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

by J. A. Baker

  ‘Somebody hit me. Or it might have been the bombs. That’s probably what it was - I did it when the roof came in. Dust everywhere and bits of bricks and sand falling in on me,’ she says, nodding vehemently, her fingers reaching up to the wet patch on her temple.

  ‘Well I’m sure it would be a lot worse if a bomb had hit you. If I’m not in the room, Aunt Maude, you need to remember to stay in your seat. I was only in the bathroom for a minute.’ He gently removes the rest of the blood and smoothes her hair down with his long, slender fingers.

  ‘What would you know about it? You weren’t here, were you? You were too busy off gallivanting with that Doreen from number forty-three. You need to watch her, she’s a right one she is. A proper floozy.’

  Andrew smiles and stands up, ‘I wasn’t with Doreen, Maude. I was here all the time.’

  ‘Where?’ She stares up at him with small, dark eyes.

  ‘Here, in your house. I haven’t been with Doreen.’

  ‘Who’s Doreen?’

  Andrew sighs and looks at his watch, ‘Brenda’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Has she got the thing to write on?’ Maude is still watching him. She does that sometimes and it unnerves him, as if she can read his mind. This house doesn’t help - an old farmhouse out on its own. No neighbours or streetlights. The only other place in the vicinity is that old cottage near the end of the cliff half a mile or so away. He shudders when he thinks of that incident last night. Jesus, that was close. Maude could have been injured or even worse. He blocks the thought of it out of his mind and rubs at his eyes as he stares outside. If it’s isolation you crave, then Aunt Maude’s farmhouse is the place to be. He only offered to do this babysitting malarkey to help his cousin out and to shut his mum up. It’s all right for her. She’s on holiday in Tenerife right now, sunning it up with Ron, his stepdad. The money is good though. He felt guilty initially for taking it but Brenda insisted. Said she was managing to get loads of overtime in at the hospital now he was around to help look after Maude, so it isn’t a problem. And it’s not for long. Brenda is selling this place and taking Maude to live with her in Whitby. With the money from the farmhouse she can afford to employ a full-time carer to look after her mum while she’s out at work. Bit of a shit existence for both of them though, especially Brenda. Maude’s mood changes can be horrific. So far, he has only witnessed one and that was bad enough. At only five feet two inches and weighing next to nothing, Maude somehow managed to pick up a solid wood dining chair and throw it across the room missing the window by only a couple of centimetres.

  ‘So, has she?’ Maude is scrutinising his face closely. Andrew snaps out of his thoughts and stares at her.

  ‘Has she what, Maude?’ His voice is gentle. He doesn’t want to frighten her in any way or upset the fine balance that he’s managed to create in Brenda’s absence. It’s draining being this thoughtful all the time, keeping the noise down to stop her tipping over the edge.

  ‘Got some of the white stuff for me to use this on?’

  Maude holds up the silver pen she has found and brandishes it in Andrew’s face.

  ‘Paper?’ he says. ‘I can get some for you if that’s what you’re after. Why do you want paper, Maude?’

  She taps the side of her nose and smiles enigmatically, ‘That’s my secret, young man.’ Her white, flyaway hair flops comically from side to side as she shakes her head at him, ‘You’ll see soon enough, young fella. You’ll see soon enough.’

  14

  Peggy

  She is all fingers and thumbs as she drags her wellington boots on and shoves her arms into her wax jacket. Dark clouds have filled the vast sky and the temperature has plummeted. Pulling on her gloves, she steps outside, the wind catching her by surprise, leaving her breathless and disorientated.

  Peggy trudges down the gravel path that leads to the main road. She is heading down to the beach, desperate to clear her head. Deciding she needs the exercise, she takes the rugged route away from the main road. It consists of a well-trodden furrow that spirals down the steep bank at the far end of the cliff. Tourists coming up to take in the view sometimes attempt it and most are thwarted by the sheer incline. It’s a good mile away from Chamber Cottage but well worth the walk. Traffic-free apart from the sudden drop at the other end, it is a twisting, partly gravelled path that funnels into the side of the road, an area known to locals as Devil’s Hook, due to its staff shaped curve and proximity to the fast-moving cars below.

