Nothing like a nice, leisurely walk in the woods.
In the Gutter, Nothing like a lot of things. And Nothing forgives even less.
In the Gutter, Nothing like a lot of things. And Nothing forgives even less.
In the Woods by Gary Duncan
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Frank stopped where
the bridge used to be, and looked around.
“They’re all
gone,” he said. “The bridge, the stream.”
Mike looked
back the way they’d come: row after row of red-brick houses with red-tiled
roofs. They’d parked the van on the edge of the estate and walked through another
development: more red-brick houses with red-tiled roofs.
“It must have
been something,” Mike said. “Before all this.”
He took a
bottle of water from his rucksack and offered it to Frank. Frank needed something
stronger, but he took it, clumsily, and spilled most of it down his chin. The
others had stayed back a little, but they were watching him: eight pairs of
eyes boring into him.
“We can wait
here a bit,” Mike said. “Till you catch your breath.”
“I’m fine,”
Frank said.
They set off
into the woods, the path forking left and right and then petering out. Frank took
his time, breathing in the cool, damp air, the sweet smell of wet soil and
fallen leaves that took him back to another time.
He stopped when
they reached the clearing, and looked up at the light filtering in through the
tops of the trees.
“Here?” Mike
asked.
Frank shook his
head. He inhaled, held it, and let it out slowly. “I’d forgotten that smell.”
Mike looked
back towards the path.
“Jesus Christ,”
he said, grinding his boot into a pile of dead leaves.
One of the guards
had lost a shoe in the mud and was trying to retrieve it with a stick. He was
young, about the same age Frank had been last time he’d been in the woods.
“Maybe you
should help,” Frank said.
“Maybe he
should watch where he’s walking.”
Mike bent down
and grabbed some leaves.
“Why now,
Frank? Why wait all this time?”
Frank shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the right time. The right thing to do.”
Mike threw the
leaves up in the air and watched them fall slowly back to the ground, turning,
caught in the breeze.
Frank looked
down at his hands.
“How about taking
these things off, Mike.”
“You know that’s
not going to happen, Frank.”
Frank nodded. Mike
was one of the good ones. Probably the only good one.
They set off
again when the others reached the clearing, Frank out front, Mike one step
behind, the others following.
Frank could
have cut through the bramble bushes, like he’d done all those years ago, but he
didn’t want to make it too easy for them. Let them sweat a bit first. They’d
waited long enough—another hour wouldn’t make much difference.
He took them away
from the clearing, farther into the woods, down to where the stream used to run
deep and wide. Every now and then he slowed down and looked back and saw them
all lined up behind him, single file on the narrow path.
When they’d
almost gone full circle, Mike came up beside him and said, “I know what you’re
doing, Frank.”
Frank ignored
him.
“Frank, you—”
“They’re over
there,” Frank said. “Other side of the bramble bushes. I killed them both, just
like they said, and buried them in the ground.”
Frank looked
around one last time, and said, “I’m sorry, Mike. You can take me back now.”
