Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley Page B

lots of business now?” Feathers asked, interrupting her discomfort.
    “Yes, thanks.”
    She had discovered Feathers sent people her way. He knew people all over the village. Over pints in the pub, he’d promoted her business by handing out business cards, interrupting conversations of forthcoming holidays and mentioning her name whenever possible. She also cleaned, for now, the income from pet-sitting alone not enough to cover her expenses. Funnily enough, she earned more per hour scrubbing urine stains from toilets and bleaching kitchens than she ever had as a manager in a shop.
    “Just don’t go down Coombe Lane, Izzy,” he said.
    “Why do you pronounce my name like that?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like you’re from Scotland,” she said.
    “The elves speak like that. I suppose I picked it up from them.”
    “So, when do I get to meet these elves of yours?” She nudged him and laughed.
    “Oh, I don’t choose when and where, that’s up to them.”
    She spun around and said, “Hey – does that mean you’ve been speaking to the elves about me?” Izzy prodded him in the chest.
    “Don’t poke me!” he said, and clasped her hand loosely in his own. “The elves don’t like violence. They won’t want to meet you if you start beating me up.” He reached around and ran his fingers down her side.
    “No, no! That tickles!” She squirmed under his grip. “Stop! I’ll do anything, just stop!”
    “Okay,” he said, and released her. “Stop going down Coombe Lane.”
    “For God’s sake. Enough about the woods. I’m sick of hearing warnings, and I promise you, I’m not going to be frightened by some ghost stories. They aren’t even stories, they’re just silly warnings.”
    “But haven’t you seen what a terrible state the road is in? The work crews won’t go into the woods to repair the tarmac. Doesn’t that tell you something, when a crew of muscle bound manual labourers won’t venture between the trees?”
    She thought for a moment as she waited hopefully for a shooting star. “It tells me they’re a bunch of over-sized pussycats. Anyway, not that it’s relevant, but how did the road get built in the first place, if not by labourers?”
    “All right … ” Feathers switched tone to conciliatory and reassuring. “Next Saturday, I’ll treat you and Connor to a lunch at the Red Lion. We’ll talk to Bobby and Stan and anyone else who’s at the pub, maybe even Whiskey Dave. You’ll soon understand about Coombe’s Wood.”
    “Okay, whatever makes you happy. But you and your friends are going to have a hard time trying to convince me that the woods are haunted. And, frankly, I’m just about full of cautionary words.” She smiled at him. “But, yes, I would love to go to the pub for lunch. And I’m happy to pay my own way.”
    “Oh, God no, this is absolutely my treat. On a side note, did you know a beer or two actually does make for a better game of darts? A bunch of students, in their third year of a medical degree, actually experimented with three test groups – sober, tipsy and outright, falling over, drunk.” He shrugged. “Be interesting to try their theories out, don’t you think?”
    Feathers moved a little closer, so their faces were only inches apart, and ran his fingers down her arm.
    “It’s getting late.” She twisted away from his touch.
    “It is?”
    “I should go. I’ve work in the morning, you know.”
    “Don’t go.” He grasped her upper arm.
    “No.” Izzy shook free.
    Feathers let her leave, she closed the door on his flat, wondering if he was still out there, or if he’d followed, and was steps behind her. She stared back at his front door, smiled, and crossed the hall.
    Resonating snores filled her place. Izzy went into Connor’s room and gave him a gentle push onto his side. He spluttered a last snore out, gasping in a quieter breath. Satisfied he’d stopped, she pulled his door closed, and went to her own bedroom. Tired and woozy from the earlier