  Head down against the gathering wind, Peggy sets off, her eyes already streaming from the cold before she has barely begun. Her fingers trace the shape of the torch she keeps in her pocket, an item she uses all year round when out walking - a must in this neck of the woods. Rumour has it that many years back a young girl became lost and disorientated after a lovers’ tiff and plummeted to her death over the edge of the cliff. Her boyfriend, in a bid to find and placate her, met with the same fate. After hearing her cries, he had followed the sound and tumbled over just five minutes later. Peggy shivers at the thought. It’s not as if it’s even a clean drop. More of a rugged curve, making the descent more treacherous. According to local reports, they hit every rock and boulder on the way down. By the time their bodies were discovered on the beach below a few hours later, they were an unrecognisable snarl of bones and blood spread far and wide. Two young people reduced to no more than fodder for the circling gulls and gannets.

  Peggy lengthens her stride. The nights are getting shorter and although she doesn’t mind being out on her own in the dark, given the choice, she would sooner get back before the sun dips beneath the horizon. Her breath mists up in front of her and she feels her hair begin to take on a life of its own in the damp autumn air. By the time she gets home it will be sticking out at all angles, a huge, wild mess of knots and tangles. She pulls her collar up and dips her head down. It hardly matters. This is the North Sea at its finest - fierce, unpredictable, unspeakably beautiful.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the bottom. Her trusty wellingtons hold her fast as she stumbles down the last couple of feet onto the side of the tarmac. A lone car hurtles past, almost dragging her along in its slipstream. She hobbles along the edge, hugging the inside of the white line until she eventually reaches the path that leads down to the beach. There are a handful of dog walkers about but in the main, the place is deserted. Peggy feels her soul lighten. This is perfect. Too early in the afternoon for those who are still at work and too cold and drizzly for the less hardy. It’s amazing the effect a bit of weather can have on people, sending them scurrying indoors once the temperature dips and the sea takes on its pre-winter swell. Not Peggy though. She loves a good storm. It means she has the place to herself. Just how she likes it. Crowds have never been her thing. Even before her scars, which make her want to curl up and disappear, she always preferred solitude over socialising. Kicking a collection of stones out of her way, she marches onto the sand, enjoying the sinking sensation as she treads amongst the shards of rotting wood and broken shells. In the distance, a line of sodden seaweed clings to the edge of the water while the tide rhythmically pushes its way in. Her walk will be shorter than she anticipated. Should have checked the tide times. A silly and marginally dangerous move for a seasoned beach walker but then her afternoon took on an unexpected twist leaving her feeling slightly off kilter. More than slightly, truth be told. She spent a good hour after Rachel left, trudging around the house, thinking about Sheryl. Why is it everything always seems to come back to bloody Sheryl? Checking her watch, Peggy stares ahead at the swelling shoreline. She should have an hour or so before the water begins to creep its way up the cliff face. Too many folk misjudge the rapidity of the sea and its all-encompassing power. Every few weeks the local lifeboat is called out to the aid of people cut off by the tide. So thoughtless and completely avoidable. Peggy watches it all unfold from her living room window and wonders when people will ever learn. You can’t fight the ebb and flow of the deluge of water that crashes into these cliffs. It�
�s the most powerful thing Peggy has ever witnessed and it would take a special kind of stupid to think they could survive it.

  Twenty minutes is all it takes to walk the stretch of sand that sits at the foot of the cliff face. Peggy turns and stares up at the speck that is her cottage; a small white building overlooking the vast coastline of the north-east of England. She stops, breathless and ruddy faced, and thinks that no matter how often she walks this route, the sheer enormity of what nature has created never ceases to fill her with awe. She delves in her pocket to retrieve a tissue. Dabbing at her eyes, Peggy ponders over how difficult life must have been hundreds of years ago, living up in Chamber Cottage with no heating or indoor plumbing. The privy at the bottom of their garden is a daily reminder of the struggle families must have gone through. She has often tried to imagine hot footing it to the outside toilet for a pee at two in the morning, in the dead of winter, with no light and a howling gale biting at your face. Doesn’t bear thinking about. The place is freezing at the best of times never mind two centuries ago with no heating or hot water to hand. And then of course there were the rogues and beachcombers to deal with. And the smugglers. For years the rumour mill has churned out stories of how a certain smuggler was so successful at his trade, he built a house in a neighbouring village where he stored his contraband. That much is true. The house still stands, a grandiose edifice built from his ill-gotten gains. But how he managed to smuggle them unseen whilst under the watchful gaze of the coastguard is another story. Without any substance to their stories or any evidence to speak of, people claim he built a series of tunnels under the cliffs that are still there, all of them leading to the large white house perched high up on the cliffs in the village beyond. Peggy smiles every time she reads about it. Such ignorance from people who are convinced they know every inch of this place. As if a crudely built tunnel carved under the cliff could reach the two or so miles to the next village. Stupid really, but then it makes for a good story to tell the tourists. And everyone loves a good tale, don’t they?

