The Retreat

J A Baker

Description

A gripping psychological thriller by bestselling author J.A. Baker!

Chamber Cottage holds many dark secrets...

Struggling to overcome their marital problems, Alec and Peggy hoped their new life at Chamber cottage would be the retreat they both needed to recover. Both damaged by issues from their childhoods, they are trying to get on with their lives as best they can, but they can’t help feeling that they are being watched….

Peggy, already paranoid because of the terrible scars that mark her face, becomes even more agoraphobic and retreat further into the stone walls of the cottage, hoping it will keep her safe.

Then Peggy discovers that her estranged mother is stalking her and Alec, claiming she has a dark secret that is putting Peggy’s life in danger. And now Peggy doesn’t know who to trust…

What caused the scars on Peggy’s face? Is Alec really the monster Peggy’s mother believes him to be? And what secrets does Chamber Cottage hold?

J.A. Baker is the bestselling author of The Woman at Number 19 and Local Girl Missing. The Retreat is a gripping and twisty psychological thriller which will appeal to fans of authors like SE Lynes and K.L. Slater.

Please note this is a re-issue of The Retreat by J.A. Baker

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Royaume-Uni
• Fiction
• Noir
• Suspense
• Family Life
• Crime
• General
• Great Britain
• Psychology
• United Kingdom
• General officer
• Domestic
• Psychological thriller
• 21st century
• Reino Unido
• Suspenso
• Thrillers
• Hard-Boiled
• Women Sleuths
• Psychological
• Mashups

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 27 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781805491927
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE RETREAT


J. A. BAKER
For Rosemary, the sister who nearly was. I hope you found your way home.
If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.
GEORGE ORWELL, 1984
CONTENTS



Before


Chapter 1

Now

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Before

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Before

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Before

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57


Acknowledgments

More from J. A. Baker

About the Author

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
Before
1

Huge, pulsating waves of pain exploding in my head, I drag my eyes apart, try to focus properly, look around; work out where I am. Darkness everywhere. Nothing to see. No shadows, not even a vague outline of anything recognisable. Just complete blackness. Am I awake? Am I dead ? I wait, my breath uneven, irregular. Pockets of hot air fall back on my face, shrouding me in a sticky, warm mist. I continue to stare, my eyes sore and gritty. Still nothing. No focus or adjustment to my surroundings. Zero. I cough and splutter as my body gradually rouses itself. My chest is tight and I feel like I’m suffocating. It’s quiet. So very, very quiet. I lie still, listening for something, anything at all, any familiar sound to stem my rising fear: the chirrup of birdsong, the north-easterly wind roaring across the fields or rushing through the trees, the distant murmur of people. But there’s no sound to be heard from anywhere. Just a lingering silence.
My thoughts begin to clear, the fog inside my head lifts as I slowly come around. I have no idea where I am. I’m not in bed. No blankets or sheets covering me. And I am freezing, so very, very cold, my extremities like ice. I grope around, my fingers hitting something concrete-like above. I trail them over the surface: firm, craggy, wet, dripping with condensation. I continue moving them in an arc down to the ground. Narrow. It’s all very narrow. Too much so. And the smell: an odour of petrichor. The earthy scent of rain and damp. I shift and wince as something jagged and sharp digs into my back. It’s a hard surface, like rock. Rock? I frown. Pain whistles through my skull as I blink and shuffle about. Why am I on the ground? I move about some more and attempt to sit up, only to find the space is too confined to do anything. I hit my head and am forced back down. More pain. Like shards of glass tearing at my skin. What the hell is this: some kind of joke ? I try to control my breathing. It begins to escalate into heavy, uncontrollable gasps for air as reality hits and panic sets in. God almighty. Surely not? I begin to scramble about, a jumble of panicky, uncoordinated limbs grappling for purchase, coming up against an immovable surface. My head pounds. Blood surges through my ears, making me nauseous. Solidity surrounds me. This is my worst nightmare. Why can’t I move? Where the fuck am I?
A slow, sickening dawning washes over me. I’m dead. I must be. It’s all too much for my brain to take in. Things like this only happen to people in books or movies. But not to me; please don’t let this be happening to me. I can’t bring myself to think about it, but as I try to sit up once more and stretch my arms out, the enormity of what is happening to me forces its way into my mind like white-hot shrapnel. Jesus Christ, this is real. This is actually happening to me. I can’t move. I am trapped. My vision blurs and flames lick at my aching brain as the words balloon in my mind. I’ve been buried alive.
Where was I last? A memory pierces my thoughts, jolting me out of my groggy, soporific state. Raised voices: an argument. A really bad argument. Hitting, scratching, shrieking. A sudden, sharp pain. Then nothing. I pant hard, trying to recall who the argument was with or what it was about. Who in God’s name do I know that would do this to me? I lead a normal life. Or at least I think I do. Everything is so muddled and dark. Fragments of thoughts and memories floating about, disjointed and shadowy, flitting in and out of my consciousness. Like a really bad dream. Or my worst nightmare.
I bring my hands up and try to feel for something behind me. They meet with a cold draught. I gradually begin to move my legs, gaining momentum till I am thrashing them about as much as I can. Same again. Great wedges of icy air that bite at my clammy, exposed skin. My feet are starting to go numb. I swallow hard, trying to control my racing heartbeat. Not in a box then, or God forbid, a coffin: more like some sort of tunnel. Hope mingles with horror as the awfulness of it all begins to dawn on me. Even if I can shuffle and propel myself along, which way do I go? What if I end up deeper in this godforsaken place?
Dread and terror begin to overwhelm me. If I do nothing, I will die here. Wherever here is. Am I underground? Fear muddies my thinking. A cave, perhaps? Pain claws at my temples as blood pulses through my veins, growling in my ears. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. I need to get out, and quickly.
With as much effort as I can, I use my elbows and pelvis to push myself forwards, my heels snagging on pieces of sharp ground with every tiny, infinitesimal movement. It takes an age to move the smallest distance but I keep telling myself that it’s better than doing nothing. Better than lying here waiting for the air to run out and death to take me. My throat closes up at the thought and I begin to gag. Before I have a chance to stop it, I retch, my body convulsing violently, my stomach heaving and cramping. Tears streaming, I turn my head to one side and let it escape, a slick of warm vomit trailing over my cheek, sticking in my hair, pooling under my head. My brain throbs and I’m consumed by an almighty thirst. How the fuck did this happen? More to the point, who did this to me? Have I been kidnapped? Raped? I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes closed, forcing it all away, the pain and the horror, then open them again. I have to do this. I need to get out of here. A sudden rush of anger bursts into my brain, infusing me with enough energy to continue forcing myself forwards. Got to keep going, ignore the thirst and the pain and the fear. Just keep going. I don’t want to die. I refuse to die. Not here in this horrific place. I begin to sob, first softly then uncontrollably as hysteria finally takes hold. Dear God, I don’t think I can stand it. Please don’t let me die.
Now
2
PEGGY

