LILY’S IN THE ENDGAME MAZE. The walls are made of frozen blood. Above, the sky is a blue ink smudge, the clouds painted on, like the sheep-shaped ones of a child’s picture. As she walks through the cold corridors, bare feet burning on the snow, she hears singing. ‘In the bleak midwinter, long ago.’ The voice shivers with vibrato. It has sadness stitched into it. Mum’s voice.
Following the singing like a skein of silk, she runs through the maze until she reaches the centre. Mum is encased in one of the walls of the hidden section. Trapped in ice, her bloody hands press against it like she’s on the other side of a mirror. Her singing pinches into screams.
Lily hammers at the walls, fingers pressed to her mum’s. Mum’s mouth opens and closes, her eyes urgent. She’s trying to tell Lily something, but her words condense and can’t get through. Lily scrapes her fingernails into the ice, but she can’t tear her way in. She claws so hard that her nails shatter, revealing previously unseen skin. For one moment, Mum smiles, then freezes in place. She slumps to the ground like her strings have been cut. Her head is at that wrong angle. Her eyes are open, but they no longer see Lily, or anything else.
*
Lily lurches out of sleep, hands grabbing the duvet. Her heart is still racing round that maze, hoping for a different ending. She checks her fingernails. They’re still here.
The dinner gong moans throughout the house. Lily shivers, trying to blink away the dream. It holds on, not letting her go. She can still feel the ice on her skin, smell blood, hear her mother’s screams. Dreams, now she’s pregnant, are as hard to escape as corsets.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Lily stands up. The room shifts. Her vision is fuggy. Bile rises up her throat. She shouldn’t have had a big meal before she lay down. She must have been asleep for nearly two hours.
The gong goes again.
Doors open on the floor below. Voices call out. Feet clomp down the staircase while the strident voice of Mrs Castle climbs up the house. Never has the word ‘cocktails’ carried such threat.
Lily opens her suitcase and tips out the clothes till she finds her dark blue dress. She then scrabbles with the corset hooks, yanks the laces tighter and fights the dress over her head. That’ll have to do.
A few minutes later, Lily joins the rest of the house guests at the bottom of the stairs in the grand reception hall. Speakers high on the walls play carols.
‘Got you out of bed, did we?’ Sara says, pointing at Lily’s face. A smirk runs under her lips like a rat beneath a red carpet.
‘Just a nap,’ Lily replies. ‘It was a long drive.’
Gray shuffles over to her, and subtly slides a small round mirror into her hand. He then touches his own cheek without meeting her eyes.
Lily thanks him and turns away. She glances down at the compact. Her eyeshadow has slumped from her lids to join the already dark pools under her eyes. There’s a red mark on her right cheek where the lace of the pillow slip embossed her cheek. She hadn’t looked closely at it before, assuming it was the same swooping pattern as when she was growing up. It’s the maze. It’s everywhere – maybe it was the insignia of the hotel. The labyrinth etched on her psyche is now scored on her face.
‘Here,’ Rachel says, coming over to hand Lily a baby wipe. ‘I always carry these with me now.’
Lily thanks her, takes the wipe and swipes it over her face. It’s refreshing, even if it takes up the rest of her make-up and leaves her feeling more exposed. ‘How is Beatrice?’ she asks, of Rachel and Holly’s baby.
‘About time someone asked,’ Rachel says.
Holly joins them, drink in hand. ‘She’s brilliant. This is the first time we’ve left her for more than an afternoon. My mum’s looking after her. Can’t believe we’ve got to be without her for nearly two weeks. That’s ages in baby time. Feels like I’ve left half my heart at home.’
‘You could always go back early if you miss her that much,’ Sara says, voice as arched as her eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she means more to you than a house.’
Rachel snaps her head round to look at Sara. ‘We’re doing this for her.’
Holly’s voice is quiet as she says, ‘I grew up in a one-bed flat in a tower block. I’d love Beatrice to be able to run around the grounds.’
‘But what about our Samuel?’ Philippa says. ‘Or any other children we have? Do they not deserve to grow up here, too?’