  Peggy stares down at the foaming water that is beginning to gather at her feet. Time to head back. The last thing she wants is to become one of the idiots she regularly scorns as they become stranded and cut off by the tide. Picking up her pace, Peggy heads back towards the other end of the sand, invisible fingers of wind pushing at her back, buffeting her along. She still hasn’t worked out what to tell Alec, or indeed whether she should say anything at all. The thought of anything to do with Sheryl makes her feel physically sick. For the most part, she has finally managed to block that woman out of her brain. She is a forgotten person in their everyday lives. Or at least that’s what she has tried to tell herself. Besides which, Alec sees it as some sort of failure on his part if her name is brought up.

  The image of Sheryl’s face has implanted itself in her head as she trudges back along the sand. Sheryl’s sister did the wrong thing coming to see Peggy this afternoon. If, as she says, Sheryl has gone away to clear her head, then why hasn’t she left the whole sorry scenario alone? And according to Rachel, the police have more or less said the very same thing but she is refusing to settle for that - setting up a Facebook page to find her sister even though the police haven’t yet officially filed her as missing.

  Peggy can recall the first time she met Sheryl. So clear in her mind. It had been through a mutual friend while they were at a function to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of a close friend. Heads had turned as she sashayed her way into the room, her gold sequinned dress shimmering and glinting under the glare of the rotating disco lights. Peggy had wanted to shrink away, disappear into the ether as she watched this glamorous creature captivate the hearts and minds of everyone she came into contact with. Including Alec. He was practically putty in her hands. Other friends failed to see it; Sheryl’s outward charms and devious ways. But Peggy saw it. She observed from a distance as she wrapped everyone around her little finger, oozing confidence and so much sex appeal it was actually painful to watch. Sheryl was undeniably gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made Peggy want to crawl away and hide her head in shame, disappear under the duvet and claw at her face till it bled. Too self-conscious to be in the same company as somebody so outstandingly beautiful and charming, Peggy began to draw away from parties and functions. What she didn’t expect was for Sheryl to try to contact her, to be her friend, to try to cajole her into socialising again. A gust of wind takes her by surprise and Peggy looks up to see the water lapping at a thin stretch of sand in the distance. A sinking sensation settles in her gut. She is going to have to run at an almighty speed before the tide reaches her. How could she have been so stupid? She knows this beach like the back of her hand, constantly scanning the shoreline from her window, watching the waves as they greedily suck at the cliff face, dragging chunks of rock away with each hit. She even listens to the Shipping Forecast for God’s sake and knows all about the moderate and rough sea states in ‘Dogger, Tyne’. Yet here she is, almost trapped at the foot of the cliffs, just a short distance away from her own home, her mind filled with thoughts of Sheryl. Shit!

  Picking up her pace, Peggy starts to gallop, her feet sinking into the sand, its forceful suction action slowing her down, pulling her to the floor. She begins to pant hard. It’s like wading through treacle. Her legs burn and her breath escapes in short, sharp bursts. What if she doesn’t make it? She visualises her demise, the sheer force of the mountainous, foaming waves hauling her out to sea. Then the aftermath when her body is washed up further down the beach. And of course, the press reporting on her - analysing her history, digging into her past. They would love nothing more than to rip apart and publicly dissect her life, a local-born writer with issues and secrets. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Tear people down and let the public have a feeding frenzy with the remains. Well, that’s not going to happen. With a sudden surge of energy, Peggy tears across the dirt-brown sand, her thighs going into spasm, her calves threatening to seize up at any given moment. By the time she reaches the other side, the water is already up to her knees, her wellies filling with freezing water. She feels its grasping, icy claws as it wraps its way around her legs, desperate to pull her back into its murky depths. Not this time. Not any time. Tears blinding her and snot streaming, she trips and falls into the freezing foam, letting out a sharp shriek as an icy wave laps over her back. She looks up, frantic for help; the place is completely devoid of people. All sensible, all at home, battening down the hatches. With one final push, Peggy throws herself out of the water, away from its strengthening grip and is able to half walk, half crawl out of the sea, her wet hair hanging over her face in huge, black, sodden clumps.

