Free Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley Page A

have found Oliver, whose parents are over there.” He indicated to a young couple huddled at a small table, clutching glasses and deep in conversation.
    “Thanks … ” Izzy nodded, uncomfortable in this crowd of new faces, all who seemed to know so much about her.
    “I can tell you about the woods,” Dave said, knocking his pipe against the ashtray. “If you like. I heard it all, you know, from Harold, the old timer who used to live in Honeycomb Cottage. He was one of the oldest residents of the village, lived in Cedham all his life. Used to come in here. Before your time of course, Stan.” He waved a hand towards Stan who was on his way back to the bar. “Of course he’s pushing up daisies, has been for years. I was only a young man at the time. Got him drunk on gin, and the whole story came tumbling out as it does when the tongue’s been loosened.”
    “What goes around comes around, eh Dave?” Feathers nudged the old boy with his elbow as Stan started filling glasses at the bar. Pints of lager appeared for Feathers and Izzy, then a whisky for Dave and a half for himself.
    Izzy leaned forward and caught Dave’s bleary eye. “So what’s in the woods?”
    “Not much now I suppose. Just a few ghosts of times past, but I wouldn’t go there alone.” He slurped loudly from his unfinished pint, his beady eyes firmly fixed on the tot of whisky.
    “Why wouldn’t you, Dave?” Izzy asked, smiling.
    He swivelled around, emanating alcoholic fumes. “You drive through the woods.”
    He stated it. This was a fact he already knew. She waited, not sure if she was required to respond. Izzy cleared her throat.
    “It’s the fastest way to get through this village,” she finally said.
    “So, you haven’t heard about the disappearances, then.” He paused dramatically, before taking a luxuriously slow drink of his beer.
    “What disappearances?” Izzy looked at Feathers, then back at Dave. “This is all a conspiracy to frighten naïve newcomers to the village, isn’t it?”
    “Well, now,” Dave set down his empty glass, and proceeded to push it slowly to the middle of the table. “No conspiracy. But I am telling you, on my mother’s grave, there have been many uncounted disappearances. All of people who go through the them woods.”
    “In a car, on foot, on horseback?” Feathers prompted. Stan stood up, and returned to the bar, taking Dave’s empty with him.
    “Anyone on foot,” Dave said quietly. “Or not. It’s hard to say.”
    He sighed, snatched the shot glass and swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. He slammed the glass down with a sharp bang. Dave stayed poised – one hand wrapped around the shot glass. Izzy looked him over, his puffy features, the way he’d squeezed into a cheap suit. Was there a Mrs Dave? Just as puffy?
    After a slow shiver, he came alive again. He lifted his pipe and said, “The story started some time during 1865. This is the year that John Coombe came screaming and wailing into this world. He grew up to be what might have been called the village idiot, or maybe simple. Those that lived in Cedham tolerated him. They ignored his wandering around the village, and his examinations of the factory.”
    “Factory?” Izzy asked.
    “They used to make bricks up on the hill, the village grew up around it, because of the work. Most regular folk were employed there. The ones that didn’t were the very wealthy, with horses and carriages to get them to town or beyond. For everyone else, there was a bakery and a general food shop on the main road, just up from here.” He waved a hand. “It’s all gone now. Converted into houses that sell for sickening sums.
    “Then one day during the year 1890, a girl disappeared. She was a daughter of one of the factory workers, and although a fuss was raised about Eliza, it wasn’t until the child of one of the upper class folk disappeared that the police sat up and took notice.” Whiskey Dave had not yet released the shot glass. He turned it