Down the scuffed trail, into the forest. Visible through the rafter of branches was the hill, home of the maple Lawrence had helped plant, which should have bedded in by now, its flimsy leaves riddled by the wind’s sough, its root-work probing the soil’s depths. The family tree had been a nice enough idea but something about the more forceful of Lawrence’s parents not giving the gift her backing had made him shrink into himself. He’d left Arthur hanging.
Course he hadn’t explained why. Since that terrible surrender at Threndle House, he and his father had hardly spoken. Arthur just tended to sit now, smelling of carbolic soap and stale smoke, often falling asleep on the settee. He never wanted to go over it all again, grazed knuckles lifting as he toked another cigarette in the yard, falling again as he reached down to ease the rolled-up newspapers from the legs of his jeans. Shin-kickers, Mam explained, placed there to protect a man from the policemens’ truncheons because the officers hit the picketers low, partly so the cameras wouldn’t see.
The ground set damp into Lawrence’s damaged shoe. This route was silent, broken only by his footsteps, by a wood pigeon startled amid the greenery. He arrived at the River Ogden, a weak tributary coursing under a scratched metal bridge that had once been painted red. Lawrence climbed the short path to the bridge and paused to look at his reflection in what remained of the river. The woods’ tapering branches were mirrored in the water, which had a musty smell. It looked as if there were rips in the liquid, in the sky.
Lawrence picked up a lolly stick and pushed it through the railings into the torn river, where it span gently before catching against the stony bank. He was a veteran of this place. With no friends, a mother glad to have him out from under her feet and a father who never asked questions, this wood was a refuge, a warren of dens within rhododendrons and bogs to sink rocks in; whole patches of puff fungus to kick about and wasps’ nests within ruins to provoke. He came to this latticed glade to climb trees. He came here to vandalise things, to swim when the Ogden was high enough and spy on passers-by.
There was no time for any of that now. With the day fast escaping, Lawrence stepped from the bridge, opting for the slope rather than the path, but the incline was too steep and he lost his footing.
He slid downhill, coming to a sharp halt at the bottom. Shoes sunk in the mud, trousers shit-covered and cuffs wet, he lay awhile watching the leaves twist. It would be simple to let this day and all that had come with it slide away. You could do that in a place like this, at least until nightfall. You could probably do it until tomorrow, come to think of it, given that this was an area Lawrence knew well, never mind how long it had been since his last visit.
Two years? Three? There was a forgotten path over the way: a corridor of wild garlic and native bluebell, a ginnel of promise bordering upon the secret. The vernal trail led to a sanctuary Lawrence long thought he’d outgrown; a tree cave formed in the space beneath a cavernous old elm. He got to his feet and headed towards it, a curious excitement flourishing within him. It was as if something neglected was at long last being attended to.
He quickly reached the den and sensed its magic. Spreading its boughs in the clearing’s centre was the magnificent tree. It had grown so unimpeded by any obstruction that its crown now resembled a giant brain. The elm’s trunk had a split in it wide enough for a man to hide in; fat limbs veered towards the ground like tentacles, dividing here and there, creating crevices to perch in, while afternoon light filtered through the canopy, shading everything by turns a vibrant and sombre green.
Lawrence trailed his hand along the tree’s bark, stopping to hang from a branch and lift his legs. The den was surprisingly neat and well-ordered and the fallen log he’d once used as a bench was still here, too.
But someone else had visited. There were the traces of a spent fire and past the ring of dumped blocks surrounding that broad scab of char, a second tree had been painted in pink and blue stripes. Scraps of ribbon and tattered bunting were strung from this tree, linking to the huge elm. Girls must have been here: interfering strangers.
Lawrence dropped to the ground and brushed the gunk off his hands. Now he could see empty beer cans and a takeaway box, the remains of what looked like a glass pipe, the transparent bowl stained black. A basic shelter had also been erected. He went over to investigate.
It turned out to be a wrinkled tarp hanging from the trees by a thin cord. Underneath it was a plastic chair, orange, the kind with easily-bent metal legs that you found in factories or warehouse offices. Next to the chair was a blanket with a book on it, face-down, resembling a miniature paper tent. Cigarette butts, too: fag ends everywhere. A ball of cling-film lay next to the book, together with a half-eaten packet of crisps.
Lawrence picked up the crisps. He hadn’t eaten all day and cheese and onion were his favourite flavour. He took the book and read the first lines it opened at.
You don’t need to tell me what’s right and what ain’t right. Whatever I do is right, and what people do to me is right. And what I do to you is right, as well. Get that into your big ’ead.
He was about to set the book down without losing his place when a voice made him jump. He dropped it.
“Something funny?”
Beyond the decorated tree stood a girl. She was thin and had green eyelids. A twitch of her mouth told Lawrence that losing her page had not gone unnoticed.
“Taste good, do they?
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, I mean I like them.”
“I suppose you weren’t laughing either.”
Lawrence shook his head.
“You were smiling.”
“That’s.” Lawrence hesitated. “That’s not the same as laughing.”
She was about his age. She had bare shoulders and a flat midriff, shoulder-length auburn hair with a fringe and a strikingly angular face. She was attractive in the way that a mantelpiece is attractive; the kind of face you had to try not to find haughty.
“I were just looking,” Lawrence said.
“And eating the last of my lunch,” replied the girl, sitting on the blanket and returning to her novel.
That accent◦– it had to be the Swarsby girl. She was a very different prospect up close. The other night she’d been graceful. Now Lawrence could see a shaving rash speckling her shins and thigh bruises that could have been made by someone’s thumbs. She was a lot like him: bone pale, bug-eyed and spindly.
“You’re hovering,” she said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Lawrence didn’t move. He wondered what the girl would say if she knew he’d been in her garden the other night, that he’d seen her glowing.
“Some people might interpret hostility as a sign to leave.”
Lawrence laughed as good-naturedly as he could. “This is my den you’re in.”
The girl rested her book against her knee. “Own it, do you?”
“Well, no…”
“Does it say property of scrawny oik somewhere? I must have missed the sign.”
“There’s no sign.”
“No shit.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“What?”
“Oh, nowt.”
“Nowt,” the girl muttered, aiming her green eyelids at her book.
“Made a friend?” said a second voice. It was a boy, aged maybe a year or two younger than the girl. He was watching Lawrence with a tremendously open expression. He was more conventionally attractive than his sister, but he had a similar lofty bearing.
“Don’t mind Evie. She’s down on everyone,” he said.