July 2nd 1992
She ran, breathing and sobbing hard. She didn’t dare turn around and look back, for the sound of the beasts was still close behind.
The tears that wouldn’t stop blinded her and she tumbled hard onto the cinder path. She lay there for a second and as her eyes cleared slightly she noticed the skin hanging off her knees, revealing lacerations the colour of cough sweets. She held up her hands. Even silhouetted against the sun she could still see the speckled grit that had lodged there as she had broken her fall.
From behind her there came a cackle, a sound that spoke of pleasure in pain, torture and fear. She stood up and ran faster than she ever had before and inwardly screamed at the universe, at herself, for believing that it had all been true.
***
The gap in the trees had been exactly where he had described it in the letter.
She had walked down the cinder path, her head bowed as usual to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention from the ever hungry eyes of the hawks, as she thought of them, those girls with the heightened sense of who was weak and vulnerable to attack, torment and destruction.
But she had been lucky, the path was unusually clear of other pupils. It was a warm day and everyone else had been desperate to leave, a rush and whirr of movement – perfume being applied, shirts rolled up at the waist and buttons undone – and all the time she had moved slowly, as though moving through a different world, a denser atmosphere than the others inhabited. By the time she had put her bag over her shoulder, the changing rooms had cleared save for the tired and grey looking Miss Clarkson, who had wearily ushered her out of the school doors.
When she had reached the end of the cinder path, instead of turning right and heading down the hill that ran to her home, she had turned left. The path ran for a few yards more here and then disappeared, reclaimed by weeds and the trees that surrounded the old Mill House copse
She had come to the gap in the trees, widened over the years by the smokers, potheads and mischievous school children who used this forbidden path. She had never dared come this way before, had never been invited before now but it was exactly as he had described it: a gap marked by the corpse of an old dead elm, dried and decaying.
Her hand had gone to the letter in her pocket. It had been tucked into her bag, placed there while she was doing gym. Resting at the top, the envelope sticking out of the zip so she couldn’t miss it. She had always thought that her half glances had been missed or ignored for the more obvious attentions of the prettier, more confident girls who danced and preened around Mark. But Mark, a golden flop of fringe, eyes the colour of sapphires and a quiet confidence and bearing that made her stomach loop and turn like a Tiger Moth performing acrobatics, had known all along. She had felt sick with the anticipation. For the rest of the afternoon she had struggled to keep her thoughts from colliding with one another, the letter seemed to have derailed all her carefully nurtured linear patterns of thinking. Miss Clarkson had asked her a question in her maths class and Alison hadn’t been aware that she was even being spoken to until she realized that the laughter of the other children was being directed at her.
Miss Clarkson had tutted and under her breath muttered something about periods. The laughter had grown louder but Alison was used to this by now. She had just lowered her head and stared at the desk. She knew the laughter would pass, it always did, it was a creature that constantly needed feeding, needed new targets and all she had to do was wait until some other prey walked unknowingly into the maw and she would be forgotten.
Even though it had been a sunny day, hot and sticky, the path had quickly become dark as the canopy formed by the oaks and the hawthorn blocked out the light. It was a little colder in here but she was happy about this as it cooled her and she knew that she was flushing already as the nervous excitement sent blood rushing round her body. So many times that flush had been the source of ridicule for her classmates and Mark couldn’t have helped but notice. She placed her hands on her cheeks. They were burning and for a second she considered turning back but then she thought of all her heroines of literature. Would they have turned back, would Cathy have not gone to Heathcliff?
She had taken a deep breath, smelling the sweet rich smell of the woods, and then walked on.
A hundred yards down the path she had come to a clearing. In the middle of the clearing were the crumbling remains of the old mill that set beside a small stream. Beams of sunlight penetrated here and within them droplets of water were leaping, forming a small shimmering rainbow that made her gasp at its beauty. She was so transfixed by this sight that she almost didn’t notice Mark step from the shadow of the mill.
‘Hello Ali,’ he had said and then grinned at her.
She had gone to speak but the words had caught in her throat, which seemed to have narrowed to the size of a drinking straw. The world turned and empires rose and fell as she tried to speak.
He had walked towards her.
Luckily her body, usually so much her enemy, started to work.
‘Hi Mark, I got your letter.’ She dug the letter out of the chest pocket in her blouse and held it up.
He had nodded and carried on walking towards her. He flicked his head to one side, clearing the thick golden fringe that had obscured one eye. He smiled at her and she didn’t blush, but feeling a newly discovered confidence, she smiled back.
And then he was holding her and kissing her. He smelled of sweat and sunshine and something darker and more frightening and yet at the same time intoxicating. She opened her mouth and then his tongue was in her mouth, roughly searching. She had read about this, but oh my, the difference was the difference between life and death. She felt her teeth hit against his and she tried to say sorry but his tongue was back, forcing the words back to where they belonged.
His hands moved from around her back and started to unbutton her blouse. She let the letter fall to the floor as she raised her hands to try and stop him but he was quick and powerful and really she didn’t want him to stop, not ever.
