Coombe's Wood (24 page)

Izzy glanced at Feathers.

“When you decide to let me in on what George is doing to you
…
doing to us, come and knock.” He frowned. “You could have talked to me as well. I live with you. I’m your son. When he comes at you, he comes for me too.” He grasped the living room handle. “Let me know when you’ve decided my life.”

Connor walked from the room, slamming the front door on his way out.

Connor’s exit crushed what control she’d regained.

Tears welled up, and she turned to face the corner of the room. She drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

She sensed Feathers’ eyes on her back and she fancied that he felt unsure about her. Who could blame him? She came with a lorry load of fears, repression and sadness. Then there was George, still grasping at threads of control over her life. How did she get here? She escaped only to become a prisoner once more.

Something touched her arm, and she jumped. She glanced around. Feathers had moved closer. He reached out and pulled Izzy close. She buried her face in the soft fabric of his t-shirt and wept.

“Why me, Feathers?” she sobbed. “What did I do to deserve George? What did I do?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed her back and shushed in her ear. His fingers smoothed her hair. “You’ve done
nothing
wrong,” he whispered.

“Life’s not simple,” she said much later, her face puffy and pink. She held onto a handful of tissues. She took one from the bunch and pressed it against her eyes, then under her nose. There was a rubbery feel to her face, like she was wearing a mask. She touched the skin on her cheeks, drawn by the lack of sensitivity. “Just when I thought I could see the light, he has to show up, and change everything back to grey.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Feathers repeated.

“I allowed him to hit Connor!” she shouted, falling back from Feathers, pushing him away.

“You couldn’t have stopped that,” he murmured, his voice closer, his breath sweet with aniseed. “Stop blaming yourself up.” His tone turned aggressive. “This man is not going to stop, not until we can get him thrown into prison. For that, we need to call the police, and tell them what he’s done.”

Because George had disappeared again, the police were slow to arrive. Eventually a pair of them turned up. Armed with her car keys, they set off to gather evidence at the scene. She had given a detailed report of all that had happened, and it sounded like they might actually be going to take the whole matter a little more seriously now. She stood waiting at the edge of the woods, refusing to go further in, as the two rugged police officers took slow and what looked like nervous steps into the shadows. A couple of minutes later, they returned, put their evidence boxes into the boot, and mumbled something about needing their squad car. With a great deal of care, the bigger cop reversed down into the lane.

Hovering at the edge of the road, isolation washed over her. She looked about. Where was George lurking right now? Nearby, in the field, under the waving ends of the wheat? Perhaps behind the fence of a back garden, at this moment watching through binoculars, waiting.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

Did she need to wait here for the police officers? She didn’t think so. She turned around, and started to head back to the flat.

The sound of motors inside the woods slowed her pace. The policemen had warned her they might be some time. Despite this, they appeared to have gathered all they needed in record time. They drove caravan-style out from the woods, with her smashed-up car in the rear. She could see them each register relief as they passed out of the shadows, and pulled up at the rear of the flats.

Izzy cocked her head, and concentrated. Something had alerted her. She searched Mr Brown’s garden, and Poppy’s. Nothing moved, and there didn’t seem to be anything out of place. But George was out there, nearby. Izzy was sure she could sense him, with some psychic ability that told her danger approached. She wondered for a second whether she’d dredged up an ancient talent, from when humans were accustomed to being hunted by creatures with long teeth and sharp claws.

“Ms Santana,” one of the burly officers explained, “the evidence we found at the scene appears to support your account of events.”

He spoke rapidly. His discomfort was a welcome distraction from the sensation of being watched. The officer couldn’t wait to leave the reach of the woods. Izzy took a couple of steps to the left, placing her body between the policeman’s and the woods. He appeared to relax a little, but still wasn’t going to stay long.

“We will be looking for Mr Malley, and I will personally keep you updated.” He scribbled on the back of a police card. She waited for his dutiful presentation of yet another case number. Now she had more references to add to her collection. How many cards before she held a full hand? How many before a royal flush? How many before she was found dead, and they began to give them to poor Connor? She smiled like a dead person, and watched the two policemen race off. Izzy shoved the card in her pocket and went to examine the damage to the car.

Fortunately, sliding sideways into the tree had minimised the damage. George had necessitated the replacement of her bumper. He had struck the rear, no doubt with the tire iron, shattering the number plate into a spider’s web of shards. But, the car still ran. That was the most important thing, she thought, and dropped into the driver’s seat. She pulled around to the front of the building, and parked.

Lunchtime had come and gone like the passing of a century. Normally, Sundays whizzed by. Today, time dragged out like her last minutes were being laid out in slow-motion Technicolor. She pulled all the curtains in the flat closed. She was on death row, her executioner waiting to administer the lethal injection.

Izzy shook the morbid thoughts from her head. She knew the medicine needed. She strode into the kitchen, and pulled a bottle of white wine from a cabinet. She checked the curtains met securely down the centre, and then removed the cork. With a glass in one hand, the neck of the bottle in the other, she collapsed on a chair. She poured one large glass, gulping it down in urgent mouthfuls. Something more was needed, she couldn’t live like this. With that thought, she drank another glass, needing the sensation of numbness. The bottle already looked half empty. She smiled into the green glass, feeling the first woozy dimming of her senses. This was what was needed.

