Black Wood Page 21
She’s storming back and forth across the room now, waving the manuscript as she yells at me, like some fucked-up Southern preacher. I’m starting to worry. I thought I could control the situation. I thought by now I would have calmed her down. But she’s getting more and more angry. I’m worried about what she might do.
“And you thought you could create this past,” she goes on, not even looking at me, “this life that never existed. Will it into being ... is that what you called it? But it doesn’t exist. It never existed.”
“It did exist ... it does exist. It exists up here,” I say, tapping my forehead.
“That’s not real. I don’t know if you’re crazy or just sad. Do you even know what went on back then? Do you even know anymore what really happened? I remember it all. Do you?”
“My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“You’ve conflated things that did happen with things that never took place. You’ve made them into this one thing.”
“That’s what writers do.”
“In fiction. Not in real life. And you don’t drag other people into it. You dragged me into your sick, sad little story. But none of it’s true.”
“You shut up! That’s a goddamn lie. It is true. I mean, parts are true. There were parts that did happen. I remember writing them. I just don’t remember which ones they were. It’s been a long time.”
“These are all the books you talked about. And you never had one published?”
“I was trying ... I was trying to write the perfect story. About us. I still am. I still can. Only the story matters. When we’re dead and gone, only the story of what happened to us will be left behind. It won’t matter then what’s true and what’s not. Only the story that we leave behind.”
“You think you created something? It doesn’t exist. You sit in this apartment surrounded by books. A sad, middle-aged man at a typewriter who failed. You’ve never sold a single word, have you? I talked to your students. They told me all about you. The sad, lonely professor that no one talks to. Sits all on his own in the staff room. People only take your classes because they feel sorry for you. No friends, no family ... you’ve never even been married. You’re a joke.”
“Please, stop, Samantha ... that’s not fair ...”
“Fair? What would you know about fair? I spent my whole life haunted by the fact that I murdered someone, and it wasn’t true. It was lie, a lie that you kept going all these years. Why? So you could have some kind of power over me? Jesus. You thought you knew what I was thinking. You didn’t have a clue.” She starts to read again. “She feigns disinterest. She was always good at that. It was her defence mechanism, so she didn’t have to interact with others. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to interact with others ... I didn’t want to interact with you. I wasn’t feigning disinterest, I wasn’t interested. Jesus, all those study nights, I thought they’d never end. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I’d be thinking ‘What am I doing here? I should be out with Charlie instead of sitting with this fucking creep.’”
“Stop it, I said ...”
“But I had to. It was the only way to see Charlie. God, you have no idea how much I dreaded that walk over to your house.” She’s right up in my face now, spitting bile at me. “The amount of times I almost turned and ran for the Black Wood, hoping on the off chance that Charlie might be there. Anything but spend one more night with you ... you ... you worthless piece of shit!”
And that was it.
I lost it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
You’ve got to believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I would never have wanted to hurt her in a million years. I loved her. Of course, you all know that by now. I haven’t said it but you’re not stupid. You know I loved her, so there’s no way I wanted to hurt her. But the things she said were so cruel; she might as well have been stabbing me with a knife, over and over into my heart. I felt the pain there; I felt the bile rise up in me, the anger. I couldn’t stop it. The only thing I could think to do was to stop her saying those things. She was tearing my life apart right in front of me. I had to stop her.
I understand now what people mean when they use phrases like “red mist” or “moment of madness”. I used to think they were clichés. But they’re not. That’s what happened. I couldn’t see properly; my ears were buzzing. I don’t even really remember it happening. It’s like it played out in some way that was removed from me.
My hands were on her throat ... she was backed up against the fridge ... her head was banging, banging, banging against the fridge door. I could hear everything inside rattling and smashing. She was making the ugliest noises, gasping for air.
Why didn’t I stop? Did I know then that I couldn’t stop, that I’d gone too far? I’d tried to strangle her. What would she do if I let her go? She’d go straight to the police with bruises all over her neck and she’d tell them the whole thing. I couldn’t deal with that. I couldn’t go to jail ... not me. Is that why I didn’t stop? All these things were racing through my head as my hands tightened on her windpipe, until finally she stopped gasping and slumped to the floor, a dead weight in my arms. I let her go, and she fell at my feet, lifeless. I looked down at my hands and then at her. I couldn’t move. And almost as quickly as it descended, the red mist lifted. And the panic set in. What had I done? All those years protecting a dead body that never existed and now ...
How far would you go?
How far would I go to protect myself? Too far it seems. Too far but too late to do anything about it now. I looked down at her again and she actually looked peaceful. The ugly grimace that she had been making as I choked the life out of her was gone. She looked like she was sleeping. As beautiful as ever. But when I leaned down to touch her face, the warmth was already seeping from it. For the second time in my life, I stood over a dead body. But the first one had come back to life. I prayed the second one would.
I knelt down and started giving her mouth to mouth, gave her chest compressions. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. The words sounded absurd ringing around my kitchen. No difference. I tried mouth to mouth again. My lips on hers for the first and last time. But no response in hers, only the cold chill of death on her lips. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and cried. Huge sobs of grief. I’d murdered the woman I loved, the only woman I’d ever loved.
