The Chemistry of Death

4

The mist was still rolling off the marshes when the young woman closed the door behind her and set off on her morning run. Lyn Metcalf ran with an easy athleticism. The pull in her calf muscle was healing nicely, but she still took it easy at first, falling into relaxed, loping strides as she ran along the narrow lane from her house. Partway down she cut off onto an overgrown track that led across marshland to the lake.

Long grass stalks whipped at her legs as she ran, still wet and cold with dew. She took a deep breath, savouring the feeling. Monday morning or not, she couldn't think of a better start to a new week. This was her favourite time of day, before she had to worry about balancing the accounts of farmers and small businesses who resented her advice, before the day developed a less optimistic shape, before other people had a chance to sully it. All was fresh and sharp, reduced to the rhythmic thump of her feet on the track and the even rasp of her breathing.

At thirty-one Lyn was proud of her condition. Proud of the discipline that kept her in shape, and meant she still looked good in the tight shorts and cropped top. Not that she would be smug enough to admit that to anybody. Besides, she enjoyed it, and that made it easier. Enjoyed pushing herself, seeing how far she could go, and then trying for that extra bit further. If there was a better start to the day than pulling on a pair of running shoes and putting in the miles while the world came alive around her she'd yet to find it.

Well, OK, except sex, of course. And the edge had gone from that lately. Not that it wasn't still good – just the sight of Marcus showering off the day's plaster dust, the water flattening the dark hair on his body to an otter's pelt, could still produce a coiling in her belly. But when there was a point behind it besides pleasure it tended to blunt the enjoyment for both of them. Especially when it had come to nothing.

So far.

She leapt over a deep rut in the track without breaking stride, careful not to lose her rhythm. Lose my rhythm, she thought, sourly. I wish. When it came to rhythms her body was as regular as clockwork. Every month without fail, almost to the day, the hated flow of blood would begin, signalling the end of another cycle and a fresh disappointment. The doctors had said there was nothing wrong with either of them. For some people it just took longer than others; no-one knew why. Keep trying, they said. And they had, eagerly at first, laughing at being given medical approval for doing something they both enjoyed anyway. Almost like getting it on prescription, Marcus had joked. But the jokes had gradually petered out, replaced by something that wasn't quite desperation, not yet. But the embryonic beginnings of that, if nothing else, were forming. And it was starting to colour everything else, to taint every aspect of their relationship.

Not that either of them admitted it. It was there, though. She knew Marcus found it hard enough that she earned more from her small accountancy practice than he did as a builder. The recriminations hadn't started yet, but she was frightened they might. And she knew she was as capable of hitting out as Marcus. Outwardly, they'd reassured each other that there was nothing to worry about, that there was no rush. But they'd been trying for years, and in another four she'd be thirty-five, the age she'd always claimed would be her cut-off point. She did a quick sum. That's forty-eight more menstruations. It seemed frighteningly close. Forty-eight more potential disappointments. Except that this month was different. This month the disappointment was three days late.

She quickly closed down the burst of hope she felt. It was too soon for that. She'd not even told Marcus that her period hadn't started. No point raising his hopes for nothing. She would give it a few more days, then take a test. That thought alone was enough to send a flutter of nerves through her stomach. Run, don't think, she told herself, firmly.

The sun was coming up now, burnishing the sky directly ahead. The track ran along an embankment by the lake, cutting through reedbeds as it headed for a dark expanse of woods. Mist curled slowly on the water, as if it were about to combust. The sound of a fish jumping broke the silence with an invisible slap. She loved this. Loved summer, loved the landscape. Even though she'd been born here, she'd still been away to university, travelled abroad. But she'd always come back. God's own country, her dad always said. She didn't believe in God, not really, but she knew what he meant.

She was coming to her favourite part of the run now. A path forked off into the woods, and Lyn followed it. She slowed her pace as the trees closed in overhead, closeting her in shadows. It was all too easy to trip over a root in the dim light. It had been a stumble over one of them that had made her pull the muscle in her leg, and she'd gone almost two months before she could run again.

