It Started With A Tweet(17)

‘Don’t look so freaked out, it’s only a week, two weeks max,’ says Rosie as if she knew that this was going to happen.

‘Two weeks? I didn’t agree to that .?.?. I need to be back and job hunting as soon as I can,’ I say, wondering where the hell we are and whether I can walk back to civilisation and put myself on a train to London. This was an awful idea. A week was bad enough, but two weeks .?.?.

‘It’s just until you’re free of your digital addiction,’ she says calmly as if I’m a drug addict about to be checked into rehab.

I might have wanted to prove to Rosie that she was wrong, that I’m perfectly capable of doing this, but now, as we’re approaching H-Hour, I’m beginning to have second thoughts. She’s talking like I can’t actually leave until I’m ‘cured’. What if it’s a cult that’ll keep me prisoner, with my phone and link to the outside world ripped away from me so that I can’t tell anyone I’m being held against my will? I stare at my sister, my own flesh and blood, and wonder where she’s taking me .?.?.

I knew I shouldn’t have binge watched Broadchurch – talk about making me paranoid.

I look out the window, desperately trying to take in the rise and fall of the landscape. I memorise the dry-stone walls and oak trees dotted over the rolling hills, the humpback bridges that the Land Rover bumps over, and the bends in the road. All in case I need to escape back to the main road. Back to civilisation.

We turn a bend and all of a sudden we’re driving through a small village with the road sign declaring it to be Lullamby. The dark-bricked houses line the route as the road creeps round. A pub stands in the centre, its sign blowing in the wind, and a village-shop-cum-post-office is opposite. There’s a small church on the outskirts and then we’re back out into the countryside again. But at least there’s hope, that’s the first sign of people I’ve seen for ages. Maybe the pub even has WiFi.

We only drive a mile or two outside the village when Rosie turns sharply up a dirt track.

‘Here we go, hold on to your handle,’ she says, grinning manically with excitement.

I see that damn twinkle in her eyes and I wonder what I’ve let myself in for.

‘Look out!’ I shout as a dog runs out into our path.

She slams her brakes on and we go flying forward.

The springer spaniel bounds back to his owner, who doesn’t look pleased to see us. Despite the blue skies and the fact that it’s May, he’s dressed like a yeti. Tatty old fleece over the top of another fleece, big boots, and a hat with flaps over his ears. Even his big beard’s keeping him warm. I’m surprised, when he turns to give us a scowl, that he looks relatively young; I expect him to be older by the way he is dressed.

‘Is this the welcoming committee?’ I say laughing nervously.

Rosie gives him a cheery wave, which he ignores, as he walks after his dog up another track by a crumbling old building.

‘No, no. He must be a neighbour,’ she says putting the car into gear and carrying on up to the track.

I turn my nose up hoping that the neighbours aren’t indicative of where we’re going.

I hold on to the handle above the window as the Land Rover tilts from side to side up the drive. I’m glad that we’re in this and not the nippy Audi she used to zip around in. I don’t think much else would have made the journey, and I wouldn’t have fancied walking up here with my suitcase.

‘What is this place? And why haven’t they got a proper road?’ I say, thinking that it’s hardly good for business.

We reach the top of a hill, and there, nestled in a dip just below, is what looks like an old farm.

Rosie screeches to a halt and yanks the handbrake on with two hands.

‘Here we are,’ she says excitedly, jumping out of the car.

I stay inside for a minute, trying to take in what I’m seeing. It’s not what I had in mind.

The stone wall around the farm is crumbling, the barn nearest to us looks as if it was recently in use to house cows, and the main farmhouse is a bit fifty shades of grey – in a stone sense, rather than a kinky one, it looks so drab and cold.

‘Come on,’ says Rosie, opening my door.

I step out reluctantly, still clutching my phone. I look in desperation, hoping for a signal, but alas we’re still out of range.

‘You won’t be needing that,’ says Rosie, plying it out of my hand and switching it off. ‘Come on.’

I’m still waiting for our welcoming committee to come and meet us, but Rosie marches up to the old front door.

The farmhouse looks like it’s in a better state than the rest of the farm; the roof is tiled with dark slate that looks new and shiny, and the stone in the wall looks solid. But on close inspection, the windows and door tell a different story. The paintwork is still flaking on the windows, the wooden frames look rotten and the front door is broken at the bottom, leaving a hole the size of my foot. I get the impression that neither do a good job of keeping the elements out.

Rosie lifts a huge rock along one of the walls and retrieves a comically large iron key, which she uses to unlock the door. She gives it a good shove with her shoulder and it creaks open.

I follow her inside and we find ourselves in the kitchen of the house, if I can even call it that. The walls are covered in bare plaster with an assortment of mismatched cupboards along them, there’s a sink with exposed pipes, a cooker that would look more at home in a museum and a large wooden table – heavily stained – and uncomfortable-looking chairs.