Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller Page 5

  “It’s a lively pub, this one. It’s certainly not the usual around this part of Scotland.” Greer waved at me to follow as she squeezed through the crowd. “We’ll get you fed and watered, my dear.”

  After ordering lunch and drinks, she found us a little spot near the wood fire. As we sat and chatted over stew and crusty bread, it occurred to me how much I was already enjoying being here. I felt at home, even listening to the accents so different to my own. The Scots drew out their vowel sounds in a delightful way, liberally sprinkled with Scottish cussing. It was a language for sitting and having long chats over a beer or cup of tea.

  I’d been missing out on far too much by cocooning myself at home—this reluctant butterfly needed to take flight.

  A gaggle of young people burst in through the front door, laughing and talking loudly. It was the same group again—the Chandlishes and their friends, except that this time there were more of them.

  The heavy melody of the song, Back to Black by Amy Winehouse, began playing, Amy’s pure, sultry, jazz tones stretching throughout the pub.

  Aubrey took the blonde man who she was with onto the dance floor, leading him into a waltzing kind of dance. She kissed him as if there was no one else in the room. Greer had guessed right. He must be her boyfriend. The two of them made a good-looking couple.

  When the song ended, a song by the Scottish band, The Proclaimers burst through the loudspeakers: I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles). The entire pub erupted, suddenly singing along. Feet stomping. Hands clapping. People joined Aubrey and her male friend on the dance floor, yelling out the lyrics at the tops of their lungs.

  Greer smiled at me. “Hope your poor ears will be okay after this!”

  “I’m loving it,” I called back over the din.

  A man approached. He was one of the men that Aubrey had come in with—light brown hair falling over blue eyes. He appeared to be studying my face, a frown flickering in between his eyebrows.

  “Hello,” he said, bending down to be heard.

  His accent was Australian and his voice a little slurred, beer on his breath. It seemed odd to hear an Australian accent here. But there must be hundreds or thousands of Aussies bouncing around Scotland right now, so I guessed it wasn’t that unusual.

  “Uh, hello,” I replied. “Good to see another Aussie here. Where are you from?”

  An awkward silence followed before he said, “What are you doing here?”

  I glanced from him to Greer, confused. Greer gave a slight shake of her head.

  “I’m just sitting here having lunch?” I told him.

  “I mean,” he said, enunciating each word, “What are you doing here?”

  “Excuse me,” said Greer. “That might just be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard. Please leave her alone.”

  The man straightened and decided to walk away as he caught sight of Aubrey running over, her high-heeled boots clattering on the floor.

  “Sorry Greer,” Aubrey said. “Didn’t mean to run out in front of you earlier. We’re all a bit tipsy.”

  “I noticed.” Greer sighed and smiled. “Stay off the roads, okay? Who’s driving you guys home?”

  “S’okay.” Aubrey smiled. “Big bro’ Peyton is coming to get us later.” She glanced in my direction. “Hey, who’s this?”

  “This is Isla,” Greer told her. “Isla Wilson. She’ll be staying in the cottage at Braithnoch for the next month. She’s shooting a portfolio of photos for Alban.”

  “Ooh, that’s exciting.” Her wide grin seemed genuine as she shook my hand. “Hope you enjoy our wee town, Isla. There’s nothing to do here, but don’t let that stop you from having fun.” Her laugh twisted wryly. “You’ve just got to bring your fun.”

  Greer sipped at her beer, her brow crinkling. “Aubrey, who was the man who was here a second ago? He’s with you, right?”

  Aubrey nodded. “Yeah. That’s Trent. We’ve been friends for a few years. Was he bothering Isla? He’s a bit drunk. And high on pot and maybe a few other things.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, “He wasn’t bothering me.”

  “I’ll bring everyone over to meet Isla.” Her eyes opened wide as if that was the best idea ever. “And you can meet my new guy, Greer. His name is Simon. I met him at a concert in Edinburgh. He’s a lawyer. Doesn’t look like a lawyer though. This time, it’s going to last. I really like him.”

