Her Dark Retreat: a psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming

by J. A. Baker

  ‘Sheryl?’ Peggy feels the oxygen being sucked out of the room as she speaks. She swallows and tries to control a wave of vomit that threatens to travel up her gullet as she hangs onto the arm of the chair to keep herself steady. Sheryl …

  ‘Yes, Sheryl is my sister and she’s gone missing. She has – well ...’ Rachel takes a deep, rattling breath and looks around the room before speaking again, ‘she’s left home. And apart from a text message saying she was leaving to get her head together, it’s as if she has just disappeared into thin air.’

  It takes all of Peggy’s resolve to stay upright, her body threatening to cave in on itself. A line of pain travels up her abdomen and circles around her neck, a wild, throbbing ache that makes her feel quite sick. She has to hold it together in front of this lady. Sheryl is gone. Disappeared she said.

  ‘I - I don’t know what to say,’ Peggy stammers, her heart crunching madly in her chest.

  ‘You haven’t heard from her then?’ Rachel says, a glimmer of hope evident in her expression.

  ‘I’m sorry, no, I’ve not seen her in a while.’

  Peggy watches as a veil of sadness and disappointment descends over her face. There’s nothing Peggy can say to make any of this better. She wishes she could send a stream of platitudes Rachel’s way but finds herself without a voice. She wants to say that perhaps it’s better that Sheryl has taken herself off and that she was nothing but a devious troublemaker but remains silent instead, her mind too frazzled to say the right words.

  ‘Okay, well I’m sorry for bothering you. I just hope that - anyway, if you hear from her will you please contact me?’

  Rachel hands over a piece of paper with her details on it. Peggy stares at it, wishing she could tell this poor creature something positive.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she whispers, her eyes misting over as Sheryl’s face looms large in her mind. Gorgeous, vibrant, effervescent Sheryl who would stop at nothing to get exactly what she wanted.

  ‘Thank you.’ Rachel leans over and places her hand over Peggy’s. Her skin is warm to the touch, unlike Peggy’s ice-cold fingers.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Peggy replies quietly as she stands up and shows Rachel to the door.

  ....................................................................................................................................................

  Peggy watches as Rachel drives off, her car a small speck in the distance, before she closes the door and leans back on it heavily. Should she inform Alec of this visit? Or is it best she keeps it to herself? Either way the fact remains that Sheryl has gone missing. Left to get her head together. Any mention of her will send Alec into a spin. Probably best to leave it. For now, anyway. She’s not even sure she could bring herself to have that particular conversation. She rests her head back on the cold glass of the door before slumping down onto the floor in a crumpled heap, her stomach slowly turning to water. She curls up on her side, hands tucked under the side of her head and begins to sob.

  12

  Alec

  It’s been a bastard of a day. Staff squabbling, children brawling, and now this.

  ‘So, what you gonna do about it then? I want to see some heads roll.’ The woman sits with her arms folded, a scowl plastered across her shiny, acne-ridden face. The husband leans forward and bangs his fist on the table causing a stack of papers to fall to the floor. They float past Alec’s legs and scatter around his feet, a carpet of confidential documents strewn far and wide. He leaves them there. No way is he going to take a lower vantage point and break eye contact with these two. He doubts either of them is even capable of reading and digesting the contents of the papers anyway. They contain a heap of educational esoteric jargon, littered with acronyms and the latest buzzwords. Not an easy read even for those in the know.

  He eyes the pair of them cautiously. He’s seen the way they carry on, arguing with other parents, bringing their kids in late with a stream of inane excuses, constantly pushing the boundaries with a refusal to adhere to school policies regarding uniform or attendance, or any bloody thing really. According to the children’s teachers, neither pupil has ever completed a scrap of homework and they constantly spend their time bragging about staying up on their Xboxes and PlayStations till the early hours of the morning. And now here they are, the parents who feed their kids coke and chocolate for breakfast, wanting to lodge an official complaint against a newly qualified teacher because one of their offspring watched a 12 certificate film when they haven’t signed the consent form. Jesus. Some people just love moaning and making their voices heard even if what they have to say is utter tripe.

