The Retreat(25)

‘Zara, I know I’m not at my sharpest today but I don’t get it. How are these children’s stories relevant?’

She deflated. ‘I don’t know. It was the way he said “you’re looking in the wrong place” when I asked him about sex offenders. I’m sure he knows something. But when the bald guy came along, Malcolm clammed up.’

We both fell silent. My headache had intensified and I was finding it hard to think straight.

‘So what do you want to do next?’ I asked.

‘I want to talk to Malcolm Jones again. I’m sure he knows something. Maybe he felt that he couldn’t tell me straight so he was going to wrap it up in an old story. People do that sometimes.’

Across the pub, the other writers were getting up to go. I realised I was starving and the thought of dinner back at the retreat made my stomach growl.

I was sceptical about Malcolm Jones and disappointed that Zara hadn’t discovered anything more concrete. But I figured it was worth letting her have one more day before giving up and accepting Lily was gone.

‘I’ll call you again tomorrow,’ I said.

I headed over to join the other writers. On my way past the bar I spotted the painting that had caught my attention on my first visit here. The woman in red, beckoning onlookers into the trees. The Red Widow? Staring at the painting I felt a peculiar sensation, as if I were being pulled into the wood, the temperature around me dropping, and I was sure the woman in red whispered something to me, words spoken in another language. I took a step closer, raised a hand to touch the figure, convinced that she shrunk away from my fingers, sliding back into the wood, retreating as the trees formed a guard around her . . .

‘Lucas?’

I jumped.

‘Are you all right?’ It was Karen. She turned her head to scrutinise the painting, which now looked perfectly normal. Nothing shifted, no one whispered. ‘Big fan of amateur art, are you? We’re about to head back to the retreat for dinner.’

Outside, Karen fell into step beside me. To either side of us, trees formed black, jagged shapes against a bruised, purplish sky, just like in the painting. Winter was clinging on – but only just. A few steps ahead, Max and Suzi were deep in conversation.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Not great, to be honest.’

I waited for her to elaborate.

‘I know it’s stupid, that it was the dope making me hear things, but I feel uneasy in my room now. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I lay there with the covers over my head like some stupid kid, convinced there was someone outside the door, watching and listening.’

I was going to tell her about the singing I’d heard but realised it would only make her more freaked out. I was sure that it had been Julia grieving in her daughter’s room, but Karen might not accept that simple explanation. I didn’t want her packing up and leaving. She was the only author here I really got along with.

‘Sometimes,’ she went on, ‘I’m convinced someone’s been in my room during the day. Like, things have been moved. Or there’s a strange smell in the air.’

‘What kind of smell?’

‘It sounds stupid, but . . . the smell of fear. A kind of sour, sweaty odour.’ She paused. ‘Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m sniffing out my own stress.’

‘That sounds . . . plausible.’

She laughed. ‘I really do need to lay off the weed, don’t I?’

‘Maybe until you go home.’

She sighed deeply and twisted her hands together. Then she said, ‘What if it’s not the weed? What if the house really is haunted? In a way, I hope it is. I’d like it if a ghostly apparition appeared one night while we were eating dinner. A woman in white walking through the walls.’

I had a flash from my dream: a trickle of blood running down the wallpaper. I shuddered, but Karen didn’t notice.

‘Yeah, if a ghost did appear,’ she said, ‘at least then it would prove I’m not going mad.’



Entering the house, it was immediately clear that something was not right.

Normally at this time, the place would be alive with the smell of cooking, the warm scent of meat or cheese, of herbs and spices, wafting from the kitchen. But the lights were out and there was no sign of Julia.

Max stomped into the kitchen and turned on the light.

‘What’s going on?’

He stared at the Aga as if food might magically appear. There were some dishes and cutlery in the sink, and a faint, sweet odour hanging in the air, but dinner definitely wasn’t on its way.

‘Where is she? I’m starving. If I’d known she wasn’t going to make us dinner I’d have got something in the pub.’

Max was clearly one of those people who loses the plot when their blood sugar is low.

‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘Something must have happened.’

‘Do you think she’s okay?’ Suzi asked.

Julia’s room was on the top floor of the house. Suzi and Karen went up to look for her while Max and I remained downstairs.

‘I wonder if any pizza places deliver out here,’ Max said.

I wasn’t in the mood to humour him. ‘You’re unbelievably selfish.’

‘What? It’s part of what we pay for here. Meals provided. It’s in the contract . . .’