The Retreat Read online

  Megan’s mum pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on, you horrible mutt. You can go in the garden for a bit. Leave these poor girls alone.’

  Lily felt guilty after Megan’s mum and the dog had gone. Poor Barney.

  Megan waited till she heard the back door open, then said, ‘Have you ever done the Bloody Mary thing? You know, said her name three times in the mirror.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Shall we do it now?’

  Lily had gone cold all over.

  ‘Come on, scaredy-cat. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Megan! No way.’

  An annoyed look appeared on Megan’s face and Lily was worried she wouldn’t want to be her friend any more.

  She was about to say okay, she’d do it, when Megan laughed and said, ‘Only kidding. Everyone knows Bloody Mary’s not real, anyway.’ She paused. ‘Unlike the Red Widow.’

  The moment of relief Lily had felt was blasted away. ‘What do you mean?’

  Megan’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The Widow. She’s real. I heard my grandad talking about her.’

  ‘She can’t be real.’

  ‘She is. My grandad said she’s lived around here for hundreds of years. She can’t die. She’s . . . what’s the word?’

  ‘Immortal?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it. And you know she feeds on children? It’s the children’s blood that makes the Widow live forever.’

  Lily stared at her friend, expecting her to burst into laughter and yell, ‘Pranked!’ But Megan’s expression remained deadly serious, even a little scared. And that made Lily feel scared too, even if it was obvious the Widow didn’t really exist.

  They were silent for a minute. Lily wanted to go out in the garden, into the sunshine, to play with the dog and forget all about the stupid Widow and Bloody Mary and scary video games. She wanted to go home and give Chesney a big squeeze and see her mum.

  They climbed up to the treehouse and Barney ran around at the foot of the tree, barking. They chucked water balloons down and he chased them, getting splashed and jumping in the air, but always coming back for more. It was hilarious. Lily forgot all about the scary stuff Megan had been talking about indoors.

  Megan’s mum came out into the garden.

  ‘Girls, it’s teatime. Go and wash your hands. And Megan, Grandad’s here.’

  ‘Great!’ Megan climbed out of the tree and Lily followed.

  There was a little bathroom just inside the house. The girls went in to wash their hands, then Lily followed Megan to the kitchen, where lunch was laid out: sandwiches and crisps and slices of cucumber; beakers of orange squash. Lily hadn’t realised how hungry she was. Megan’s big brother, Jake, was there already, putting his fingers all over the crisps. Jake was fourteen but, according to Megan, was like a five-year-old on the inside. Not long after Lily met Megan, she’d witnessed her friend fight another girl who called Jake ‘retarded’. Seeing the way Megan stuck up for her brother made Lily wish she had a sibling, someone she could look after. But how was that ever going to happen if her parents didn’t like each other any more?

  ‘Tuck in,’ said Megan’s mum.

  As Lily concentrated on what food to choose – avoiding the crisps because she had a thing about food other people had touched – Megan shouted, ‘Grandad!’

  Lily looked up as Megan threw herself into the arms of a stocky bald man who’d come into the kitchen. He gave Megan a hug and whirled her round, laughing, then saw Lily. He put Megan down.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Lily stared at him. She knew him. He was the man who’d tried to help her when she fell off her bike. The man with crooked teeth.

  The Stranger.

  Chapter 17

  Karen stood on the doorstep of the retreat with her suitcase at her feet. The sun was out for the first time in months, and the breeze was soft against my face. Spring was finally here.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t. Not after last night.’ She hung her head. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Don’t be. So what are you going to do?’

  She lifted a shoulder. ‘Just go home, see the doctor, flush my stash down the toilet. Finish my goddamn book. Maybe the countryside doesn’t suit me. I need to be surrounded by people. The nights are too quiet here and my brain is too noisy.’

  ‘I get that.’

