Black Wood Read online

  Praise for BLACK WOOD

  ‘A fast-paced and chilling psychological thriller from an exciting new talent. If you liked Broadchurch, you’ll love this.’ – Mark Edwards and Louise Voss, authors of From the Cradle

  ‘In her atmospheric debut, Holliday effectively and spookily evokes small-town claustrophobia and backbiting. An edgy and authentic new voice in crime fiction.’ – Anya Lipska, author of Where the Devil Can’t Go

  ‘A dark and complex tale about small-town life, Black Wood will appeal as much to fans of outsider fiction like Vernon God Little as it will seasoned crime readers.’ – Nick Quantrill, author of The Crooked Beat

  ‘Darkly atmospheric and utterly absorbing.’ – Jane Isaac, author of The Truth Will Out

  ‘A plot which weaves and twists its way around a tight knit community… [where] old sins return to haunt some damaged people and the atmosphere is thick with unspoken dread … You won’t read a more shocking, or satisfying, thriller this year.’ – James Benmore, author of Dodger

  ‘A deeply unsettling story of bad deeds, complex loyalties and secrets better left buried, Black Wood is a thrilling debut which grips from the very first page and doesn’t let go.’ – Eva Dolan, author of Long Way Home

  ‘Holliday has a knack for creating fascinating, well-observed, and sometimes quirky, characters. Black Wood is dark and twisty with a creepy atmosphere that pervades this compelling tale from first page to last. I was gripped. A fantastic new voice on the block.’ – Amanda Jennings, author of The Judas Scar

  ‘Hugely satisfying twists and great characterisation, creepy and astute.’ – Sarah Hilary, author of Someone Else’s Skin

  ‘A chilling exploration of the darkness that can hide in even the smallest of communities. A superb debut.’ – David Jackson, author of The Helper

  ‘In Black Wood, S. J. I. Holliday has created a small town whose inhabitants are full of dark secrets, rumour, betrayal and murder. A touch of humour, a twist-filled plot and the writer’s obvious skill in creating an unsettling and yet all too familiar backdrop, make this a hugely enjoyable page-turner. A must-read for crime fans.’ – Steve Cavanagh, author of The Defence

  ‘I was drawn into Black Wood – drip-fed with intrigue, mystery and menace. It has an absorbing storyline with interesting and engaging characters. An exciting debut novel.’ – Mel Sherratt, author of Watching Over You

  To Ali Bali Bee, for letting me read the scary books.

  I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you RJ Barker. I meant it when I said I would never have got anywhere with this book if you hadn’t read those opening chapters and told me it was worth finishing. Thank you Eva Dolan, Fergus McNeill and Luca Veste for the early feedback that turned the book into what it became, and an extra thank you to Luca for introducing me to the best agent in the world, Phil Patterson, who believed in me from the start. Thanks to all at Marjacq, who I am proud to be represented by, and to Keshini Naidoo, whose fresh pair of eyes helped me push it over the line. Thank you to everyone at Black and White Publishing for showing such enthusiasm for this book from the start: Campbell for signing my very first author contract, Janne for keeping me on track with everything, Ali for the fantastic cover, Laura for the great publicity planning and to Karyn, my fantastic editor, whose insight helped me polish this book to a shine – thank you for making my first experience of being edited so painless.

  I’ve met so many readers, writers and bloggers via social media and various crime-writing festivals and events, many of whom have gone on to become friends in real life and without whom I couldn’t imagine continuing this journey: thank you, all of you. And a special thanks to Lisa Gray for my first newspaper feature and for lending her surname to my much loved Sergeant.

  To my husband and self-appointed manager, JLOH, thank you for riding the never-ending rollercoaster of book publishing with me, for keeping me in tea and toast, and for the enthusiastic distribution of my business cards. If there’s anyone in the UK who hasn’t received one, I want to know why. And finally, to my family, and to all of my friends, old and new – thank you for supporting me through this madness, for always believing in me: I love you all.

  www.sjiholliday.com

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Black Wood

  Title

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  The Woods

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  The Boy

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  The Woods

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Boy

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  The Boy

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  The Boy

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The Woods

  Chapter 32

  The Boy

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  The Boy

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  The Boy

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  The Woods

  Copyright

  THE WOODS

  He spots the two girls through the cracked screen of beech, sycamore and leg-scratching gorse: a flash of red skirt and a unison of giggles.

  He waves a hand behind him, silently gesturing for the other boy to stop walking.

  They hunker down behind a giant felled oak, and watch. The one with the red skirt sits astride a rusty water pipe that juts out through the hard-packed mud on either side of the burn. Her long, skinny legs dangle like the branches of a weeping willow, her sandalled feet almost skimming the water that bubbles beneath.

