Black Wood

  BLACK

  WOOD

  Derek Flynn

  Copyright © 2019 Derek Flynn

  All rights reserved.

  www.derekflynnbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  TO THE READER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY DEREK FLYNN

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I was young, there was a wood near where I lived called the Black Wood. That wasn’t its real name, but that’s what everyone called it. Of course, the trees weren’t black, not really. But when the sun was framed behind them, they looked like they were. Especially in the wintertime when they were bare and knotted, with the twisted bodies of old men. The Black Wood was an apt name – the deeper you went, the darker your intent.

  I remember the first time I entered the wood. Just the outskirts, not into the depths. I wouldn’t enter its depths until years later. But the outskirts were enough to unnerve me at ten years of age. The trees were twisted and gnarled, and flies hovered in front of them like fireflies in the daytime. My footsteps made no sound on the mossy forest floor, save for the occasional orphaned twig. The quiet was all-pervading.

  It’s gone now. They carved up the Black Wood long since. Built a mall there. A pretty shabby one, from what I hear. Lots of greasy teenagers hanging out where I used to climb trees and swing from black branches. All those teenagers, they’ll never know what happened where their fast food outlets now stand. And not just to me. As much as I would have liked it, I was hardly the only one to utilise the Black Wood. At one time or another, everyone under the age of twenty in Concord ended up in some part of the Black Wood. Those modern kids will never know all that happened there – the good things, the bad things. And the secrets. The secrets that no one was supposed to know about, the secrets that were supposed to stay buried. But nothing ever really stays buried, does it?

  I wouldn’t normally go in for Wordsworth – a bit too flowery for me – but he did have this one interesting idea. He had this notion that if you experienced a moment in time that affected you deeply – if you experienced the “sublime” as he called it – and if, at a later date, you could recall that moment, or perhaps even write about it or paint it, you would be able to experience those same feelings.

  ‘Spots in time’, he called them. And he was right.

  That first time I entered the Black Wood is my spot in time. When I think back to it now, I can smell the moss, I can feel the plump, bottle-blue flies buzz by my face.

  I can see the deep, red blood seeping into the forest floor.

  No one was ever supposed to know what happened in the Black Wood. I’m only writing this now because that’s all changed.

  They know about the body.

  ***

  I found out about it through a phone call. It was mid-morning, and I was – as usual – at my desk in the study, struggling to wrest my thoughts down onto the page in some coherent form. I didn’t answer; I get very few people calling, and when I do, it's usually telemarketers. There’s nothing worse for the creative process then having to tell some spotty nineteen-year-old in a call centre in Alaska that you have no interest in a cruise to the Bahamas, even if it does come at a shockingly cheap (and therefore, suspect) price.

  This one was persistent, however, and the phone rang again. I ignored it a total of five times until, finally – my blood simmering – I picked it up, fully intending on telling them where to stick their cruise.

  “Hello?” I said, adopting my sternest voice.

  “Hello ...” It was a woman. She didn’t sound very spotty. There was a pause, and before she could start her spiel, I interrupted.

  “I don’t know where you got my name and number from but ...”

  “I called directories.”

  “What?”

  “To get your name. I wasn’t sure if you were still living there, but I took a chance.” The voice was becoming more familiar.

  “Who is this?” I said, but the answer was already forming in my mind.

  “It’s Samantha.”

  And that’s when the bottom fell out of my world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I remember the day I first saw Samantha in the Black Wood. I often went out there walking and writing stories in my head. There was something about the Black Wood that was at times peaceful, and at other times, unnerving. It was situated on the other side of the highway, but if you went deep enough, all the sounds of the cars and the town – of life – receded into the distance, until they eventually disappeared. And it was just you. It was during those times, I felt I almost became one with the Black Wood. I would sit and listen to the wind rustle through the leaves of the trees, listen to the noises of the insects and birds, and think the wood had a life of its own. It was as though you could almost hear it breathe. Sometimes, I thought of it as a person. An anthropomorphic entity, watching us all as we carried out the silly little routines that we thought gave meaning to our lives, while the Black Wood chuckled to itself in the knowledge that it had been here long before us and would be here long after we were gone. Of course, that turned out not to be the case.

  Maybe it was just me and my vivid imagination, but some days I’d be out there and I’d wonder, what would happen if I got lost and I never found my way out? Or what would happen if there was a serial killer hiding in the Black Wood, lying in wait? It was a good way of coming up with stories. I certainly came away with a good one that day.