  “That sounds lovely. I’m happy for you, but we’ve really got to head off. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to meet Simon soon.” Greer rose from her chair. “I’m going to show Isla around Greenmire a bit and then take her back to Braithnoch to get some rest.”

  Aubrey inhaled a large breath and released it in a sigh. “Okay, well, see you around, Isla. I’ll just be on the other side of the woods from you.”

  Greer herded me out of the pub. “That lot are all too rowdy at the moment. And you’re looking pretty tired, you poor thing.”

  “I’m really starting to feel it now,” I admitted. The encounter with the Australian guy named Trent had especially left me feeling ragged around the edges.

  As promised, Greer drove me around Greenmire, pointing out the shops and landmarks.

  By the time we returned to Braithnoch, I was feeling heavy as a rock, layers of exhaustion piling on top of me.

  When night drew in, I walked down the garden path to spend my first night at the cottage. Greer was staying in the house.

  It was only once I was out in the cottage, alone, that I really felt the isolation of its position and sensed the forest all around me.

  Despite my weariness, it was hard to get to sleep, and I lay awake for hours, listening for every sound.

  6

  ELODIE

  Greenmire, Scottish Highlands, December 2015

  Terror flashed through her. There was no way out of the playhouse.

  In desperation, Elodie squeezed her eyes shut and made a dash for the only exit. She ran straight into him.

  Backing away, she crumpled herself into a corner. His body blocked the door so fully that she could only see the barest glimpses of the forest behind it. Bending low, he moved inside and closed the door behind. She tensed as he reached inside his jacket pocket. Was he getting a knife or something to hurt her? She couldn’t see.

  A light blinked on.

  His phone. A whitish light shone out.

  When he yanked the scarf down from his face, a loud gasp sucked from her lungs.

  She knew him.

  Of course she did.

  She’d always known him. And loved him. He’d taught her to love him, instructing her that love comes from respect.

  Everything was okay. It was him. She’d made a big mistake. Catching her breath, she raised her face to the slivers of sky peeking through the gaps in the ceiling. She’d been running and scared and silly, but now he’d tell her that he was just trying to catch up to her to tell her something. Maybe she’d been about to step on a sleeping adder. Or maybe this was just some kind of test. He’d taught her to expect that he’d test her.

  Also, she was afraid of him. He’d taught her that, too. He’d scared her before sometimes, but she hadn’t been all alone, like now.

  When she moved her gaze back to him, his eyes were different. Steely. Intent. The look in his eyes sent electrical bursts of adrenalin shooting through her veins and made her thoughts of tests and adders scatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

  “I’m sorry for running away,” she told him. “You scared me. I shouldn’t have been outside this late. Mum’s making us cottage pie tonight. You’ll like it. She’s just gone out to get some potatoes.”

  He breathed deeply, and she could see the white air streaming from his nose and mouth. “This is where I want you right now.”

  “I’m cold.” That wasn’t exactly true. She somehow felt cold inside her chest, but she was sweating under her winter clothing. “I need to go light the fire.”

  “You’ll be okay. There’s more I have to teach you.”

  “Please
. You know that Mum’s feeling poorly. She’ll get upset if I don’t come straight back.”

  “But you’re with me. Why would she be upset?”

  She didn’t have an answer for that. She didn’t know if there even was an answer. She desperately wanted to say something—to talk her way out of here—but her thoughts were all twisted up.

  He began speaking about love, like he often did. But here in the playhouse, the words seemed all wrong. Before, they’d sounded like a kind of wisdom only an adult could give. Now, they made shivery waves of pins down her arms and legs. She knew the words well.

  He loved her, too. He’d once told her he’d loved her since the moment she was born. Her newborn cry had sounded like a stray kitten to him, he’d said. Like a forlorn, abandoned thing that needed rescuing.