  ‘Come on, scaredy-cat!’

  Her face is turned in the direction of the far bank, watching the path that runs down the side of the neat little row of square seventies housing where all the nice families live with their panel-fenced back gardens and their rabbit hutches and their Swingball sets. Where the other girl stands: shorter, plumper and dressed in denim dungarees and a pair of blue wellingtons.

  ‘I can’t. It’s too fast.’

  The water is high from the rain that has barely stopped for weeks. The ground is soggy, and the boys’ footsteps have disturbed the mulch on the floor of the wood, releasing a stink that reminds him of clothes that’ve been lef
t too long in the washing machine mixed with the tang of fresh grass from the bucket on his dad’s lawnmower.

  He hears the snap of a twig close behind him and whirls round.

  ‘Ssssh, you idiot. Don’t let them hear us.’

  The other boy mumbles a sorry.

  The girl with the red skirt turns back to face the wood and he holds his breath, desperate not to make a sound. She frowns and shakes her head and dark little curls bob around her face. She is younger than he is. A couple of years. Maybe the same age as the pudgy-faced one in the dungarees, but even from this distance he can tell she’s going to be a heart-breaker before long. He stares at the long bare legs straddling the pipe and feels the stirring in his trousers that’s becoming increasingly familiar.

  The other girl takes a tentative step towards the pipe.

  ‘I’m not going over it like you,’ she says haughtily. ‘I’ll get my dungarees dirty.’

  The other girl lets out a dirty little laugh and shuffles over to the end of the pipe, then leans forward and grabs the protruding roots of the ancient oak that overhangs the waterway. As she pulls herself up, the front of her baggy T-shirt gapes open and he strains his eyes to see what’s concealed beneath. The other one steps onto the pipe and, with arms held out like a tightrope walker, slowly makes her way across, until she is close enough to grab onto her friend’s outstretched hand.

  He waits until they are both safely away from the bank before he grabs the sleeve of the other boy and they both stand up. The smaller girl sees them first and she lets out a strange little squeak and jumps back, grabbing onto the other girl’s T-shirt, revealing a flash of milky-white shoulder.

  He grins.

  1

  The routine calmed me. Smoothing an eyebrow upwards, pulling the skin taut, gripping a wiry little hair between sharp metal pincers.

  A little nugget of pain. Just for a moment.

  Sometimes, if it was a particularly deep-rooted hair, or if I’d dug in just a little too hard, a little bubble of blood would form: a dark, shiny pearl. When that happened, I’d stop for a minute and just stare at it until it sealed itself over before I continued.

  I placed the hand mirror and the tweezers by the side of the bed and kicked off the tangled sheets; the movement caused a waft of fetid air to puff out from the bedding. My stink, mixed with Scott’s. His imprint burned into the fabric.

  Sun was streaming through the blinds; the only sound was the persistent whine of next door’s dog. I knelt up on the bed and stared out of the window. Bob the terrier was sporting his usual ridiculous red bow. The barking had always annoyed me, but I knew I was going to miss that silly little dog. I watched him for a moment, running about on the small patch of lawn, sure that he preferred that to being carried in Mrs Goldstone’s oversized shopping bag. No animal liked to be trapped.

  I glanced around the room, at the piles of clothes and half-packed suitcases. The wine glass by the bed, tinged with red. The big green numerals on the alarm clock taunted me. Seven fifty-eight … -nine. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  ‘Bob, come on, baby – breakfast’s ready … Bob? Where are you, Bob?’

  Her shrill voice penetrated my already banging skull. I slid off the bed and crouched low. I didn’t want her spotting me. Bridie Goldstone would have a field day when she found out I’d gone.

  Scott would be inundated with offers of home-cooked meals and his washing put on. She’d think it was me who left him. I could hear her now: ‘I always thought she was a bit flighty, that one.’ She had me all wrong. She had no idea how I felt about Scott. It’s just that sometimes I wasn’t very good at showing it. I was grateful, though. Grateful that he’d gone and left me to pack up my three years’ worth of things with a little bit of dignity.

  I plucked jeans and a T-shirt from the floor. The T-shirt looked dark under the armpits, but a quick sniff said I’d get away with it. Just. I smoothed my hair down over my ruined eyebrow, had a quick squirt of body spray. It’d have to do. On the way out of the bedroom I caught a glimpse of my gran’s watch, lying on top of a pile of books. It was the only jewellery I wore. I slid the old-fashioned bracelet over my wrist, pressed it against my chest. The clasp clicked weakly into place and I felt that familiar shiver telling me she was close, watching over me. My other hand was occupied with hitting speed dial on my phone.