Spray crashes against the rocks three hundred feet below her, the sound muffled and muted by the recently fitted window in the tiny kitchen. Peggy stares out, trance like, her eyes drawn to the horizon: an indistinct, blurry line shrouded in mist. She watches the sea, sees how it bounces and sways. This is her spot, the place she stands and stares out most days to admire its vastness and power. The blackness of the water always gets to her, gnaws away at her innermost fears, highlighting her insignificance when compared to the forces of nature. She imagines the sheer weight of it, dark and oppressive, forcing her down, compressing her skull, her body helpless against the relentless drag of the tide. She turns away and quashes the very thought of it. She has no idea why she allows herself to think such morbid thoughts. Chamber Cottage is after all, a dream home: their dream home. A place of tranquillity and beauty with outstanding views according to all the brochures they saw prior to buying it, so it must be, mustn’t it?
Built in the early nineteenth century with constant damp problems and a leaking roof, Chamber Cottage also has its many disadvantages, and if the local rumours are to be believed, a whole host of secrets. Peggy wanted to laugh out loud when she heard that one. What house doesn’t have secrets? Especially a two-hundred-year-old one. But Alec fell for it: all the gossip and supposition, the purported tales of smuggling and corruption that took place right here in their kitchen. He also swears blind he’s seen something, someone . Shadows, flickering movements, nothing he can quite put his finger on. For a sensible, level-headed man, he often comes out with some nonsense. Peggy is convinced the lady at the estate agents did too good a job of selling them the idea of an old coastguard’s cottage with a dark history. ‘A house with a chequered past’ were her words.
Peggy puffs out her cheeks and grabs a handful of damp kitchen roll, dragging it across the worktop as she attempts to eradicate every last crumb and sticky particle from last night’s supper. Alec should know better but thoroughly enjoys a bit of drama, a stupid story he can regale people with. He probably even tells his pupils this stuff. She can imagine him, keeping them amused with his stories of ghosts and smugglers come to take back their hidden goods, the kids’ eyes wide, fascinated by it all. Peggy often thinks he missed his vocation in life and should have been an entertainer of some sort, not a teacher. Of course, he would argue that they’re both the same thing.
She stops mid wipe and looks out again at the gathering storm heading in from the west. It may blow over, it may not. The weather that hovers over the North Sea is nothing if not unpredictable. It’s a daily guessing game, working out what sort of conditions they can