Cruel Minds (3 page)

“What you need is a holiday,” Harriet said, stirring a small mountain of sugar into her tea.

Surprised, Emily thought of the last time she’d taken a holiday. It had been seven years ago. She’d taken her mother to Somerset for a long weekend at a beautiful old guesthouse with a view of the River Sheppey. What should have been a relaxing break quickly dissolved into twelve nerve-wrenching hours. Convinced that her house would burn down while she wasn’t in it, Emily’s mother became increasingly agitated. When her worry turned into a deep-seated panic, Emily packed up the car and drove back home, the weekend over before it had begun.

A holiday might be the answer, she thought. A few days away somewhere quiet, far from the noise and pollution of the city. Far from people.

“You know, that’s the first good idea I’ve heard all week,” Emily said. “And thank you for not trying to marry me off for once.”

The old woman’s laughter descended into a cacophony of coughs and splutters. Emily put down her cup and placed a hand on Harriet’s arm.

“Don’t you go worrying yourself. I’m tough as old boots, me,” Harriet said, waving her away.

Emily wasn’t convinced. Harriet’s health had deteriorated over the past two months, leaving her gaunt and tired-looking, with constantly trembling hands. The night she had been attacked by the doctors’ men was taking its toll. Watching Harriet grow frailer each day left a horrible ache in Emily’s chest.

“You’re looking at me funny,” Harriet said as she used a handkerchief to wipe spittle from the corner of her mouth. “I hope you’re not sitting there blaming yourself again. I’ve told you a million times, the only ones to be pointing fingers at are the thugs who thought it was fine to throw an old woman down the stairs.”

Emily stared at the carpet. “But it would never have happened if I hadn’t given you that—”

“I don’t want to hear another word. The trouble with you Emily Swanson is you’re always giving yourself a hard time. I’m still here, aren’t I? And as long as there’s still tea in the pot I ain’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Got it?”

Emily leaned forwards and squeezed Harriet’s hand.

“You’re a good friend,” she said, smiling weakly. Despite Harriet’s words, the guilty weight in her chest remained. Distracting herself from further thoughts that Harriet would scold her for thinking, Emily stared at the towers of books filling the room. “Where’s that son of yours?”

Harriet snorted. “Andrew? I sent him for a walk. You know what he had the cheek to suggest this morning? That I go into one of them retirement homes for old folk! I shan’t dirty the air with what I suggested he do in return. My own son, trying to get rid of me! What a travesty! When my time comes, I’ll go quietly in the privacy of my own bed, thank you very much. Cheeky sod! If he don’t like it, he can take his bloody books and find his own place to live.”

“I’m sure Andrew’s just concerned about your welfare.”

“I tell you what that boy
should
be concerned with—finding himself a nice wife, that’s what.”

Emily tried to stifle her smile. At the age of fifty-two, Andrew hadn’t been a boy for quite some time.

“Speaking of concerns,” Harriet said, slurping her tea, “is Jerome still sleeping on your sofa?”

Emily nodded.

“People will talk you know.”

“I’m sure people have far more scandalous tales to gossip about than a friend sleeping on my sofa.”

“All the same, you’d think he’d have found a place to live now that you’re back with us again. Here, he’s not taking advantage of you, I hope?”

Emily bit down on her lip, refraining from telling Harriet to mind her own business.

“I’m sure Jerome will find his own place just as soon as he can afford to. Until that happens, he can stay as long as he likes. Besides, it makes me feel safer having someone around.”

Harriet narrowed her eyes. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s a pity he’s fancy or you two would be perfect for each other. Still, you don’t want him sleeping on your sofa for too long. What if that fiancé of yours shows up one day wanting to woo you back?”

Emily stiffened. Perhaps she would tell Harriet to mind her own business after all. Not that Harriet would take the slightest bit of notice.

“I haven’t spoken to Lewis in a year,” Emily said through tight lips. “And if he did show up, the only thing he’d be wooing is the door in his face.”

Cackling, Harriet set her cup and saucer down with a clatter.

“You definitely need a holiday!”

