Black Wood Page 5

  It couldn’t have been any more terrifying.

  To call the building a bar was being generous. I don’t imagine what I thought I’d see out there. I suppose when one hears the word ‘bar’, one thinks of a reasonably large building with lights outside, maybe some neon signs or beer signs. This was nothing like that. It was basically an old hunting cabin – and a small one at that – that had seen better days. It looked like it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since it was built. There were no lights outside, no signs. There wasn’t even a name over the bar. The only thing outside was a row of very large, very expensive-looking motorcycles. I moved quietly up to one of the windows and peered in. I could barely see through the window with the dirt caked on it and the thick cigarette smoke inside. At least, what I presumed was cigarette smoke. Inside there was a small makeshift bar, some tables and chairs, and a pool table. I crouched down and peered through the vomit-stained windows. The scene inside was like something from a bad Hells Angels movie. Groups of large, pot-bellied bikers, sporting various tattoos, guzzling beer like it was prohibition. And that was just the women.

  As I crouched there, listening as they shouted abuse at one another, letting out horrendous, blood-curdling belly laughs, I thought: What am I doing here? I’m on the other side of the Black Wood, with nobody around except a bunch of drunk, boisterous bikers. And as I was thinking it, I heard a noise behind me.

  “You never know what you’ll find when you come out to take a slash.”

  I spun around into the chest of an enormous, tattooed biker. He pulled his ‘thing’ out and proceeded to urinate right in front of me.

  “What are you crouching down there for? Why don’t you come inside and join us?”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I didn’t. He let out a whale of a laugh, finished what he was doing, shook himself, and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me inside.

  “Hey! We’ve got us a new customer,” he shouted out to all in the cabin. He pushed me up towards the bar. The guy serving behind the bar had his back turned to me. He was tall and thin, wiry and muscular, with short, cropped blonde hair. He finished pouring a shot of whiskey, knocked it back, and turned to face me. I’d never actually seen him before, but with all the descriptions I’d heard over the years, it was like I had.

  “Hello neighbour,” he said.

  Here was the infamous Scarjaw. I stood there, shaking, while the noise in the bar descended to a hush.

  “What can we get you?” Scarjaw said.

  “What ...?”

  “What can we get you? To drink? You’ve come all the way out here ... you must be damn thirsty.”

  “I wasn’t ... I didn’t come for a drink ... I was just out ...”

  “Out? Out what? Spying?” He leaned over the counter and pressed his face close to mine. “You a nosy neighbour?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Tell you what, this one’s on me.” He grabbed a shot glass and slammed it down on the counter, pouring what looked like whiskey into it. “Drink,” he said. It didn’t sound like a request. I picked up the glass and was about to start sipping, when he pushed my arm up, forcing the whiskey down my throat. I gagged, then coughed, then gagged again. The whole bar thought this was hilarious.

  “So, what can we do for you neighbour?”

  “I’m looking for some weed.”

  Again with the uproarious laughter. Did it seem that far-fetched?

  “Are you now? And what would you do with it if I gave it to you?”

  What would I do with it? Flush it down the toilet?

  “Smoke it,” I said.

  “Don’t you have any pot dealers in your school? Did you really have to come all the way out here in the middle of the night?”

  “The guy I normally get it from got busted.”

  “Really? And who’s that now?”

  “Charlie Rhodes.”

  His face changed slightly. “He got busted?”

  “Yeah. He beat up Dale Williams, and the police arrested him. Put him in a cell for the night.”

  He looked relieved. He hadn’t been busted for pot.

  “So, you know this Charlie Rhodes?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’d he beat up the other guy for?”

  “I don’t know. Kinda wondering that myself. Whole school is.”

  “The cops charging him?”

  “I think so. I heard assault.”

  “That’s too bad.” He looked me up and down. “Y’know, maybe we could help you with a little something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag and threw it on the counter.

  “I, uh ... I don’t have any money,” I said.

  “Little strange coming out to buy pot with no money, isn’t it?”

  “I forgot it.”

  “Don’t you worry. I don’t want your money. What do you think I am ... some kind of drug dealer? Just one neighbour helping out another.”

  This was the deranged Scarjaw?

  “You got what you came for,” he said. “Now get the fuck outta here.”

  Okay, maybe it was him.

  “And I don’t want to see you hanging around here again. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Now get out of here before your momma calls the cops.”

  I walked out on jellied legs, all eyes in the place on me. Although the looks seemed more amused than threatening. When I got outside, I took in a deep breath of the night air. The noise started up again, the music, the shouting. It was like I’d never been there.

  What the hell had just happened? Why hadn’t Scarjaw sliced me from ear to ear? Was it because I’d given him something useful? Information about Charlie that he wasn’t aware of? Is that what it had been – a trade? So, that’s what these things looked like. Interesting. File away for future use.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It’s amazing what you can see when nobody pays attention to you. Everyone in High School was fixated on their own little world and the people in it. The girls were fixated on Prom dresses and who was going to ask them to go; the guys were fixated on football and getting their girlfriends to give it up. Beyond that, they saw nothing. Not what was happening in their families, not what was happening in the world, nothing. That’s why I could sit right next to them, and they wouldn’t even notice I was there. And that’s how I was there the day that Samantha spoke to Charlie.

