The retreat, p.28
The Retreat,
p.28
The police officer stares ahead, his body rigid, his features unmoving despite the insults being hurled his way.
‘Fucking pig! Get on with your fucking job instead of standing there like a useless dickhead!’
The door to the house opens a fraction, a teasing crack of darkness. A collective breath is held before it’s pushed further ajar, revealing a shadowy hallway within. Silence descends as all eyes hold fast to the goings on at number forty-three. They wait and watch. Nothing happens.
‘Come on! What the fuck’s going on in there?’ a voice from the back hollers.
More waiting, a shift in tension, movement from within the house. There’s a deep sigh as an androgynous individual in a white, billowing outfit complete with hairnet and mask, appears out of the darkness and carefully backs out of the door. The ghostly figure leans forward, its body bent over an unseen object that’s concealed in the greyness of the house. There’s a moment of silence, a pregnant pause of anticipation before the figure moves again, its hands holding on tight to a gurney. The white-clad individual drags it out of the doorway with a clatter and wheels it over the step. The gurney rumbles onto the path and remains still for a few seconds before another person emerges at the other end, wearing identical forensic clothing, their features hidden from view behind full-face masks. A series of gasps and cries tinged with mild excitement pierce the air as a body bag, strapped to the gurney, is wheeled into a nearby vehicle. All eyes follow the concealed mound of flesh as it is pushed towards the van and unceremoniously hauled inside.
T-shirt woman stands, mouth gaping open, as another trolley with yet another body bag tightly secured to it is pushed out of the open doorway, and also wheeled towards the van. She stares at the vehicle, visualising the still, pale bodies inside it, wondering how they died, trying to imagine the scars and the cold flesh, picturing the dark, pooling blood. A crackle of expectancy hangs over everybody. The silence doesn’t last long. A guttural voice punctures the momentary lull.
‘What the fuck is going on?’
A rotund man wearing dark-blue overalls steps out of the crowd, a gathering that has merged into one huge, pulsating organism. Unrest ripples through the pack of ogling faces as they watch him push his way to the front. His solid midriff presses against the police tape, stopping it from flapping in the strong, north-easterly breeze. It sticks to his belly, flesh enveloping the narrow strip of plastic as he lunges forward, the yellow and black warning sign no barrier to his large frame.
‘If you wouldn’t mind moving back, sir,’ a uniformed officer says as he holds his hand up to indicate his disapproval of the man’s proximity to the cordoned-off area. The policeman stares down at the protruding gut before diverting his gaze elsewhere.
‘So it’s a crime scene, is it then?’ the man asks, a deep frown slicing through his forehead as he stares up at the policeman next to him. ‘Somebody killed them, did they? Or one of them killed the other one then topped themselves? Typical, isn’t it? Selfish bastards. Too cowardly to do the time. Bring back hanging, that’s what I say.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything, sir. Now if you wouldn’t mind stepping back?’
The portly man moves away before turning to the people and bellowing at them, ‘Lock all your doors tonight! Keep your kids inside, everyone. There’s a fucking murderer on the loose.’
The crowd moves, their collective energy slowly morphing into a sinister entity that radiates negativity, pure hatred. They need answers and they won’t rest until they get them. They are all fearful, terrified of the unknown. Terrified of the killer amongst them.
Suddenly, everybody stops; the noise dropping to a barely audible hum. Heads turn. The distant roar of an engine catches their attention. They swing round to see a local news van screech to a halt at the end of the road. A handful of reporters and cameramen tumble out of it and within a matter of seconds, the crowd disperses as people wander over towards them, their pace growing faster the closer they get, the idea of being involved in any sort of interview too attractive an option to ignore. They want to have their say, to let everyone know how fearful they are about this situation, to tell the police that they need to find the person who did this. Their voices deserve to be heard and what better way than in front of a TV camera? They are a jumble of limbs as they push forward, desperate to speak, anger swelling within them, faces angled towards the microphones and cameras. This is their chance to put their points of view forward. This is their chance to shine.
On the periphery of the original crowd stands an individual who shrinks away as the gawping people part and filter off, most heading over to where the reporters are setting up their equipment. Thrusting hands deep into pockets, the lone person waits a while, wondering what is being said behind the closed curtains of number forty-three, wondering if the police in there have any idea what actually happened: what was said, who was present, what really took place in that awful house. It’s doubtful. Nobody could know. Nobody would ever guess the events that led up to this moment in time. Nobody.
A gust of wind whips in from the sea, an invisible hand pushing the lone person forward. The figure blinks hard against the roar of the elements, dips their head and shuffles away towards the main road, then stops and takes one last glance at the crime scene before smiling broadly and heading off towards the beach until it is no more than a speck in the distance.
A group of dog walkers mill about on the sand, throwing sticks into the frothing sea, calling to their animals to fetch. Their bodies mask the lone figure, concealing their movements until, after a short while, the walkers disperse, leaving an empty stretch of beach: a long expanse of soggy, mud-brown sand. The place is empty. There is nobody there. The lone figure has gone.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. A. Baker is a successful writer of numerous psychological thrillers. Born and brought up in Middlesbrough, she still lives in the North East, which inspires the settings for her books.
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First published in 2017. This edition first published in Great Britain in 2023 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
Copyright © J. A. Baker, 2017
Cover Design by Head Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of J. A. Baker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-80549-190-3
Large Print ISBN 978-1-80549-191-0
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80549-189-7
Ebook ISBN 978-1-80549-192-7
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J A Baker, The Retreat
