Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley

the roof off the car. After the bear beats its chest, giant claws will reach in and spirit me away.” She tried not to laugh as Feathers handed over the joint. She pinched it awkwardly between her fingers and took a small drag. Her lungs burned, and she wanted to cough, instead she held her breath and handed the smoke back.
    “Bears don’t beat their chests.”
    “Nor do they live in England. Isn’t that the point?”
    “Look, I’ve heard horrible things can happen,” he said. “Murders, even. And none of the old-timers will go into those woods, daylight or not.”
    Feathers seemed to think his words were final, stuck the joint between his lips, and sucked the end into a fiery orange glow. For an instant, an image of George flashed before her eyes, sitting in his smelly armchair, beer in one hand, remote in the other, and a fat cigar hanging from his mouth. Izzy curled up on the sofa and pulled a cushion onto her stomach.
    “I may be more used to horrible things than you realise,” she said, “and murders can happen anywhere, obviously. Anyway, it’s not like you’ve been here all your life. You can’t know everything about Coombe’s Wood.”
    The door onto Feathers’ balcony swung open on a breeze. She took the motion as an invite, jumped off the sofa and marched outside. Night had almost finished arriving and stars speckled the sky. It seemed like more light shone up there than black. In books, she’d seen skies like this, all patterns and twinkling lights designed to make you dream. Izzy stood and looked for a while, and calmed down. She searched for patterns and reminded herself once more to invest in an astronomy book, and learn the constellations. She identified the white splash of the Milky Way. It lit the fields with a little help from the moon. The woods were still dark, the night sky’s weak glow unable to penetrate. Only the very tops of the trees caught the light. They looked like black undulating clouds, clouds you might be able to jump right through and coast down to a faraway land.
    Looking out across the dense black of the woods, she almost believed there was some sense to Feathers’ stories.
    “What do you see?” Feathers sneaked up behind her, not even the sweet smell of patchouli emanating from his skin today warned her of his approach. “A bear? A pack of wolves? Or a swarm of miniature hell-bound monsters hiding behind tree trunks?”
    “How do you do that?”
    “What?” he asked peering curiously over at the woods.
    “Creep about so quietly?”
    “The elves taught me to be stealthy.” He winked at her, dropped his voice to a whisper and said: “They live in the bramble and hawthorn at the edges of fields. And even they won’t go near the woods.”
    “You don’t say.” Izzy stared at him for a moment, her eyes half-closed. Above, the celestial mosaic called to her. “I have never seen so many stars before,” she said, once more with her head tilted back. Feathers didn’t come near enough to touch, but stood so close to Izzy, her skin tingled. She straightened, pulling in her stomach, and, unable to stop herself, flicked her head so her chestnut curls swayed across her back. For the umpteenth time, she wondered whether he felt only friendship between them. He wasn’t married, in a long-term relationship or gay. She thought he was nice, and so far not violent. And he could cry. Izzy had noticed tears in his eyes not two days before.
     

 
     

    Her bed arrived from Terry’s. She’d been back to the eclectic shop since she bought the rocking chair, still searching for a chest of drawers. But this time, she came away richer one bed. The mattress seemed bug free, and the bedstead was solid. Terry must have thought her insane as she leaned and pushed against the wood, checking for creaks.
    The deliveryman arrived just after Izzy left for a pet-sitting visit. Mr Brown let them in, and kindly told the man: “Leave the bed in the lobby.”
    Izzy was testing the weight of