  I remember reading this comic book as a kid. It was a science fiction comic book, and it had this character in it ... ironically, I don’t remember his name. It’s ironic because no one in the story ever did either. The character was a small, pale, bald person of indeterminate gender. I think the story with him was that he’d been ignored most of his life and had slowly slipped into the background until he got to the stage where – if your attention was brought to him – you’d know he was there, but otherwise you wouldn’t even notice him in the room. And even if you did notice him – and even if you spoke to him – five seconds later, you’d forget you’d spoken to him, you’d forget his name, you’d forget what he looked like.

  And that’s who I had become.

  I couldn’t believe that I’d never thought about doing it before. Previously, I went out of my way to avoid people. Now, I was going out of my way to be around them. Well, Samantha and Charlie, anyway. All I had to do was stay at a safe distance and make sure to stagger the days that I observed them. I usually kept enough of a distance that they never even noticed me. I only got up close if it was necessary. Which was what happened the day with Samantha and Charlie.

  I’d been observing Charlie around town for a few hours when he went into the coffee shop. I didn’t like being in such close proximity, but I figured it had been a few days since I last observed him, so I followed him in. I sat at the table behind him, took out a book, and pretended to read. He sat there for about twenty minutes staring into a coffee cup, occasionally taking a sip. I wondered what was going through his head. He always had this intense look
on his face, even though he might only be staring at a coffee cup. What fed that kind of intensity? I wondered. Was he thinking about everything that was ahead of him – the trial, the outcome of the trial, and what might follow?

  I was pondering the intricacies of Charlie’s personality, when I heard the door chimes go off. I wouldn’t have paid it any attention, had the chattering voices in the café not gone quiet. I looked up, and there was Samantha walking up to the counter. All eyes in the place were on her. You could still see a slight bruising on her cheek where Charlie had hit her. I imagined that she could have covered it up with make-up, and given the fact that she hadn’t, I presumed there was a reason. Was it a badge of honour, to show that she was tough, or was it there to remind Charlie what he’d done? Or both?

  She stood at the counter for a minute or two but didn’t order anything. In fact, she didn’t even face it. She stood there with her back to the counter and stared across the room at Charlie. He must have heard the commotion as she came in, but if he did, he never moved his intense gaze from the cup. Eventually, Samantha walked over to his table. She stood in front of him, looking down, and he looked up at her, but neither said anything. They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, neither one speaking, just staring at each other. That doesn’t sound like a long time but – in that situation – it felt like a lifetime. I wasn’t the only one who noticed it; I could see other people in the coffee shop straining to see them and whispering to each other. And not just people my age, but adults as well. They gave each other questioning looks. And it was obvious why. Everyone knew he’d been arrested for assaulting her; so, what was she going to do? Was she going to hit him? I wondered was Charlie thinking the same thing.

  But she didn’t hit him. She sat down opposite him. As she did so, they both followed each other’s gaze, as if they were locked in some kind of orbit. Finally, she broke the silence, and said, “Why did you hit me?” She said it low, almost like a whisper, not in an angry way, more confused. But, just by virtue of the words, she may as well have hit him herself. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I don’t think anyone else heard her, except me.

  “What?” he said.

  What? I thought. Is he crazy? How could he not have heard her? Why would he want to hear those words again? Was he some kind of masochist?

  “Why did you hit me?” she said again, even quieter this time. He dropped his gaze from her for the first time, and said, “I don’t know.”

  She paused for a moment, and then, said, “How can you not know?” She sounded genuinely confused. He didn’t answer this time.

  “Do you make a habit of hitting girls?”

  “No.” His voice was low, but firm.

  “Then, how can you not know?”

  No reply. The intense gaze was fixed on the tablecloth now.

  “What about Dale? Why did you hit him?”

  “Dale was ... that was a different thing.”

  “Why? Because he bullied you?”

  He looked up at her. “Yeah,” he said. “Because he bullied me.”

  But the way he said it sounded almost sarcastic, as though that wasn’t really the reason. There was silence between them again, and then, Charlie said, “You want something?”

  She looked taken aback. “I just wanted to know ...”

  “No,” he interrupted her, “I meant did you want to get something.”

  “Oh.” A little pink crept into her cheeks. “Um ... I guess ... I’ll have a coffee.”

  Charlie called the waitress, who looked like she’d been waiting to pounce. She wrote down his order, but she kept looking at Samantha. Samantha, in turn, was avoiding her gaze, looking over Charlie’s shoulder.

  Right at me.

