Happy Sunshine: Part 1
“Kids go into the woods to camp all the time here, he’ll turn up.”
I’ve never been a big fan of writing suspense, it’s so hard! But the things you don’t like to do are the things most in need of practice. So here we are… Happy Sunshine will be a three part series, this is part one.
Monday to Sunday, my mornings are identical. My alarm (the Happy Sunshine tone, which comes as standard) begins at five in the summer and seven in the winter. I yawn, stretch and stumble a few steps to the toilet. Bad circulation runs in the family, and my feet take a minute or two to come to life. Then I sit in the bath, holding my dribbling shower head above me. I’ll use my pine-spiced soap bar until it has no corners left. I brush my teeth as soon as the shower's behind me, dry off and then the mirror and I swap looks, playing a game of Spot the Difference. I’m almost done; my clothes are waiting for me on the back of my armchair in the bedroom; blue grass-stained jeans, a black T-shirt, and underwear. No shoes or socks: they’re bad for the soul, and no breakfast either. I have keys, but they're as new as the day I had them cut. Monday to Sunday, It’s five thirty exactly when I close the door. I’m on our small high street, walking past the familiar faces before another minute has passed. Some days we give each other a nod of acknowledgement. On others, we can only muster a brief and secret glance; on rare occasions, we might mumble, "Good morning." I’ve seen these faces interact with the world, outside bars, swimming in the sea, ordering coffee at a café and filling baskets at the supermarket. And I passed them today, but this morning no one even suggested at a glance my way. My first stop takes five minutes, and I’m there without seeing anyone I'm not expecting.
Jack’s place sits at the edge of town, and like all the cottages that do, he has an unobscured view of the fields and the forest beyond them. Before him, it belonged to his parents, and before that, my grandparents. He’s a lifelong friend: responsible for the three pins in my left knee and my bad grades in history. The house is nothing special, neither big nor exceptionally well-finished. The walls are cracking and damp, birds are nesting in the thatched roof, and the window frames need a fresh lick of paint. That being said, the view makes up for all the wear and tear, overlooking a dozen dunes of wheat and to the left, the lush green forest. I suppose it’s also a distraction and partly to blame for the lack of general maintenance. It’s easy to forget what’s behind you when the view in front belongs in a gallery. But it’s only partially to blame because the ringleader of Jack’s laziness is his thirst for antiques. Not only does it keep his mind distracted, but it manages to keep things interesting enough around the house to forget about the damp patches on the walls. Although it only adds to the clutter. Everywhere you look, from the knocker on the front door to the engraved butter knife at the back of the kitchen cupboard, there’s something with a story to tell. But by far, the most memorable and familiar items are the coffee table and chairs we sit at every morning at five forty-three.
“This set it special,” he told me the first time I saw it. “Walnut Art Deco... there’s a rumour Warhol had it in a studio.”
“And the chairs?” I ask. My indifference annoys him, but he will never let me see it.
“Even better… much more up your street. These are two out of a set. They’re English Windsors but from eighteen hundred.” He said, trying to spike my curiosity.
“I’m surprised they've lasted.”
“That explains the price tag, ugh.” He's always had more money than sense.
I’m not sure the last time they got a mention, but even without constant admiration, they’re as fit for purpose as ever. Our coffee's delivered by Jack's live-in housekeeper, or as we call her, Sue. She's a sweet lady, with a kind face and workman's hands, and she has a generous arrangement since the cottage is handed over to her from the end of harvest to March the following year. That and her somewhat perplexing infatuation with Jack eases her pain each time he refuses to hire a handyman, a plumber or a thatcher. Our cups and saucers hit the polished walnut surface two to three minutes after I arrived.
“So… How are the folks?” He asks. We’ve not started a conversation without this question since they moved to a care home in the nearest city.
“As good as they can be, I’ve had no calls for two days, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
“Good, good… So…” He starts again, and I notice a gravelliness in his voice. He hasn’t slept much. “You won’t have heard this, but Andrew's kid… Jamie, I mean, he’s been missing for a few days, and people are freaking out.”
“Kids go into the woods to camp all the time here, he’ll turn up.”
“He’s been gone for three. Today’s the fourth.” He said, and the last sentence felt strained in the air between us.
“And you’re only telling me now? Has there been a search? I can help. I know the forest better than anyone.”
“There was last night, but you weren’t in range for me to call, and you weren't at home." If he did knock, then he must have missed my door. "Until last night, everyone had the same thoughts as you. Maybe there will be another search tomorrow… Either way, maybe it’s best if you don’t come. Just for the time being.”
“Why?”
“Well, he was last seen going into the forest… Like you said, to camp.”
“Well, how can I not help? If he’s there, I’ll find him in a day.”
“I know, I know. Look it’s not that I think you would get in the way. But… Look, last night, people were already whispering.” His subtlety isn’t lost on me. I know, perhaps too well, that people in this village like to whisper, especially about the man who spends his days in the forest and walks around barefoot. Although they’re all smiles when Saturday comes around and I have wild herbs and mushrooms to sell.
“So they think I took him? Killed him?”
“I... I wouldn’t say that. But the more scandalous members of our community might have begun their theories.”
