The Retreat Page 3

  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

  North Wales Police have called off a search of the River Dee and Bala Lake after the presumed drowning of 8-year-old Lily Marsh on New Year’s Day.

  Lily had been out walking with her parents on January 1st, along a stretch of the Dee near Beddmawr in Denbighshire.

  Her father, Michael Marsh, 42, drowned while trying to rescue his daughter.

  According to North Wales Police, Lily had run ahead out of sight. When they caught up, her toy cat was floating in the river, prompting Mr Marsh to jump in.

  His wife, Julia, 40, called emergency services, who pulled his body from the water. But emergency services have been unable to recover Lily’s body.

  The operation involved police divers, the fire service and river rescue teams. But after an extensive search of the river and the four-mile-long Bala Lake, emergency services have been stood down.

  A spokesperson for North Wales Police said, ‘The search was wrapped up yesterday, but our inquiries are ongoing.’

  Michael Marsh was an IT manager who had recently moved to the area from Manchester with his family. Lily attended the local primary school, St Peter’s, whose head teacher, Anna Rowland, said, ‘This incident has shocked the entire community and we continue to pray for Lily.’

  Mr Marsh’s funeral takes place today.

  Poor, poor Julia. I remembered her yelling, ‘Not that room!’ The numberless bedroom next to mine must have been Lily’s. I shuddered, then realised something. Julia was the mother of a child who had disappeared. What if she found out what Sweetmeat was about? Would she chuck me out?

  Not for the first time in my life, I felt as if I’d stumbled into the darkness of one of my own stories. Because a river featured heavily in Sweetmeat too. A river that stole kids away from their parents.

  In my novel, the victims are taken by a supernatural entity, a creature who lives in the woods and feeds on children’s souls. That was where the title came from: the creature describes the souls as tasting like sugared fruits or candies. And as he consumes them, he whispers ‘Sssssssweetmeat’.

  A river runs through the woods, and in one scene the creature drags a little girl into the water. The heroine is a female cop who is investigating the disappearances of half a dozen kids from a small town in rural England. At the end, she goes down to the river and trades her own soul – ‘It’s bitter,’ complains the creature, as it chokes to death – for those of the children, so they are released to Heaven. But because the detective is killed when she gives up her soul, the fate of these kids remains a mystery.

  Not the kind of book Julia would want on her bedside table.

  I forced myself not to think about Lily Marsh and spent a few hours working on the idea I’d had after stumbling across the rotting hut in the woods. When I came up for air, I was surprised to see it was five in the afternoon. I hadn’t been so absorbed by my writing for a long time, and it felt good.

  Not long afterwards there was a knock at my door. It was Karen.

  ‘We’re heading down to the pub. Fancy joining us?’

  I did.

  The Miners Arms was on the main road towards Beddmawr. A proper old-fashioned Welsh pub with a roaring fire, horseshoes hanging on the walls and plenty of real ale on tap.

  ‘I’ll get the first round,’ I said.

  A few old men sat propping up the bar and there were two guys playing darts in the corner. They had glanced at us as we entered but lost interest straight away. I guessed they were used to writers coming in. Looking around while I waited to be served, I noticed a creepy painting depicting a woman dressed in red among dark, spiky trees. The woman’s face was concealed by s
hadows, but she stretched out a bony hand as if beckoning the viewer into the picture. It made me shiver.

  I bought the drinks and sat at a round table with Karen, Max and Suzi. Karen was as cheerful as she’d been the day before, but Max and Suzi would barely look at each other. A lovers’ tiff? Max swiftly downed his pint of bitter and announced he was going to play on the quiz machine. I watched him jabbing at the buttons and swearing under his breath.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Karen asked. ‘Lost a couple of Twitter followers?’

  That made Suzi laugh. She was, I realised, very young. Twenty-three, perhaps? I could hardly remember what it felt like to be her age. I seem to recall I was simultaneously lacking in confidence and thought I knew everything about the world.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Suzi said, glancing at me.

  Karen spotted the look. ‘Do you want Lucas to bugger off to the quiz machine too? So we can talk woman to woman?’

  Suzi stared into her glass of white wine. ‘No. It’s fine. But you both have to promise not to say anything. Okay?’

  We promised.

  ‘I know you probably think there’s something going on between Max and me, but there isn’t. He’s married . . . and I would never do that to another woman. I can’t bear people who cheat. My mum did it to my dad and it almost destroyed our family. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Karen said.

  ‘Besides, I don’t fancy him. He’s too . . .’

  ‘Up himself?’ Karen offered.

  ‘No. Too short.’

  Karen laughed.

  ‘But he has been helping me with my book, giving me lots of advice. I mean, there’s been quite a lot of mansplaining going on, but he has been helpful. I keep telling him how grateful I am. And I think – well, I think he got the wrong impression.’

