Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  “Mum, I’m not five!” I protested. I should have been used to my mother’s vaguely hippie-child speeches, but sometimes they hit me unawares.

  “In my eyes, you’re every age you’ve ever been. All at the same time. And always perfect.” She smiled, shrugging. “Why don’t we go to a movie and dinner? That might shift your mood.”

  “I don’t know….”

  “Why not? Let’s do it.”

  “I’m kind of tired.”

  “Getting out of the house might be just what you need.”

  She was right. I preferred being outdoors and always had. “Sure.”

  “Oh goodie. I’ll pick out an outfit for you, if you like.”

  She cast me an uncertain look, until I nodded. It made her happy to share some of her vintage rockabilly clothing with me for special occasions. When Dad was alive, she and he used to attend rockabilly dances, and I knew she missed that.

  I stepped out with Mum at eight in the night. For me, she’d chosen a little plaid shirt tied at the midriff and a long, spotted skirt. And an elegant retro dress for herself. She’d conned Jake into coming along with us. He wore his usual black jeans and T-shirt, his long hair worn on one side.

  The three of us walked along Southern Sails Street to Darling Harbour—an upmarket hive of restaurants, movie theatres and museums. The colour of the sky was starting to deepen, the orange glow of the coming sunset sweeping the harbour.

  We settled on eating at a favourite eatery, positioning ourselves in the outdoor section, so we could watch the boats and yachts.

  “So, Jake,” I said, “when’s the hot date happening with—what was her name—Charlotte?”

  A blush of red travelled up his throat. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Oooh. Where are you taking her?”

  “You make it sound like I’m going to tackle her and hurl her over my shoulder, caveman style. I’m not taking her anywhere. It’s not like that anymore. People just hang out.”

  He made me feel so ancient sometimes, even though there were only seven years between us. “Okay then, where are you hanging out?”

  “Just at Stone Blue.”

  Stone Blue was one of the nightclubs that Jake played at with his band.

  “Good thinking. She’ll be eating out of your hand after watching you play guitar.”

  He exhaled. “I don’t know about that. She’s got me eating out of her hand already.”

  “You’ll be fine, Jake,” Mum put in.

  “I know, I know…” He grinned. “I’m perfect, just the way I am.” Then his mouth turned down. “What my mother thinks of me won’t cut it with this girl though. I managed to get this far with her by not opening my stupid mouth. Once I do, it’ll all be over.”

  I laughed at his expression. “Let her do all the talking, then.”

  “Isla!” Mum admonished, but she was smiling now, too.

  It was great, sometimes, just the three of us. Like this.

  “So, when are you heading out on a sailing adventure again?” Jake teased me. It was typical of him to try to steer a conversation away from himself.

  “No more boats for me for a while.” I toyed with the serviette on the table. “I think I need something new.”

  “I’ve heard real estate photography and video pays really well,” said Mum. “All those mega-rich mansions on the Sydney foreshore. Just imagine how much those people would be willing to fork out?”

  “I don’t want to do that though,” I told her.

  Mum didn’t understand what I meant. She thought I meant I needed something safer, but I didn’t. In all honesty, I didn’t know what I needed.

  I’d heard that people who’d come close to dying tended to get a shakeup and then wanted to change everything. In my case, it was true. Something had pushed its way under my skin and was trying to peel off the upper layer. It felt almost physically painful.

  Two days later, I went back to work. Mum insisted that I call her if I had the tiniest odd sign or symptom.

  My first job was for a new client—Pippy Briggs-Hale. This assignment—a set of photos of Pippy for her Instagram profile—should have been a pretty easy and relaxed assignment. A good assignment to start back with. Except it wasn’t. Instead, it was an assignment that left my nerves frayed and my feet sore.

  Pippy wanted each shot perfect, especially the ones in which she wanted to appear as if the shot had been taken unawares. Getting a shot to look genuinely accidental was harder than it sounded. Pippy was pedantic and demanding, seeming to think I’d love her as much as her Instagram followers. She truly was the shallowest person I’d ever met.

  I cursed myself for lugging so much camera equipment along because we’d been all over the city now, from Chinatown to the wax museum.

  In the middle of a shoot at Darling Harbour, Pippy launched into an extended chat session on her phone. I took the chance to sit and shuffle out of my shoes. The temptation to head across and stick my swollen feet in the kids’ waterplay park was almost overwhelming. Instead, I trekked to a nearby cafe and ordered a coffee.

  Fifteen minutes later, I watched Pippy tottering around searching for me like a lost child. I knew I should stand and wave at her, but I sat enjoying my coffee for a while longer.

  That afternoon, I soaked myself in the bathtub, vowing to choose future clients with more care.

  If I was Alice in Wonderland, then Pippy was the insane Queen of Hearts. The queen of Instagram hearts.

  Mum rapped on the door. “Everything okay, Isla?”

  “Yep. Almost fell asleep.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. Promise me.”

  “I won’t. I’m getting out.”

  She’d become so much more protective of me since the harbour incident.

  Wrapping myself in a towel, I stepped from the bath and towel-dried my hair. I dressed in a tank top and shorts, not able to tell whether I was already sweating or still damp from the bath. Hot air drifted in through the open window as I walked into my bedroom.

