Owen

I PULL ON MY WORK boots, stride out in the direction of the woods. I'm looking forward to losing myself in the practicalities of today's work: preparing the ground for the Treehouse project. The Treehouses will have rope walks, tree bridges, wooden ladders, outdoor showers perched several feet up. They'll also have four-poster beds, state-of-the-art sound systems, and electronically retractable roof panels so guests can look up at the branches for the full "forest bathing" experience.

I can see the tree surgeon waiting at the edge of the woods in his chainsaw-proof overalls, tools lying on the ground beside him.

"Hey." He sticks out a hand as I approach. "It's Jim, I—"

"I've marked the trees to come down with a white X," I cut in, without any preamble. "See? There's this group here for a start."

"Yeah, er—" Something in his tone makes me turn and look more closely at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, something defensive about his posture. "I don't want to cut those down, mate."

"What?" I must have misheard him.

"I said I don't want to cut those down." At least he has the good grace to look a little sheepish.

I don't have time for this. "Why the hell not? It's literally what you're being paid to do."

A jerk of his head. "Those there, at the front—they're elder trees."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, thanks." The branches are heavy with the pungent white blossoms of the elderflowers.

"You know what they say about cutting down an elder?"

I am vaguely aware that there's some superstition attached to the trees. My mother was into stuff like that. But I'm not going to save him any embarrassment—I'm going to make him spell it out. "No. What do they say?"

He scratches behind an ear. "Well, it's bad luck, right? You can only cut a few branches and even then you have to—" He coughs, looking more awkward, as frankly a grown man talking about this sort of shit should. "Ask permission first."

"Ask permission?"

He looks more sheepish still. "From—er—the Elder Mother. The spirit inside the tree. But if you cut the whole thing down... well, that's properly bad luck, that is."

"Hang on. Let me get this straight. You've been hired to cut these trees down and now you're telling me you refuse to do so?"

"It does say it on my website, mate. ‘No elders.' It's—you know—one of my conditions."

What is it with people in this part of the world? Still this backward insistence on witchcraft, and weirdness. True, Francesca is into all things spiritual. But there's a refreshing common sense about the way she approaches it. Selective, you could say. Useful in as much as it can benefit her. Some might say cynical; I see it as practical.

I realize Jim is watching me, presumably waiting for my reaction.

"OK, I'll do the elders myself. The oaks then: you can do the oaks. I've sprayed the ones that need to come down. The white Xs."

Jim frowns. "You're not the only one who's marked them, mate."

"What do you mean?"

"Take a look."

He beckons me forward. Points out a mark on the nearest tree. Not sprayed-on like my Xs; carved into the bark. They're fresh cuts, the exposed wood showing through raw and wet. They must have been very recently done. I step back to take in the mark properly. It's like a crude drawing of a bird in flight.

I can't help the sense of foreboding that surfaces like an unwanted taste at the back of my tongue.

"Right," I say, as much to myself as to Jim. "So some local vandals have had some fun. Tell me it means anything more than that."

Jim grimaces. "I think it means: ‘don't cut the tree down,' mate. I think it means: ‘something bad could happen if you do.'"

"For Christ's sake. They tried to block us via the local council, now they're trying this. It's pathetic."

We've made a few enemies, locally. That's the thing about these parts: a hatred of progress, of change. We've received some pretty grim post since the planning permission for The Treehouses went through—threats and insults. "And," I continue, "they've trespassed onto private property to do it. It will give me great pleasure to have these cut down. So, let's get to it."

"Yeah." Now Jim looks really uncomfortable. "See, I'm really sorry but I just can't, mate. Gives me the creeps."

"But you've been paid—"

He puts up his hands in surrender. "You can have your money back. It's not worth it. This is a strange place, you know? Tome. Stuff here you don't want to meddle in." He shoots a nervous glance deep into the trees. "Had a fry-up at the pub on the way over. People aren't happy about this place, are they?" He shakes his head. "Not happy at all." I wonder exactly what he's heard, but I don't press him. Best to remain detached.

"Look," I say. "You can keep your money, which I think is pretty bloody decent of me, but I'm going to use your chainsaw. Got it? The spirits aren't going to get you if I'm the one holding it, are they? And I'm happy to take my chances." I gesture for the machine. If bad spirits exist, they've already had their way with me.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he hands over the chainsaw. It growls as I fire it up. I position it against the bark of the nearest oak, feeling the explosion of splinters as it begins to bite and trying to ignore a tiny stab of unease. Suddenly, I seem to hear the tinkling melody of an old children's tune. "The Teddy Bears' Picnic," with its curiously menacing promise of a secret woodland gathering.

I grit my teeth and drown it out with the roar of the machine. When I glance at Jim he's turned his back, as though he can't bear to look.

AFTERWARDS I SIT down on one of the fallen logs to light up, the woods behind me. It's odd. I have the feeling of being watched, a prickle down the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder a couple of times but there's no one there. Perhaps it's just the sweat trickling into my eyes that makes for the odd shiver of movement between the trees. But I can't shake the feeling of unease. The memory of the dead bird on the door floats queasily before me.

As I sit and smoke I become aware of something jabbing into the back of my thigh. I reach into my short pocket and pull out the little cream envelope. In the wake of dealing with that dead creature and being interrupted by Michelle, I completely forgot about it.

I read the name scrawled on the front: FRANKIE.

Who's Frankie?

A jolt as I understand. It must be addressed to Francesca, though I've never heard her called that. And maybe because I've never heard her called that, I can't resist turning it over and breaking the seal. The little piece of notepaper that slides out is familiar—The Manor printed in dark green at the top, the address beneath and a miniature line drawing of the building.

Meet me in the woods at midnight. Just like old times? Beneath the tree with a hundred eyes. It's been a while. We have a lot to discuss.

I don't like it. That's my first thought. The nickname. The familiarity. The midnight summons to the woods. Was it left by the same person who nailed the cockerel to the door? If so, it takes on a really sinister undertone. Especially because whoever wrote it had access to hotel stationery, which makes it difficult to dismiss as the prank of a random local. And if it wasn't left by the same person who left the dead creature, I still don't like it. Because it suggests intimacy. A shared history. Reading through it again my eye snags on certain phrases:

It's been a while.

... a lot to discuss.

It preys on one of my insecurities about our relationship. How short a time Francesca and I have been together, how shallow our knowledge of each other really is. I'm aware of how little of myself I've revealed to her. But Francesca, with her wholesomeness, her emphasis on "radical honesty," has always seemed an open book. Now it occurs to me that there may be another deeper self, a history, that I know nothing of.

Frankie.

I fold up the note and shove it back into my pocket. But I can feel it there, the sharp ridge of the envelope cutting into my leg. I don't like it, with its suggestion of secrets. I really fucking hate anyone keeping secrets, especially those closest to me.