‘Let’s not get into a fight so early in the evening, eh, everyone?’ Ronnie says from behind a table where he’s scooping up and handing out drinks from a punch bowl. ‘Drama before nine is just soap opera.’
Mrs Castle comes forward with a tray. ‘White lady, Miss Lily?’ she asks, offering her a coupe of foamy drink.
‘Bit insensitive, don’t you think, Mrs Castle?’ Tom says as he comes down the stairs, eyes twinkling. ‘Serving a cocktail with the same name as the Endgame ghost.’
‘What ghost?’ Holly says, looking behind her as if a spectre is peeking over her shoulder.
‘Ghosts aren’t real,’ Ronnie says. ‘And even if they are, they definitely don’t live here.’
Lily agrees. She’d know if they did. She’d feel Mum’s presence.
‘Maybe you’ve never seen one, but I have,’ Philippa says. ‘Right here in this house when we looked round last month. Came out of the wall as if it was a door.’ She shudders.
‘Sure,’ Sara says, the saracasm strong. ‘Course it did.’
‘You’ve got no reason to doubt her, Sara,’ Tom says.
‘I know for a fact there are no ghosts at Endgame,’ Sara says, jabbing a finger at him on the word, ‘fact’. ‘Mum enlisted me to stand in for a sick waiter at one of those ghost-hunting parties in the hotel a few years ago, trying to find cold spots and orbs and other nonsense. Scariest thing they found was a hotel guest sleepwalking in her nightie.’
‘So, that was the White Lady, then,’ Ronnie says. ‘Glad we cleared that up. Now, can I interest you in my special concoction?’ He points proudly to the crystal bowl of dark red liquid in which orange skin bobs and cinnamon sticks jostle with fallen star anise.
‘What’s in it?’ Lily asks.
‘The only thing that isn’t is booze,’ Ronnie says. ‘I’ve given up.’
‘How many times have we heard that before?’ Philippa says, crossing her arms.
‘At least twenty,’ Ronnie says with a grin. ‘But I mean it. One too many mornings waking up on the front lawn, waving at Mrs Rogers as she tuts off to work.’
‘Samuel woke up in the middle of the night last week when Ronnie got back from the office party. Saw his dad stumbling out of the Uber singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas”,’ she says.
‘I was serenading you,’ Ronnie replies. He’s still smiling. Just.
Phillipa doesn’t look at him, though, just turns to Lily. ‘Then he fell flat on his face and knocked himself out. Blood all over. Samuel screamed the place down. “Daddy’s dead!” he said.’
Pain crashes onto Ronnie’s face. He closes his eyes. ‘So, yeah. As I said. I mean it this time.’
Lily touched his arm. ‘Then I’ll join you,’ she says, reaching for a warm glass. She tastes it, determined to make a face that says she likes it, even if it turns her stomach. The smell of the spices hits her nose first, then she tastes honeyed plums. ‘It’s delicious,’ she says, and means it. ‘Cheers.’ She raises her glass, and everyone lifts theirs in return, some reluctantly, some with genuine good will, others with an enthusiasm that’s more to do with the promise of more alcohol.
All her family take a sip of drink. Because that’s what they are, she realises: bar the little cousins left at home, these are the remaining members of her family. All she has left. Liliana was her mother figure when Mum died, and now she’s gone, too. Lily feels another wave of grief. Growing up is one long game of Guess Who? – one by one the family is laid down until there’s only one left.
*
Lily already feels full by the time she’s sat down in the dining room. The afternoon tea still sits squeezed somewhere in the middle of her stomach. Only five courses to get through.
She looks round the dining room. Hardly anything has changed in here. The old tapestry drapes have been replaced by green velvet curtains but otherwise, everything’s the same. Mirrored wall sconces create an infinite echo of candles. Wooden floors dip in the middle of the room. Ivy, carved into the dark wall panels, wraps the room in a chokehold.
Maybe that’s what’s stopping everyone’s tongues as Mrs Castle ladles out the tomato and tarragon soup. She doesn’t spill a drop or a word as she moves around the table. The bread rolls steam as they’re split open but that’s all that’s released. Maybe everyone’s heeding Ronnie and waiting till nine o’clock for the real talk to start, but Lily isn’t going to hang around for that. Bitterness is already mulling in the room, resentment spiking the air like poison in a punch bowl.
