The Hunting Party

by Lucy Foley

  ‘Doug?’ I stare at him. ‘Are you all right?’ He’s pacing in front of my desk, rubbing his jaw back and forth – so vigorously that the skin beneath his stubble is raw and red, though the rest of his face seems to have drained of all colour. His eyes are black and fathomless. It is as though he is taking all of this unusually personally. He has looked bad since the morning, I realise; I’ve noticed it, but I haven’t really had a chance to properly consider it. It seemed natural, what with him finding the body, and everything.

  ‘Doug?’

  He turns towards me, but he hardly seems to have heard the question.

  ‘Doug!’ I snap my fingers in front of his face, force him to focus on me. ‘What is it? What now?’

  He shakes his head, for several seconds. And then he says, in a rush, ‘There’s something more. I didn’t tell you all of it.’

  Oh God. I brace myself. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That night, close to when you’d first got the job here,’ he says, ‘when you heard the scream … do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. The sound is still imprinted upon my memory.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t a fox.’ He grimaces. ‘It was a scream. It was me.’

  I think of my first impressions on hearing the noise – that it was a sound made by a person in profoundest agony. ‘Oh, Doug.’

  ‘I have these – episodes – I suppose, when I can’t remember what I have been doing. I find myself in strange places, without knowing how I have got there. That night, for example … I wasn’t aware of making any noise. I came round, in the trees beside the loch, and I realised it had to be me.’

  I don’t want to hear any more. But there is more – he keeps going, unstoppable. ‘On New Year’s Eve …’ He runs his uninjured hand through his wild hair, in that nervous gesture I have seen him make so many times in the last few hours. ‘I’d been drinking a lot … I remember that. And …’ He blows out his cheeks. He doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘I was angry. So I drank some more. I think I passed out. And then there’s a whole period of time that’s just … a blank.’

  A blank.

  Finally, he meets my eyes. The expression in his is that of a drowning man.

  One day earlier

  New Year’s Day 2019

  KATIE

  I’ve got to go and speak to Miranda. No, this isn’t a late crisis of conscience. There’s no point in apologising now, it is far too late for that. If I was really sorry, I would have stopped a long time ago. It’s only now that I have seen Julien’s reaction to all of this – his cowardice in scuttling straight after Miranda, and, I’m sure, pleading with her, then coming back here and pretending he hadn’t – that I have properly regretted it for the first time. The scales, as they say, have fallen from my eyes.

  But I want a chance to explain. I want her to understand that I didn’t plan any of it, that I didn’t do it on purpose, to hurt her … not consciously, at least. That the affair – because that’s what it became – swept me along with it, strong as an undertow. This is not to excuse myself, as I know there is no excuse. Not for doing something this terrible to one of your oldest friends. But it seems important to say these things.

  I’m also slightly worried for her. She seemed so wild, so drunk, standing there in her stained and ripped gold dress, like some vengeful fallen Goddess. It’s so cold now – I hadn’t realised it could get any colder, and she was wearing nothing more than a thin layer of silk, and her feet were practically bare, except for those ridiculous heels. She wouldn’t do anything stupid, would she? No. I’m fairly certain that isn’t Miranda’s way. She would want to harm us, not herself.

  I suddenly feel exposed out here. The dark surrounds me, fathomless, inscrutable. The only movement I can see is my breath leaving me in little huffs of vapour. It has just occurred to me that Miranda could be out here somewhere with me, watching from some hiding place. I think of that room from earlier, with the rifles. I must keep my wits about me. I wouldn’t put that much past her at this point. As a friend she can be bad enough. The thought of having her as an enemy is frankly terrifying.

  I knock on the door of her cabin. No answer. I look up at the dark windows, and imagine her looking out, seeing me, smiling to herself.

  ‘Miranda,’ I call, ‘we need to talk.’ The cabin looks back at me blankly, mocking me.

