Elin nods. He’s right. It’s clear: the place is blocked up.
“Sorry it’s not more helpful,” Michael says, the last part of his sentence drowned out by the rain. It’s picked up in intensity, drumming hard against the sodden ground. “From what the guy said, the idea was that this place was buried forever, and they pretty much achieved that goal.” He glances around him. “Can’t blame them. Not a nice feeling here, is it?”
“No,” Elin replies, but her discomfort is quickly supplanted by a creeping realization as she picks up on what he just said—new information, subtly different to what he told her on the beach. “What you said about it being buried forever . . . Was someone explicit about that, then? It wasn’t just a safety instruction to fill in an old building?”
“Yeah.” Michael pulls his mac tighter. The heavy rain is flattening his hair to his skull, revealing a bald patch beneath. “Apparently the owner was insistent. That’s what made me think the room the artist mentioned was underneath all this. He wanted all of it filled, not just the entrance. From what I gathered, he went to the school too.”
Elin looks at him, chilled.
Ronan Delaney.
79
Jackson?” Ronan Delaney flips down the screen of his laptop, a flare of recognition in his eyes.
Elin nods. “Am I right in thinking that you went to school together, here on the island?”
Ronan’s eyes move warily between her face and Steed’s. “Yes. We were classmates. Both football fans, too, though rival teams.”
Steed gives a half smile. “And he was also a vocal opponent to the development of the retreat?”
“He was.” Ronan’s mouth puckers. “Set against it, caused no end of problems. Started campaigns, protests, but if I’m honest, that comes with the job. You piss people off. Locals especially. No one likes change. I don’t think it helped we were at school together.” He pauses. “And I always thought it was a little . . . personal, because of what happened before.”
Elin falters, something about him that she can’t quite get a handle on. While he’s obviously grieving, his body language is that of a professional interviewee, sitting uneasily with what they’re discussing: big, bold gestures, mouth lapsing into a smile at the end of each sentence. Someone used to extending a hand to colleagues, charming investors. She knows it’s probably automatic, a reflex, but it’s disconcerting nonetheless.
“And what was that?” Steed asks.
“I advised Jackson, along with several other school friends, to make an investment. All went belly-up in the end, but that’s part of the risk. Some you win, some you lose. Jackson took it to heart, but if you’re that way inclined, you shouldn’t put your chips on the board.”
Elin nods. Clearly bad blood between them, but how does it fit with the bigger picture?
“Going back to the school, we’ve learned about a room, outside the school, being used as a punishment. Were you ever aware of that?”
Several beats pass. “Yes,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “But it’s not something I’ve ever talked about.”
“Are you able to tell us what happened?” Steed says quietly.
Ronan nods, and when he meets her gaze, Elin glimpses a raw fear in his eyes.
“From the minute I arrived at the school, something was . . . off. Kids that age, you’d expect them to be bouncing off the walls, but they were broken, physically shaking when an adult came into the room. A few days in, I found out why.” A small silence. “I was woken up in the early hours by a figure in this odd”—he grimaces—“this cloak. That’s the only way I can describe it.”
Elin tenses. A cloak. It’s starting to paint a pretty compelling picture.
“We were blindfolded, led out of the school and into a room outside.” Ronan shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “All I remember is the blindfold coming off. It was dark, but after a while, your eyes would adjust. There were these . . . stones on the floor, shaped to look like the rock.” His voice falters.
Her pulse picks up. Stones . . . shaped to look like the rock.
“Did something happen in there?” she asks gently.
Ronan nods, and for the first time, the veneer slips away completely. His body seems to collapse from the core, his face crumpling.
80
They kept us in there for hours.” Ronan stares at his hands. It’s the first time she’s noticed his bitten-down nails, the inflamed skin around them. “We knew about the curse, so the stones . . . they were terrifying. After a while, your mind started playing tricks on you. I always had this horrible sense that they were watching us.” He shakes his head. “It’s something the teachers always said. The reaper’s watching. If we did anything wrong, he’d find us.”