***

B
y the time Emily returned to her apartment, her mind was clogged with unwanted memories. She found Jerome at the table, nursing a mug of coffee.

“How’s the hangover?” she asked him.

“Like a pickaxe to the head. Where’ve you been?”

“Across the hall. Harriet is still convinced we’d make couple of the year. If only you weren’t fancy.” Emily slumped into the chair next to him.

“Fancy? That’s a new one. Well, let the woman have her dream, I say. You have to feel sorry for her—she has more chance of us getting together than someone ever taking Andrew off her hands.”

Emily prised the mug from his fingers and took a sip of coffee. She liked the way Jerome made it: syrupy and bittersweet.

“I think that’s the last thing Harriet wants,” she said. “She’d be all alone. Anyway, maybe Andrew’s happy being single. There’s more to life than getting married, you know.”

“I think we’re both living testaments to that.” Jerome rubbed his tired eyes. “Someone’s got a bee in their bonnet. Why the angry face?”

“Harriet brought up Lewis again. I wish I’d never told her about him.”

“She just wants to see you happy.”

“By marrying the man who walked out on me weeks after my mother died? Who chose to save his career rather than his relationship after everything happened with Phillip?”

“The man’s an asshole and if I ever have the displeasure of meeting him, I shall tell him so too,” Jerome said, stealing his coffee back. “Harriet’s just being Harriet. She has an opinion about everything, but she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.” Emily sank lower in the chair. She could feel the start of a headache, and judging by the pressure already building at the base of her skull, it was going to be a humdinger. She glanced at Jerome, who had picked up his mobile phone and was flicking through emails. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Acting my heart out. Sunday’s a day off, though. How come?”

“I was thinking about getting away for a few days.”

Jerome looked up from the screen. “You mean like a mini break? Emily Swanson, you’re becoming so
London
! I’m impressed. Did you want me to come with you?”

Emily shrugged a shoulder.

“So Harriet was right. You
are
in love with me.”

“The only person in love with you is you.” She wrestled the coffee mug out of Jerome’s hands again and brought it to her lips.

“A break would do you good, you know,” Jerome said. “Recharge the batteries, reset that crazy brain of yours...”

“Less of the crazy, please.”

“I’m just saying that you’ve been through the wringer lately.” He shifted his gaze for a second. “You’re looking tired too. I know you’re still having trouble sleeping.”

Emily stared at him, feeling prickles of heat on her face. If Jerome had heard her screaming herself awake at night, he’d been keeping quiet about it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The walls of the apartment might be thick but they weren’t exactly soundproof.

“So where would you go on this mini break?” Jerome asked, holding out a hand. Emily gave him back the mug, which was now empty.

“I don’t know. Somewhere quiet, leafy ... where there are no crowds.”

“Sounds terrifying.” His face lit up with an idea. “How about going on a weekend retreat? A friend of mine goes twice a year. He swears by it, says it helps him to put his life into perspective. You could work on your meditation or try out some yoga. Give your mind a spring clean.”

A weekend dedicated to clearing her mind certainly sounded appealing, Emily thought. She had only just begun experimenting with meditation and was struggling to get the hang of it. Perhaps a weekend of learning the correct techniques would help her decide. Just as quickly as her intrigue had appeared, however, it faded and was replaced by anxiety. What if she spent two days in intensive meditation and still couldn’t get it right? What if she failed in front of the other participants? What if exploring the dark recesses of her mind accidentally freed all those nefarious thoughts she kept locked in cages?

She liked the idea of a retreat, though—going to a place where she was forced to relax could only be a good thing. And surely they weren’t all focused on meditation.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said to Jerome, who playfully pinched her arm.

“I’ve never had a bad idea in my life.”

T
he rest of the week passed uneventfully. Saturday came and brought with it clear sky and warming spring sunshine. Emily headed out of London in a steady stream of traffic. It was the first time she’d driven since selling her beloved VW Beetle, which had been a gift to herself after graduating from university. When she’d moved to the city last year, owning a car had felt superfluous.