  ‘I need to explain everything to you,’ I call. My voice seems to echo in the silence, reverberations coming back at me from far away, from the encircling mountains. ‘I’ll be waiting, in my cabin, if you want to talk.’

  There’s no answer. Silence, like a held breath.

  Back in my cabin Julien is sitting wrapped in a towel, huddled on the sofa, sipping neat from a bottle of Scotch. I think it might have been the complimentary one provided by the estate. I hadn’t touched it at all, but it is now more than half empty.

  ‘Julien.’ I try to prise it out of his grasp. He clings onto it, like a child to a toy. ‘Julien, you need to stop. You’re going to kill yourself if you drink any more.’

  He shakes his head. ‘She’ll kill me first. She’ll take everything I’ve worked for. She’ll destroy me … you don’t understand.’

  He looks completely pathetic, curled in the towel. Suddenly I’m almost repulsed by him. His broad, muscled chest looks ridiculous. Who has a body like that unless they’re incredibly vain? Before it had seemed exotic, so different to the men I had been with. And the flattery of him wanting me – that had been perhaps the biggest turn-on of all. Over the last six months I have been able to overlook the little things that rankled with me: his selfishness after we’d had sex, always running to the shower first, or always demanding that we did things his way, or failing to respond to any of my messages for several days and then becoming irate if I left one of his unreplied to for more than an hour. The excitement of it all – the subterfuge, the illicit rendezvous, and yes, the quality of the sex, had made them palatable.

  Was that all it was? I ask myself, now. The real source of the excitement, beyond any chemistry, or physical attraction? The sheer disbelief that he wanted me, and not Miranda? Did I really envy her that much? Yes, a little voice says. Maybe I did.

  NOW

  2nd January 2019

  HEATHER

  Doug is right. It doesn’t look good for him. It seems that he may have been the last person here to see the guest alive. But I now feel oddly invested in his innocence. I just don’t think he did it.

  It’s funny, a couple of days ago I knew so little of him. I wouldn’t have known whether I could trust him. Seeing those news results load, the horror of the headlines about him, had briefly seemed as good as a guilty sentence. But for some reason, since the vulnerability and honesty of his confessions about himself, I feel differently. He has bared his innermost, most shameful secrets to me, and yet, somehow, I find I can’t judge him too harshly for it.

  And then there was that conversation overheard in the hallway. Two of the guests, at least, may not be as innocent in this as they appear. I only wish I hadn’t dislodged that sodding picture, that I had been able to hear more.

  I enter the living room, and they all look up.

  ‘Are the police here yet?’ the woman called Samira asks, jostling the baby on her lap. Could it have been her in the corridor, the woman’s voice? I’m not sure. She was the one who alerted us to the disappearance in the first place. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘though they’re hoping it may be clearer by this afternoon.’

  She nods, sullenly. They are all watching me, I know. I’d give a good deal to have the situation be reversed, so that I could observe them instead, watch them for any betraying anomalies, flickers of guilt. I go to the kettle, on autopilot, to make more tea, and I see we’ve run out already. At a rough calculation, that’s some fifty teabags in a day. There are more in the store. I shrug on my down jacket, my red hat, my hiking boots, and tramp out into the world of white, the snow squeaking with each step.

/>   I unlock the big doors of the barn, unleashing a scent of dust and wood shavings and turpentine. On one side are all of our supplies: bottled water in case of a supply fault (it has happened more than once), sugar and packs of Nespresso pods and loo rolls and crates of beer. Life’s little necessities, even in this place.

  Out here’s also where we have the feed from the CCTV camera on the gate, humming away on an ancient TV screen. There’s much better technology out there nowadays – I could get it all streamed to my computer in the office – but the boss is oddly stingy about some things. I glance at the display: the familiar image of the track. There’s so much snow that there’s barely any definition to the picture – everything it shows is white.

  On the other side is all the stalking equipment: the camouflage gear, the walking boots, the binoculars. The neat row of hunting rifles. Doug’s military precision.

  Except …

  I blink, look again. Recount.