  I sat at my desk. I’d already worked on the images of Pippy and sent the first batch through to her. She’d been anxious to get them ASAP.

  The whole day had felt hollow. I felt hollow.

  Leaving thoughts of Pippy behind, I binge-watched the rest of a series on Netflix.

  But I couldn’t focus. The hollowness grew, slowly swallowing me whole, digesting me.

  I switched off the TV. I’d finish watching the series another time, when I could relax into it.

  Opening my laptop, I browsed my usual sites.

  The Scotland photography assignment caught my eye again. The thought of the McGregor family saddened me. But despite my misgivings, the assignment captivated me enough to have me clicking on the link in the ad.

  A page opened of images of ultra-modern buildings that had been married to traditional stone cottages. Somehow, they worked—a credit to the architect.

  I searched Alban’s name on Google image search. There he was—Alban McGregor, the architect. Angular features, dark eyes, messy hair tucked behind his ears—as if he’d been out in the wind the day the photograph was taken. His features were both distinct and irregular, which would make photographing him an easier task than with many other men. Men who had perfectly even features were often harder to make good portraits from, especially if their face shape was round. Alban’s was the kind of face that you could draw a statement from. My mind wandered to photographing him against a backdrop of craggy Scottish mountains, the rough edges of him reflected in the scenery.

  I had to admit, I was intrigued by him. That was always a good sign when it came to a photography session with someone.

  I found his wife next—a pretty blonde woman named Jessica. She looked about thirty years old, her eyes uncertain and a little sad. She held a tiny, fair-haired toddler on her lap—the child’s eyes round with innocence. Alban sat beside them. Unlike his wife, the look in his eyes was a little bit fierce.

  Photos of another young girl had also popped up in
my search—Elodie McGregor. Pictures of her running across a moor. A picture of her standing in between Alban and Jessica at a girls’ soccer match, clad in soccer gear. She was dark-eyed and dark-haired like her father, with a slim oval face and a serious, determined set to her chin.

  Elodie.

  Pieces from the news article that I’d read before shot into my mind.

  Abducted from outside her home.

  Died in the arms of her parents.

  Never woke from her coma.

  I was beginning to feel like a voyeur sitting here and peering at them all.

  Again, I was Alice. On her knees, bedraggled like a half-drowned rat, sticking her earnest face through that miniature door again. Watching people who she had no business watching.

  I returned to the screen where the job was being advertised.

  Breathing deeply, I read through it again.

  I felt an urge to do something real. And this assignment seemed real. These people had been able to move on from their tragedy and keep going. I was fascinated by them.

  And the assignment was just a month long. A stepping stone.

  With all meals and accommodation provided.

  I’d have the space in which to do the kind of portfolio I’d long dreamed of doing. And it would certainly look good on my resume.

  My heart began chugging like a steam train on a downward slope when I realised I was actually seriously considering this.

  The assignment was nothing like what I normally did.

  I swallowed, reading the ad yet again.

  A fresh batch of sweat sprung onto my back as I reached for my phone.

  Out in the kitchen, Mum had old newspapers spread all over the kitchen table, with two of the old chairs she’d rescued perched on top. She was painting the first one a pretty blue shade.

  She turned to me, a smear of bright paint across her cheek, her hair up in a scarf—1950s style. “What do you think?”

  “Love the colour,” I told her.

  “Me too. It’s called Tropicana Aqua. I’m doing the others orange, green and pink.”

  “Nice.”

  “How was the bath?”

  “Great.”

  She paused her paintbrush on the chair’s leg. “Feeling okay, sweetie? You’ve been pretty quiet since you came in from that job. Hope it didn’t tire you out too much.”

  “Mum, I just called about a photography position.”

  “Oh?”

  “In Scotland.”

  She seemed to stiffen. “Scotland?”

  I exhaled tightly. “Yes. All the way over there.”

  Greer Crowley—Alban McGregor’s personal assistant—had been warm and approachable. She’d looked over the portfolio of work I’d emailed her and said yes on the spot.

  “No.” Mum spoke the word with conviction and without hesitation, surprising me.

  “Mum?”

  Her rigid pose collapsed, her shoulders sagging inward as she put her paintbrush down and faced me. “You can’t go all the way overseas. Don’t be crazy.” She drew her mouth in. “You think you can do anything…but you can’t. I’m sorry as hell that you were born with the condition you’ve got. But it’s all about living the best life you can while managing the risks.”

  “People with my condition do all kinds of things.”

  She blinked, eyes opening wide with apprehension. “Oh honey, I didn’t mean it in that way. It’s just…well, your seizures obviously haven’t been under control lately. Imagine that happening to you in a strange country?”

  “I need a change. This sounded good. And it’s only for a month. You haven’t even asked—”

  “Is it because of what happened the other day on the yacht? It must be playing on your mind. Because, you know, you could see the psychologist that you used to see for your depression.” She nodded as if a decision had officially been made. “We’ll make an appointment.”

