In a Dark, Dark Wood(15)

Out here, I realised, the sense of being watched had quite gone.

I began to run.

It was easy. This was easy. No questions, no-one prodding and poking, just the sharp, sweet air and the soft thud of my feet on the carpet of pine needles. It had rained a fair bit, but the water could not sit on this soft, loose-draining soil the way it could on the compacted rutted drive, and there were few puddles, or even boggy bits, just miles of clean, springy pathway, the drifted needles of a thousand trees beneath the soles of my shoes.

There are no other runners in my family – or not that I know of – but my grandmother was a walker. She said that when she was a girl and in a rage with a friend, she used to write their name on the soles of her feet in chalk, and walk until the name was gone. She said by the time the chalk had worn away, her resentment would have faded too.

I don’t do that. But I hold a mantra in my head, and I run until I can’t hear it any more above the pounding of my heart and the pounding of my feet.

Tonight – although I wasn’t angry at her, or at least, not any more – I could hear my heart beating out her name: Clare, Clare, Clare, Clare.

Down, down through the woods I ran, through the gathering dark and the soft night sounds. I saw bats swooping in the gloaming, and the sound of animals breaking from shelter. A fox shot across the path ahead and then stopped, superbly arrogant, his slim-nosed head following my scent as I thumped past in the quiet dusk.

This was easy – the downhill swoop, like flying through the twilight. And I didn’t feel afraid, in spite of the darkness. Out here the trees weren’t silent watchers behind the glass, but friendly presences, welcoming me into the wood, parting before me as I ran, swift and barely panting, along the forest path.

It would be the uphill stretch that tested me, the run back along the rutted, muddy drive, and I knew I must make it to the drive before it got so dark that I could not see the potholes. And so I ran harder, pushing myself. I had no time to keep, no target to make. I didn’t even know the distance. But I knew what my legs could do and I kept my stride long and loose. I leapt over a fallen log, and for a minute I shut my eyes – crazy in this dim light – and I could almost imagine that I was flying, and would never meet the ground.

At last I could see the road, a pale grey snake in the deepening shadows. As I broke out from the woods I heard the soft hoot of an owl, and I obeyed Flo’s instructions, turning right along the tarmac. I hadn’t been running for long when I heard the sound of a car behind me and stopped, pressing myself up against the verge. I had no wish to be run down by someone not expecting to find a runner out at this time.

The sound of the car came closer, brutally loud in the quiet night, and then it was upon me, the engine roaring like a chainsaw. My eyes were dazzled by the blinding headlights – and then it was gone, into the darkness, only the red of its rear lights showing like ruby eyes in the darkness, backing away.

Its passing had left me blinking and night-blind and even though I waited, hoping my eyes would readjust, the night seemed infinitely darker than a few moments ago, and I was suddenly afraid of running into the ditch at the side of the road, or tripping on a branch. I felt in my pocket for Flo’s head-torch and wrestled it on. It felt awkward, tight enough for the buckle to dig in, but loose enough for me to worry about it falling off as I started up again. At least now I could see the patch of tarmac in front of me, the white markings at the side of the road glittering back at me in the torch beam.

A sudden break on the right showed me that I was at the drive, and I slowed and turned the corner.

Now I was grateful for the head-torch, and it was not a matter of running any more, but a sort of slow, cautious jog, picking my way around muddy troughs and avoiding the potholes that might break an unwary ankle. Even so, my trainers were caked and every step felt like I was dragging a brick – half a pound of clotted mud on the sole of each shoe. I’d have fun cleaning them when I got back.

I tried to remember how far it was – half a mile? I half-wished I’d gone back through the wood, dark or no dark. But far up ahead I could see the beacon of the house, its blank glass walls shining golden in the night.

The mud sucked at my feet, as if trying to keep me here in the dark, and I gritted my teeth and forced my tired legs to go a bit faster.

I was maybe halfway when there was a sound from below, back on the main road. A car, slowing down.

I didn’t have a watch, and I’d left my phone back at the house, but surely it couldn’t be six yet? I hadn’t been running for an hour, nothing like it.

But there it was, the sound of an engine idling as the car made the turn, and then a gritting, growling roar as it began to plough up the hill, bouncing from pothole to pothole.

I flattened myself against the hedge as it got closer, and stood, shielding my eyes from the glare, and hoping that the car wouldn’t splash me with too much mud as it passed, but to my surprise it stopped, its exhaust a cloud of white against the moon, and I heard the whir of an electric window and a blast of Beyoncé, quickly muffled as someone turned the volume down.

I took a step closer, my heart pounding again, as if I’d been running much faster than I had. The head-torch had been angled to point at the ground, for walking rather than talking, and I couldn’t work out how to adjust it back up. Instead I pulled the apparatus from my head, holding it in my hand, and shone it into the pale face of the girl in the car.