  … Except that one of the rifles seems to be missing. One of the brackets is empty. I think there are normally ten. And now there are only nine.

  I turn on the radio, still in the pocket of my jacket. My hand hovers over the transmit button – I’m about to call Doug, to ask him if there’s any reason for this absence. Has he, say, taken one of the rifles for something? Then I stop and think: Can I trust him? Should I really draw his attention to what I’ve noticed? Because perhaps he already knows. Perhaps he was the one who took it.

  After all, whoever took the rifle must have had access to the store, which pretty much rules out one of the guests. There are only two other people who know the passcode. And the other left the estate on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve to spend it with his family.

  I’m trying to decide what to do with this new knowledge. It’s not a reassuring thought, precisely, but it occurs to me that I’m not sure Doug would even need to take a rifle from here – I think he has his own. And maybe there have only ever been nine rifles. I rub my eyes, which are sore, gritty with tiredness. I’m so, so tired. Maybe I’m simply conjuring chimeras out of my own mind.

  I grab the big box of tea. I won’t say anything to Doug, I decide. But I’ll keep it in mind, too. Just in case. As I pass the old CCTV monitor I glance at the screen displaying its unchanging snowy scene: the view from the gates. Our recordings might well be the most uneventful in the UK. It might as well be showing me a fixed image, if it weren’t for the flakes of snow falling listlessly past the lens, the seconds ticking over in the top-right-hand corner. An identical scene to when I checked it for any sign of the missing guest, seeing nothing more than a time lapse of the snow. I remember fast-forwarding through the frames: nothing, nothing, nothing, dizzy with the sameness of it all. And yet … a sudden quickening of my heartbeat, my body seeming to understand something even before my mind does. Nothing. But shouldn’t there have been … something? Shouldn’t I have seen, for example, a red truck – Iain’s truck – leaving the property on New Year’s Eve? He left on New Year’s Eve: this is what I’ve assumed the whole time. This is what I told the police.

  But if I didn’t see him leave …

  … Then he must be here. Somewhere, on the estate. It’s the only explanation.

  My radio crackles. It’s Doug. ‘Where are you?’ he asks.

  I think of that light I saw on New Year’s Eve, travelling up the flank of the Munro, towards the Old Lodge.

  I think of the one other viable shelter on the estate, which Doug and I didn’t even bother checking because no one goes in there, because it’s locked. I suddenly know where I have to go. I think of how emphatically Iain has always told me never to go near it because of the danger. I think, too, of how he told me not to let the guests outside at night.

  ‘Heather, are you there?’ Doug’s voice echoes in the silence of the barn. There is, I think, genuine concern in his voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ll – I’ll be back in a bit.’ I slip the radio back into my pocket.

  This is probably a very stupid idea. I know the sensible thing would be staying put, in the warmth and safety of the Lodge. But I’m sick of doing nothing. And I don’t mean simply these last few days. Because, really, I’ve been doing nothing for so long, running away, hiding from everything. Here is a chance to prove something to myself.

  I’ve kitted myself out from the storeroom. Even sturdier hiking boots, a pair of binoculars, a multi-tool. I have my mobile in my pocket, which is only really useful as a torch, unless I can get any signal up on the peak. I didn’t bother with the camo gear, of course – it would be almost as visible as anything else against the white of the landscape. Oh, and I sling a rifle over my shoulder. I’ve only shot once, and I wouldn’t say it exactly came easily to me. But it’s better than nothing. It will act as a deterrent, if not a weapon.

  As I walk, I summarise what I know of Iain. Not much, is the answer. I don’t even know his surname. He’s mentioned his ‘missus’ to me a couple of times, but I’ve never met her. I can’t recall, trying to summon a mental image of him, whether he wears a wedding ring – but then I can’t even precisely recall the features of his face. On the whole, when he has been here, he has seemed part of the landscape. He has gone about his work without any consultation with me, on – I have always assumed – instructions direct from the boss.

