Killing Woods by Lucy Christopher Page A

Shepherd. I’d do it slowly, painfully, making him suffer. I’d strangle him over hours and days and dig my fingers into his veins. Tonight this thought doesn’t help, though; my brain’s too full of all the stuff his daughter yelled at me earlier. I almost feel guilty about the way I’d been. Emily Shepherd is not her father. That angry tough boy isn’t who I am either, not always anyway. I listen to the cars drone by below my window. How would it feel to have one smash into me? Would pain like that be anything like what Dad felt? What Ashlee felt?
    The streetlights’ glow through my curtains doesn’t make it any easier to sleep. Neither does the fact that the flat’s so quiet. Mum’s sleeping pills put her out solid these days and maybe I even miss my old man’s snores, the muffled sounds of TV from my brothers’ rooms. How heavy does Emily Shepherd sleep? Can she?
    One of the first things I did after it all happened was go to her house. It was night, I had a lighter in my pocket. I’d sat in the gutter opposite and could imagine it all: the frames of the house cracking from the heat, the smoke, the screaming as the fire ate everything. I’d flicked the lighter on and off, stared at that flash of fire. I’d imagined living there, being able to look out of a window and see nothing but trees. I’d even felt jealous. Mum and I could easily move to someplace like that, she got a big enough pay-out from my old man’s death. She won’t, though, not when she can torture herself by staying here.
    I turn over, thump my fist into the mattress. When I shut my eyes it’s Emily Shepherd’s face, not Ashlee’s, I see. This time it’s Emily bending over me in the woods, it’s her who’s laughing and teasing. I feel like a sick bastard all over again.
    â€˜Just fucking sleep!’ I actually say it out loud, try to make the words sink in that way.
    I make my body go still. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt. I’m not sure I can even remember what it feels like to be properly awake. I’ve been in some sort of Neverland for a while now. If I dreamt, could I remember what happened – what exactly happened? Would the images come? Or perhaps this is part of the reason I can’t sleep – I don’t want them to. I whack the light on and start tearing up my room. It’s better than just lying here. I crawl under my bed, run my hands over the carpet.
    Nothing!
    I’ve looked here before, though. Looked everywhere!
    I tumble shoes about as I search in my wardrobe, rip open the shoebox where I keep the important stuff from my old man. Ashlee’s dog collar isn’t in any of the drawers in my desk. Or in my coat pockets. I even go through all my old sports bags again.
    So where is it?
    I must’ve dropped it on my way home that night, been too drunk to realise.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I say out loud, as if Ashlee is listening. I sit in the middle of my bedroom and stare at the ceiling. ‘Do you know where it is, Ash? Where I left it?’
    I’m trying to remember – the feel of her dog tag, clasping it tight in my hands. But there are other things in my head now too, getting in the way. Those words Emily’d shouted: What kind of boyfriend leaves his drunk girlfriend ?

17
    Emily
    I lie with my heart pounding as early sunlight soaks through my curtains and over my sheets. I’d been dreaming of Damon, he’d been yelling: Killer’s blood. Murderer. Admit it! I’d been running to get away.
    I turn over and stare at one of the photos of Dad beside my bed, see his relaxed, lazy half-smile. Shut my eyes again. But I can’t sleep, not now. So I throw back the covers and sit on the edge of my mattress. What if I get to school and Damon has told everyone what I did? What if Kirsty goes for me again?
    I walk over to my desk, flick through Dad’s psych notes, all those bold, typed