I check my watch, 6.30am. Standing on the pavement, I pull the front door closed for the last time. The dead lock turns with a thud and I stuff the keys through the letterbox. It’s that milky early morning light I only ever see through sleepy eyes. The sun is appearing over the row of terraced houses opposite but the air is still chilly and the grass verges are damp with dew. I go to take off my navy wool jumper but can’t stomach any more faffing and leave it on.
I pick up the rucksack laid at my feet and swing it with some effort over my shoulder, contorting my back to slide in my right then left arm. It takes a moment to balance myself and I clip the support belt around my waist, hating the bulges it creates. I look through the window into the empty front room. An intermittent scrape runs across the bare boards, caused by dragging a heavy Victorian wardrobe across the floor. We couldn’t get the wardrobe up the stairs and it ended up sitting in the back garden, like a grand privy. The back wall of the front room is divided into two by a straight edge of dirt where the sofa used to be; where I would put my arm around her shoulders and tickle her ear whilst we watched television in the evening. The paint below shines white.
A reflection stares back at me in the window; recently clippered brown hair, squinting eyes and a dark jaw covered by 3 weeks’ worth of stubble, almost a beard. I close my eyes for a second, open them and set off. I stop at the end of the road and glance back at the house; bare ochre bricks, the bright red door re-painted last summer and the wicker hanging basket, red, purple and white flowers straggling over the side; they’ve not been watered for weeks. The ‘for sale/sold’ sign scars the house façade and I turn away, repeating a mantra in my head; ‘walk, walk, walk.’
I would normally turn right here towards the town, past the short row of eclectic shops; a funeral parlour, bakers and bathroom showroom, but I go left, in the direction of the sun. A girl in a green tunic is walking along the pavement towards me. She looks pretty from a distance. Pretending to be interested in the architecture of the houses opposite, I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she gets closer. We pass without making eye contact. She has an unformed teenage face. I hoist the rucksack up on my shoulders.
I pull out the small notepad from my jeans and flick to the middle pages, mentally running through the list against what I am carrying. I shouldn’t have packed so much, but I think I need it. Stopping at the post-box set into the wall, I pull 6 envelopes from my back pocket and check each name and address. Hesitating, I then bung them into the slit with the same force as wine bottles into an empty bottle bank. The letters, written last night but composed over the last few weeks are brief, mostly truthful. I resist the temptation to bang my head against the wall.
I carry on through semi-familiar streets usually seen from the drivers’ seat of a car. The roads get wider; the houses get bigger and have front gardens. After ten minutes, I regret not taking my jumper off. Sweat is forming in my armpits and down my back. Fuck it. I diagonally cross the empty park (not even a dog being walked), bisecting two football pitches. Dampness creeps across my brown leather boots. I come to the main road out of town and walk alongside the sparse morning traffic until I reach the 24 hour garage. At the entrance I drop the rucksack onto the floor next to the newspaper stand and pick up a copy of the Times. The warning sound of the door startles me; EET EEP. I go to the till and ask for a pouch of Drum tobacco. Realising that my wallet is in a side pocket of the rucksack, I tell the attendant and go to fetch it; EET EEP. I’ve never lost a wallet and never forget it, apart from on holiday. This is what happens when there is no routine to guide you.
I go back inside; EET EEP. The attendant has spotted the rucksack:
‘Where are you off to?’
For a second I don’t have an answer; ‘A festival.’
‘Oh right, hope the weather is good.’
‘Me too.’
He hands me the change.
‘Cheers.’
‘Thanks.’
EET EEP.
I take a swig of water and take off the jumper. My plain white t-shirt rides up, showing the roll of fat above my belt as the rucksack is heaved on once again. I cross the road waiting for two vans to pass and go up a narrow lane. The pavement abruptly ends but there is no traffic. On the left hand side there are large houses with sheltered gated driveways. The right hand side is wooded. I walk with my head down counting my footsteps. After around twenty minutes I take a right hand turn onto a stoned track with a padlocked metal five bar gate, a hand painted ‘Keep out’ sign held in place by faded red string.
I take off the rucksack and lug it over the gate. I climb over and follow the track. My breathing is getting heavy. I’m unfit. Too much time spent living on sandwiches. I look through the trees for movement. It is still. These aren’t woods passed through by joggers or gangs of children roaming around with recently acquired cigarette lighters and bottles of cider. There are no scrunched up carrier bags soiled with glue.
I turn left off the track onto a narrow overgrown path. It is barely even a path anymore. I walk into the woods identifying the trees; Scots pine and Douglas fir. Oak, ash, birch, hazel, sycamore and willow are all here. The path peters out. I carry on until I reach a familiar arrangement of birch trees. 7.47am. I’ve arrived. I stand the rucksack up against one of the trees and retrieve a battered pouch of tobacco. I also get out a pair of grey gardening gloves which I stuff into my back pocket. Standing, I roll a cigarette and smoke, planning what to do next.
The floor is covered in plants of various sizes, branches and leaf litter. I put on the gloves and clear a small area, pulling up the most intrusive straggling brambles and stamping down the remaining vegetation. I unclip the tent from the rucksack, unpack it and quickly erect the basic structure. The pegs slide into the moist earth and I tighten the guide ropes. The small blue igloo shaped tent sits incongruously in the woods. Enough room to lie down at night or to sit crossed legged in the doorway. I’ve not thought about you for twenty minutes now.
I’ve thought about this for the last eleven weeks. Since you didn’t come home and I got the phone call. 6 weeks ago, I called the number on the website and now I’m the owner of 3 ½ acres of woodland, bought for £20k, from the profit of selling the house. The land was cheap, it has little or no commercial value and there would never be permission to build on it. The surrounding wood is maintained but the area is quiet.