“And if I find him?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if I find him today before I come back.”
“Then bring him back with you.”
“And what if the worst has happened?”
“Jesus! I don’t know... leave him where he is and call Winton.” Winton's the only detective in town, although he isn’t stationed here. Winton is also another childhood friend; before he joined the force, we would race anything with wheels through the village and sleep in the forest. “Why are you talking like you’re guilty?”
“You said there are already theories forming. I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. If he’s been in the forest for four days… and let's say; something or someone killed him on the second day, there won’t be much physical evidence. If a hog has got to him already, there’ll be nothing.”
“Look, only the Karens and the oldies biddies with nothing better to do are whispering. Don’t start spiralling. If it was someone from the village, they would have left evidence. No one here is a criminal mastermind. Besides, four days isn't that long. He was a pretty good scout back in the day. Chances are he's alive and kicking.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. If that's true... maybe he'll last a week or two. But if he does, I’ll bump into him soon enough.” I placed my cup on its porcelain cushion and bid my chair farewell.
“Doing anything today?” I ask as I usually do. Jack’s a man of leisure, supported by smart choices and interest. But now and again, he has to do some heavy lifting.
“I have to fix a fence at the back edge, and I've got concrete mix ready to go in the barn... My back well has been festering for a month. It’s contaminating the good one.”
“Easy day then,” I say, and he’s as annoyed as always.
“Want to stay and help?"
"Hard labour in the height of summer... Couldn't think of anything worse. "
"Fine. At least bring some good mushrooms. I want risotto for dinner.”
“I’ll try.” It’s precisely six-fifteen, and I start along Jack’s back fields to the forest.
***
This time of year, the forest is truly alive. It’s lush, green and sticky, especially after last night's rain. Even before I’ve reached the ditch separating it from the fields, I can hear it calling me. It’s loud and impatient; scents of wildflowers and faecal matter leak from its boundaries. I’m at the threshold by six-thirty and step in without losing another minute. There’s a beat drumming on the forest, thudding through the ground, celebrating the prosperity of summer. It’s one of the reasons I don’t imprison my feet in a pair of shoes.
Four fields border the forest from our villages; Jack’s, the Felix farm, Murton’s and Andrew's place. Felix’s and Murton’s are large-scale grain producers with a few animals to offset the losses. Or to add to them, depending on the year. They have a handful of helpers around harvest. Normally family friends from across the country, but if they aren’t free, a selection of Eastern Europeans. This year most of the helping hands are from Romania, and they are the only ‘outsiders’ in the village. But because I wear no shoes, I’m the one who’s being positioned to throw under the bus if this Jamie kid doesn’t show up. I don’t know whether to be proud of my small village or ashamed.
Murder is one of those things that comes in all shapes and sizes. All the Karens are just as likely to commit it as I am. It just takes a snap of anger, a moment of opportunity or days of despair. Very few people are true murderers: the type that thirsts for the thrill from morning to night, Monday to Sunday. This is what is floating through my mind now, walking through the dappled light of summer. Bird songs echo between the shadows, but today they sound different, saddened by wicked ideas. Our forest is small if you compare it to something worthy of a BBC feature and a David Attenborough voiceover. But it’s dense and filled with crevasses. If you wanted to hide a body somewhere here: you’d be spoilt for choice. But you have to know the forest to find the good spots. Half the town would be so terrified about their murderous actions they’d freeze at a drop of blood warming their palms. Something like that would propel them into a panic, and they'd dump the body somewhere silly. The river or in an old well.
Of course, it couldn’t be Jack. I mean, it could, but it almost certainly isn’t. Even if the timing of his well-maintenance is suspicious. He isn’t the type, nor did he have any particular reason. In fact, out of the kids in the village, Andrew’s kid (or, as his parents named him, Jamie) was a favourite of Jack’s, especially after he showed interest in his collection of artefacts. He even let the boy throw a New Year's Party in his fields, a decision Sue hated him for.
“Those kids ruined my raised beds!” She laments every time she walks past them.
It’s seven by the time I’ve made it to my second stop of the day. It’s an old oak tree, one that-thanks to a bolt of lightning-should have died a long time ago. Nevertheless, out of stubbornness or magic, half of it still thrives. Like most of this village, it too is a relic of my childhood; it’s here that I had my first kiss and lit and extinguished my first fire. A few metres north of the tree: a stream weaves its way over a dry river bed. sit here long enough, and you’ll see all the forest come and stop for a drink. It’s also where I find the best mushrooms. Today there are none, they’ve been picked or eaten. But it’s not the only place where you can find them, especially after a rainy night. Shiitake are the most common variety. Although if you look hard enough, you can find ten variations in a day, most of which are edible. One of which will make you see universal truths.
When my parents still lived here, they also foraged for mushrooms. They taught me how to tell what was trippy from tasty. Dad, in particular, was fascinated with the forest, and when summer came, he would challenge himself to eat exclusively from it and the four farms sharing its border. At the time, all four farms only produced a small but high-quality amount of pork and smoked salami. Sometimes he made it a week, but eventually, he’d be forced to admit defeat and scurry into his car for some vitamins. On those days, I knew to avoid him; he turned sour with his failure. But he needn’t have; he was, by a long way, the most accomplished forager in the village and probably in the country. He was even interviewed once or twice about it, and Mum loved to show off the clippings whenever we had visitors. I still have them somewhere, securely glued at the back of a scrapbook alongside some butterflies, dried flowers and sketches of forest scenes.