The hire car, a three-door Peugeot hatchback, was easy enough to manoeuvre. It was the other drivers that were the problem. Negotiating London roads was like competing in an off-road rally where laws had no meaning. Cars pushed in front of her. They tailgated to make her speed up. Horns blasted at her to get a move on even before traffic lights had switched from amber to green. Anxiety levels rocketing, Emily focused on her breathing.

Reclining in the passenger seat next to her, Jerome flipped through the apps of his phone and emitted occasional heavy sighs.

“Weekend drivers,” he tutted as the car slowed to a halt. Up ahead, a gridlock of traffic blocked the road. “What time are we supposed to be at this place?”

“Last night.”

“You didn’t have to wait, you know. You could have gone without me.”

Having to endure Jerome’s current mood was beginning to make Emily wish that she had.

“What’s this place called again?” He tugged the seatbelt away from his neck.

“Meadow Pines.”

“Well, I hope
Meadow Pines
has an internet connection.”

“I thought the point of a retreat was to get away from all that.”

“For normal people, yes. But now that I face a life of waiting tables yet again, I need to keep my ear to the stage floor.”

“Yes, about that...” Emily began.

“You don’t have to say another word on the subject.”

“I was just going to say I’m sorry.”

Two days ago, the cast of
The Devil Wears a Red Dress
had learned that Friday’s performance would be their last. Scathing reviews, social media backlash, and pitiful audience numbers had left the theatre with little choice but to close them down. Emily had managed to book Jerome the one remaining room at Meadow Pines, the countryside retreat they were now travelling to. It had meant missing out on the opening evening, but in spite of Jerome’s foul mood, she was glad to have a familiar face coming along.

Eventually breaking free from the exodus of traffic, Emily navigated the car onto the A3 and headed towards southern Hampshire. Jerome switched on the radio, blasting rock music from the speakers.

Ninety minutes later, they were crossing over the River Test and heading into the New Forest National Park—five hundred and sixty-six square kilometres of unenclosed pasture land, heathland, and forests.

Jerome stared out at the sweeping landscape of meadows. He’d abandoned his phone a few miles back, complaining that he couldn’t get a signal.

“I hate the countryside,” he grumbled.

Emily eased her foot down on the brake pedal. Ahead of them, a young pony with dappled hide stood at the roadside, grazing on grass.

“Look at that!” she said, smiling.

Jerome shrugged a shoulder. “Shouldn’t it be in a field or something?”

Further along, a chestnut mare and her young foal stood in the centre of the road, unconcerned by the vehicle and its passengers.

“They’re New Forest ponies,” Emily said, enthralled by the gentle beasts. “They’ve lived here freely for thousands of years. In fact, that’s why there’s so much heathland—because of all the grazing.”

“Great. Try not to hit them on the way around.”

Giving Jerome a sideways glance, Emily rolled the car forwards and drove in a wide arc around the ponies.

“There are all sorts of wild animals roaming around,” she continued. “Deer, donkeys, even cattle. In fact, the New Forest has a very interesting history.”

As heathland disappeared and thick forest grew up on either side of the winding road, Jerome muttered under his breath and sank further into his seat.

Emily cleared her throat, eager to share her findings from her internet research. “The forest was established in 1079 by William the Conqueror as a reserve for the royal hunt. What the tourist board doesn’t tell you is that he destroyed over twenty small villages and farmsteads in the process, making their inhabitants homeless.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yes, well some say King William was punished by the forest for such cruel behaviour. Cursed you might say.” Emily’s voice had taken on an overly dramatic tone, remnants of a teaching career. “Both of William’s sons lost their lives while hunting within those trees. First Prince Richard, who died after inhaling a pestilent air. Then Prince Rufus, who was killed by a misdirected arrow. No sooner had William mourned his sons, tragedy struck again. His grandson, Henry, was pursuing deer through the forest when he was suddenly torn from his steed. The huntsmen found him hanging above the ground, choked to death by tree branches—quite literally slain by the forest.”

Emily smiled to herself. The children had always enjoyed her gruesome tales from the annals of history, particularly if they involved beheadings or burnings at the stake.

“You can take the teacher out of the school but you can’t take the school out of the teacher,” Jerome said. He looked up at the tree canopies whipping past overhead.