  My head was in the book, but my eyes were lifted above it, staring straight back at her. I immediately looked down. I waited a few seconds, then looked up again. The waitress was gone, and Samantha was looking back at Charlie. I couldn’t see Charlie’s face, but I could see hers, and it was the same look that they’d exchanged the day when Charlie and Dale fought. What was that look? Had they realised something about each other? Some shared connection? She sat there looking more nervous than I’d ever seen her, her hand absent-mindedly rubbing the spot on her cheek where he’d hit her. I don’t think she even realised she was even doing it. Or did she? Was this another part of her act, of her manipulative personality?

  I knew she probably hadn’t thought anything of it, but I still felt annoyed having gotten caught looking. Like the day at the apartment window, I wanted to stay and hear more, but I thought it would be best if I left now before I aroused suspicions.

  I closed my book and got up from the table as quietly as I could. Though there had been a resumption of conversation by the other patrons of the café, it was still only a low hum. I didn’t want to make any noise and draw attention to myself. As I moved quietly to the door, I threw a furtive glance back in Samantha’s direction. She was still staring at Charlie; she wasn’t paying any attention to me.

  Outside the café, I crossed the street and sat down on a bench to continue observing. For a few minutes, Samantha continued to sit there, both of them staring at each other, but from what I could see, neither of them speaking. It was bizarre. What were they doing? The rest of the café seemed to have bored with the excitement and returned to whatever they were doing. Eventually, Samantha got up, took one last look at Charlie and – still saying nothing – walked away and out the door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I knew by the look Samantha gave Charlie when she walked out the door: that wasn’t the end of it. If you’d asked anybody else, they would have said I was crazy. The idea that those two would have anything in common. But even though I’d only started observing, I was becoming skilled at it. I was learning to read the signs. It was a sign that day in the café, in the look she gave him, that said “This isn’t the end.” I think the town thought that was it – she’d confronted him and that was the end of it. I knew there was more. So, I watched, and I waited. I became good at waiting. I became very patient. A good quality, I think, in a writer. I knew it wouldn’t happen straight away. The politics of men and women being what they were, neither one would approach the other initially. But it would have to happen somehow. And it did.

  The way it happened was so subtle, I almost missed it.

  I was about to head home from High School as usual. Also, as usual, I was hanging back behind Samantha and her friends to observe. I was able to follow her every day because we lived on the same street, so why wouldn’t I be walking home behind her? And, as I’ve said before, they paid so little attention to me that it didn’t matter.

  This day, the four girls walked out the school gate, but Samantha stopped at the gate. She said something to them and then walked away in the opposite direction. I looked around but couldn’t see anything. Then, I saw it – in the distance – the faint figure of Charlie on his motorcycle. I don’t know how she even noticed him. She headed slowly, nonchalantly, in his direction. When he saw she was heading for him, he started up the bike and drove on a few hundred yards before stopping again. I headed in her direction also, but there was a problem.

  Every day, I walked home a couple of hundred yards behind her. But I could hardly be seen walking along a couple of hundred yards behind her in the opposite direction. This was where I began to employ stealth.

  I stayed as safe a distance behind her as I could, while still keeping her in view, stopping every few minutes to look in a shop window, or duck into a doorway out of sight. She kept following him and every time she came within a certain distance of him, he’d start up the bike and move on another bit. He was like the Pied Piper, leading her somewhere. Before long, we were leaving the boundaries of the town and heading out into the surrounding countryside. At this point, I had to hang back as far as I could to not be seen, ducking in behind hedges and trees, crawling forward a few yards, and ducking behind another tree. Eventually Charlie stopped at a crossroads and waite
d for her to catch up.

  We were on the outskirts of town on a road that led nowhere, just some old farm. Which is what Charlie had planned. There was no one around. There’d also be no way for me to observe them without being seen. They didn’t stop there. I hid behind a tree and watched them. They spoke for a moment and then she got on the back of the bike and they drove off in the direction of the farm. I waited a couple of minutes to give them a head start and then followed. I knew it was going to be quite the trek with very little cover, but I figured I had to take the chance. I left my bag by a tree and started to jog. It took me about twenty minutes to get to the end of the road and the farm. It looked deserted. I had to be careful; I didn’t want to stumble upon them somewhere. I made my way quietly around the farmyard. Old Scotty the farmer still lived there, but he rarely left the house anymore. It was bereft of any animals, only a mangy dog, too old and tired to be any use as a guard dog.

  The good thing was there was silence in the yard, so I eventually picked up the faint whisper of voices coming from one of the disused cow sheds. Charlie’s motorcycle was parked outside. I made my way over as quietly as I could, knowing that if they heard me the great adventure would be over before it had even begun. The closer I got to the cow shed, I could make out the voices.

  “Why?” I heard Samantha say.

  I crouched down as low as I could and creeped up to a small opening in the side of the shed. When I got up against it, I slid to the ground and pressed my face up against the rotting timber frame. A small hole where a piece of wood had fallen out gave me a tiny window on the scene inside. Charlie was leaning against one of the rusting gates, kicking absent-mindedly at some straw on the ground. Samantha was standing in front of him.