Chapter 41
The screaming is high-pitched and searing, and I hear someone shouting:
“Stop it, stop! It’s fine!”
It’s not pitch-black in here; a little light is escaping through the gauzy curtains, making it look like I’m surrounded by ghosts, shapes in the dark.
One of them moves over to the window, and then Martina pulls the curtains aside, letting in what little light is out there.
The storm has gotten worse in the short time we’ve been in here; the rain outside looks like a solid entity, the water thundering down from above, the clouds iron gray and furious.
Martina turns back to us. In the faint light, her lips look black as she says:
“It’s all going to be fine. It’s nothing. The generator will come back online any second now.”
“Why did it go out?” Katarina asks. “You said it wouldn’t.”
“I’m a psychologist, not an electrician,” Martina snaps. “I don’t know. The storm might have brought something down.”
“The generator hasn’t come on yet,” Leyla observes. She’s standing by Clara, still holding her hand; she must have grabbed it when the lights went out.
Martina wavers.
“I’ll go check on it,” she finally says. “Might be that it’s not on. We’ve never actually needed it before.”
“That’s reassuring,” Leyla mutters.
“I don’t feel so good,” Clara says. When I take a closer look at her, she does look pale, but I don’t know if that’s just the low light.
Leyla looks from Clara to me.
“I think we should … go,” she says. “Isobel is right.”
Martina erupts.
“None of you can go!” she shouts, and the room freezes.
“You can’t exactly keep us here against our will,” Clara protests.
Martina, looking at Clara, draws a deep, shuddering breath, briefly touching her palm to her sternum.
“None of you can go,” she repeats, somewhat calmer, “because there is flooding farther down. It’s simply not safe. The storm will pass. We’ll have electricity back in just a few minutes, I guarantee it.”
Leyla looks over at Clara, and whatever she sees makes her push Clara gently down in a chair, muttering:
“You okay?”
“I don’t like this.” Katarina is biting her lip, her arms wrapped around her torso.
“I think we should do a breathing exercise,” Martina says. “Help everyone calm down a bit and reassess the situation.”
I burst out laughing.
“A breathing exercise?” I say. “Are you kidding?”
The door opens, drawing another little shriek from Katarina.
I take a step back; for a moment, all I see in the door is a dark, drenched silhouette, and the image from the window flashes through my mind, as stark and strong as it was the other day. The shadow, watching me.
But then she takes a step inside, and it’s Anna, pulling her pink hood off her head, water dripping onto the floor.
“Everyone okay?” she asks. “I heard screaming.”
She scans the room, and, her gaze falling on Clara, who is now swaying lightly where she’s sitting, she says:
“Christ, you must have had a bad shock.”
She sits down on the floor in front of Clara and picks up her mug.
“Here, sweetheart, drink some of this.” She pushes the mug into Clara’s hands. “There’s some honey in there. It should make you feel better.”
“Do you know why the generator hasn’t turned on?” Martina asks Anna sharply, who shakes her head.
“No idea.” Her voice is apologetic. “I can ask Belinda to go and check on it, if you want.”
“No,” Martina says between gritted teeth, “I’ll do it myself.”
“Should I bring the girls back to their cabins?” Anna asks. “It looks like some of them need to lie down.”
“Yes, I think that might be a good idea,” Martina says.
“Alone?” Katarina looks over at me.
“Yes, everyone back to their own cabins.” Martina is struggling to get back to her usual soothing voice. “Get cozy. Read a book. Journal. Just … relax.”
I meet Katarina’s eyes. “Pull something in front of the door,” I tell her, speaking slowly. “So that no one can get in.”
“For God’s sake!” Martina cries out. “There’s nothing to worry about!”
I turn to Anna. “You’ll walk them there?” I hope that whatever connection I might have made with her is enough. “Make sure nothing happens?”
Anna nods solemnly.
“I will,” she promises. “All the way to the door.”
“Good,” I say.
Martina smiles, tight and unhappy.
“You don’t work for her,” she scoffs, before catching onto what I said and asking me, “Wait, what do you mean by them?”
I smile, taut and painful.
“I’m coming with you.”