  He fixed his gaze on her, shrugging off his jacket and laying it on the floor. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded. She was used to saying yes to his words.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Good.”

  He’d never touched her before when he was teaching her. She shrank away. In response, he stood, gazing down at her. His body blocked any chance of escape, suddenly seeming as tall and wide and unmovable as a larch tree.

  A small branch or twig struck the roof of the shack, scraping like skeletal fingers all the way along until it fell to the ground.

  It felt to her as if the entire forest was about to come down.

  Every single tree.

  7

  ISLA

  I woke in a groggy haze, still thinking I was on a plane.

  When I realised I was here—Greenmire, Scotland—a slow smile spread across my face. Despite the headache that throbbed at my temples, I had a sense of curiosity about the coming month, and more than a bit of pride that I’d made it.

  I changed my clothes three times, not knowing what to wear for the weather. The first two outfits seemed like overkill, too much like a Sydneyite travelling to a cold country for the first time. Settling on a dressed-down thick hoodie, jeans and a knit cap, I headed out of the cottage and up to the main house.

  “Come right on in, Isla.” Greer’s high voice pinged from the interior of the house. When I hesitated to let myself in, she flung the door open and waved me inside, clad in pyjamas and slippers. “No need to knock.” With her baggy pyjamas and her hair in a messy ponytail, she resembled a giant child. Even the slippers she wore and coffee cup she held were oversized. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a log.”

  “Brilliant. Well, help yourself. There’s cereal, croissants, yoghurt, fruit, eggs, whatever you please.”

  “Oh, that all sounds lovely. But I’ll admit I don’t tend to do breakfast. I picked up the habit from my mother.”

  “The air here will change that habit soon enough. You’ll wake up starving.”

  “Mum would be mortified if I came home a few kilos heavier. I won’t fit into the clothes she buys me.” I rushed my words at the end, wishing I hadn’t mentioned the clothing. Yes, at age twenty-six, my mother still occasionally bought me pieces of clothing. It was me who was the giant child, not Greer.

  Greer just looked amused. “She buys you clothes? That’s cute.”

  “She’s into rockabilly,” I mumbled. “So yeah, sometimes we go retro. Actually, she’s permanently retro. Everything, even the house.”

  “I love it. Explains your Instagram.”

  “You looked at that?”

  “Of course. I stick my nose and beady eyes in everywhere. I saw photos of your mother and you.”

  “Embarrassing.”

  “Not at all. She looks like fun.”

  Because Greer had gone to such an effort for breakfast, I sat and ate. And enjoyed it much more than I thought I would. I wasn’t used to sitting and savouring breakfast. Mornings had been for getting up and rushing to jobs. But I liked this—this was relaxing. A start to a different me.

  An iPhone on the kitchen counter next to Greer burst into chords of Echo Beach by Martha and the Muffins. Maybe Greer was a little retro herself. She answered with a short, sharp Greer Crowley. During the call, she seemed to grow a little annoyed.

  “Ah,” she said in an exasperated tone, as she returned the phone to the bench top. “A little drama erupting at the office. Maybe they can sort it themselves—I don’t like to leave you here alone. Not very hospitable.”

  “No, don’t be silly. Go! Shoo! I can go check out Braithnoch.”

  “You’re a dear.”

  Greer rushed away to change out of her pyjamas, returning in a suit, her hair neatly drawn into a bun. “I’ll be back in three hours or so. Alban and Jess might arrive before I return, but they know you’re here.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll just introduce myself.”

  “Good. Okay well, I’ll leave you to have a bit of a poke about and see what you want to capture for your portfolio.” She flashed me a smile and half-crossed the floor before she stopped, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “I’ll remind you that Alban’s just a bit private when it comes to his office and studio.”

  “I remember. Anyway, I’m dying to get out there on those hills.”

  She laughed. “You’ll need your walking boots on. And a toasty, warm coat. And be careful not to head into the woods—too easy to get lost for days in there.”