When Mrs Castle has finished serving everyone, she stands in the doorway. ‘Enjoy your soup,’ she says. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes until the main course.’
Soup spoons clink on china. Salt is sprinkled, pepper is ground.
As Lily shakes out her napkin, she has the childlike urge to tuck it into her collar. It feels weird coming in here. She always had to avoid this room when she was little as it was used as a meeting room by the conference guests. She had to be as invisible as a black star. Sometimes, though, she used to sit in the kitchen next door and listen to laughter, swearing, and boring training videos winnow through the sides of the serving hatch while she and her mum made them lunch.
Lily can recall it so clearly it’s like she’s still sitting in the past, swabbing slices of bread with margarine, right up to the edges, then creating a bread Jenga tower. Mum would then grab a slice, place the cheese, ham or dollop of egg mayo on top, and slam on another piece of bread. One morning, the pile of bread had teetered too far and fallen on the floor. Mum had been quick but TC, Isabelle’s cat who used to come and play when she visited, had been quicker, walking across the slices like they were a butter-slick Giant’s Causeway. He’d then used one as a cushion while licking his paws. Liliana had come in then and laughed so much she’d cried.
Tom gently prods her shoulder. ‘Where have you gone?’
She physically shakes off the past as if she were a dog getting out of the sea. Good memories tide you over, but they also tug you under. ‘I got caught up in memories.’ She takes a spoonful of soup. It’s rich, complex and acidic. Like Aunt Liliana herself.
Tom nods. ‘Same here. I keep doing all the tricks I teach my clients – mindfulness and stuff – and then I walk into a room here and all I can see is Mum and Dad. Must be so hard for you, you lived here far longer. Must be like opening a time capsule.’
Lily nods. She can’t reply without crying, so doesn’t.
Tom looks at her, then places his hands on the table. ‘Let’s change the subject, but know that you can come and talk to me about it anytime. We’re here for a while, might as well make use of the time.’
‘You’re on holiday,’ Lily replies. ‘You shouldn’t have to counsel me.’
‘It’d help me to chat. This is weird for me, too. Other than Sara and Gray, we’re the only ones not coupled up, so we’ll be twiddling our thumbs otherwise. And it’s not as if Sara will let her brother out of her sight.’
Tom looks down the table to where Sara is fussing a napkin over Gray’s lap. He sees Lily watching and his cheeks turn mullet red. Poor bloke.
‘We’re a team, then. Deal?’ Tom extends his hand.
Lily shakes his hand and nods. ‘Deal. And now to change the subject. What have you done with that Christmas tree you brought?’
Tom laughs. ‘When I saw that downstairs has been dressed like the John Lewis festive section, I took it up to my room. It’s now standing in the corner, leaning to one side and feeling sorry for itself. Looks like me as a teen at an indie disco. I’ll string some lights on it later, boost its confidence.’
‘Even trees get the patented Tom self-esteem treatment,’ Lily says, remembering how he always made her feel good about herself.
‘What can I say?’ Tom says, opening his hands. ‘I can’t bear to see them pine.’
‘Oh, mate,’ Lily says, shaking her head.
‘Some things have got to stay the same,’ he says. His smile fades and he looks away. Lily is about to ask what he means when Ronnie taps his spoon on his water glass.
‘I propose a toast,’ he says, standing up. ‘We have much to be thankful for. A warm house, an abundance of food and drink, and each other. We owe all this to Aunt Liliana, so let’s raise our glasses to her memory.’
Crystal glasses are raised, reflecting a constellation of flames. Sara’s glass remains on the table.
‘To Liliana!’ Ronnie calls out. Lily and most of the others echo him, some louder or more heartfelt than others. Gray says, ‘Mum,’ and closes his eyes.
‘Not joining in the toast to your mum, Sara?’ Tom asks.
‘Ignore her,’ Lily whispers to him. ‘No point antagonising her.’
