Level Four. Part Five: 'Clive' by Virginia Hainsworth

I hear a sharp crack. What was that? I know there are hunters in these woods. Or maybe it was distant thunder. Calm down, Clive old boy. I sometimes find that talking out loud to myself steadies me. But not this time. Instead of floating away from me, as they usually do, my words hang in the oppressive air and enlarge my feelings of isolation. This is not going to plan.

My badly twisted knee is throbbing like hell and the bee sting is causing my hand to swell up like a balloon. There is little chance that I shall be able to climb back up the steep incline towards the path at the top. I only meant to hide in the bushes by the track, but taking a tumble like this has left me shaken.

Damn Michael. I speak out loud again. When he and I had agreed that I would ‘become lost’ at some point on the walk, we both grinned at the simple idea. I would be able to test Jemma’s reaction to my disappearance. He would report back to me how she behaved. My unexplained absence would surely make her realise how much she depends on me. And he, in turn, would observe the group dynamics in response to a crisis, as material for the detail of his Level Four game. Brilliant. Only now I’m hurt and can’t re-join the path to follow the group. Damn him.

I could have told him how the others will react. Natasha will be cool and professional.  She will tell the group to stay put whilst she retraces our steps. Charlie will assume leadership in her absence and do exactly the opposite from what she has instructed. Prats like him are so predictable. Diana will flip. She’s a bit unstable. Seamus, the creep, will move in on Jemma. And the rest will melt into the background, unaware of their bit parts in our little drama. Except Michael, of course. He’s a manipulative git. It occurs to me that I find it easy to predict the reaction of everyone except my own wife. What exactly is Jemma doing as I sit here? What else can I do to jolt her into some kind of tender feeling towards me?

“Clive? Clive? Can you hear me? Are you ok?”  Natasha’s distant voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Down here,” I call. Within minutes, she has slid and scrambled her way down to me.

“What have you did?” she enquires, and I want to laugh. I tell her that I went behind a tree to take a pee, when I fell. As she leans over me to examine my knee, I can smell her perfume, mingled with the sweetness of perspiration. A thought occurs to me. Now that would definitely prompt Jemma into some kind of reaction. But very possibly not the one I want.

“It is good job I saw broken branches and slip marks by path. But I cannot get you back to top by my own self. I must go and get help.” Natasha pulls a bottle of water out of her backpack and thrusts it into my swollen hand. I yelp in pain.

“So sorry,” she says. “You have no allergy to stings, yes?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll be alright.” After a few words of reassurance, she climbs back to the top of the incline and disappears. I lean back again, cursing my own stupidity but sighing with relief. At least I have been found before it gets dark. Overhead, I can see vultures circling. In more ways than one. I speak out aloud again but my voice sounds strained. I hear the sharp crack again but nearer this time. It is followed by a prolonged rustling in the undergrowth not far off.

Suddenly it seems so much darker down here.