I don’t want to stay at the oak tree for too long; after all, I have a lot of miles to cover if I really am going to find Jamie today. If you live in one place or spend most of your time there, it’s easy to lose sight of how big or small that place actually is. Eventually, and perhaps inevitably, it morphs into the sizes you want. Shrinking or growing into the spots you recognise in an instant and erasing the unfamiliar altogether. It’s a trick of geography or an illusion of the mind. My first move is to reach the opposite border, the one furthest from the village and Jamie’s home. If I was camping out in the forest to get away from my family, I wouldn’t stay close. They’ll see the smoke from the fire at night or stumble across the camp on their morning walks.
I’m not following a path per se, but rather a direction. West is where I’m heading, so I aim my steps opposite the direction of the morning sun. It doesn’t take long before I see my first signs of humanity, a crushed and rusting Coca-Cola Zero. There will be more the further I go. The locals keep the forest clean, but the greater the distance between me and the village, the less looked after the forest became. People have forgotten this part exists. I stop to pick up the can and tuck it into my backpack. Then, as I'm zipping it shut, I hear rustling; someone’s moving on the other side of the hill. I’m a statue for a second or two, listening as carefully as my ears allow me. Lots of things rustle the forest floor, and humans are the least likely this far in. But maybe, one other is here. No doubt, if young Jamie has trekked this far, he’s hoping for solitude, perhaps a hundred years of it. So I take my time summiting the rolling hill separating the rustling and me. It’s an art form in and of itself, moving silently through the forest. And especially at the height of summer, when every fallen twig is impatient to crisply snap in half.
The trees are thickly spread here, and I can hardly see what’s below. The rustling is louder, and accompanied by snorts, so it’s safe to say Jamie isn’t the one responsible. Through the narrow gaps in the trees, I make out a hog, then a family of them. There are a couple of chestnut trees in the valley, one of their favourite foods. Hogs are ugly-looking things, and they only get uglier up close, so I start along the ridge of the hill until I’m a safe distance away. It’s here, with two hundred metres of separation from the snouting beasts, that I find his baseball cap hanging on a tree branch. I know it’s his because he wore the same hat every day. The colour of dried blood has stained the inner lining, and bloody fingerprints are stamped onto its peak. Perhaps I should assume the worst, run back to the village with proof of a murder.
“Friends, look what I’ve found!” I’d say. And they’d gather around, ready to certify their baseless theories.
“He’s got Jamie’s hat…Murderer!” They’d scream, from then on, believe wholeheartedly in their assumptions.
But I know this place too well, you're more likely to bang your head on a low-hanging branch than you’re to encounter a murderous soul. Besides, what foolhardy killer would leave such a clue like that, waiting for the next hiker or lost dog walker? The hat is stiff with dried blood, and I carefully put it in a ziplock bag and then in my backpack. The ziplock bags are usually reserved for mushrooms, not criminal evidence. But even though my morning routine is stringent, I like to think I'm reasonably flexible. I listen again before I move, ensuring the hogs haven’t snuck up on me. Their snorts are as distant as ever, so I scurry down the hill and up the other side. Judging by the shadows, time has sped up, and noon is closing in. There’s a kilometre or two left until I reach the forest boundary, and already I can hear the faint hum of the motorway. I’d tried to stop it when it was first proposed; I organised a petition and everything. But petitions are particularly useless against things like that. One of these days, people will release just how valuable silence can be. But for now, we are committed to building a world that’s noisier, brighter and dirtier than ever. If people were tasked with constructing a forest, there would be no dappled light, distant snorting, or crisp twig snapping. Instead, the forest floor would be painted with neon lights, the hogs would roar with pride, and the twigs would thunder each time they broke in two.
“Jullian!” A voice finds my ears, bouncing from tree to tree to reach me. I start to look around, but again, I’m in a thick part of the forest, almost untouched. This time there’s no question about what made the noise. Hogs can do a lot, predominantly eat, but they can’t call my name.
“Jullian!” It says again, and I think I recognise the voice as Jamie’s, but I can’t be sure. I’m not one to hang around teenagers all that much.
“Jamie?” I call out. “Are you okay?”
“Jamie’s dead!”
“So, who are you?” I’m convincing myself now. Only a kid who didn’t want to be found would say that.
“He’s dead! The hogs are eating him as we speak.” The voice says, and I can help but wonder. I never got a close look at the hogs back in the valley. There were chestnut trees, but they existed everywhere in this forest. It was clear that they were eating, but could it have been him?
“Who are you?” I ask again.
“He’s dead!” the voice screams, this time insanity powering the words. I look among the trees and climb halfway up a young oak to get a better overview. But there’s nobody in sight to claim the voice.
“I’ll come back!” I shout into the wall of green, but there’s no reply, and I start to run back the way I came.
Love, Luke
P.S who did it?