“Come on!” she heard the voices say. The words echoed over her head.
The pain in her chest became excruciating. Her lungs began to spasm uncontrollably. Her back arched. Emily’s eyes flew open. She wrenched open her mouth and vomited dirty water, leaves and twigs. She drew in long, painful breaths that burned the inside of her throat. But the air was fresh and unadulterated and bursting with life.
She was lying by the edge of the lake, clothes swamped with water, lungs filled with fire. Jerome’s stricken face appeared over her, raining droplets of water onto her skin.
“It’s all right,” he breathed, his teeth chattering. “You’re okay. I got here just in time.”
Emily tried to move.
“Just rest for a minute.”
“But Marcia...” No more words would come. Emily rested her head on the ground, feeling wet earth and rock, grateful she could feel anything at all.
Jerome shuffled down to her feet and tugged at the rope that still bound her legs. “I saw the boat go over. You both went into the water. I swam as fast as I could. It’s a miracle I found you at all. Damn it, the rope’s too wet.”
He snatched up the storm lantern and pointed it at the ground. The knife glinted in the darkness.
“Stay still,” he said, setting to work on the rope.
Emily did as she was told. Her dalliance with death had left her groggy and sore and disoriented. She lay there, focusing on her breath—in for four, hold for seven, out for eight—until she heard a faint snap. Her ankles sprang away from each other.
“Thank you.” She pulled herself up. The world rocked from side to side as if she were still on the boat. The fog in her mind persisted.
“Where’s Marcia?” she said, floundering as she grabbed the lantern and pointed it across the lake. The capsized boat floated halfway across like the back of a whale.
Jerome shook his head. “I saw her fall in but I didn’t see her get out. I can’t believe it was her and Pamela. That crazy woman locked me in Melody’s room. I had to jump out of the damn window!”
Suddenly remembering Melody, Emily swung the lantern towards the jetty. Melody was gone.
“They were going to kill us both,” she said.
“What the hell? I didn’t even do anything!”
Emily quickly filled him in on the reasons why, starting with the murder of Franklyn Hobbes and ending with Pamela’s plan to frame Melody. When she was done, Jerome sat back and let out an exasperated breath.
“What a total nut job!” He sat up again, worried eyes staring at Emily in the dark. “Helen’s still in there.”
“They won’t hurt her. Not when her story will vindicate them of all responsibility.”
“But that was before I escaped, before you didn’t die. There’s a good chance Marcia saw me pulling you from the lake. She’ll be on her way back to the house right now to tell Pamela.”
Emily pulled herself to her feet. Although her legs were shaky, she managed to stay upright. “There’s no way they’re getting out of this. But that doesn’t mean any of us are safe.”
She tugged on Jerome’s arm. He looked at her in horror.
“We’re going back to the house, aren’t we?” Jerome handed her the knife. “Fine, but I get to hold the lantern.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
They stumbled through the forest, almost losing their way, then hurried across the meadow. Emily clutched the knife in her hand, wondering if she would be able to use it if she had to.
The front door of the house was open. Light spilled out.
Emily pushed her legs forwards. Twice, she almost fell, but Jerome was there to hold her up. Passing through the garden, she saw two sets of muddy footprints trailing along the corridor towards the Hardys’ living quarters.
Chest rising and falling in quick succession, Emily nodded at Jerome. Together, they stepped into the foyer.
“Wait!”
Jerome tugged her back outside. In the northwest corner of the forest, a haze of blue and red lights flashed above the treetops.
“They’re here,” Jerome said. “The police are here!”
The lights were mesmerising, like the afterglow of fireworks. Emily blinked them away. Minutes would pass before the police would walk through the front door. Terrible things could happen in a matter of seconds. She stood, her senses pulling towards rescue and her conscience pulling towards the house.
No one else was going to die.
“Emily, no! What are you doing?”
Jerome pulled her back. She tried to shake him off but his grip was firm.
“We have to go in there, Jerome.”
He stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, then jabbed a finger towards the lights. “Are you out of your mind? The police are right there! They’ll be here any minute!”
“Melody doesn’t have a minute!” she said. “They’re going to kill her, Jerome. Don’t you see? They’ve played her all along. Used her loneliness to manipulate her into making a stupid, stupid mistake.”
She moved forwards. Jerome held her back.
“Even so, she should have known. There’s this thing called right and wrong.”
“So we just let her die? You really think she deserves that?”
Their eyes burned into each other. Far behind them, the police lights inched closer. Jerome released his grip. His shoulders sagged.
“Fine. But this time, I’m coming with you.”
They entered the foyer together, heading in silence along the corridor and towards the Hardys’ living quarters. The door was ajar.
Knife wavering in front of her, Emily peered inside. Helen was alone, slumped on the sofa. They hurried towards her. Jerome pressed two fingers into Helen’s jugular.
“She’s alive. Looks like the bleeding has stopped too.”
Emily glanced out of the window. In the distance, she saw beams of torchlight emerge from the forest. She turned and faced the door that led towards the bedrooms. A smear of blood stained the jamb. A muffled cry came through the wood. Trembling, Emily reached for the handle.
She looked back at Jerome, who was propping Helen’s head up with more pillows. Their eyes met. Jerome shook his head wildly.
Emily opened the door.
Pamela stood in the centre of the corridor, hands pressed up against the bathroom door. She turned towards Emily. She looked old and weak, all the vitality sucked from her bones.
“Please, help me!” she sobbed. She turned back towards the door, curled her hands into fists, and pounded the wood.
Emily held out the knife in front of her. She looked uncertainly at Pamela, then to the door. Jerome came up behind.
“Please!” Pamela screamed. “Stop her!”
Frightened now, Emily looked at Jerome. He ran forwards, pushing Pamela out of the way. Then, bracing himself against the wall, he charged at the door. The lock broke on his second attack, tearing away from the jamb. The door flew inwards.
Knife still in her hand, Emily entered the bathroom.
They were sat in the bath, toe to toe. Melody’s hands were still tied. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Her back pressed into the taps. She turned to face Emily, her face smeared with tears and dirt and splashes of blood. She sobbed into the gag.
Marcia sat across from her, unmoving, her skin draining to a horrible shade of grey. She had made two deep cuts that ran the length of her inner arms. Blood poured and spurted from the wounds, effervescent against white porcelain.
Emily was paralysed. She watched scarlet rivulets run along the bottom of the tub to soak Melody’s sweatpants. A bloody razorblade rested on the floor. It took just a second to drink it all in but that second lasted for an hour. Behind her, Pamela fell to her knees and wailed.
Springing into action, Emily pulled towels from the rail and moved towards the bathtub. Marcia’s eyes opened. She watched Emily as she wrapped a towel around one of her forearms, then started work on the other.
“I need more!” she cried.
Emily tightened the towels but they were already dark with Marcia’s blood.
“I’m sorry.”
Emily looked up. Marcia stared at her, the light draining from her irises.
“Why?” Emily choked. “Why didn’t you just say no? Why didn’t you just tell her to stop?”
Marcia swallowed. An exhausted smile found its way to her lips. Pamela was crawling towards the tub on her hands and knees, spit hanging from her mouth.
“Mother knows best,” Marcia whispered.
Then she was dead, her eyes fixed on Pamela for an eternity.
Melody began to howl. She squirmed against her bindings and thrashed against the bathtub. Jerome returned with a large pile of towels. He saw Marcia’s lifeless eyes, then hugged the towels to his chest.
Pamela pulled Marcia towards her, wrapping arms around her back. In the bathtub, Melody continued to wail through her gag. Voices and footsteps filled the air, followed by the crackle of police radios.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
With Melody and Pamela now in handcuffs and being watched over by Constables Evans and Taylor in the bedrooms, Sergeant Wells stepped out into the corridor to radio in what he’d found. Emily heard him mention something about CID as she wandered out into the garden, where Jerome stood with Daniel and Janelle. They all shared the same shell-shocked expression.