  ‘She had no fucking right, subjecting our kid to stuff like that without our consent.’ The man turns to look at his wife who is nodding vehemently, her brow now so furrowed Alec feels sure he could shove his whole fist in there and she wouldn’t even notice.

  ‘I can see how upset you are but if I can just ask that we steer clear of using foul and abusive language it would be very much appreciated. Now let’s see if we can resolve this issue so that everybody feels satisfied with the outcome.’ Alec’s brain is reciprocating, screaming a stream of obscenities at them while he smiles and remains polite and courteous. All in a day’s work.

  The man grimaces at Alec’s words but knows better than to argue.

  ‘Now, I’m led to believe that the film in question was in keeping with the class topic which is WWII, and it was a film that was made ostensibly for a young adult audience.’ Alec leans down and picks up the DVD that he placed under his desk in readiness for their visit. He brandishes it in the air and points to the title, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. This is the one, yes?’

  Both parents lean forward and scan the cover before looking at each other for affirmation.

  ‘Is that the one?’ the father says, as his eyes roam over the case for clues, ‘Our Troy said it was about a kid that ran around half naked and then ended up getting murdered at the end. Bloody disgraceful if you ask me. Whatever happened to letting kids watch cartoons and stuff eh? Age appropriate. Isn’t that what you would call it?’

  Alec slides the DVD over the desk towards the parents and leans back slightly in his seat, ‘Have you seen this film Mr. Boyd?’ He watches them silently, savouring the moment.

  Boyd’s face reddens at Alec’s words. His wife snatches up the case and squints as she reads the synopsis on the back. Alec notices her hand is shaking slightly as she nudges her husband and passes it to him, a dark shadow passing over her face. He reluctantly takes it and stares hard at it, turning the cover over and over with his large, dirt-ingrained fingers. He places it down on the desk with a clatter and meets Alec’s gaze.

  ‘Right. It’s about WWII. But it’s still a 12 certificate and our Troy is only eleven,’

  ‘Only turned eleven last week as well!’ Mrs Boyd chips in, and they both nod as if this piece of information somehow strengthens their argument, gives credence to their complaint.

  ‘Yes, so his teacher said. Now from what I’m led to believe, she sent at least two consent forms home for you to sign, possibly even three?’

  They sit in silence, their simmering anger palpable. Mr Boyd’s nostrils flare - dark, pock marked and vaguely unsettling as he waits for Alec to continue.

  ‘And none of those slips came back, which left us with a bit of a problem. Obviously, we wanted Troy to be part of the lesson as this film is very informative and crucial to the piece of writing the pupils were going to complete after watching it.’

  Alec watches and notices that Mrs Boyd is starting to look distinctly uncomfortable. Or is it just his imagination? He hopes it’s the former. He’s about to present his trump card.

  ‘So, in line with school policy and procedure, we got your contact numbers from our records and tried to ring you to get verbal consent.’ Alec is convinced the mother has got the gist of where this conversation is heading. He continues, feeling slightly smug. He enjoys the self-satisfied sensation that is giving him a war
m glow, ‘but unfortunately all the numbers we have for you on file are no longer in use. Can I just ask, have you changed phones lately, Mr and Mrs Boyd?’

  He watches a crimson flush creep up both of their faces and waits patiently for a reply, ‘because there was another reminder sent home for parents to inform school of any changes to contact details in case of an emergency …’

  The silence in the room threatens to swamp them until eventually Mr Boyd clears his throat and turns to face his wife, ‘Right, well look, we can’t sit here all afternoon. We need be off don’t we, Annie? I’ll give our Troy those numbers to bring in tomorrow morning. We told him he must have got it wrong wi’ that film but he went on and on at us saying some of the kids were crying and stuff, didn’t he, Annie?’