Izzy drank a third glass. Her empty stomach absorbed the liquid, and she stretched until she was out of her seat. Drunk, she stood by the table, swaying back and forth, as if a wind rocked her in its embrace. She drained the last of the bottle as an afterthought. Her son was next door, she thought. But Connor couldn’t stay at Feathers’ forever. And just what kind of role model was she being? Running scared from the big bad ex-boyfriend. Plus, her son would be psychologically scarred from the rabbit. Thank God he didn’t see Button. But she’d emptied out one of her freezer drawers to store the cat, what if Connor went looking for an ice cream? She should make up her mind, and either bury the cat at the edge of the woods, or give him to the owners. Not store him below chicken burgers and chunks of frozen cod, and above bags of peas and corn. Izzy thought of Connor again, her boy who looked the spit of a man who deserted them, one she gave her heart to fifteen years ago. She put a hand to her chest. A rhythmic thud pulsed against her fingers. Did she have it all back yet? She didn’t think so. Connor should be with her, not abandoned with a man who was a few months past being a stranger.

With difficulty, she negotiated her way around the table and made her way to Feathers’ flat.

“Hellooo, anyone there?” she called into the peephole, leaning her head against the wood of the door. “Feathers, Connor, can I come in?”

The door swung open, and Izzy fell into the hall, landing in a pile on the floor. “What do you know, the world fell away.” She giggled, and looked up to where Feathers stood, hands on hips.

“I’m not going to flip out or anything. I’ve jush had a little to drink,” she said, using the wall to drag herself back onto her feet. “Where’s Connor?”

“He’s gone over to Oliver’s house. Coming back tonight after dinner.” He eyed Izzy with a crooked eyebrow as she clung to the wall, trying not to fall over again. “Are you okay, Izzy?”

“I’m fine, thank you very mush.” She smiled at the fluid feel of her words. “Life ish so fucked up.” She staggered over to Feathers, landing against him. He grabbed her, so she wouldn’t fall back down, and they staggered over to the other side of the hall, Izzy pinning him to the wall. She savoured the feel of his body along hers, and pressed against him. He felt warm, smelt fresh, desirable.

“Shall I get you back to your flat?” He tried to get her moving, and pushed against her.

Izzy took a deep breath of his scent, and flopped her arms around his neck.

“No.”

“You’re drunk, Izzy. You need to be in your bed.”

He pushed against her again. She pushed back.

“I don’t want to go.” She took a shuddering breath. “I feel so vulnerable and alone. I don’t feel like that when you’re with me.”

She tried to stare into his eyes, three, four eyes swimming before her. She sealed her mouth over his, a sloppy wet kiss that after a moment of hesitation, he returned.

“Don’t make me be alone,” she whispered as she kissed her way around to his ear. She took his earlobe gently between her lips, sucking and tugging. He groaned, grasping her butt with his hands, and pressing their bodies together. She kissed him again, a little more in control, then reached down and pulled his hands up, placing them against her rib cage. He caressed for a moment, his thumbs rubbing the firm underside of her breasts. In response, she ground against his body, feeling his excitement growing. His hands moved up, each now fully holding a breast. He massaged them, and then circled each nipple with his fingertips. She pulled back, grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom.

“Izzy, I’m not sure we should be doing this yet.” He held fast in the hallway, holding her hand between his two. She liked the feeling of warmth coming from him. She wanted more, but Feathers was refusing her. Tears rushed to her face, and she turned away.

“That’s fine, if you think it’s best.” She tried to turn back to the front door, without showing Feathers her distress.

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” he said, tugging at her hand. “I just want it to be under different circumstances.”

“Sure, you’re probably right.” She wiped her sleeve across her face. She needed Feathers so much. She needed the sensation of being loved, cared for. She never wanted to feel someone’s arms around her so much. And he was refusing her.

“Izzy,” he said, pulling her closer.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say one thing and do another. Either you want me or you don’t.” She took a deep breath.

“Izzy,” he said again, softly. “Please do not misunderstand me. I do want you, just not on a day when your ex is muddling so much up.”

“It’s fine. Really.” She tried to shrug off his hold. “I’m just a little drunk and emotional. I just needed some human contact. So sorry to have bothered you.” She spat the words out.

“You know that wasn’t called for.”

She stared at the back of the door, considering whether or not to open it and escape to her own flat. “Sorry,” she said finally. “It’s been a hard few days.”

Feathers reeled her in and folded his arms around her. She stood stiff for a moment. Then she sagged in a stream of tears.

“We’ll make it through, just you wait,” he whispered. She buried her face in his neck, and they swayed as one in his little hallway.

9
^th
Oct

Izzy woke up Monday morning, tried to sit up, and fell back down onto the mattress clutching her head. Throbs of pain pressed against her skull, and her stomach lurched as she rolled onto her side. She dared to open one eye, and peered at the clock. Nine o’clock had come and gone. Hopefully, Connor had remembered to turn on his alarm, and if she was really lucky, he’d gone off to school. Otherwise, she’d be driving to Theale Green with the window open. Actually, she thought, she couldn’t even recall seeing him come back from Oliver’s last night.

“
Ai, meu deus
,” she whispered. She’d drunk that entire bottle of wine, and gone over to Feathers’ house. She pressed at her head, as the throbs worsened. The pain receded a little, and she tried to remember what she did next.

“Oh no!” Her eyes sprung open as she pictured falling into his arms, trying to lead him to the bedroom. She threw herself at him. And he refused her. A chill swept over her, she’d stumbled into his bathroom, something fell to the floor and broke, but she’d not looked. Her head was already in the bowl of the toilet. She needed a rewind button to start Sunday afternoon again. Why had she drunk so much, anyway? The day played backwards – she’d called the police. Why? She screwed her face up, trying to feel her way through the foggy hangover.