“Ben and Sylvia were gone before we could catch up with them,” Janelle said to her. “We had to walk all the way.”
“Look at what you missed,” Emily said. Her eye throbbed. She felt sick to the stomach. And for some ungodly reason, she felt hungry.
It wasn’t long before the drone of a helicopter could be heard. Minutes later, they all covered their ears as an air ambulance landed and paramedics jumped out. Helen was brought out on a stretcher. Her eyes were open, her body halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness. As she was carried past Emily, she lifted a finger. Emily leant down until her ear was by Helen’s lips.
“I give Meadow Pines a one star rating,” she croaked. “I know who you are now.”
Before Emily could respond, Helen was stretchered away and lifted into the waiting helicopter. Turning around, she saw Jerome watching her.
“What did she say?” he asked.
Emily didn’t answer. Instead, she stared out across the meadow, into the darkness of the trees, wanting nothing more than to go home.
MEADOW PINES MASSACRE
SEVERAL DEAD & INJURED AT WEEKEND RETREAT
By Jack Portland
The quiet communities of the New Forest were left reeling in shock last night following a spate of bizarre and gruesome murders at Meadow Pines, a local retreat specialising in digital detox. The retreat’s owner, Pamela Hardy, 44, has been charged with the killings, while Melody Jackson, 25, a regular visitor to Meadow Pines is also currently in police custody. Details of her involvement have not been released. Hardy’s daughter, Marcia, 22, has also been implicated but was pronounced dead on scene, after reportedly taking her own life.
The victims have been named as Oscar Jansen, 47, Samuel Turner, 26, and Franklyn Hobbes, 24. Turner, a chef at Meadow Pines, is thought to have been in a relationship with Marcia Hardy. Hobbes, who had a long history of mental health issues, disappeared in April of last year. Jansen, a private investigator, was hired by the Hobbes family to find him. Franklyn’s mother, Darcy Hobbes, 61, said, ‘He often goes missing for periods of time, sometimes months, but he always comes home eventually.’
Although police have yet to issue an official statement citing the reasons behind the killings, early reports indicate that a shallow grave containing the decomposed remains of Franklyn Hobbes was uncovered by guest, Emily Swanson, 27. Sergeant Wells of Lyndhurst constabulary has praised Swanson, a former teacher, and fellow guest Jerome Miller, 28, for their help in uncovering what he described as, ‘a tragic bloodbath that didn’t need to happen.’
Police have also issued arrest warrants for known criminals Benjamin White, 36, and Sylvia White nee Parsons, 35, who are believed to have robbed follow guests during the chaos.
Journalist Helen Carlson was reviewing the retreat for Modern Living magazine when the murders took place. Turn to pages 3&4 to read her exclusive eye-witness report, with details on how she narrowly escaped becoming Meadow Pines’ fifth victim.
EPILOGUE
Harriet Golding didn’t look well. Perched on the sofa, Emily watched the old woman with concern. Beside her, Jerome munched on biscuits and drank tea. Harriet’s middle-aged son, Andrew, sat in the armchair, adopting his usual pose, which involved a weighty looking book pressed up to his face. Occasionally, he would glance over the top, his eyes widening as Emily and Jerome relayed the details of their weekend. Harriet had gasped and oohed and ahhed.
When the whole terrible story was told, she sucked in a breath, then coughed and spluttered. Pulling a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve, she dabbed the corners of her mouth.
“Well!” she said, when she’d recovered enough to speak. “Doesn’t much sound like a relaxing weekend to me. And look at your eye!”
Emily touched her face. The swelling had decreased but now dark purple bruising bloomed around her eye and temple.
Harriet tutted. “What an awful thing to happen! I always had my suspicions about all those tree huggers. It ain’t natural, is it? Flouncing around the woods, trying to float on clouds and what-not. They must all be on drugs!”
