The Retreat(10)

There was a map accompanying the article I’d read the day before, showing the stretch of river where the incident had occurred. I copied it into a notebook and went out.

Walking through the thin patch of trees towards the Dee, I tried to convince myself I wasn’t a misery tourist, the kind of person who visits a murder scene to see where the carnage happened. I kept telling myself to turn back, go ‘home’, get on with my book, but my legs had other ideas. They carried me forward until I came out onto a muddy path where the river swept around a bend.

As soon as I stepped onto the path, an image flashed in my mind of this very place. A pebble striking the water. An adult calling out. It stopped me in my tracks.

It had to be a memory from my childhood. And, of course, that made sense. My parents must have brought me here. We’d probably come frequently. But, like so much of my early childhood in Wales, the memory had retreated into a dark, unreachable place.

I consulted the map. Yes, this was where it had happened. It was raining, little icy needles on the back of my neck, and the river was swollen, foaming like a rabid dog. It was easy to see how someone could drown in that churning current as it swept around the corner. Even the strongest swimmer would struggle. A child wouldn’t stand a chance.

Tentatively, I made my way down the bank onto some rocks by the water. I found a stone and tossed it in, watching it vanish beneath the opaque surface.

I closed my eyes and imagined a man thrashing in the current, desperate and afraid.

Climbing back onto the bank, I looked around. What else could have happened to Lily if she hadn’t drowned? I turned in a slow circle, taking in the landscape. There was no way she could have crossed the river.

This spot was close to the road. Could somebody have been waiting here? An opportunist, spotting a child? I pictured it: he grabbed her and threw her toy cat into the water so her parents would think she’d fallen in, then dragged her back to his car.

But why didn’t she scream? Would he have had time to do all that before Julia and Michael caught up? Surely it was too risky.

No. I knew from cops I’d spoken to when researching Sweetmeat that the most obvious explanation is almost always the right one. Lily had fallen into the water and drowned. Tragic. But almost certainly a less dreadful fate than what might have happened if someone had taken her.

As I stared into the water, I experienced a prickle on the nape of my neck, the sensation that someone was watching me. I turned and squinted into the bushes. Nothing moved – just the light drumming of raindrops on leaves; a breeze stirring the undergrowth. It was my imagination, that was all. My overdeveloped imagination.

The rain was getting heavier, fat raindrops splatting my sketched map, so I headed back to the house.



The front door of the cottage behind the main house was open and music was coming from within. Curious, I headed over and found Karen inside, working at a little desk in a cosy side room that was named after Bertrand Russell, the radio on. She snapped her laptop shut when she noticed me.

‘Lucas! Why aren’t you working? Naughty boy.’

I closed the door behind me. ‘Have you seen Suzi this morning? Any idea if Max tried to get into her room again last night?’

She turned the radio down. ‘No. I saw him, though, on the phone to his wife. Arguing. Again. He told her he’s going to stay here for another couple of weeks.’ She paused. ‘You’re a horror writer.’

‘I am.’

‘Well, I think you’ll like this. I had a spooky experience last night.’

‘Really?’ I pulled up a chair. ‘Tell me more.’

‘It was about midnight and I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d sneak down and make myself a snack.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t judge me.’

‘I’m not. Sounds like a good idea.’

‘It’s the country air. It makes me hungry. Anyway, I made myself a cheese sandwich – and yes, I know cheese at bedtime is a bad idea but there was this delicious-smelling cheddar in the fridge which I couldn’t resist – and then I heard something. A bang from the hallway. It made me jump out of my skin.’

I pictured it. Karen, about to bite into her sandwich, frozen with her mouth open.

‘I went out to investigate.’ She shook her head. ‘I was carrying the knife I’d used to cut the cheese, trying to kid myself I’m awfully brave. And it was that blasted cat.’

‘Oh, good. He came back.’

‘Good? The bloody thing nearly gave me a heart attack. Anyway, he shot into the sitting room and I went after him, here kitty kitty, all that. Thinking I’d give him a piece of my mind, not that I’ve got much to spare. Eventually I gave up and went back to the kitchen. And that’s when the weird thing happened. My sandwich was gone.’

I laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes! The plate was there, with crumbs on it. But no sandwich.’

‘Had you been drinking?’ I asked.

‘I might have had one or two nips of gin. And a few puffs on a spliff.’

‘You were stoned?’

‘Don’t sound so shocked. I smoke it for medicinal purposes.’

I must have looked doubtful because she said, ‘No, seriously. I suffer with terrible arthritis, especially in my fingers when I’ve been writing all day. My knees too. It’s awful, but weed helps a lot.’