But the low sun was already starting to pierce the gloom, turning the canopy of leaves into a glowing latticework. The woodland here was ancient, a wilderness of creeper-strangled trunks and swampy, treacherous ground. Cutting through it was a warren of meandering paths that could lure the unwary into its depths. When they'd first moved into the house Lyn had made the mistake of exploring it during one of her morning runs. It had been hours before she'd emerged onto a familiar stretch by pure luck. Marcus had been frantic – and furious – when she'd finally made it back home. Since then she'd kept to the same path going both in and out.

The halfway point for her six-mile route was a small clearing, in the centre of which was an old standing stone. It might have been part of a stone circle once, or just a gatepost. No-one knew any more. Overgrown with lichen and grass, its history and secrets were long forgotten. But it was a convenient marker, and Lyn had fallen into the habit of patting its rough surface before setting off back. The clearing wasn't far now, a few minutes at most. Breathing deeply but steadily, Lyn thought about breakfast to goad herself to run faster.

She wasn't sure when the unease started. It was more a growing awareness, a subliminal itch that finally tipped into conscious thought. Suddenly, the woods seemed unnaturally quiet. Oppressive. The thud of her feet on the path sounded too loud in the stillness. She tried to ignore the feeling, but it persisted. Grew stronger. She fought the temptation to look around. What the hell was the matter with her? It wasn't as if she hadn't done this run most mornings for the past two years. She'd never been bothered before.

But she was now. The back of her neck prickled, as though something was watching her. Don't be stupid, she told herself. But the urge to look back was growing. She kept her eyes on the path. The only other living thing she'd ever seen here was a deer. This didn't feel like a deer, though. That's because it isn't. It's nothing. Just your imagination. Your period's three days late and you're letting it get to you.

The thought distracted her, but only briefly. She risked a quick glance, had time to see only dark branches and the path twisting out of sight before her foot stubbed against something. She stumbled, windmilling her arms for balance, heart thumping as she just managed to keep upright. Idiot! The clearing was just ahead of her now, an oasis of dappled sunbeams in the choked woodland. She put on an extra spurt of speed, slapped her hand onto the rough surface of the standing stone and quickly turned around.

Nothing. Just the trees, shadowed and brooding.

What did you expect? Pixies? But she didn't leave the clearing. There was no birdsong, no whisper of insects. The wood seemed to hold its breath in pensive silence. Lyn was suddenly afraid to break it, loath to leave the clearing's sanctuary and feel the trees close in around her again. So what are you going to do? Stay here all day?

Without giving herself time to think, she pushed off from the stone again. Five minutes and she'd be back out in the open. Open fields, open water, open sky. She pictured it in her mind. The unease was still there, but less urgent. And the shadowy woods were growing lighter, the sun throwing its light ahead of her now. She began to relax, and that was when she saw something on the ground ahead of her.

She stopped a few feet away. Splayed out on the centre of the path like an offering was a dead rabbit. No, not a rabbit. A hare, its soft fur matted with blood.

It hadn't been there before.

Lyn quickly looked around. But the trees offered no clue as to where it had come from. She stepped around it, then broke into a run again. A fox, she told herself, as she settled back into her rhythm. She must have disturbed it. But a fox wouldn't have left its prey behind, disturbed or not. And the hare didn't look as if it had been just dropped. The way it was laid out looked…

Looked deliberate.

That was stupid, though. She pushed the thought from her mind as she pounded down the path. And then she was out of the wood and back in the open, with the lake spread out before her. The anxiety she'd felt a few minutes before sloughed away, fading with every step. In the sunlight it seemed absurd. Embarrassing, even.

Later, her husband Marcus would remember that the local news was on the radio as she came in. As he put bread in the toaster and chopped a banana he told Lyn that a body had been found only a few miles away. It must have sparked a connection, even then, because she told him about finding the dead hare. But she'd laughed about it, making a joke of how it had spooked her. As the bread popped out of the toaster the incident already seemed insignificant to both of them.

When she came back from the shower, it wasn't mentioned again.