Suddenly, she heard coughing. Heavy, phlegm-stuffed coughing, coming from a discarded sofa she’d not noticed until that point. He eyes whipped across the clearing and took a few seconds to make it out, but there it sat, rotting and almost completely camouflaged by nettles- a large, lopsided, brown faux-leather couch, outer layer of skin peeling off in large strips as if flayed, bright green mildew filling in the patches exposed beneath.

And there, reclining on the torn and slimy upholstery, belly out, arms behind his head, watching, waiting, there, after all these years, was her pen pal.

X.

26.

Laura moved slowly across the clearing, gun cold and heavy and awkward in her unpractised hand. She approached the sofa, upon which lay the bulbous form of X, and tasted sour bile in her mouth. Here he was, the man who had taken Bobby away. Here he was, the man who wanted her used knickers and sanitary towels. Here he was, the man who had made her pull her own tooth out.

Reposed, he looked bucolic, almost, like a fallen tree trunk, a part of the forest. He was dressed in a camouflaged, military style jacket splattered with patches of brown, green and grey. Underneath, he wore a dark blue t-shirt that was too small for him. It rode up above his stomach, which was pale, and hairy, the belly button lost in a soft crease of fat. Laura felt like she recognised the blue shirt from the day he had attacked her, but she couldn’t be sure. Underneath, he had squeezed into poorly fitting camouflage trousers, and under those sat two dirty, worn Nike trainers with the soles flapping freely from both feet.

She studied him with a distant curiosity as she approached. He had a beard, and a bulbous nose, and she was reminded, absurdly, of pictures and carvings she’d seen of the Green Man, deity of the forest. He was dirty, and smelled of urine and mud and sweat, even from several feet away. Mosquitos gathered around his exposed hands and ankles, but he seemed unconcerned by them, letting them land, bite and drink without slapping a single one away.

Laura took a step closer, then another, then another, the dull throb in her ankle a constant reminder of how far she’d come to be here. She held the gun out before her, rigid, in a warning gesture. His deep-set eyes glittered in his face. She came to a stop before him, just out of arm’s reach.

‘I’m here,’ she said, at last, her voice weak and unsteady, and X laughed, lazily craning his neck and checking an ancient wind-up watch on his filthy wrist.

‘You’re early,’ he wheezed, and Laura wished, suddenly, with all her heart, that the gun was loaded.

27.

‘I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Laura.’

The gun wobbled in her hand, and her arm ached from the effort of holding it out and keeping it pointed at his head.

‘I don’t care,’ she said, not willing to engage with anything except the reason she had come: to tell him to leave her alone.