THE FRIENDS

There’s a certain park, somewhere in the north-west of England. I don’t want to name it, because I would not want to encourage anyone to visit it to see what you might find, because you might find what you are looking for and then very much wish that you didn’t.
If you live in that place though, you might know this park already, because it may have been you that decided to cut through it one night. You wouldn’t normally do that, but it was freezing cold and there were no taxis to be found, and cutting through the park would mean you would be home, warm, and in bed at least twenty minutes earlier.
You listened out, as you walked, for drunk groups or following footsteps, but it was perhaps too cold even for people who might wish others harm. The grass and the path were sparkling with frost, and your own breath made little clouds in front of you.
Up a small rise, just past one of the ponds, the bushes came close to the path. As you reached the top of the rise the bushes shook and shivered, and you stopped, flight or fight response kicking in, your heart faster, your muscles ready to move.
A child stepped out, no more than eight or ten. You let out a breath and then your fear was replaced with concern, and you asked what he was doing there, what was wrong, were they not cold. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a jumper over the top, not enough for a night like this, out too late for a night like this.
“I’m with the friends,” he said, in a very flat voice, as if he were asking you the time.
You looked around. There was no one else in sight. Well, where were they, and what were they doing out so late, your mum and dad must be…
“There’s just the friends,” he said, and this time you realised it was odd that he didn’t refer to them as ‘my friends.’ “And they’re in here.” The boy gestured back at the bush.
You called for them to come out, but no one did. “If you want to meet the friends,” the boy said, “you have to come in.” He waved back at the bush again.
You said no, they all had to come out now, and if they didn’t or weren’t there, well the boy had to come with you and you would ring his parents.
“I don’t have any parents,” the boy said. “Just the friends,” and he stepped back and disappeared into the bush.


You stood there for a moment, caught in indecision. You couldn’t leave the boy, but you didn’t want to go into the bushes, you would not go into the bushes. Then they shivered and shook again, and before you could think your body knew better and you started to run. 
When you were out of the park, you found a working phone box and picked the phone up with your coat sleeve stretched down over your hands, and dialled with the back of your knuckles. You told the police that there was a boy in the park, and then you went home and into bed but you were not warm, and you did not sleep.
For months you kept reading the local news, terrified you would see a story about a lost child, found dead.


You never did.
Just, every few months, a story of someone on a night out who never made it home.