  The taxi trundled up the driveway towards us. It was the same car, the same driver, who’d given me a lift when I got lost in the woods. Olly, that was his name. He got out and hefted Karen’s bag into the boot, nodding at me and muttering, ‘All right?’

  ‘Did Julia talk to you about last night?’ I asked Karen.

  ‘She tried. She asked me if I’d ever heard you singing this weird song. Something about a fly.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘That I couldn’t remember, but it was possible.’

  That was good.

  ‘We’d better get a move on if you’re going to make your train,’ Olly said. I gave Karen a quick hug and watched her go. Now, unless another writer turned up, it was going to be just me and the lovebirds. That was another thing that made me wonder. Less than a week ago, Suzi had been upset with Max for trying to get into her room, and now she was inviting him in. What happened? Had he worn her down? Perhaps her original protests had been exaggerated.

  As Max had reminded me, it was none of my business.

  I went inside and found Julia in her usual spot by the Aga, phone to her ear. She finished her conversation and sighed.

  ‘That was the National Bat Helpline. They said it’s quite unusual to find a bat in the attic at this time of year. But if you have a bat roost, as it seems I do, you have to leave well alone. It’s illegal to disturb them.’ A little smile. ‘I’m actually quite happy about them being there. It’s cool, isn’t it? It’s nice to give them a home.’

  She drummed her fingers on the table.

  ‘Have you heard any other noises coming from Lily’s room?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ I watched as she chewed her lip. She was a mess of tics and visible tension. ‘Julia, did you see a counsellor after Lily disappeared? It might help . . .’

  She reacted angrily. ‘The police offered a grief counsellor. I reminded them that there’s no proof she’s dead.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know. I know Michael is dead and I should have seen a counsellor to talk about losing him, but I couldn’t. I knew they’d want to talk to me about Lily, that they’d try to make me accept that she was dead too. So I didn’t go. I couldn’t.’

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure if she was right about what the counsellor might do – the one I’d seen had mainly listened and given me a chance to talk – but I understood that it was complicated. She couldn’t separate what had happened to Michael from what might have happened to Lily. It seemed as if Lily’s disappearance had robbed Julia of the ability to deal with her husband’s death.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, getting up.

  A minute later, we stood outside Lily’s bedroom. Julia opened the door and gestured for me to follow her inside. As she stepped across the threshold, her breathing became noticeably heavier. She held a hand against her chest, and I could imagine her heart thumping beneath her palm. She clenched her jaw, as if fighting against physical pain.

  ‘It’s exactly as it was the day she disappeared,’ she said.

  It was a typical little girl’s room. Pink curtains, open to let in the morning light. A single bed against the wall, covered with a purple-and-white bedspread, little cushions propped up against the headboard. A dressing table covered with trinkets. Little dresses hung from a rail. A bookcase bearing novels by authors like Roald Dahl and David Walliams, along with a book about folk tales that caught my eye. On the wall, a 2014 Taylor Swift calendar, along with posters featuring fresh-faced stars I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Most of them are YouTubers,’ Julia said. ‘Michael was always complaining about how much time
she spent watching videos.’

  I noticed an iPad on the bedside table.

  ‘I come in here every couple of weeks to charge it. I know she’ll want to watch it when she comes home. She’ll have a lot to catch up on.’

  There was a huge pile of cuddly toys in the corner, every animal imaginable. On top of the pile was a large black-and-white cat, a smile sewn onto its face.

  ‘That’s Big Cat,’ Julia said.

  I sucked in a breath. ‘The one that was in the river?’

  She nodded. ‘The police kept him for a while, but they let me have him back.’ She picked the toy up, pressed her nose against its scruffy fur. ‘He still smells of the river.’

  She set it back on top of the pile.

  ‘Lily loved cats,’ she said. ‘She was obsessed with them from the first moment she saw one, when she was a baby. It was actually her first word. Not “Mummy” or “Daddy” . . . “Cat”. And she always had two toys she loved more than anything. I think she might have loved them even more than she adored Chesney. Big Cat and Little Cat.’

