The Break-Up Retreat(76)

“None of you can go,” she repeats, somewhat calmer, “because there is flooding further down. It’s simply not safe. The storm will pass. We’ll have electricity back in just a few minutes, I guarantee it.”

Leyla looks over at Clara, and whatever she sees makes her push Clara gently down in a chair, muttering: “You okay?”

“I don’t like this.” Katarina is biting her lip, her arms wrapped around her torso.

“I think we should do a breathing exercise,” Martina says. “Help everyone calm down a bit and reassess the situation.”

I burst out laughing.

“A breathing exercise?” I say. “Are you kidding?”

The door opens, drawing another little shriek from Katarina.

I take a step back; for a moment, all I see in the door is a dark, drenched silhouette, and the image from the window flashes through my mind, as stark and strong as it was the other day. The shadow, watching me.

But then she takes a step inside, and it’s Anna, pulling her pink hood off her head, water dripping onto the floor.

“Everyone okay?” she asks. “I heard screaming.”

She scans the room, and, her gaze falling on Clara, who is now swaying lightly where she’s sitting, she says: “Christ, you must have had a bad shock.”

She sits down on the floor in front of Clara and picks up her mug.

“Here, sweetheart, drink some of this.” She pushes the mug into Clara’s hands. “There’s some honey in there. It should make you feel better.”

“Do you know why the generator hasn’t turned on?” Martina asks Anna sharply, who shakes her head.

“No idea.” Her voice is apologetic. “I can ask Belinda to go and check on it, if you want.”

“No,” Martina says, between gritted teeth, “I’ll do it myself.”

“Should I bring the girls back to their cabins?” Anna asks. “It looks like some of them need to lie down.”

“Yes, I think that might be a good idea,” Martina says.

“Alone?” Katarina looks over at me.

“Yes, everyone back to their own cabins.” Martina is struggling to get back to her usual soothing voice. “Get cozy. Read a book. Journal. Just . . . relax.”

I meet Katarina’s eyes.

“Pull something in front of the door,” I tell her, speaking slowly. “So that no one can get in.”

“For God’s sake!” Martina cries out. “There’s nothing to worry about!”

I turn to Anna.

“You’ll walk them there?” I hope that whatever connection I might have made with her is enough. “Make sure nothing happens?”

Anna nods, solemnly.

“I will,” she promises. “All the way to the door.”

“Good,” I say.

Martina smiles, tight and unhappy.

“You don’t work for her,” she scoffs, before catching onto what I said and asking me: “Wait, what do you mean by them ?”

I smile, taut and painful.

“I’m coming with you.”





Chapter 42


I can see the others leaving through the window next to the door, in a small caravan, tiny figures against the roaring sheets of rain, led by the small pink dot that is Anna in the front.

Martina is busy winding a scarf around her neck, pulling on heavy, shiny lace-up boots that look more expensive than they do waterproof. She’s not saying a word to me.

I’m vibrating with tension, skin crackling with what feels like electricity. The storm has a smell to it, one that has made its way into the building; the scent of icy cold water, and pressure, and something else, something primal and dangerous.

When she’s finally done, she straightens up to her full height, so that she can look down on me, and says:

“I will have you out of here as soon as the roads open up again. I want you out of my clinic. And you will be hearing from my lawyers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I say. “Generator.”

Martina opens the door, and it nearly rips out of her fingers, flung wide by a gust of wind that sprays us both with water.

“Fuck,” I hear her faint exclamation, before she tucks her chin to her chest and walks outside.

It doesn’t matter how much I try to pull my jacket closed, keep my face down; the rain is going sideways, and it makes its way under my clothes quicker than I would have thought possible. The gravel under my shoes is slippery, swimming in the runnels of water, and I see Martina about to fall over; I catch her elbow, and she tears herself loose from my grip.

Only a few yards left to go. The windows are all dark, the staff quarters utterly abandoned.

Martina throws herself in under the porch roof and pulls the door open, stumbling in. I follow quickly behind her and shut the door.

It’s not until we’re inside that I realize I’m panting. Be it from adrenaline or exhaustion, I don’t know.

“Goddammit.” Martina throws the hood of her jacket back. Her thick hair is plastered against her scalp, despite the protection, and her eyelashes are wet, black mascara slightly smudged. In the dusky dark, it makes her look slightly inhuman.

An apparition. A drowned woman from the pond, come to haunt us.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s a bad one.”