The Shadow House(12)

In all honesty, I hadn’t known what to expect from an ecovillage (privately, I’d assumed the same as Ollie: that it would be full of yoga fanatics and tree-huggers) but both the diversity of people and the immediate sense of community were surprising. I hadn’t felt so unconditionally welcomed or accepted since my backpacking days of hostels, bus stations and beach bars. I said as much to Kit and it seemed to make him happy.

I then asked him where he’d gone to school and how he grew up, but his answers were short and vague. ‘All over the place, really. Sydney mostly, but also Europe and the States. It’s actually a lot more boring than it sounds. What about you, have you seen much of the world?’

I told him a few travel stories, which led to bucket lists, which somehow led to favourite movies, and I found myself passionately dissecting the underrated genius of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. Kara babbled along with me, punctuating my anecdotes with little gasps and squeals. Then, in an attempt to demonstrate some intelligence, I asked him how it was that he’d founded an entire ecovillage. ‘It’s hard to believe you did it all yourself,’ I said. You’re so young, I almost added, but quickly realised that such a comment would only serve to highlight how old I was in comparison. There had to be ten years between us at least.

‘I didn’t do it all myself,’ Kit replied. ‘There was a whole group of us. Just friends at first, people I met on the activist circuit. But once we found the land and blocked out the rough plans, we got serious. We met with investors, architects, builders, city officials, local council – god, the meetings went on forever. Then we got the green light, and it was on. We had to plant crops, install a wastewater treatment system, construct a wetland, pass tests, meet criteria. Not a one-person job at all.’

‘I can imagine.’ I couldn’t help but smile. Kit lit up when he talked about Pine Ridge; it was nice to see someone so passionate about their job. ‘Sounds like a lot of work.’

Kit shrugged. ‘Weirdly, the work itself is the easy part. Things are more chilled when there’s stuff to do; it’s the bits in between that are challenging. The decision-making, the endless discussion. The tension can get a little out of hand sometimes, but we’re figuring it out. And it’s all worth it. I knew as soon as I saw the land that it would be perfect.’

I had to agree. Despite Ollie’s negativity and my own second-guessing, I was hopeful that Pine Ridge would be the place for us. Natural beauty. Community. Isolation. Protection. Obscurity. And once the wellness centre, cafe and pool were up and running, there might even be some opportunity for work.

Our pace naturally slowed as we made our way out of the trees and reached the edge of the village, and I found myself wishing we could carry on, perhaps for hours, just walking and talking beneath the cornflower-blue sky. I had a strange sense that Kit was an old friend, that I’d known him for years – and as we approached our unit I almost asked, Where do I know you from? But just as I turned, the question on my lips, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Once, twice, three times.

Surreptitiously, I checked the screen. My stomach dropped. Stuart.

Kit carried on chatting, but I couldn’t think. The buzzing continued – four times, five – and I became so distracted that Kit asked if there was anything wrong. Eventually I used Kara as an excuse. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m watching the clock. Parenting 101: you don’t monkey with naptime.’

I climbed the steps to my front door with shaky legs.

‘Hey, Alex,’ Kit called from the road below. ‘I forgot to tell you. On Thursdays everyone gets together at the greenhouses for dinner. Come down around five and bring a dish.’

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. And then, with my guts churning and my heart in my mouth, I went inside and closed the door firmly behind me.


I read Stuart’s messages while feeding Kara some puree, spooning sweet potato into her mouth with one hand, scrolling through hate mail with the other. The good news was that he still didn’t seem to know where we were. The bad news was that he was getting more and more frustrated.

Bitch

Fuck you

Watch your back slut I will find you

I will fucking bury you and your freeloading dropkick youtuber of a son fucking no hoper

That last message was confusing, as well as offensive. I read it again. What did ‘youtuber’ mean? Was it meant to be an insult? Ollie wasn’t an actual YouTuber; if he were, I would know about it … wouldn’t I?

When Kara was finished eating, I hitched her onto my hip and went to my son’s room.

‘Ollie?’ I knocked softly on his door but there was no reply. I pushed it open to find an empty room and a scribbled note on his bed. Gone skating.

Fine, I thought. At least he was now getting out of the house.

After I put Kara down for her nap, I checked Ollie’s Facebook page, knowing I probably wouldn’t find anything. ‘Facebook is for old people,’ I’d once heard him say. He used it occasionally to access games and other websites but preferred Snapchat and Instagram. Those accounts were private, though, which meant I couldn’t see his activity without getting into his phone: an impossible task, like stealing gold from a dragon but trickier and more terrifying.

His Facebook profile was the same as ever: no new posts, tags or check-ins – but, in the Photos section, I found a video. It had been posted just over three weeks ago, via YouTube. Without thinking twice, I clicked.