Nate’s eyes are wide. “The man! He helped us… He said we had to be careful of the dog at Old Man Cooper’s place – and the abandoned mine.”
“OK, lads, that’s Trevor Hardingham, absolute bellend of a bloke, thinks he’s funny, but all that is nonsense, OK? There’s no mine here. No dog. And no one calls me ‘Old Man Cooper’, OK? Leslie will do. Come on, I’ll show you to the cabin.” He heads off, muttering, “Why would you bring a dead rabbit for a dog, anyway?”
“Yes, why, Nate?”
Nate glares at me.
We stumble our way across a yard, round the back of some abandoned farm buildings, across another lane and into another wood, eventually coming to a beaten-up cabin. “Here she is!” Leslie says. “Enjoy your stay!”
“Do we need a key card?” I ask.
“No keys,” Leslie says. “Perfectly safe here, never any trouble, we just leave it unlocked.”
I want to ask, “Really? Never any murders?” but Leslie already thinks we’re ridiculous.
“W-what shall I do with the rabbit?” Nate asks.
Leslie rolls his eyes. “Give it here, I’ll sort it.” He takes the bag from Nate and ambles away into the night.
I push the cabin door open. “Home sweet home!” I say, flicking the light switch.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NATE
The cabin is pretty rustic, by which I mean it’s basic, hardly “luxury”, unless the complimentary toiletries and bathrobes count as that. I don’t actually care, I’m just relieved we’re finally here, and it’s way better than being on that campsite with my family. Jack doesn’t seem to mind either, and no sooner are we through the door, and he’s whacked his phone in to charge, than he starts prattling on about getting some photos, and talking about how we need to use phrases like “decompress” and would I like to sit by the wood-burning stove with my knees drawn up to my chest, cradling a mug of coffee and looking content?
“Jack, I’ve never looked content in my life, never cradled a cup of coffee like that, and should we really be lighting a wood-burning stove, because, you know, the environment?” I say. It’s not that I’m not “up” for this Instagram thing, but Tariq’s gonna spot the deception a mile off if he sees pics of me doing things I’d never normally do.
Jack accuses me of pissing on his bonfire.
But he’s not done yet.
Another idea: would I like a candid photo of me just by the fire in my “loungewear”?
“Do you mean my pyjamas?”
“Yes,” Jack says. “Loungewear.”
God, I hate the world and all the stupid words and phrases.
“OK,” I say.
I can tell Jack’s surprised by my sudden enthusiasm, but his delight soon fades when I reappear in the pyjamas – Detective Pikachu branded, a joke from my (hilarious) dad last Christmas, which I packed purely for comedy value.
“OK, so that’s funny,” Jack scowls.
“No good?”
“I was anticipating a grey marl jersey short, or some open-hem joggers?”
I look at him blankly.
“Maybe with your top off…?” Jack continues.
“Not happening,” I tell him.
“It’s not very hygge.”
“Is it not, no?”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” Jack tells me. He grabs his phone off charge, swipes, and offers it to me. It’s Dylan and Tariq’s latest post. They’re both at the edge of an open-air infinity pool, apparently on the roof of some tall building, arms across one another’s shoulders as they gaze out over what looks like London. They’re so fucking serene and loved up I want to commit a homicide.
“Just tell me what to do,” I tell Jack.
Jack smiles. “Amazing. OK, you’ll be snuggled up in the armchair, fire in the background, and we’ll have a candle, a blanket and a book in the shot, you can’t get more sodding hygge than that!”
I give him a nod, and he scurries around the cabin, trying to find the props. There’s a candle on the shelf at the side of the main room, and then he heads into a bedroom to find a blanket and a book. But when he comes back, he looks ashen.
“Nate,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
He comes up to me and tugs at my shirt, so I follow him into the bedroom, and we’re both peering down at this corn dolly thing that’s sitting on top of a chest of drawers.
“What?” I say.
“It’s like a weird voodoo doll thing.”
“It’s a corn dolly.”
“It’s like from a horror film. It’s cursed.”
“Jack, it’s a corn dolly, it’s a harvest custom thing in the country. It’s fine.”
“There’s one on the shelf in the main room too.”
“So?”
“And don’t you think it’s weird that Old Man Cooper—”
“Leslie.”
“—said there was paperwork to do, and yet where is the paperwork? There wasn’t any!”
“We’re not starting this again. I’m going to go and chill in the other room.” And I walk back out, just as Jack shouts, “Oh my god, there’s another one in the en suite!”
I’m tired of his relentless paranoia at this point, so that’s why I do it. If he’s determined to be scared, I’ll play ball. I flick the lights off in the main room, then stand like a statue in the corner, facing the wall, like what happens in that film The Blair Witch Project.
And then I play the waiting game.
“So, there’s actually two in the bathroom, and— Nate?” I keep perfectly still and quiet.
“Oh my god,” Jack whispers to himself. “Nate? Nate, where are you?”
He’s already bricking it, this is hilarious.
“Nate?” His voice is quivering now. “N-Nate?”
Then he flicks the main light on, and I hear him gasp as he sees me, standing in the corner. I’m expecting him to say, “Ha bloody ha, very funny,” or something maybe more cutting, because this is Jack. What I get is:
“A A A A A A A R R R R R G H H H H H H H ! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
And he is literally TOTALLY FREAKING OUT, running around all over the place, crashes into a floor lamp, which falls over, TOTAL PANIC, he is SCREAMING, I’ve never