It is not yet 10am. I start unpacking. Most things end up in the tent for now to make sure they don’t get wet.
Carrying the fold-up spade and a toilet roll, I walk 100 steps away from the camp and reach a clump of bushes. I dig a hole, the size of a bucket, with some difficulty through the chalky earth. I was hoping not to have to do this so soon. I look around to vainly check there is no one watching me and pull down my trousers. I squat over the hole and laugh. After, I throw some earth into the hole and wipe my hands with anti-bacterial gel.
I spend the afternoon walking around the woods getting familiar with my new surroundings and collecting firewood. I go back to the camp and build a fire. A dinner of baked beans and sausages eaten hot from the tin. Already I crave bread. I need to lose weight anyway. I sit by the fire swigging on a bottle of rum, smoking, watching the flames and listening. ‘What am I doing?’
The firewood runs out. The trees stand black against the greying sky. Looking up, silhouetted leaves dance against the greying sky. The floor is black around me and it’s no use looking for more firewood. I take a final swig of rum. Time for bed. I stand a little way from the dying fire facing away from the camp, convinced that at any moment something will come out of the dark. ‘Fuckitfuckitfuckitidon’tgiveashit’. Nothing happens, just a steady thrum on the earth.
I get into the tent, gathering around the things that reassure me. Spotlighting each with the small torch; Swiss army knife, large knife, and dead mobile phone. £1K cash is spread throughout my belongings, but that is less important. I take off my shoes and jeans and jumper, and climb into the sleeping bag. I turn off the torch. Everything is black. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the wind through the trees, paranoid thoughts of attack in my mind, in spite of the numbing rum. The occasional snap sends a wave of heat through my body, followed by an outbreak of cold sweat. I don’t hear any animals. It’s not that different from being in the empty house. There are less ghosts here but the memories still come; your 27th birthday at Alton Towers, when we met at a friends’ birthday; sat on a beach under scorching sun in Turkey. ‘I fucking miss you so much.’ Curled up on my side I cry jerkily into my chest, supressing the sobs. I concentrate on bringing my breathing under control and lie there for a long time.
I open my eyes, it is no longer black. I roll over, 5.23am. I try to go back to sleep; rolling from side to side, until i next check the clock 6.17am. I sit up in the sleeping bag, reluctant to leave its warmth, and unzip the tent. The cold air is immediately sucked in. The apprehension of the night has gone. The wood is still, full of light and fresh. I tune into the sound of birds. This time yesterday I was locking the front door.
Using the gas stove I boil the kettle, roll a cigarette and make a black coffee. I take out the notebook and spend twenty minutes writing down everything that has happened over the last twenty four hours.
_________________________________________________________________________
‘Alright.’
‘Alright.’
They shake hands, and he is pulled into an embrace. Reluctant tears are running down the cheeks of both men.
The newcomer chokes a stupid question: ‘This is where you’ve been?’
He doesn’t answer. They part and he sits down on the tree trunk. The interloper sits down next to him.
‘You’ve been here for two months? You look different, you’re not as fat. The beard looks daft. Have you cut your own hair?’
‘Yep. So does yours, you’re tanned.’
‘Just got back from Brittany, we thought you might be there.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve been looking for you since we got the letters.’
‘I told you I was going away.’
‘We rang the FCO after a few days and they knew nothing about you.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘By accident, the solicitor’s secretary saw Janey in the pub and asked about the woods.’
The blackened kettle puffs and whistles.
‘Brew?’
‘OK, what is it?’
‘Coffee. I’ve not been living on berries and nettle tea.’
‘Mum’s been out of her mind.’
‘I don’t have milk, except for special occasions. Sugar, rum?’
‘No thanks.’
The visitor takes in the camp. Silence. He hands over the coffee in a cup stained brown and adds a tot of rum to his own.
‘Go on then.’
He dribbles the rum into the outstretched mug.
‘Say ‘when.’
‘When.’
‘Christ, your fingers are dirty.’
They both laugh, blowing into their mugs.
‘What have you been doing?
‘Walking around collecting firewood mainly.’
‘Shelter looks good. I didn’t see it for ages. It was only the smoke that made me think I wasn’t being stupid looking for you in the woods.’
‘I should have used gas.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ They smile.
‘What’s it been like, what have you been doing?’
‘Alright. Once you get used to the dark. The food’s crap.’
‘I can tell.’
‘I tried to keep a diary.’
‘How long did it last?’
‘One day.’
Silence. They stare at the dying fire.
‘England whitewashed Australia.’
‘I know, I’ve got a radio. Good, wasn’t it’?’
‘I went to the Oval with work.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘People miss you, you know? Couldn’t you have told us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come back with me. Have a bath, you stink and we’ll get fish and chips. Have a beer. Stay with us.’
‘Hmmm’.
‘You can’t stay here forever. You’ll fucking freeze to death.’
‘I will come back.’
‘When? You’re as stubborn as ever then, what if I tell you to stay, will you come back then, I don’t know how she put up with you for fucks’ sake.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I miss her so fucking much.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t know what to do now she’s gone.’
‘She wouldn’t want…’
‘Don’t.’
They sit in silence drinking the coffee.
‘Is there anything I can bring? I’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘No, I’m fine; I have everything, thanks.’
‘I’m still coming back’.
There is no malice in either voice now. Neither wants to argue. They get up and embrace (‘Christ, you’re skinny.’) saying goodbye.
He watches his brother walk through the woods.
‘WAIT UP'
He grabs his jumper, zips up the tent, and begins the walk back.
Into the Woods is part of a larger work in progress.
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