  Mrs Boyd nods emphatically, ‘He’s a right one for spinning a tale is our Troy. We shoulda known really.’

  They smile at Alec and roll their eyes. He nods and stands up then offers his hand to shake. They both take it and leave the office exchanging pleasantries like old friends. He closes the door behind them and slumps into his seat thinking perhaps the Boyd’s aren’t so bad after all. They were easily bamboozled and that always helps. Troy and his younger sibling may be a bit of a handful but it could be a whole lot worse. No fists to the face or a father who drinks himself into a stupor. At least the Boyd’s listen to their children, taking notice of what goes on in their lives. Not like Alec’s own father who once beat him with a belt when Alec started to tell him he had come 1st in cross-country. It was a hot afternoon and Alec had danced on air all the way home, itching to tell everyone and anyone who was prepared to listen, that he had won. His dad was sitting on the doorstep basking in the late afternoon sunshine, beer can in hand, when Alec came sailing around the corner. He should have been prepared for some sort of backlash; experience should have taught him that Barry Wilson wasn’t the kind of father who took pride in his son’s achievements, but the adrenaline was still coursing through his system and he always lived in hope. Bounding up the street, he mistook his father’s nod at his appearance as a show of interest in his day. Worst move ever. Alec had walked up to him, brimming with excitement, blurting out the details of his victory.

  ‘1st you say, eh son?’ he had mumbled, the can placed at his lips as he eyed his small son up and down.

  ‘1st, dad!’ Alec had squeaked, too young and naive to notice the subtle change in his father’s temperament, too young and sensitive to realise what was about to happen.

  ‘Showing off now are yer?’ his dad had growled, his yellow teeth visible as he tipped his head back and drained the can before tossing it into the street with a clatter. The empty tin rolled around the pavement, tiny spurts of beery foam dripping from the lip before finally lodging in the gutter, rocking back and forth, its metallic echo filling the soft, unnatural silence between them.

  Alec had felt himself shut down. The beating didn’t last for too long. Not as long as some of the previous ones had. After scanning the street for witnesses, Barry had grabbed his son’s arm and dragged him indoors, punching and smacking at anything he could connect with. It did last long enough however, to leave a line of red welts on the young boy’s back that stayed hidden from view until they had healed over. Six weeks they took to disappear. Six weeks of slipping into his P.E. shirt at breakneck speed to avoid the glances of suspecting teachers or the probing questions of fellow classmates. Six long, painful, worrying weeks …

  Alec wiggles his jaw, a headache beginning to form deep in his temples. He closes his briefcase with a crack and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. No, he thinks, considering what some families go through each and every day, the Boyd family aren’t such a bad lot after all.

  ‘You came back to me.’

  ‘I haven’t come back to you. I’m here for other reasons. We need to talk.’

  Fingers drumming on wood, an atmosphere thick with anxiety.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘I don’t know what.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Stop being deliberately obtuse.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this. You need to turn back around and go. Don’t say things that I don’t want to hear.’

  ‘If I go, I won’t be coming back here again. And we must never speak of this. Ever.’

  ‘And what if I do?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Speak of it.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘You really think so little of me that I would start issuing threats? Jesus …’

  Anger slowly festering; resentment; fear. Deep rooted fear at the thought of the loss. An unbearable, gaping hole where love should be, where loved used to be.

  ‘It’s over. You know it is.’

  ‘Why? Why does it need to be over?’

  ‘Because it does. It should never have started. You know that.’

  ‘So, you’re saying it was a mistake? You’re saying I was a mistake?’

  ‘That’s not what I said. You’re twisting my words.’

  ‘Just unpicking the real meaning of them. You’re too scared to say it, that’s all it is.’

  ‘I’m not too scared to say anything. What I am saying is, this is over. This relationship is finished.’

  ‘So, you walk in here and think you can call all the shots? Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  ‘I’m leaving now. It would be easier if we didn’t see each other again.’

