Blooming Women

5. Flowers

Frustration got the better of her; Amber surged forward angrily. And stopped, gasping. Her wrist was being held very solidly now and the only way forward was to break her own arm. She half jumped, half stumbled, back but felt something catch her free arm by the coat sleeve; panicked, she twisted away sharply, as far as her freshly captured arm would let her; there was an unpleasant moment that made her think she was completely trapped again, then her coat came free. She tried another tug on her trapped wrist, but cold, hard fingers held it more firmly than she'd thought possible.

'It won't work, you know. Not really. You're much smaller than he was, and I held him easily.'

'Listen. Listen. My name's Amber? I'm just visiting some friends. They know where I am and they'll come looking.'

'It's nice to have friends,' said the dreamy voice from the darkness. 'It is lonely at this time of year; my friends have gone away. I expect yours think you have, too.'

'No. No! They're expecting me back and they'll come—'

'Are these different friends to the ones you were with earlier?'

'What?'

'I saw you earlier with your friend – she has mated this year? She passes every day, sometimes with her husband. The first time I saw you, you came past by yourself with no friends and now you're going back with no friends again. I expect they'll be glad when you die.'

Now was not the time to mention that Cloud and Gary had only announced the open secret of their engagement at tonight's party and were not married, even if they'd been inseparable since day one, or it might have been day three, of university.

'No! They'll be sad. Really, really sad!'

'Baz the man said – he told me his name and all about his family – Wife-Mary would be glad to see the back of him, he said, so I know she wasn't sad at all. She was glad. So glad, she brings me flowers every month. I expect your friends will bring lots of flowers to say thank you when you die.' 

The warmth from the brief burst of exercise faded sharply: this was getting scary. Scarier. And colder. The smell of frost, usually a welcome prelude to an enlivening run on a bright winter morning, was sharp in the back of her nose now, and she could feel shivers lining up to march through her body again.

'She's a nutter! Any ideas?'

Very apt, Dear. I had hoped you would show your aptitude at this point.

'I'm not usually trapped by the wrist and freezing my arse off! ...What's apt?'

Oh. I thought it was one of your own earthy little turns of phrase, playing on hazel nuts, and the neologism 'nut-case'.

'Do you have to be a teacher all the bloody— all the time? What's new about it, anyway? Jack the Ripper was a nutter too, and that was before your time. Don't answer that – help me! I'm going to end up with hypothermia at this rate.'

I think you would be best served by not getting hypothermia. Somebody is bound to come before long and investigate the car, and then shouting loudly would be a sensible. Or precipitative. And I know you are at your most resourceful when—

'When the precipitate hits the fan? Is that your plan? Keep her talking and don't freeze while I'm thinking of something clever?'

There are worse plans. I am interested  to know how the creature is willing to let you die but has made no overt move to kill you. I suggest we keep her talking and do nothing further to provoke her; she may yet change her mind in our favour.

Creature... Sharing names both ways might help? A little? And 'Creature' just didn't suit as a name, although Amber had something more terse in mind if her captor wasn't forthcoming.

'Ifff.' Her chin vibrated as a shiver got the better of her. 'If I'm going to die, you can tell me your name – it's not like I'm going to tell anybody, is it?'

You're thinking of kidnappers, Dear; I am sure a nymph of any genus would not by bothered by public identification.

'My name? Why, Baz the man didn't ask me my name; is it that women give names to each other?'

For the wrong reasons she is right, when it comes to women giving each other names.

'I hear people talking when they pass my grove; sometimes they mate here – most things do: flies and foxes, rabbits and rats; your friend and her husband mated here when my dress was new summer-green...'

Ewww. If she hadn't had one arm hanging out in front of her, Amber would have stuck her fingers in her ears and la-la-la'd over everything being said. As it was, the hand was beginning to really ache; even the warmth of  fingertip's length of ear hole would be welcome.

'So. Do you have a name?'

There was an impression of shrugging, if the way her arm tugged was anything to go by.

'I'm. I am. Me. Baz the man told me how you name yourselves; it seemed untidy. How do you know where anybody is from?'

'S-s-s-so are you M-Miss... Miss Blackspot Bend then?'

'What sort of name is that?'

'It's what people are calling it here, if it's you causing all the car crashes. It won't last you know, the council will make it safer – they'll fix that barrier and grub up the woods to make the road bigg—'

DEAR? Antagonising her, whoever she is, will not avail us. I thought attacking her again most unwise...

Samantha ignored Amber's retort and carried on. If the dress we saw her in earlier was anything to go by, I would say the name Vivienne 'West' Wood would be suitable – but for the fact that this is a northerly slope.

'How do you even know that? Don't bother! Tell me... uh. Tell me later.'

'I'm... The Hazel Grove By The Stream, Under The Hill Where The Hairy People Had The Fort, Until They Went Away.'

'Is that h-h-h-hyphenated?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Why don't I call you Hazel. Hazel—'

Westwood?

'Grove.' Said Amber as firmly as her jaw would allow; she could feel the cold burning in the fingers of her trapped hand, and her bare legs were getting beyond her control. She began to stamp her feet to try and get some warmth – or at least to give her something to do. The idea of rolling into a ball was getting more and more tempting.

The shape of the newly named Hazel's head nodded. Amber's eyes were adapting well to the dark now; there was enough spill from the car's headlamps at the top of the embankment to make out the shape, if not the colour, of the slim woman grasping her wrist. For now, the lights were steady; with luck the battery wouldn't be dead by dawn. Amber was starting to pray she'd be having the same luck, herself.

'I like it,' said Hazel, amiably. 'Hazel Grove. Yes. Thank you. I see death is closer in you, too.'

'Why. Why do you do this to people, Hazel?' The new surge of anger helped, but her body was losing heat faster than she could compensate, without a lot more movement.

'People bring me flowers,' said Hazel.