I sped up, almost dizzy with panic. The fence separating the footpath from the forest suddenly seemed like the flimsiest, tiniest, most pointless barrier possible.
My ragged breaths echoed off the tree trunks. The headlamp penetrated about three metres in front of me. To the side, beyond the fence, there was only blackness. And footsteps crunching through the undergrowth.
It must be an animal,I repeated in my head.It’s following the light.
And then it coughed.
Deep.
Either a man, or the kind of woman you didn’t want chasing after you in the middle of a forest in the pitch black.
23
Six minutes from home. I bumped and rattled, careened and skidded over branches and loose stones. I was fast these days, and could have followed the path without the lamp, I knew it so well. But I was also petrified and the thought of crashing, or falling, kept my fingers on the brake, legs restrained.
Another couple of minutes. The path curved. I braced myself, kept the bike as close to the left as I could. Thought about turning back. Or abandoning the bike and legging it into the forest on the other side, finding a tree to hide behind and calling for help.
Calling who, Jenny?I screamed in my head.And telling them what? That I can hear footsteps? That there’s something moving about in the forest?
I held my breath, gritted my teeth and kept on going. And, as I whizzed past the bend, nothing leapt out. I listened hard but couldn’t hear the footsteps any more. The only sounds were the whirr of pedals spinning at about two hundred miles per hour and my heart trying to escape out of my chest.
Until the path straightened out again, when a burst of laughter exploded into the night. Deep, raspy, gleeful. It sounded like sticky, black slime would if it could cackle. Like the menace that had roamed the labyrinth in my head for three long years after my breakdown.
I couldn’t even remember the last half-mile. I must have dumped the bike beside the door because that was where I found it in the morning. Throwing myself inside, hands shaking so hard it took three horrible attempts to get the key in the lock, I slammed the door, locked it, and hurtled straight up the stairs before throwing up the whole of my guts, my newfound confidence, my can-do attitude and any peace I’d managed to garner through finally owning a home, in one ugly splatter.
Pride abandoned, I tried banging on the wall between the two cottages, but there was no response. I didn’t have Mack’s number, of course, so couldn’t call him. I felt too scared to go back downstairs, let alone outside to knock on his door. Should I phone the police? To report that a man in the woods laughed?
Head whirling, I couldn’t form a coherent thought. The ebbing adrenaline left me trembling and exhausted.
I wedged a chair under the bedroom door, crawled into bed and pulled the duvet over my head. Some hours later I drifted off to sleep, the distant echo of cackles reverberating through my nightmares.
* * *
After unconsciously pressing the snooze button a few times, I finally dragged myself out of bed in time to pour half a gallon of coffee down my throat and swap the clothes I’d slept in for something that didn’t reek of cycling for my life. I felt desperate for a shower, to scrub off the terror and the bad dreams, wash that laugh out of my eardrums, but it would have to wait. Shaking off the temptation to call Tezza, I decided the best way to deal with my churning stomach and frazzled nerves was to get right back in the saddle. Literally.
Stepping out into the spring sunshine, seeing the butterflies dancing past, I sucked in a lungful of fresh, bright air and took a good look around. A little brown bird hopped across Mack’s picnic table. I spied a rabbit disappearing into the bushes. It seemed more likely I’d encounter Snow White skipping through the woods than a freaky, creepy cackler. With no time left to work myself into a state, I picked my bike up and creaked off, managing to look behind me no more than every ten metres or so.
And if I arrived at work a little dishevelled, and somewhat clammy, hey, at least I was on time.
For reasons I hadn’t yet made up, once the kids were in school I cycled back home along the main roads. What a lovely change, I trilled, ambling alongside houses and hedgerows. Ooh, look, some sheep. And a middle-aged couple on a ramble. All these sights I’ve had missed if I went the normal, boring, quicker, lunatic-riddled route.
After stashing the bike away, I knocked on Mack’s door. Or possibly pounded, continuously, for the six minutes it took him to open it.
‘What have you done now?’ he rumbled. ‘I’ve not had breakfast yet so it had better be good. Or should I say bad?’ He peered at me through bleary eyes. ‘You’re dry. And clean. That’s a hopeful start.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘There’s no emergency?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’ To my horror, a glob of panic started working its way up my oesophagus. I blinked, hard, and did my utmost to swallow it back down. ‘Were you out running late last night, in the woods near the Common? Because if you thought it was funny, to race beside me when I couldn’t even see it was you, it wasn’t. And Ireallydidn’t appreciate being laughed at, when I was quite clearly scared out of my wits, because whoever that was was definitely laughingatme, notwithme.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Mack stepped back, hustled me inside and sat me down, his face waking up.
Oh. Not him, then.
Quietly, fighting to keep my voice steady, I told him what had happened.
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
