The Writers’ Retreat

I arrive at the writers’ retreat and — credit where it’s due — it’s exactly as impressive as the brochure promised. A vast stately home nestled in the English countryside. The Cotswolds, or something equally picturesque and smug. Sprawling fields roll out like unmade beds. Looming trees stand sentinel. Vast lakes glint with the sort of menace reserved for postcards and unsolved disappearances. Birds squawk overhead, slicing through cloudless blue skies like critics circling a debut novel. “Well, ain’t this just something,” I think, hauling my luggage up the gravel path, each crunch underfoot sounding suspiciously final. The house is obscene in its beauty. When I open the front door, I’m greeted by a spiral staircase dressed in a runner and brass rods — pure period-drama excess. To my left: an actual library.Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with classics and not-so-classics. I pull a book free. How to Murder Your Friends in 10 Easy Steps. Charming. I slide it back into place, where it disappears in a cough of dust and bad intentions. At the back of the house is an orangery — because of course there is. Glass ceiling. Trailing plants hanging in curated abandon. Fairy lights blinking like they’re in on a plot twist. It’s the kind of place people fall in love, or apart, or into lifelong therapy. Then the guests start arriving. Writers. Creatives. People who describe themselves as “visionaries.” We cluster together, already measuring one another’s success like invisible rulers pressed to the spine. “Welcome!” a voice booms. The retreat leader steps forwards: kaftan, Jesus sandals, the inevitable aura of a man who once wrote something experimental in 2004 and never recovered. He tells us this is a safe space. A place for creativity to flow. He adds other probably vital information, but my attention keeps drifting to the buffet table glowing softly in the corner, whispering my name. I should have listened more carefully. I know that now. Because suddenly we’ve been assigned a mission, and I have no idea what it is — only that I’ve been allocated a group and we’re all wearing red T-shirts. Not my colour. Never has been. My group seems pleasant enough. Alarmingly so. They tell me they’re huge fans of my work. Big fans. Devoted, even. This is confusing, given that I haven’t published anything and my online presence resembles an abandoned MySpace account haunted by spambots. Still. Flattery works. They’re quirky, sure — but writers always are. “Right,” says a portly man in a flat cap, clapping his hands. “Let’s explore the woods. Bound to be clues there.” Clues? I haven’t got a Scooby what he’s on about, but off we go anyway — scrabbling through undergrowth like feral librarians. My group takes it seriously. Bare hands clawing into dirt. People climbing trees. Someone sticking their head down a well. “Nope,” Flat Cap Man announces, emerging smeared in mud and disappointment. “Nothing in there.” We press on, hunting for something unnamed, when my phone makes a sound it has never made before — and yet I know immediately who it is. The Dexter ringtone. Nick. My friend of almost a decade. Fellow writer. Text-based confidant. Phantom limb of my creative life. I smile as his message lights up the screen. Meet me at the lake. Shortest message in ten years. My stomach flips — not bad-sick, more holy-shit-this-is-happening sick. We’ve never met. No video calls. Just words. Endless words. And now — flesh. Jeepers creepers. I rip off the red T-shirt and fling it down the well. No witness, no crime. I weave through the woods, heart thudding, until the trees part and the lake opens up before me. A yellow dinghy bobs on the water. Two figures inside. One stands as I approach — pink floral shirt flapping, blood-orange sunglasses catching the light. Nick. “My friend!” he says, hauling me into the boat. We hug, and it feels impossibly familiar. Like meeting someone I’ve known across lifetimes. Not a stranger. A soul companion. “I love the shirt,” I say. “Oh, this old thing,” he chuckles. Then I notice the deck shoes. Ah. The deck shoes. Not what I imagined — but nobody’s perfect. The moment settles. I notice the woman sitting beside us, arms folded, eyes sharp. “Oh — this is Nicola,” Nick says. Ah. Nicola. I know of her. He’s mentioned her often. “Well,” Nick says suddenly, already stripping down to speedos, “nice to chat.” And then he dives. Just — gone. I sit beside Nicola, who smiles and begins talking. And talking. And talking. It’s like a dam bursts somewhere deep inside her. Words tumble out unchecked. Stories, laughter, tangents spawning tangents. My brain scrambles, slipping on the verbal overflow. I glance at the water. Nick doesn’t resurface. In fact — where is he? Panic prickles. Motion sickness creeps in. Nicola’s voice becomes a wall I’m drowning against. “I must dash,” I say, leaping overboard. I swim for shore, soaked and graceless, but gloriously free. “Ah! There she is!” a voice beams. Flat Cap Man. “We thought we’d lost you.” “Unwavering urge to swim,” I mutter. He chuckles. “We found a clue.” He lifts a meat cleaver. Sunlight skates along the blade. “Jesus. Are you sure that’s a clue?” Back at the mansion, blood spatter freckles the entrance hall, leading towards the library. “That wasn’t here before,” I say, finally committing to the bit. “Must be a clue.” We follow it to a roaring fire. A figure sits beside it — hooded, stroking a cat. Villainous to the point of parody. Until I notice the armchair next to them. A human head rests there. Severed. Eyes open. Reflecting firelight. The room gasps. “Is that… real?” someone whispers. A hand reaches out. Touches. Recoils. “It’s real,” they scream. “It’s fucking real.” I step closer and recognition hits me like a blow. Nicola. Same hair. Same stare. Then — The Dexter ding. My heart drops through the floor. Deck shoes slip into view beneath the cloak. Nick. The figure rises. The cat bolts. The hood comes down — — and Nick stands behind me instead, horrified. “You didn’t think I’d murder my own friend, did you?” he says. “I mean — she does go on a bit. But decapitation?” He exhales. “I could never.” Relief crashes through me, with a sprinkling of guilt. “But if it’s not you,” I say, “then who—” The hooded figure moves again. The hood falls. A flat cap. Of course. “You morons,” he snarls. “You think you understand twists? Subtext? Red herrings?” He sneers. “You’re all shit.” His eyes lock onto me. “Especially you, Amanda. Always missing the bloody obvious.” He gestures to the buffet. “The final twist,” he says. “Lift the lid.” I step forwards. My hands shake. My heart races ahead of me. I lift the silver dome. And finally understand what the mission was all along. To be continued…