  Hobbling up to her feet, she staggers onto the path and then slumps down again, ripping the wellies off and emptying them of sea water before plunging her soaking feet back in them, wincing at the sensation. She begins the long walk back up to Chamber Cottage, wet jeans scraping at her skin with each step, chafing her freezing, sore legs.

  By the time she arrives, her teeth are chattering violently. The thought of slipping into a hot foamy bath kept her going for most of the way back up, stopped her from giving up.

  With trembling, numb fingers that refuse to work as they should, she clumsily slips the key into the lock and steps inside over the pile of post on the mat. Grabbing the wad of envelopes, she heads straight to the bathroom and placing them tightly between her knees, leans over the bath and turns the hot tap on, enjoying the feel of the pulsating heat as the water begins to cascade into the wide porcelain tub. It doesn’t take long to fill and Peggy is grateful to writhe her way out of her wet clothes, her skin pink and mottled as she peels them off. She throws her wet jeans into the laundry basket and climbs into the bath, leaning back and closing her eyes, the hot water a welcome sensation against her freezing flesh. It laps over her stomach and breasts as she slides further down, the snow-white bubbles forming a peak at the base of her throat. She lies still, feeling her skin sizzle under the hot water, enjoying the tingling sens
ation that starts at her feet and works its way up her body. Tears unexpectedly prick the back of her eyes and a lump rises in her throat. How could she have made such a stupid mistake? A schoolboy error on her part. She knows this stretch of the sea, is in tune with its ebb and flow, its propensity for change, its ability to draw you into its vast, clawing depths in a matter of seconds.

  She swallows hard and blinks the tears away, remembering the stack of letters next to her in a pile on the floor. Sitting up, Peggy leans down and picks them up - British Gas, Northumbrian Water, Tesco Clubcard points. Nothing too exciting. She stares at the unmarked envelope. No address, no stamp. Possibly another offer for tokens to spend at a local supermarket or an advance notice about roadworks being carried out at the bottom of the cliff. God knows it’s needed. The entire stretch is a death-trap and some sort of improvement is long overdue. She rips it open, ready to toss the contents onto the floor, and feels a pulse start up in her neck as she pulls a piece of paper out and stares at it in horror. Sheryl’s face jumps out at her from an A4 sheet with the words MISSING typed above it. At the bottom in a distinctively recognisable scrawl that turns Peggy’s stomach and makes her want to throw up are the words, WE NEED TO TALK.

  15

  Audrey

  Audrey sits in the car park opposite the beach. It’s an empty sprawl of uneven, cracked concrete littered with holes, discarded crisp packets, and battered coke cans that roll around in the prevailing wind. It never ceases to amaze and disgust her how some people don’t seem to care. They barge their way through life, discarding items, leaving them for others to clean up. Such thoughtlessness. Such arrogance. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and stares up at the house on top of the cliff, wondering if she has done the right thing. The timing had to be just right. She didn’t want to do it when he was around but she also didn’t want to run the risk of Peggy seeing her. She could have done the obvious thing and driven to where he works to make absolutely certain he is where he should be. She has been doing that for some time now, following him. Men like Alec Wilson can’t be trusted, you see. They say one thing and do another. And they are everywhere, these philanderers; leading double lives, ruining families. She has spent the last six months or so doing a bit of research, following his every move, and what she found out about him didn’t surprise her. Not one little bit. He has been seeing someone else. Of course he has. But then what else did she expect from someone with such a dreadful upbringing? No thought for others. The morals of an alley cat. The idea of keeping track of his movements didn’t actually start out as anything sinister. She simply wanted to see her daughter, albeit from a distance. She has tried for so many years now to make contact, to attempt to explain to Peggy how much she misses her family and how lonely she is since the death of Peter, but, of course, she tried it at his funeral and look how that went. Peggy shouting at her to stay away, holding her hand up to her eye, screaming at Alec for him to rescue her from her mother. Her own mother for heaven’s sake! As if she would hurt her own daughter. How little Peggy actually knows her own mum. If anything, she has remained loyal over the years, not disclosing what she knows about Alec’s past.