  If anything, the snow is thicker still on the flank of the Munro. I slip and fall several times – the gradient is almost too much for my hiking boots, even this low down. This is exactly the sort of behaviour we would counsel the guests against. Do not go out without the proper equipment. At least I’ve got the radio in my pocket, if necessary.

  I take a deep breath. I haven’t come up here for a long time.

  The ruins, and the standing stable block, look particularly dark against the fresh fallen snow. I hate this place. I can smell the burn on it, and it smells like death. It smells like everything that I have run away from. Well, I’m not running any more.

  ‘Heather? Heather – where are you? It’s been almost an hour.’ My radio is crackling. It’s Doug, of course.

  It’s the faint note of panic in his voice – something I’ve never heard, even when he was telling me about his past – that compels me to answer.

  ‘I’m … outside.’

  ‘Why? What are you doing?’ He sounds angry.

  ‘I just wanted to do a bit more exploring, that’s all – I’ve had an idea about something.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Heather – are you mad? Tell me exactly where you are. I’m coming to find you.’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You have to keep an eye on the guests.’

  Before he can reply, I cut him off. I need to concentrate.

  The door of the stable block is locked, just as it has always been, the little screen of the passcode panel blinking. It looks so incongruous against the old stone. Iain told me once, right at the beginning, that the building isn’t structurally sound. It could fall down at any point. And then we’d end up with a horror of a lawsuit on our hands. ‘The big man wants to make sure it’s really secure,’ he said. ‘Don’t go anywhere near it. We don’t want any guests going in there and killing themselves when the roof falls in on them.’

  I have always been very happy to give the place the widest berth possible. I have never come near the Old Lodge unless I can help it. When we were searching for the missing guest, we came up here. I tried the door, felt the unyielding resistance of the lock against my hand, and hurried away again. So now is the first time that it has occurred to me to wonder why I have never been given the passcode. At the time I had simply seen the locked door and assumed that meant that there was no way the guest could be within.

  It feels, suddenly, like a secret that has been under my nose the whole time and which I’ve never stopped to see, so wrapped up have I been in my inner world, the long legacy of my grief. If I hadn’t been, would that guest have died? I push the thought away. It is not worth thinking about now.

&nb
sp; There is no way I can force the door: it’s an ancient, heavy, oak affair, and there’s no give against the lock when I push it. And if I shove too hard, I’m worried I really might bring the building down on my head. So I walk around to the back. All the windows are boarded up, impenetrable.

  Ah, but now that I’m looking, I can see that one of the boards higher up is a little loose. There’s a dark gap showing through a chink between it and the next one. If I stand on one of the rocks below I might just be able to reach it. I clamber onto one of the fallen stones, I take the multi-tool from my pocket, open up the pliers and use them to grip one end of the plank. The stone I’m standing on rocks beneath my weight ominously, and the rifle knocks against me. I take it off my shoulder. I’m sure the safety is on, but I have a sudden vision of myself slipping and discharging the gun.

  I work the pliers back and forth, using all my strength, until I feel the board begin to give. With a pop! a nail springs free, and the board swings downwards to expose a gap the length of my arm. After that it’s easy to wrench the neighbouring boards away to expose a square foot of space. I peer inside, gripping the ledge of the plank below with my hands, feeling the rock tilt dangerously beneath me. There’s a musty smell – and yes, just discernible – the century-old smell of burned things. Can that be possible, or is it just my imagination? I can make out very little – but what I can see is that the space is not empty. There is something in the middle of the room, a pile of something. I climb down and take out my phone, flip it onto the torch function. For a moment I have the strongest impression of being watched. I check in every direction, but see just the undisturbed sugar shell of snow – save the track of my own footprints. It is probably just the silence up here. The Old Lodge does that to you. It has a presence all of its own.

  I cast the beam towards the object in the middle of the room. I can see it now, but can’t quite work it out. It isn’t one object, but a collection: a teetering stack of packages, tightly wrapped with clear film, each individual package roughly the size of a bag of sugar.