“It’s not very fair to tar everyone with the same brush now, Harriet,” Jerome said. “I happen to believe that meditation can do wonderful things for the mind. Even if it’s just shutting your eyes for ten minutes and letting your thoughts go.”
“Rubbish,” said Harriet.
“You’re such a cynic. I’m actually thinking about taking yoga classes again. I think we’d all agree I could do with a little more focus in my life,” Jerome said.
“And your own roof over your head,” Harriet added. “And a job.”
Emily arched an eyebrow at Jerome. “You’ve changed your tune. I would have thought after this weekend the last thing you’d want is to delve back into the realms of the unconscious.”
“Well, what can I say? I’m a man of surprises. Besides, I spoke to Daniel this morning. We’re going to meet next week. I’ve offered to show him some basic poses to get him started.”
“I bet you have.”
Harriet muttered disapprovingly under breath, pulled her blanket from her knees, and draped it over the arm of the chair. “This place drives me insane. Too bloody cold in winter and too bloody hot in summer. I can’t win. ‘Ere Andrew, can’t you open a window or something?”
Andrew’s voice floated over his book, flat and disinterested. “It’s stuck.”
Grumbling, Harriet returned her gaze to Emily, whose brow was pulled down so tightly over her eyes she was likely to bring on a headache. “Are you all right, dear? Who’s put a bee in your bonnet?”
“I’m fine,” Emily said. But it was a lie. She was far from fine. It had been two days since she and Jerome had been allowed to return to London with an assurance from Sergeant Wells that CID would more than likely be in touch for further questioning. In that time, shock had turned to confusion, then exploded with anger.
Emily stood up from the sofa and paced over to the window. She stared down at the alley far below, then across at the vista of tall buildings, which sprawled into the distance as far as the eye could see. She turned back to the room. Harriet and Jerome were staring at her.
“It’s just not right,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “A young girl like that dead because of a ridiculous loyalty to her mother. That woman didn’t give a damn about her.”
“But she was her mother. People will go to extraordinary lengths to protect their loved ones,” Harriet said.
“Even if their loved ones don’t deserve it?”
“People want to feel accepted. They want to feel loved. E
ven if that means giving up the things they believe in. It don’t make it right. It’s just how it is sometimes. Loneliness can make a person desperate.”
Jerome nodded. “Just like Melody. Desperation has her on the way to prison as an accessory to murder. I suppose at least she won’t be alone anymore.”
Emily felt the weight in her chest grow heavier. It was all such a waste of life, of time. In some ways, she felt sorry for all of them. For Franklyn, whom the police had ascertained had had a long history of mental illness; for Oscar, who had just been doing the job he’d been paid to do by Franklyn’s worried family; for Sam, who’d let his emotions get the better of him and instantly signed his own death warrant; for Melody, whose life had been so empty she’d made serious errors of judgement; for Marcia, who’d spent a lifetime under her mother’s control, who’d been left alone to deal with the traumas of sexual and physical assault, who’d been isolated, manipulated, coerced, emotionally blackmailed, and who, riddled with guilt, had finally taken her own life.
And what of Pamela? Should she be pitied when she was accountable for the shocking deaths at Meadow Pines? What had it all been for? To save a flagging business? To prevent bankruptcy? Emily couldn’t believe that and she suspected there was much more to Pamela’s motivations than was apparent.
“What about the lady who got hurt? The writer?” Harriet asked, her limbs creaking as she reached for her cup of tea. “Is she all right?”
Emily nodded. “She was practically phoning in her story from the helicopter.”
“You didn’t see the newspapers?” Jerome asked Harriet. He bounced up and down like an excited puppy.
“All the newspapers is good for is lighting fires.”
“Well, give credit where credit’s due, Helen wrote a great story. She made us sound like real heroes, didn’t she, Em? And after all that prying, trying to find out who you were. Maybe she wasn’t such a hack after all.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Emily said.
“She could have written about what—” Emily’s glare stopped him in his tracks. “But she didn’t, is all I’m saying.”
Cruel Minds Page 21