  ‘Did the little bastard make a move on you?’ Karen asked.

  Suzi took a big gulp of wine and glanced at Max. The pub was growing increasingly noisy as more punters came in after work, and the quiz machine was gurgling and beeping like a crazed robot. He couldn’t hear us.

  ‘Last night, after dinner, we went to my room. Just to talk about writing. We were discussing a sex scene I was working on.’

  ‘I see,’ Karen said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘And Max was very enthusiastic about it. He kept going on about how sex is the rawest experience a person can have, that it’s a great opportunity to show your character’s inner self . . .’ She cleared her throat. The skin around her throat had gone pink. ‘I could tell he was getting a little, um, overexcited, so I said I was tired and needed to go to sleep.’

  ‘And that’s when he made his move?’

  ‘No. Not at all. He said goodnight and left. I got into bed and read for a while, then went to sleep.’

  ‘Right.’ Karen furrowed her brow and looked at me. I shrugged.

  Suzi had finished her drink now. She held the glass by its stem, rotating it on the spot. ‘I woke up an hour or two later. Somebody was coming into my room.’

  Karen was all ears.

  ‘The door creaks and I’m a light sleeper anyway, so it woke me up. I sat bolt upright and said, “Who’s that?” Immediately the door closed and I heard footsteps going down the hallway. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t get back to sleep.’

  ‘And you think it was Max?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘It had to be. I mean, assuming it wasn’t one of you two.’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t me,’ I said.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Karen. ‘And it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing Julia would do. It’s pretty obvious to me who it was. Max, feeling all hot and bothered after your sex scene discussion, wanting to discover your “inner self”.’

  Suzi winced. ‘Please.’

  ‘So what did the little bastard have to say for himself?’ Karen asked. Across the pub, Max was still bashing at the quiz machine’s buttons. He appeared a little happier now, like he was winning. A small crowd had gathered around him.

  ‘I haven’t asked him. I was too embarrassed. But I told him I didn’t want his help today, that I wanted to work on my own. He’s been off with me ever since. Please don’t say anything to him. I’m going to ensure I lock my door tonight. It’s not like he actually did anything.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Karen said.

  ‘I feel a bit sorry for him, too,’ Suzi said. ‘I think he’s having some problems with his marriage.’ That echoed what Karen had said the previous evening. ‘And his last book didn’t do very well.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for trying to sneak into a young woman’s bedroom,’ Karen said, glaring over at him. Max remained oblivious.

  ‘Oh God, I wish I hadn’t said anything now,’ Suzi said. ‘Please don’t talk to him about it.’ She stood up. ‘I need another drink.’

  As she went to the bar, I said to Karen, ‘Are you going to talk to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, what if Suzi hadn’t woken up? What would he have done? Got into bed with her? Raped her? Told her he could help her career if she was nice to him?’ She lowered her voice further. ‘I’m going to be keeping an eye on him, that’s for sure.’

  It was dark by the time we got back to the retreat. Julia was standing out front, rattling a silver dish. ‘Chesney!’ she called. ‘Chesney!’

  ‘Cat gone walkabout?’ I asked. I needed the loo so had hurried ahead of the others, who were now only halfway up the drive.

  She sighed. ‘He does it all the time. Disappears for hours, sometimes a whole day. It makes me sick with worry.’

  I wasn’t surprised by her anxiety, not after learning what had happened to Julia. I wondered if Chesney had been Lily’s pet. With Michael and Lily gone, the cat was Julia’s last link to her family. The cat and the house they lived in.

  Julia held her glasses in her hand. She put them on, then took them off again.

  ‘I guess he’s got plenty of places to explore around here,’ I said. ‘Lots of mice to chase.’

  ‘Yeah. Except he’s always been a fat, lazy old thing. He never brings mice or birds in. I have no idea where he goes.’

  The other writers appeared and Julia put the dish on the ground outside the door.

  ‘He’ll come back, though,’ she said. ‘He always does.’

  She stared at the black horizon. I could read her mind. The cat always came back, but she would trade that a thousand times over for a glimpse of her daughter. Should I let her know that I knew? I almost said something, but she turned away before I could speak, and the moment slipped away into the darkness.

  Chapter 5

  I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to Lily.

  Perhaps if I hadn’t written a book about vanishing children, if my imagination didn’t tend towards the macabre, the gothic, I might have gone along with the obvious: that Lily had drowned in the river and, for whatever reason, the police couldn’t find her body. I wouldn’t have seen it as a mystery. But after trying, and failing, to get into my work the following morning, I had an overwhelming compulsion to see the spot where Michael Marsh had drowned. The last place where Lily Marsh had been seen.

  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 childh
ood 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.