The Retreat(28)

‘Thank you for my bike,’ she said, grinning at them. She licked the big gap in her front teeth.

‘You’re very welcome, sweetheart,’ said Mum.

She pushed off, wobbling at first, almost tilting over before getting her balance. And then she was heading down the path. The bike was smooth and fast. She loved it! She gathered pace as she went round the first bend, and kept going, cruising all the way around the green.

She passed Mum and Dad, and shouted that she was going to do another circuit.

Now she was in the swing of it, her mind wandered. It had only been a couple of weeks since she’d gone into the field behind their house, searching for the cat. Chesney, it turned out, had been curled up underneath her bed, safe and sound. But Lily had a bad dream that night. She dreamt she was being chased through the woods, a witch calling her name.

‘I only want a taste,’ the witch said. ‘Just a little taste.’

When she’d told Megan at school about the shape she’d seen in the fog, Megan said it might have been the Widow, but then Charlotte, who was the nosiest girl in their whole class, had butted in and said it was probably a Stranger.

‘A Stranger?’ Lily asked.

‘Yeah. You know . . .’ Charlotte pointed to a poster on the wall which showed a picture of a grey van with the words STRANGER DANGER! NEVER GO WITH SOMEONE YOU DON’T KNOW.

‘A Stranger watching my house?’

Lily shivered. She had only the vaguest idea of what Strangers did. All she knew was that they took kids and did things to them. She didn’t know what kinds of things. Bad things. That was all she knew.

‘It’s okay,’ Charlotte said. ‘As long as you don’t talk to Strangers, they can’t get you.’

A squirrel dashed across the path in front of her bike. Instinctively, she yanked the handles to the left and the bike swung onto the green and hit the stump of a tree.

She lost control and fell off.

It didn’t hurt, not really, but she lay there dazed for a minute, like a cartoon character with stars whirling round its head.

And then a shadow fell over her. It was a man. He had a bald head and his teeth were all crooked and horrible.

‘Are you all right, lass?’ he said.

She lay on her back, frozen with fear. A Stranger. A Stranger was trying to make her talk to him. He reached out a hand and she understood that he wanted her to take it so he could help her up, but she couldn’t move.

He crouched beside her. She could see right up his hairy nose.

‘What’s your name?’ he said.

She still couldn’t speak or move. Where were Mum and Dad? What were they doing? Had they left her alone with this Stranger?

He reached out a fat-fingered hand towards the handlebars of her fallen bike, and read the gift tag.

‘Lily,’ he said. ‘That’s a lovely name. Lily.’

At that moment, she heard her mum’s voice, and her dad’s, and there they were, next to her, eyes full of worry.

‘I think she’s fine,’ said the Stranger. ‘Just a little bump, that’s all.’

‘Thank you,’ said her mum, for some reason, and the Stranger walked away. Mum was fussing over her, helping her sit up, and Dad was checking the bike, making sure the wheels hadn’t buckled or something.

Neither of them saw the Stranger look over his shoulder and wink at her.





Chapter 14

My parents moved to Spain ten years ago, shortly after they retired. A lovely whitewashed villa in Alicante, a short walk from the Mediterranean. Mum was always telling me I should go out there, spend some time in the sun – after all, it wasn’t as if I had an office job – and I thought about it often. The problem was, Britain’s gloom suited my writing, and hot weather made me torpid and lazy.

I had been out there only once since my dad’s funeral. I’d been shocked when Mum told me the cremation was going to take place in Spain, but she insisted it was where he was happiest. Dad wanted his ashes scattered over a warm sea, somewhere beautiful. It made sense, even if it meant the ceremony was sparsely attended – just immediate family and a few of their ex-pat mates. I was less surprised when Mum told me she was staying in Spain. ‘Why would I come back to rainy Britain? I intend to stay here till I’m too old to look after myself. At which point I’ll chuck myself off a cliff.’

She was like that, my mum.

These days, we mostly spoke via Skype. Unlike the stereotype of people in their seventies, she was au fait with technology. She ran a group on Facebook for crafting enthusiasts, knitters and embroiderers, and was on Instagram and Twitter. She was always Instagramming photos of her latest creations.

The night before, I had gone to sleep thinking about Julia and Lily, along with what Zara had told me about the local legend. Now, as sunlight filled the room, I opened Skype and saw that Mum was online. I hit the call button and her tanned face appeared on the screen.

‘Lucas! Speak of the devil! I was just talking about you with Jean.’ Jean was Mum’s closest neighbour. ‘She wants to know when your next book’s out. She loved Sweetmeat, though she said it gave her the willies.’

‘Have you read it yet?’

Mum was usually my number-one fan, but Sweetmeat had come out just after Dad’s death. She’d told me she couldn’t handle anything darker than a Jilly Cooper but that she’d read it eventually.