  I was downstairs in the kitchen by the time he answered. The blind was closed, and the sunlight pressing against it gave the dark cabinets a thick marmalade hue. I’d planned to sand and paint them. Yellow, maybe, in attempt to brighten the place up. To brighten us up. Too late now.

  ‘It’s me. Can you pick me up please? I’ve got some bags and stuff …’ My voice came out muffled, as if I had a bad cold.

  ‘Jo? Are you crying?’

  Shit. I needed to hold it together. ‘No. I’ve got the flu or something. Can you come and get me?’

  ‘Maybe you should stay in bed. I don’t want to be catching anything and …’

  ‘Craig! Please … I’m … I’ve … Look, Scott’s kicked me out, OK? I need you to take me to …’ I hesitated for what I hoped was the right amount of time. ‘To Claire’s …’

  I heard the sound of keys jangling and a door being slammed shut. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, ‘and Jo?’

  I sniffed. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re coming to mine. No arguments.’

  I pressed the button to end the call and slid down the dishwasher door onto the kitchen floor. Thank God for that. I was worried that the bluff would backfire and I’d be dropped at Claire’s doorstep ready to be greeted by her ‘Well I don’t really want you to be here but I’m not going to say that’ face, having to pretend I couldn’t see her parents’ disapproving faces peeking out from behind their twitchy curtains in the house next door. I still remembered that day I turned up on their doorstep a month after Claire had come home. We were eleven, and our lives had been turned upside down. We needed each other. So that we could try to make sense of it all.

  ‘I just want to see her,’ I’d begged, my voice thick with tears.

  ‘Stay away from her, Joanne. She doesn’t need friends like you.’

  2

  I understood unhappiness from a young age. My dad never wanted me. He wanted my mum all to himself. He told me as much when he took me to school on my first day. Instead of being excited about meeting new friends, learning new things, wondering what I was going to get for my lunch … instead of all that I felt scared.

  Ashamed.

  While all the other kids’ mums and dads kissed them and handed them their lunch boxes filled with crusts-off sandwiches and chocolate biscuits and own-brand crisps, my dad had pushed me into the playground with the words, ‘Pity you can’t bloody stay here. I might get to spend some time with your mother for once.’ He’d slapped me playfully on the bum, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t joking.

  My fantasy world had begun before that, though. They say you can’t remember anything before the age of three or four, but I can vividly remember being left to play on my own, surrounded by empty cereal boxes and egg cartons that I used to make into castles while I pretended I was a princess. I never really minded. I made up characters in my head and I just assumed it was normal. Why wouldn’t I?

  I’d already met Claire by then, and I’d hoped she would see me as an ally, both of us starting school together, a bit of history to form a fragile bond. I spotted her on the other side of the playground surrounded by similar girls with similar plaited hair and neat knee-length skirts. My hem was too long, because my mother couldn’t be bothered to take it up, and my hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail with an elastic band. I could feel the cheap rubber nipping at the hairs at the nape of my neck. I smiled, but when she caught my eye her cheeks went pink and she turned away. I was confused, but I knew I wasn’t welcome.

  The only person who didn’t seem to be in a group was a small skinny boy with glasses and an eyepatch. His jumper was grey an
d frayed at the cuffs. Everyone else was wearing navy blue. As I walked towards him, he scuttled backwards like a crab and I could tell straight away that he was just like me.

  ‘I’m Jo,’ I said, dropping my gaze a bit. I pulled at the bottom of my jumper, turned my knees outwards until I was standing on the outside edges of my shoes. He stopped, stared at me.

  ‘Um … I’m Craig.’ His eyes were round with wonder that someone was actually talking to him. He’d no idea that I felt a little flutter in my stomach, because someone was talking to me …

  Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  How wrong I was.

  Craig became my boss, amongst other things. He gave me a job in the shop he managed when I moved back to Banktoun from Edinburgh. I’d had to convince him over several pints of 80/- and packets of plain crisps that I was reliable and that I wasn’t going to freak out again and run away. I was OK now, I’d insisted.

  And I was.

  For a bit.

  The shop had become quite a feature on the High Street since the owner had bought the bakery next door and knocked through. It was definitely as big as shops got in Banktoun. Edinburgh was only fifteen miles away, but for some people that was something that involved weeks of planning and a special shopping outfit. For others, it was all about standing in the rain to catch the express bus so you could get to work without taking the scenic route through every town and village along the way. The local council were trying hard to convince people to ‘shop local’ and for Banktoun Books, at least, it was working.

  We made an effort. We had a loyalty scheme. We had book signings, and kids’ clubs, where I always had to spend two hours afterwards wiping sticky fingerprints off the hardback picture books and finding the ones that’d been ‘hidden’ beside travel and cookery or left in haphazard piles under the miniature plastic tables. I enjoyed it, and I couldn’t think of any other job I’d rather do.