  “Got it. don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” I grinned to emphasise my point.

  I heard her drive away as I washed up the cups and plates in the sink. I felt dwarfed by the house as soon as I’d finished. I realised that Greer and her loud, breezy personality had filled up quite a lot of the space while she was here.

  I ran my fingers along the gleaming black length of the kitchen bench top. Then, feeling guilty about the finger-marks, hurried to polish the bench with a cloth. I wondered if the McGregors were the types to notice a fingerprint in their house. Probably. The house was just so perfect. As impressed as I was, I doubted I’d ever feel comfortable here. Apart from the photo wall, there was nothing cosy in this house—no little corners with personal touches. Not even any paintings, apart from the minimalist one in the office.

  Who are you, Alban McGregor? Your house isn’t showing me much. It’s all lines and angles and spaces. I’d call it mathematical, but that seemed wrong. Something mathematical should be solving a problem, shouldn’t it? This house didn’t seem to. It was beautiful, but it had no sense of place. Everything seemed to be just a thoroughfare, a place you drifted through on your way from the front end of the property to the back and out to the forest. How was I going to photograph it and make it seem like a home?

  A knock came at the door, making me jump. Was it Greer? Maybe she’d forgotten something? Or was it the McGregors?

  No, it couldn’t be either. Neither Greer nor the McGregors would be knocking—they’d just come straight on in.

  I hesitated. This wasn’t my house and perhaps I shouldn’t be answering the door.

  The knock came again.

  Okay. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away. I backtracked across the stone floors and along the hallway to the foyer.

  A figure was visible through the glass sections of the door. A lanky man with tousled hair and a brown, leather satchel in his hand. As I opened the door, I realised I was still holding the dishcloth. I shoved it into a back pocket of my jeans. The man had searching eyes that were set above slightly hollow cheeks. His mouth was straight and serious, framed by deep curved lines like parentheses.

  “Hello?” he said with a surprised question in his voice. “I’m Mr Kavanagh—Rory. Who might you be?”

  “I’m Isla. A photographer, hired by Alban McGregor.”

  “A photographer?”

  “Yes. I’m doing a portfolio of the house and some other things.”

  “You’re Australian, right?”

  “Right. From Sydney. I flew in yesterday. Can I take a message or something?”

  He shoved his free hand into his trouser pocket. “No, that’s okay. Is anyone else he
re?”

  “Just me.” Wondering if I should admit that to this stranger, I added, “But Alban will be here any minute. Maybe you could call back later?”

  “Well, I could do that, but—” He glanced down at the satchel.

  “Were you dropping that off?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I reached for the satchel. “Sure thing. I’ll tell Alban you left this. Rory, was it?”

  He seemed reluctant to hand the satchel over. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea just to leave this and go. The contents are a little…sensitive.”

  “Oh?”

  He rubbed his nose, the tip of which was red from the cold. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to hear about Alban’s daughter? Elodie?”

  Sadness pooled inside me as an image of Elodie formed in my mind. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “I was Elodie’s teacher. I’ve found some of her paintings and I thought Alban might like to have them. They were part of a display in the school hall, selections of the best artwork among our students. The paintings were packed away at some point and forgotten.”

  “The paintings sound very special.”

  “Yes.” He leaned suddenly against one of the vertical beams of wood that formed the porch. “I’m sorry, I feel a bit dizzy.”

  I was unsure what to offer him. “Can I get you a drink? Do you need to sit down?”

  “I have some medication I might need to take. Could I use the bathroom?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  Stepping back, I showed him inside. He seemed to be heading in a definite direction, as if he knew where to go.

  “Have you been here before?” I asked.

  He gave a nod, along with a breathy exhale. “My family has been to dinner here. My stepdaughter used to babysit Elodie.”

  He slid out a folder from the satchel and set it down on a side table, then disappeared down a hall.