The Last Resort(66)
‘So much for our welcoming party,’ James mutters.
They stop walking, waiting for Lucy and Scott to catch them up.
‘Nice house,’ Scott says when they arrive. ‘Bit smaller than I expected.’
‘You Yanks and your crazy McMansions.’ Lucy punches him playfully on the shoulder.
They walk closer.
‘Whatever. But the whole point of our big houses is we’ve got the space. Plenty of space here. Coulda made it twice this size.’ He walks over to the window on the right and cups his hands around his face, pressing up close to the glass to peer inside. ‘Nothing in there but a bookcase and a bunch of armchairs.’ He takes a step back, turns to them, grinning. ‘Maybe that’s where we go for the after-dinner cigars.’
Amelia heads towards the window on the left. It’s harder to see closer up, the curtain obscuring what’s inside. But she can see a long dining table set with goblets and plates, candelabras in the centre, light flickering from the flames. The chairs are high-backed, and they are all unoccupied.
‘Wonder where the others are?’ James says, joining her.
‘I don’t care about that right now,’ Amelia says. Her earlier vulnerability is gone. ‘I just want to get in there and give the organisers of this whole stupid thing a piece of my mind. I’m not impressed. I want to go home. Right now. And when I get there, I’m going to be making some calls about this. Non-disclosure agreement or not.’
James raises his eyebrows at her, but says nothing.
She’s done a good job of keeping herself in check, trying to do the best for the others, but the relief of finally making it here is tinged with anger over the ridiculous day they’ve had, and all that’s happened along the way. It’s hard to believe that they arrived here this morning, in glorious sunshine, all bursting with excitement for the day ahead – and now, several of them are injured, and all of them are mentally broken. All the arduous aid work she’s done over the years, all the things she’s seen – none of it has prepared her for this deliberate form of torture.
She’s about to continue her internal tirade when there’s a soft creak, and a shaft of light spills across them as the door swings open and someone appears in the porch.
‘Well, hello!’ Harvey says. ‘What took you so long?’ His voice is playful.
Amelia wants to punch him. ‘Is this some sort of joke? What took us so long? Have you any idea—’
Harvey raises a hand. ‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I know you’ve had a tough day. I understand it’s probably not what you expected of your time here. Please, come inside. Everything is ready for you.’
Bone-tired, they trudge inside, removing their headlamps, which Harvey collects from them. They move through the porch into a wide hallway, unbuttoning their jackets as the warmth hits them.
‘Well, this is nice.’ Lucy looks around, taking it all in. Patterned tile flooring, grandfather clock, oil paintings and high ceilings.
There are several doors leading off the hallway, and a grand spiral staircase takes pride of place. Amelia’s gaze follows the thick cream carpet upstairs to the landing, where she can just make out a series of doors separated by expanses of gold-papered walls adorned with more oil paintings. She brings her eyes back down, tries to find something aesthetically pleasing amid the gaudy decoration of the entrance hall, and fails. She stares at one of the paintings hanging on the wall next to her and takes in the scene: low, tumbledown cottages with high marsh grass all around. Just behind, in the distance, the murky grey of the sea – and in the foreground a stern-looking couple, both dressed in drab tweeds, she holding a bucket and he a long pitchfork. They don’t look happy about being painted, and the scene is not uplifting in any way. It’s executed well, but there is something horribly dark about it that gives her a small shiver down the back of her neck.
She looks away.
‘Just one moment, please.’ Harvey disappears through one of the doors, leaving them standing there.
James shrugs. ‘So, what now? Dinner and bed?’
‘Netflix and chill?’ Lucy laughs.
Amelia shakes her head. ‘I don’t like this place. It’s giving me bad vibes.’
‘Whooo,’ Scott says, wiggling his hands in front of her face. ‘Heebie-jeebies.’
‘Shut up!’ She thrusts her hands into his chest and he flies back across the hallway, feet slipping on the tiles, and ends up crumpled on the floor at the foot of the stairs.
‘Jesus, what is wrong with you?’ Lucy barks at her, then rushes over to Scott and helps him to sit up. He’s muttering that he’s OK, rubbing the back of his head; he looks confused more than anything else. His eyes meet Amelia’s.
‘Scott, oh my God,’ she says. ‘I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. There’s no excuse.’
He shrugs. ‘No harm done, eh? We’re all a bit wired.’ He still looks wary.
James is looking at her oddly. ‘Amelia? Are you OK?’
She turns away from them all and walks towards one of the closed doors. There’s a narrow glass pane running down one side of it, giving her a perfect view of what’s inside. It’s another small reception room, like the one that Scott peered into from outside, with the bookcase and the armchairs. This one has a roaring fire and comfortable-looking couches. She can make out the faint sound of music playing. The couches are all facing inwards, towards the fire. Two people sit on one couch, and a third person on another, all facing away from her. The light in the room is dim, the candlelight flickering against the walls mixes with the flames of the fire, making shadows dance – making it look like the people are moving.