I sat on the floor for hours. The sun went down and the darkness set in, and I was still sitting on the floor, looking at her. The light from the streetlights fell on her face. What was I to do? She was dead, there was no bringing her back. Was I to turn myself in, go to jail for life? What good would that do any of us? That wasn’t justice, me spending the rest of my life rotting in a jail cell. Eventually, I knew I’d have to leave. I didn’t have much time. If there was anyone who still cared for her – friends, her ex-husbands – if anyone knew where she was, they’d come looking or they’d call the police.
I had to get rid of the body.
It broke my heart, but I had to get rid of the body.
I took the large rug from in front of the fireplace and rolled her in it, taping it up securely. I went out into the street, looked up and down. The neighbourhood was quiet. I dragged the rug behind me out to the car. Her dead weight was unwieldy, but I finally got her body into the trunk. I drove to the river.
When I got back, my hands were shaking so much I could barely put the key in the front door. I poured myself a large glass of whiskey and downed it in one go. It burned through the knot in my stomach. I retched a dry heave.
That’s when I saw her bag on the table. I dumped the contents out. Amongst her various women’s stuff was letters. I recognised them immediately.
My letters.
The blackmail letters I’d sent to her.
I flicked through each one. Why had I done it? What did I think I was going to achieve? Sentimental old fool, trying to bring her back into my life. So she’d what? So we’d become friends, become lovers? Why hadn’t I thought it through? Why hadn’t I thought of how
it might end? But then, I never imagined it ending like that. I just wanted to be close to her, to see her face, hear her voice, smell her, feel her brush against me as she did that night all those years ago.
My heart stopped.
There was another note. Not one of mine. This one was typed. All my notes, I had collaged together the words from newspaper cuttings, like the notes all those years ago. I open it up. It says:
I know what you did in the Black Wood.
No demand for money, nothing else, just that one line. Why hadn’t she shown me that one? Hadn’t she noticed the difference in the letters? Obviously not. She thought all the letters had come from the same person. But they hadn’t. That note wasn’t from me, it was from someone else. I felt the fear rise within me.
There really was a blackmailer. Who? And if they knew what had happened in the Black Wood that night, did they know what I’d just done? Were they watching me? I ran out into the street looking around for a car or a person. There was no one there. I went back inside. The knot in my stomach was now ten times worse. You know that feeling when you’ve done something really bad and you know you can’t take it back and you know you’re going to get found out?
I sat down on the couch and tried to think it all through. All the times she said she’d gotten phone calls, was she talking about mine? Had there been other calls? Or had the blackmailer only contacted her by letter?
I went back inside, lit a fire and burned the bag and everything in it. It didn’t make me feel any better. Then, I sat back, and I waited, waited for the inevitable phone call.
That never came.
It’s been two years, two years since I threw her body into the dark waters of the Hudson. Two years waiting for that phone call that never comes.
I never believed in karma or cosmic justice. Now I wonder. All those years, I left Sam in some kind of limbo, wondering when the knock would come on the door to tell her she was under arrest for murder. And now, that’s my sentence. Every day, waiting for the phone call or the knock on the door. The blackmailer or the police.
Either way, for me, there will never be peace.
TO THE READER
Firstly, thank you so much for buying Black Wood. I hope you enjoyed it.
As an independent author, reviews and word of mouth are my lifeblood, and help bring my books to the attention of other readers.
If you liked this book, I would be so grateful if you could take five minutes to leave a review (doesn’t matter how short) on Amazon. (Just search for “Derek Flynn, Black Wood”)
Thanks so much, and I hope to see you back here in the future.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Derek Flynn is a writer and musician based in Waterford, Ireland. He has a Masters in Creative Writing from Trinity College, Dublin. He is a regular contributor to Writing.ie.
He can be found online at: https://www.derekflynnbooks.com
Black Wood is his third novel.
ALSO BY DEREK FLYNN
Broken Falls
Wyoming cop, John Ryan, receives a package of letters from a recently deceased priest addressed to John’s late father, begging for his forgiveness for something the priest had done.
Unravelling the story behind the letters leads John to the remote fishing village of Broken Falls, Newfoundland, a place filled with strange and colourful characters, whose secrets are as old as the village itself. As he attempts to find out what it was the dead priest did – and how he died – John must confront his own past and the secrets that his father tried so hard to hide.
Buy now on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk
The Dead Girls
When ex-cop turned private detective, John Ryan, is hired to find a missing girl, he makes a horrifying discovery: a trail of young women brutally murdered, their bodies dumped on the side of the highways of America.
A young girl running away from home is haunted by images of a missing girl. Neither she nor John realise how their paths will cross when they come into contact with one man. A man who searches the highways for victims. A sadistic killer known only as The Trucker.
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Reviews for Derek Flynn’s other novels
Broken Falls
“Flynn’s debut is riddled with a cast of strong relatable characters with all the ingredients of a perfect crime drama that is gritty, riveting and so real that you can taste it.”
- Adele O’ Neill, author of Behind a Closed Door
“It is a little gem of a book, thoroughly enjoyed it. Loved the ending, I thought it was just perfect.”
- Lorraine Earley, “Rick O’ Shea Book Club”
“I haven’t enjoyed a crime thriller so much in many years ... the writing is spectacular.”
- Amazon 5-Star review
The Dead Girls
“Derek continues his series in spectacular fashion ... kept me on the edge of my seat throughout.”
- Don Jimmy Reviews
“A cracker of a book and a blinding series.”
- Book Reviews For U
“Unputdownable and a chilling read.”
- Amazon 5-Star review