  I looked around.

  ‘Little Cat was in her coat pocket when she vanished. I think . . . I’m sure she still has him with her.’ Julia’s eyes shone and she had to take a moment to compose herself. ‘I hope he’s looking after her.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  She sat down on the bed. ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘Crazy? Of course not.’

  ‘I’m sure most people think I am. They think I should clear out this room, move on, but I can’t.’ She was trembling, one of her knees jerking up and down, her heel tapping against the floor.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. There was a box of tissues by the bed. I plucked one out and handed it to her. I wanted to put my arms around her, to comfort her – a basic human response – but had no idea if it would be welcomed.

  When the tears had abated, I said, ‘I understand why you leave this room as it is.’

  ‘You do?’

  I wanted to tell her that I understood because, even knowing Priya was dead, it had taken months for me to gather the strength to put away her things. Even now, they were all in boxes. I couldn’t take that final step – to remove her possessions from the flat. But I didn’t think now was the time to bring it up. This conversation was about Julia and Lily.

  I also couldn’t tell her about my investigation into Lily’s disappearance. Not yet, when there was nothing concrete to share.

  ‘If I knew she was dead,’ Julia said, ‘I could . . . take action . . .’

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but nodded.

  ‘But I’m stuck.’ She looked up at me, eyes pink and sore. ‘It’s like I dived into that river two years ago. And I’m still under the water, holding my breath.’

  I went back to my room, feeling helpless and useless, wishing there was something I could do to help Julia, knowing only one thing would actually work: finding out what had happened to Lily. And that reminded me – Zara still hadn’t called me back or responded to my messages. The notification beneath my last message said Delivered, not Read. When had I last heard from her? Time was beginning to blur, but it was the day before yesterday, in the pub.

  I called her, and again she didn’t answer. What was going on? Had she given up? She could at least have the decency to answer my calls.

  I ought to be writing my novel, but there was no way I could concentrate now.

  I grabbed my car keys. I was going to look for Zara.

  Chapter 18

  I pulled up outside the Apple Tree bed and breakfast, where Zara was staying. It was a few streets back from the river on a long, quiet road with plenty of parking spaces. An elderly woman struggled home with bags of heavy shopping. A young father pushed a buggy containing a sleeping toddler. They were the only people around. The town had an abandoned feel to it, like there had been an evacuation. On a nearby lamp post, a tatty paper sign appealed for the return of a missing cat. Last seen 23rd June 2015. Two years ago. I hadn’t seen any posters about Lily. Maybe that was because everyone assumed she had drowned.

  I rang the bell and a woman in her sixties answered.

  ‘Are you after a room?’ she asked. Her hair was dyed auburn and a cross hung around her neck on a gold chain.

  ‘I was actually looking for a friend of mine. Zara Sullivan. I believe she’s staying here.’

  ‘Come on in,’ she said. I followed her into a cosy sitting room. A little dog with grey fur snoozed on the sofa. It lifted its head to regard me, then went back to sleep, snoring gently.

  ‘I’m Shirley and this is Oscar,’ she said.

  A painting of Christ hung above the fireplace. On another wall, a tapestry with a quote from the Bible: Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.

  ‘Romans 12:9,’ she said. ‘Are you a believer, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Radcliffe.’

  She peered at me. Her eyes were milky, unfocused. Cataracts. ‘Radcliffe. You’re not David’s son, are you?’

  Of course. She was the same age as my parents. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘Well, look at you. All grown-up. And very handsome too. Not that I’m surprised – your father was always a very good-looking man. How is he?’

  ‘He passed away,’ I said.

  Her face crumpled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand went to the cross around her neck. ‘So he was the first.’

  ‘The first?’ I asked, but there was no response. ‘Shirley?’

  She fell into an armchair, still gripping the cross with one hand. She stared into space, into the past.

  ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

  The voice from the doorway made me jump. It was a woman in her early forties with curly reddish hair. She wore jeans and a tight black T-shirt. She was curvy with long limbs, pale skin and, strikingly, a tattoo of a red rose on her upper arm, the petals disappearing beneath her sleeve. She laughed, which made her look even more attractive. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Shirley snapped out of her trance. ‘My apologies. I was taking a trip down memory lane. This is my daughter, Heledd.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  ‘What about your mum?’ Shirley asked me. ‘Is she in good health?’

  ‘She’s great.’ I explained how she and Dad had moved to Spain before he died, and that Mum was still out there.

  ‘They got away,’ Shirley said. ‘From this place, I mean. It used to be a thriving town, you know. The Apple Tree was always full up, but these days I can go weeks without anyone coming to stay. It’s not surprising, I suppose. Sad, but not surprising. It’s a punishment.’

  Before I could ask what that meant, Heledd rolled her eyes. She crouched beside Shirley, laying a hand on the arm of the chair. ‘It’s not that bad. We get by, don’t we, Mum?’

  Shirley patted her hand. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. My angel.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It’s been quite a week for terrible news. First Malcolm, then this.’

  ‘Malcolm Jones? The librarian?’

  ‘Did you know him?’ Heledd asked in a surprised tone.

  ‘No. Well, not really. Sorry, what do you mean, did I know him? Has something happened?’

  ‘It was his heart,’ Shirley said, laying a hand across her own, as if checking it was still beating. ‘He’s suffered with a heart condition for years so it wasn’t a terrible shock. Dreadful, though. He was a good man, but he’ll be with Sylvia now.’

  I assumed that was his wife.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Only yesterday.’ Shirley patted her daughter’s hand again. ‘How is Olly coping?’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  Shirley nodded. ‘He’s a good lad. Like his father.’ She turned to me. ‘I keep hoping Olly will make an honest woman of her.’

  Olly? That was the name of the taxi driver. Olly Jones. So he was Malcolm’s son, and here was his girlfriend. It was a sma
ll town, all right, with a limited dating pool. But now, hearing about Malcolm’s death, I was even more keen to talk to Zara.

  ‘So, my friend, Zara. Is she here?’

  The dog jumped onto Shirley’s lap and she ran a hand along its flank. She’d retreated inside her head again. Away with the fairies, as my mum would say.

  ‘Zara Sullivan?’ Heledd said. ‘She’s gone.’

  Her words didn’t sink in immediately. ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yes, she went yesterday. Packed up, paid her bill and went.’

  ‘But . . . I was supposed to be paying for the room. Did she leave a message?’

  ‘No, she said something about her business here being done.’

  I swore under my breath. How could she abandon the investigation without telling me? She was eccentric, sure, but I hadn’t taken her for a flake. Maybe she’d paid for the room herself because she felt guilty, and she wasn’t answering her phone simply because she didn’t want an argument with a disappointed client.

  But then I thought about how oddly she’d behaved in the pub the other evening, and how jumpy she’d seemed. Had something scared her away?

  ‘How did she seem yesterday?’ I asked.

  Heledd took a seat on the sofa and crossed her legs. One Converse-clad foot bounced up and down. ‘This is very intriguing. What do you mean?’

  ‘Was she acting nervously, or was she relaxed?’

  ‘She seemed absolutely fine to me. She came down for breakfast, ate three rounds of toast and we made small talk. She told me all about a case she’d once worked, something about a guy who went missing. They eventually found him chained up in a sex dungeon. He’d paid the dominatrix to keep him as her slave. We had a giggle over it.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything about the case she was working here?’

  ‘No. Just something about hitting a dead end.’

  ‘And you’re sure she didn’t seem scared?’

  ‘I’m sure. Why, is there something she should have been scared of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I said goodbye to Shirley, and Heledd saw me out. As I was about to leave, something occurred to me.

  ‘What did your mum mean when she said “it’s a punishment”?’