  I was making my way into the wood when I heard voices from a few yards away. It sounded like a guy and a girl. I’m not sure why I didn’t just move on past and leave them to it, but I suppose it may have been writer’s curiosity. I moved as silently as I could through the trees until I saw them in a clearing in front of me.

  It was Samantha, and her boyfriend, Dale.

  They were sitting on the ground on their jackets, talking. Although Samantha seemed to be doing most of the talking; Dale looked to be more interested in putting her mouth to other uses. He was running his hand up and down her leg and leaning in kissing her neck. She’d let out a giggle and go on talking.

  It was called the Black Wood, but it had many more names than that. Each clearing, each certain spot or tree had its own name, depending on what went on there. There were different levels of initiation. The more privacy required, the deeper you went into the wood. Until you got to the very heart of the Black Wood, somewhere very few people went. There was the danger of get
ting lost. And the bears. Of course, only the teenagers knew about these names. None of the places in the Black Wood where the teenagers hung out would ever be named or mentioned to an adult for fear of giving the game away. If parents suspected what was going on there, they’d probably have burned the wood to the ground a long time ago.

  Different groups congregated in different areas, so each area took on the name of whoever was hanging out there. There was a group of clearings a few hundred yards inside the entrance to the wood, and these areas were where most teenagers hung out. Drinking beer, smoking dope, necking sessions. Nothing strange there. Beyond that was “Greasy Lake”. That’s where the stoners hung out. But there was no privacy in these areas. If you were getting hot and heavy with your boyfriend or girlfriend, you’d move deeper into the wood. If you wanted to get to second base, you walked down “Witches Lane” to “Can Alley” – so named, not just for the massive amount of discarded beer cans that littered the area, but also because of the word’s connotations with breasts. Again, not the most imaginative bunch, the ones who thought up these names.

  You could stay where you were and hope for a few uninterrupted moments but – given the amount of couples who used those areas – the chances weren’t too good. So, you would move on again – take a stroll down Lollipop Lane (think sucking) – and arrive at the Black Rocks. This was a group of rocks – obviously enough – that had somehow made their way into the centre of the Black Wood. It was dark in there, and there were some nasty creepy crawlies, so you had to be pretty serious to go there. And – after that – there was only one place left. That was a place only the most serious of lovers went. It was dark – there was no natural light, even in the day; it was damp; and there were bears.

  How far in you went became High School shorthand for how far a girl was willing to go. So, the boasts became things like, “I took Becky Clooney into the Black Rocks last night.” And deeper and deeper it went.

  Of course, my familiarity with these areas was scant, to say the least. I knew what they were all called; I knew where they all were. My familiarity with the topography of the Black Wood was unparalleled. Sadly, my familiarity with the topography of the female anatomy was not so advanced.

  I have to admit, I felt a certain frisson rising within me when I saw Samantha and Dale. After all, I knew what they were there for. They weren’t out for a walk; no one went that far into the Black Wood to go for a walk. I breathed quietly – almost holding my breath – and listened to what they were saying.

  “I can’t stop looking at it,” she said, staring at a bracelet on her wrist. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Just like you, babe.”

  Oh, he was a smoothie, our Dale. I reckon he only had one thing on his mind when he bought that bracelet.

  “How can you afford it?” Samantha said.

  “You know my parents are loaded.”

  “So are mine but they barely give me enough to get by.”

  Dale was being deliberately vague. Samantha seemed to notice as well because she continued with the questions.

  “Do they give you money?”

  “Yeah, y’know, I do stuff around the house and they give me money.”

  I couldn’t imagine Dale in an apron or using a vacuum.

  “Look, never mind about the money, okay? I wanted to buy you something nice.”

  He leaned in to kiss her. She finally stopped talking and let him kiss her on the mouth. I could see their tongues slipping in and out of each other’s mouths. I wondered what she tasted like. His hand was sliding underneath her top now and, in between kisses, he started cajoling her to let him lift it up. She didn’t need too much persuasion. She gave him a brazen grin and didn’t just lift it up but took it off altogether. The blood coursed through my body faster. She was wearing a black bra underneath. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I’d heard about the girls in their locker room. There were always guys claiming to have seen them. With the nerds, it was because they were spying on them. The jocks would claim they were invited in, or that they stumbled in by accident. Either way, it always sounded like they’d been watching too many Porky’s movies. But in these stories, I heard about their virgin-white underwear. All the stories about girls like Donna Marks and Mandy White – the school cheerleaders – always involved mention of their starched white panties with the little flowers embroidered on them, the implication being that good girls wore white. Only bad girls wore black, it seemed, and here was Samantha wearing black.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen a bra in the flesh, so to speak, apart from the ones on my mother’s washing-line, or on the women in the underwear section of the Sears catalogue. I couldn’t believe that my first sighting would be sliding off Samantha Pierce. I could see that Dale could hardly believe his luck as well. He had the eyes of a hungry man at a banquet. He lunged at her breasts, grabbing them roughly in his hands, and shoved his head in between them. His hands fumbled with the clasp of her bra. This time he didn’t ask permission, but she didn’t stop him either.