He ripped open the last buttons and then reached around and unclipped her bra. It fell to the floor. Instinctively she covered her breasts with her hands. He stood back, a strange smile on his face.
‘Let’s see you then,’ he said.
‘Mark, I wanted you to know … ’, and then she decided no more words, to say it was to unmake it. She let her hands drop to her sides and smiled at him. She revealed herself to him.
He folded his arms and looked at something behind her.
Someone started to laugh but it wasn’t him.
‘Oh my fucking God, she only went and did it. Hey Alison, smile for the camera! Nice scars. Fuck!’
She wheeled around and there sitting on the top of the mill wall were three demons, black plastic faces with red lips painted in evil grins. The Witches, for that was how she thought of them, were laughing hysterically. One of them was holding a camera and the flash exploded into diamond hard light.
She turned back to Mark, her face flushed, her throat as compressed as a strangler’s victim.
‘Why?’ escaped from the clutches of her throat.
Mark stopped laughing and suddenly he looked unsure. Maybe he saw something, the murder he had committed, the innocence he had killed, but he looked like a frightened boy now and not the man he had been moments before. He was staring in horror at the white scars that covered her arms, shoulder and stomach.
A hand pushed her to the floor.
‘Because we’ve seen you, we’ve all seen you mooning over him as if you’d ever have a chance and you needed to be told.’
The tallest witch was standing back taking picture after picture, the sound of the camera’s motor seemed as loud as a jet engine.
‘So have a guess what pictures are going to be all over the fence tomorrow and in every class room and posted to your dad!’
The girls laughed as one.
Alison scrambled away at the same time she tried to cover herself up. She picked up her blouse but it was snatched away by the girl with red hair.
The camera kept on clicking, the film turning.
Alison rolled over in the dirt and snatched up her bra and bag. She got to her feet and she ran.
‘Oi, where do you think you’re going!’ shouted the witch holding the camera.
Alison ran straight at her sending the camera tumbling to the ground. There was a screech of anger.
‘You’ll fucking pay for that. Get her!’
Alison ran and the beasts followed.
They had been no match for her speed though and after she fell on the cinder path she had run with every part of her mind and body and soon they and their cries had fallen behind. As she ran, she sobbed, but when she came to the front door of her house, the sobs fell silent, the fear disappeared and a cold, emotionless calm settled upon her.
She let herself into the house with her key and stood silently for a moment. The house was quiet. That afternoon quiet, when the only sounds were the distant rustle of her father’s paper coming from the study where he locked himself away, and from where she knew he would not venture until the late summer evening darkness descended like a shroud over the house. She couldn’t let him see her like this so slipped off her shoes and walked as quietly as she could through the house. As she passed the door to his study the sweet smell of black cherry tobacco seeped through the closed door, and the sound of a stifled sob.
She took the stairs one at a time, her bare feet soft and noiseless on the carpet. Creeping past her father’s bedroom she thought she heard a noise, and for a second she thought it sounded like a brush being pulled through long hair. It was a memory of a sound she had last heard many years before. Still, she froze by the open doorway, one foot suspended in the air, straining to catch the memory of that sound but there was nothing save for a far away crow’s caw.
Next to her father’s room was her bedroom and as soon as she was inside she shut the door softly behind her.
She flopped exhausted into the chair in front of her desk. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The mascara she had applied so carefully only forty minutes previously now marked the track of each tear.
But the tears had stopped now. Something else had replaced the shame, the anguish and the heartbreak. This new feeling was hard and resolute, like the sharp edge of a steel blade.
Alison opened a drawer and took out a small black doll. The doll was wearing a black felt coat and a square black hat. The cloak was covered in thin, spiky gold stars. She called it Sleeping Beauty because the doll’s face was as white as ice just like the princess in the story. It was a troll. It had been made by her Icelandic grandmother for Alison’s mother when she was a child. When she was small Alison had imagined she could still smell her mother on the felt. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply.
After a few seconds she returned it to the drawer. She opened another drawer and took out an extension cord that she used to plug in her hairdryer when the one socket was overloaded with other plugs. Her father had given her it only the week before and mumbled something about his little girl being grown up now.
She stood up and pulled the chair she had been sitting on into the middle of the room. She stood on the chair.
There was a noise from downstairs or maybe closer. She looked around. Her wardrobe door had slipped open revealing the darkness of its interior stuffed with clothes and the old toys that had recently been relegated there. She would have to hurry as soon her father would be calling her to dinner and when she didn’t come he would look for her.
She reached up and slipped the extension cord around the light fitting. She had to push to one side the Paddington Bear lampshade that hung from the fitting but this was easily done. Quickly now, she tied a knot and then looped the plug end into a simple granny knot. She placed the loop around her neck.
There was another noise, a rustling like rats under the floorboards. She ignored it and kicked the chair away.
Alison dropped two feet, her toes lightly brushing against the carpet. She pirouetted like a broken jewellery box ballerina, twisting as the cord spun her around. And as the breath began to leave her for the last time she looked directly into the darkness of the old wardrobe and there she saw, unmistakably, a pair of red bloodshot eyes looking straight back at her.
She span once more and then was gone.