  ‘Easier for who? Jesus what a fucking narcissist you are! Not everything is about you, you know!’

  ‘Easier for both of us. Stop this right now. You’re being deliberately difficult. I thought you were better than this.’

  A shriek of anger, furniture scraping, pushing, falling.

  ‘Stop this!’

  Arms flailing in defence. More pushing. Screaming. The rush of heat as a hand connects with a face. A pause, the prevailing mood charged with fear and retribution.

  ‘Don’t ever touch me again. EVER.’

  ‘I hope I never see you again. Get the fuck out of my house!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. Never to return.’

  ‘Good! Now get out of here before I fucking kill you with my bare hands …’

  ‘Kill me? Jesus. Just listen to yourself. You are a complete psychopath. How did I not see that before? And you call yourself a professional? I should report you for this. You’re not fit to hold your position.’

  ‘GET OUT!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m leaving.’

  A door slams. Weeping, growing in crescendo. A sudden almighty shriek. Then silence …

  13

  Maude

  She leans over and rummages in the corner of the sideboard drawer. It’s in here somewhere. She’s sure of it. It’s been a long time since she has written anything but she knows there’s one of those things stuffed away; probably tucked right at the back, hidden from view. Or was it in one of the kitchen cupboards? Brenda often hides things from her and lately Maude seems to get so muddled and forgetful. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with all the alterations that go on around here. Only last week the cooker and the fridge changed places. Just like that. One day the oven was on the left and the next it was against the right-hand wall next to the window. She didn’t worry too much about it. After all, this isn’t her house, is it? As she keeps on reminding Brenda, she’s only lived here for a short while. She’s just looking after it for a friend. Maude’s own house was bombed a few weeks back and she’s still waiting to get a new one. Goodness knows when that will happen but then what can she expect? There is a war on after all. She’ll just have to be patient.

  A handful of books cascade down on her head knocking her against the wall as she pulls at the contents of the shelf in the dresser. Stunned, Maude stops and touches her temple. Red. Her face has red on it. She thinks she knows what it is but can’t be entirely certain. She’ll just wait here a minute until she stops feeling dizzy and then it might come to her. That’s j
ust how it is lately. Everything takes time. Much longer than it used to. Maude closes her eyes for a second and when she opens them it’s all different again and she can’t quite remember where she is or why she is here. Looking round she decides to sit down. Her head hurts and she doesn’t know what is causing it. A pile of newspapers sits on the coffee table next to her seat. On the top of the papers is a thin silver thing. She leans over and picks it up. Narrowing her eyes, she studies it, turning it around and around in her tiny, pale fingers. Words dart in and out of her head, all jumbled and confusing. She takes her time - tries to slow them down until eventually it all becomes clear to her. A pen! That’s it. A pen is what she wanted. She stares at the newspapers. All covered in words and pictures, no space to write anything. Maude takes a look around the room, casting her eyes over every surface and shelf. Lots of things - books, more newspapers, items she can’t remember the names of. But nothing for her to write on. Why is everything so hard to find in this place? It’s that woman, that Brenda. She hides things. Puts them away so Maude can’t get to them. She leans back in her chair and wonders where that Brenda lady is. Some days she seems to disappear for hours at a time. At least it feels that way. Where is she right now for instance when Maude needs something to write on?

  A scraping sound diverts her attention away from all thoughts of Brenda. Maude turns around to see a young man standing behind her. She lets out a small shriek and pushes herself back into the cushions, her body bending almost double as he approaches her.

  ‘Where’s Brenda? I want Brenda!’

  ‘Aunt Maude, it’s me.’ He holds up his hands but Maude continues to sink back into the fabric of the sofa, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘It’s Andrew. I’m here to keep you company. I was just upstairs for a minute.’ He steps forward and lets out a deep breath, ‘Maude, what’s happened to your head?’ Kneeling down on his haunches he takes a tissue from his pocket and dabs at the side of her face.