  He finally figured it out, and the bra slid down and landed on the forest floor. My heart was beating so fast now, I thought I might pass out. Dale was like a dog, slobbering and sucking at her exposed breasts. I don’t know if he was aware that they were even attached to anyone anymore. Now they were merely objects of stimulation in themselves that existed in a timeless space, tongue and nipple, hand and soft flesh.

  During all this, Samantha was letting out little groans of pleasure, but when I looked at her face, I saw something different. She was gripping his head, pushing it into her chest and moaning, but the pleasure I saw in her face wasn’t from Dale’s exertions – it was from the wielding of power. There was something in her eyes, something that suggested a cynicism way beyond her years. She was like Circe, or Lamia; she was the succubus who delights in the power of holding ignorant men in thrall of her and her sexuality. That was the first time – but not the last – that I saw that look on her face.

  Was that it? Was that the first time I was drawn to Samantha Pierce, really drawn to her? Is that what started my (some would say) obsession with her? Why that? I couldn’t say. Merely that I was entranced, intrigued by that look in her eyes.

  And then, suddenly, she stopped him. He was rubbing himself against her leg, his head still buried in her chest, when she pushed him away, and said, “We better go.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite such a look of disappointment on another human being’s face. He begged, pleaded, cajoled, but this time there would be no acquiescence. She put her bra and top back on, got up, and stood there waiting for him to join her. She knew what she was doing: she had let him in, shown him the pleasure she could offer him, let him taste of her, taken him just close enough to the edge of madness, until she knew she could keep him there. He was hers now, she knew that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Her voice on the phone is the same as it sounded twenty years ago – quiet, sensual, and condescending. I, on the other hand, can hear the words scrapping the back of my throat as I try to get them out. I’m lucky I can speak at all. Her words are those of a woman in a state of panic, but – as ever – her voice isn’t. Her sentences are short and clipped.

  “He knows. He said he knows about it.”

  It’s been so long since I’ve heard her voice that I barely register what she’s saying.

  “Who said it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wait, somebody called you?”

  “Yeah, somebody called me. What do you think I’ve been talking about for the past five minutes?”

  And there’s the condescension.

  “Who? Who called you?”

  “I don’t know. He obviously didn’t give his name.”

  Her words – and their meaning – finally start to sink in and I feel tiny beads of sweat break out on my forehead. “What did he say exactly?” I ask. “Word for word.”

  “I picked up the phone. He said, ‘Is this Samantha Pierce?’ I said �
��Yes’. He said ‘I thought you might like to know ... I know about the body’, and then he hung up.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I hear a slight air of desperation creeping in around the edges of her voice.

  “Maybe we should meet and talk about this,” I say.

  “Do you think? I mean, should we be seen together?”

  “Samantha, it’s been twenty years. Nobody knows about us. There’s nothing to connect us with what happened back then.”

  “There is now. There’s this guy.”

  She’s trying her best to sound calm, in control. That way she always did. But I know her. I know she’s scared.

  “Look,” I say, “I don’t know who this guy is ... maybe, he’s ... I really don’t know. But he can’t know anything.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can be so sure. I know for a fact. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a good idea ... now, after all this time, that we’re seen together. Just at the time that someone’s ringing me up to tell me they know about the body.”

  “We can’t do this over the phone. Where do you want to meet?”

  Where does she want to meet? It’s stupid, but some part of me is taking a kind of adolescent pleasure from all this. Her on the phone, asking for my help; me asking her where she’d like to meet to have lunch. Imagine if this were happening twenty years ago in High School?

  Of course, it’s not. And she wouldn’t be calling me if we weren’t in deep shit, if it wasn’t a matter of her self-preservation. Same as it always was with Samantha.

  That, after all, was the reason why we ended up in this position.

  ***

  We arrange to meet at a café on West 4th, not far from my apartment. It’s quiet and discreet. The kind of place you could come to for an illicit liaison. Is that why I chose it?