  “I don’t want to make an appointment.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t think you need to see her. But please, think about this some more. It was just a few days ago you were reminding me about that awful time you went through. You’d never want something like that to happen to you again.”

  “I know. I don’t want that. But I’ve been feeling well for a long time. I’m okay. I feel okay. Really.”

  “Promise me you’ll think about this some more.”

  “Promise.” I shot her a smile that I hoped was reassuring. I was feeling nervous as anything underneath the smile. I couldn’t tell her right now that I’d accepted the job.

  Taking a step closer to the table, I picked up the paintbrush. “This is going to dry out if you don’t keep going.” I dipped it into the tin of paint and began filling in a bare spot.

  I had the distinct feeling she was going to try every angle to convince me that this wasn’t a good idea. And I worried that it wasn’t going to take much for her to change my mind.

  4

  ISLA

  I thought I’d back out of taking on the Scotland job over the next fortnight. At least twice a day, nerves would crackle like live wires beneath my skin and I’d be desperate to pick up the phone and tell Greer Crowley that I’d developed a severe illness and couldn’t make it. All apologies.

  But I didn’t.

  I surprised myself by sticking firm.

  Jake had been my only supporter.

  Mum had grown increasingly despondent. As I’d predicted, she had thrown everything she had at talking me out of going, but even so, I hadn’t been prepared for her tenacity. She’d ended up insisting on coming with me, until I’d sat her down and asked why she had so little faith in me.

  It’d continued like that until the morning I headed out the door, wearing my most comfortable pair of jeans and my favourite T-shirt. Travelling gear. I wanted to look like a seasoned traveller, even though I wasn’t one.

  There’s still time to back out, I reminded myself as yet another wave of nerves raced through me.

  I’d made it as far as Singapore airport. I could turn tail and head back to Sydney if I wanted to. It’d be a terrible thing to do to the people who were expecting me to show up in Scotland. But still, this was my last chance.

  I found my way outside, into the hot, humid air. I had two hours to kill while waiting for my connecting flight. I wasn’t looking forward to being squashed back into a plane. I hated the sensation of being trapped in a small place in which everything was completely out of my control.

  Changi International Airport was enormous, with actual full-size palm trees inside and extensive gardens around the exterior. If I was going to become hopelessly lost—or somehow die of a panic attack—at least this would be a nice place in which to do it.

  I ate a noodle lunch in one of the gardens, continually stressing that I had the departure time wrong.

  Anxiety central.

  All boarding.

  An hour later, I was in the sky again, this time with a window seat. I didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse. The UK was a long way from here, across an endless, terrifying stretch of ocean and countries. I was grateful when night turned the scene outside to black, and I finally felt myself drifting off.

  I woke to Heathrow Airport, London, then caught my next flight to Inverness, Scotland. It was already morning. As my plane landed, I looked down on a city surrounded by sea and green space. I didn’t know why I’d expected that such a small country would be crowded with buildings, because it was nothing like that.

  The plane descended onto the runway at Inverness Airport, my ears painfully popping, despite chewing on a mint.

  I couldn’t help but feel forlorn as I dragged my suitcase through the streams of people. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, and many of them were being greeted by waiting family.

  Greer had arranged a driver to take me all the way to Alban McGregor’s property in the Highlands. She’d said to wait in the departure lounge, holding up a piece of paper with my last name on it.


  Like an orphan waiting to be claimed, I stood there patiently clutching my crumpled A4 scrap of paper that said WILSON.

  A smallish man in his sixties approached me. “Miss Isla Wilson?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m your driver this morning. My name’s Craig.” He had a heavy Scottish accent and one of the friendliest smiles I’d ever seen.

  “I’m so happy you found me, Craig. I’m feeling a bit lost.”

  “Hey, ’tis natural. A big airport is a bugger of a place. Full of numpties mooing about like cows instead of getting to where they should be. Come on then, I’ll show you to the car.”

  Craig had unwittingly just become my insta-family. Not letting him out of my sight, I doggedly followed him out of the airport.

  The drive from Inverness to the country seemed to slide past quickly—helped by Craig’s stories about his wife, life and grandchildren, peppered with colourful sayings that I was sure must be the Scottish version of swear words.

  We travelled along what looked like a highway to me—Craig called it the A9. He turned off to head along another long road, then made another turn at a sign that pointed towards a town named Greenmire. The road twisted around stubborn trees and craggy boulders, as if those landscape features had won sway when the road had first been built.

  “Not far now,” Craig informed me.

  There didn’t seem to be anything here. Just long stretches of country landscapes.

  A car filled with young people cut in front of us, a blonde guy driving.

  Craig threw his hands up in the air. “Ah, you daft flippin’ numpty!” He shot a quick glance across at me. “Sorry for that. It’s those Chandlish kids—their parents’ house is just down the road a bit. Rich idiots, they are.”

  I grinned. “Don’t mind me.”

  A short distance further along the road, I noticed a tall woman standing by a wide gate, arms waving wildly above her head. She had a thin, hunch-shouldered build, dressed in a long floral skirt, jacket and boots. Her hair—coloured in an unnaturally pink shade of blonde—curved neatly around her ears in a shiny bob. She looked like she’d be in her early thirties.