The Hollows by Mark Edwards
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Saturday
WELCOME TO HOLLOW FALLS
A few helium-filled balloons had been tied to the wooden sign at the entrance of the resort. They bobbed lazily in the breeze, bumping against each other as if they would like to escape, to sail over the treetops, but couldn’t gather the energy to really try.
Beside the reception building another sign announced that this was the GRAND OPENING WEEK. I parked next to it and went inside to collect our keys. There were two people behind the desk, a large man and a skinny woman. The man, who was in his mid-thirties, beckoned me forward. He wore a red polo shirt that strained against his bulk, the button at the collar looking like it was going to pop at any moment. His badge told me he was Greg Quinn, the manager.
I handed him my passport and he looked me up on the computer, meaty fingers stabbing at the keys.
‘Did you come all the way from England to visit us?’ he asked as he handed my passport back.
The answer was more complicated than a simple yes or no, but it was easier to say, ‘I did.’
‘Hey, Vivian, you hear that? Mr Anderson has come here from the UK.’
Vivian, a grey-haired woman with a no-bullshit air, muttered something like, ‘Probably one of them’, although that didn’t make much sense. One of what? I decided I must have misheard.
Greg gave me the keys along with a welcome pack. ‘This your first time in Maine?’
‘Actually, it is.’
‘I’m even more flattered.’ He stuck out a hand for me to shake. His clasp was strong. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to come see Vivian or me.’
Vivian muttered something else. It sounded like, ‘Him, preferably.’
Minutes later, still chuckling at Greg and Vivian’s double act, I was steering the rental into the bay outside cabin fourteen, on the far side of the resort. Nestled in the trees, the cabin – like all the cabins here – was brand new. Its windows gleamed in the sunshine. This was our home for the next ten nights.
I looked over my shoulder. Frankie, my fourteen-year-old daughter, was still asleep, and I took the opportunity to stretch my legs before waking her. I got out of the car and inhaled. The air was so fresh it felt like a cold beer at the end of a hard day’s work. Like I was breathing properly for the first time in months. Eager to share this moment, I rapped lightly on the car window.
Frankie woke up as I opened the car door. She blinked and plucked at the lock of hair that was stuck to her forehead.
‘We’re here?’
‘We’re here.’ I jangled the keys. ‘Want to see what it’s like inside?’
She squinted at the cabin.
‘I guess,’ she said.
It was perfect. Along with the two bedrooms, there was a living area with a tiny TV and DVD player, a small kitchen, plus a main bathroom and an en suite attached to my bedroom. There was a deck with a barbecue and a table for outside dining. The beds were big and comfortable. There was plenty of space but I could already tell that at night, when we were surrounded by the darkness of the Maine woods, it would be cosy. The rear of the cabin backed directly on to those woods, which, according to the map I’d studied before coming here, stretched for miles in every direction. It was a beautiful place.
Even Frankie seemed impressed.
‘My room is massive,’ she said, coming into the kitchen, where I was trying to figure out how to work the coffee maker. She had her Hydro Flask with her, an expensive drinks bottle that she carried everywhere like a comfort blanket. She went over to the sink and filled the bottle with water from the tap – or faucet, as she had started to call it.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ I said. ‘Would you describe it as “awesome”?’
She cringed. ‘Dad. You’re so . . .’
‘Awesome?’
She groaned and I made a vow to stop teasing her about being American now. The truth was, I was still reeling from when I’d first seen her earlier, picking her up from her new home in Albany. I had parked the car expecting to see a child, my little girl, and a young woman had emerged from the house. A beautiful young woman with her mother’s dark-brown hair and lightly freckled skin. She had inherited my hazel eyes and the ‘lucky’ gap between my front teeth – along with my height. It had been a year since I’d last seen her in the flesh, and all those FaceTime calls and Instagram photos hadn’t prepared me for how much she’d grown.
‘We can go down to the lake in a bit,’ I said. ‘Sign up for some activities. I thought we could try archery. Did I tell you Grandad used to be an archery champion? Maybe you’ll have inherited—’
‘Dad, chill, okay? We’ve only just got here.’
She had her iPhone in her hand – an older model, which her mum had handed down – and she went around the cabin taking photos, including a few selfies with her fingers held up in that ubiquitous V-for-Victory sign. I watched as she tapped at the screen, presumably choosing which photos were most flattering, applying filters, creating the most perfect version of reality she could.
Then she furrowed her brow.
‘I can’t find a Wi-Fi network,’ she said.
‘That’s because there isn’t any Wi-Fi here.’