The Retreat(7)

In the centre of this field, which was ringed by trees on all sides, was a dilapidated stone hut. I approached it. The windows were smashed and the wooden front door had half rotted away. I pulled at it, and peered into the hut’s interior. A rank, musty smell floated out. The floor was strewn with ancient litter, but apart from that, it was empty. I stepped inside, trying not to breathe through my nose.

Among the rubbish – rusting drinks cans, crushed cigarette packets and a porn mag with curled pages – was something furry. At first I thought it was a dead rat, but peering closer I realised it was a soft toy. It looked old and weather-beaten, the clumpy, damp fur coated with mould. Its glass eyes stared at me until I had to look away.

I closed the door. I had the sensation that fate had brought me here, because suddenly I felt inspired and keen to get back to my desk, an impulse I hadn’t felt for a long time.

I was still lost, though. To my right I could hear cars, closer than they’d been before. I headed in that direction and, after tramping through another copse of trees, I found the road. There was no pavement, just a grass verge which was dotted with wild flowers. I was pretty sure the writers’ retreat was to the west, so I went that way, keeping to the verge.

Five minutes later, I heard a car behind me. I turned and saw a taxi. Like a chariot sent by the gods. I waved and it pulled over.

The driver wound his window down. ‘Need a ride?’



It was warm inside the cab, and it smelled of air freshener, the chemical scent a welcome relief after the stink of the abandoned hut.

‘What are you doing out here?’ the driver asked in his strong Welsh accent. He was about my age, with thinning brown hair.

I told him I’d gone for a walk and lost my bearings.

He laughed. ‘Happens a lot. These woods can be deceiving. They all look the same, especially if you’re not from round here.’

‘I am from here,’ I said. ‘Well, I used to be.’

‘Back visiting relatives, are you?’

‘No, I’m staying at Nyth Bran. The writing retreat? Do you know where it is?’

‘Oh, I know where it is, all right.’ We set off. He drove with one hand low on the wheel and kept looking back over his shoulder at me. I wanted to tell him to keep his eyes on the road.

‘So you’re a writer,’ he said. ‘What kind of stuff do you write?’

‘Horror.’

‘Oh, really? Doing research, were you? Out in the woods?’

‘Something like that.’

We passed a squashed badger, lying dead by the roadside.

‘My dad’s always got his nose in a book,’ he said. ‘I didn’t inherit the reading gene, though. He’s always nagging me about it. Maybe I should read one of yours. I love horror movies. The gorier the better.’

‘I’ll send you one,’ I said. ‘But only if you promise to read it.’

‘Cool. I’d like that.’ We passed more roadkill, a rabbit this time. ‘So you’re staying with Julia Marsh? I was surprised that she hung around. After what happened.’

‘What do you mean?’

He flicked his eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Oh, you don’t know? It was big news at the time.’

I waited.

‘Her husband . . . He drowned in the Dee. Michael. Nice chap, he was.’

‘Oh my God.’ No wonder Julia looked so haunted. ‘When was that?’

He thought about it. ‘Two years ago? Terrible, it was. But that wasn’t the worst part.’

He stopped, forcing me to ask.

‘What was the worst part?’

‘Her little girl. She disappeared.’

I stared at him.

‘They said she drowned like her dad, but they never found her body. The police were there for ages. Frogmen and everything. Terrible. Everybody in town went down to watch. They said she must have been swept along, all the way to Bala.’

That was the lake where the Dee ended up.

‘And here we are,’ the driver said.

I looked up, confused, expecting to find myself by the banks of Bala Lake. But no, we were at the end of the drive that led to Nyth Bran.

‘Can I drop you here, or do you want me to take you up to the front door?’

‘Here’s fine.’

I got out and found a ten-pound note in my wallet, telling him to keep the change, seeing as he’d rescued me from a long walk.

He nodded thanks and handed me his card. Olly Jones, Taxi and Chauffeur Service. Short or Long Haul.

I was about to turn away when he said, ‘Some people say that house is cursed.’

‘What?’

‘Superstitious claptrap. It’s all to do with the widow.’

‘What?’

The widow? Did he mean Julia?

‘Forget I mentioned it. Like I said, it’s a load of nonsense.’ He started the engine. ‘Though you’d be surprised how many folks around here believe in nonsense.’





Chapter 4

I broke my vow not to go online as soon as I got back to my room, retrieving the Wi-Fi password from the wastepaper basket. I went onto Google and searched ‘Julia Marsh River Dee’. And there it was, a news story from 8 January 2015.

Girl Still Missing After New Year Tragedy