ellie thought was probably right. Most Monday mornings he’d be cheerfully engaged, asking about weekends and sports results, exeats and visits home. He’d tell them about an art gallery or music gig he’d been to, crack a joke or two and ease them into the week with warmth and humour. Edward was generally all right – all right by teacher standards anyway.
But Holly is right – this morning is different. Edward is different. More formal and sombre, his tie already knotted firmly in place, failing even to offer one of his sardonic eye-rolls as he reads out a familiar warning from Mrs Crowe about creative interpretations of school uniform regulations and her plans for a series of random spot-checks on school ties and skirt lengths. Seeming to lose track, he frowns then runs his hands through his dark hair before rifling through the remaining papers on his desk until a knock at the door interrupts.
A red-faced Year Nine student scuttles in and Edward reads the offered note before turning to the class. ‘Year Twelve and Thirteen are to attend a special assembly immediately after this tutor group. At the bell, please make your way to the school hall. Attendance is compulsory.’
A bad feeling rushes at Ellie, like a speeding car coming at her full pelt, the impact inevitable. Her mind drifts back to the fluttering police tape and the news van circling the campus. Holly’s excited whispers. Something happened in the woods. Something bad.
Don’t look at them, she thinks, but she can’t help herself. She throws a sideways glance at Jasmine and meets her friend’s alarmed gaze and over Jasmine’s shoulder, Danny’s hard stare still boring into her. This is it, she thinks. This is how my whole life comes crashing down.