‘Why should I share a toast when she didn’t share with me that the house had a secret room?’ Sara asks.
‘Presumably she didn’t tell Gray either,’ Tom says, ‘and he hasn’t got a problem with it.’
Gray shrugs very slightly. He has tomato soup all round his mouth.
‘Did any of you know?’ Sara asks, glaring around the table. She stops when she gets to Lily and jabs a finger towards her. ‘You lived here. You must know where it is.’
Lily shakes her head. ‘Only till I was twelve, and I’d’ve loved to find a secret room. I never did, though.’
‘Sure,’ Sara says, saracasm dripping like melting ice. ‘And I suppose you don’t know any of the other cryptic shit Mum said in her rules and that letter to us.’
‘I want to know the secrets of this house as much as you,’ Lily says.
‘What I want to know,’ Philippa says, ‘is how Isabelle will have any knowledge of us looking for clues? Have they got CCTV in the house as well as round the perimeter? In our rooms, maybe? ’Cause that’s an invasion of privacy.’
Holly glances towards the ceiling. ‘I haven’t seen any cameras,’ she says.
‘And you should know,’ Philippa says.
Rachel twists round to look at Philippa. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘We all know your wife is well aware of cameras pointing at her.’ Philippa gives a smile as she scrapes the last spoonful of soup from her bowl.
‘There’s no need to bring that up,’ Tom says.
‘It’s OK,’ Holly says, quietly.
‘It fucking isn’t, baby,’ Rachel says, standing up, and pulling Holly up with her. ‘She has absolutely no right to be so smug.’ She points her butter knife towards Philippa. ‘My wife has absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. You wish you looked that good on screen.’
Philippa gets to her feet, too. Ronnie tugs at her arm, but she shrugs him off. Their shouting rises up to the cornices of the room.
‘Stop it!’ Gray shouts, slamming his hands on the table.
Everyone turns to look at him, mouths open. No one has heard him shout before. Sara looks the most stunned of all.
Gray points to Mrs Castle standing in the doorway with a platter of meat. ‘Time for the main course.’
*
‘I thought I’d be too full for karaoke,’ Tom says, flicking through the list of songs. ‘But there’s something about seeing other people sing that makes me want to join in.’ They’re in the games room, tucked away under the stairs. Disco lights flash to the beat of ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. Ronnie is trying to get Philippa to sing along with him, but instead she walks away and sits in one of the armchairs by the chess table. Ronnie shrugs and sings louder.
Lily watches as he closes his eyes, his grin huge as he croaks out the chorus. Lily used to love singing that much. Maybe she still would if she let herself. She shuts down the thought, and a burgeoning sneeze at the same time. The insides of her ears itch as if she’s allergic to off-key singing.
‘Come and do a duet with me. I can tell you’re dying to.’
‘I can’t,’ Lily replies.
‘Go on. I know you’ve got a thing about singing. Maybe if you had a drink to loosen you up?’ Tom says.
‘I don’t fancy it tonight,’ she replies. She hears his unbelieving laugh and resolves never again to coax someone to drink.
‘If you’re off the booze in solidarity with Ronnie, he won’t notice. He’s in the karaoke zone.’
Lily looks back to Ronnie and his beatific smile. She feels a pang of sadness at not being able to access that place. It seems blissful.
‘Come on, it’ll be good for you.’ Tom does his pleading look. ‘We’ll do “Fairytale of New York”. It’ll be great.’
Lily folds her arms. ‘Even if I wanted to sing, I would never do that one. And please don’t you sing it either.’
Tom frowns. Then remembers the lyrics. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’ He may be flushing or it might be the lights. ‘Then how about “Baby, it’s Cold Outside”?’
She’s about to explain to him why that also might not be a good idea when she feels a wave of nausea. The room is suddenly too hot, pressing in on her. No windows to open for snow-fresh air. The sounds make it worse – karaoke clashing with the pinball machine, pool balls dispensed, darts hitting the board with a dull thud. Lily stands, steadies herself. Tom’s mouth is moving but she can’t pick out the words. She’s got to get out. She’s going to be sick.
Moving towards the door, her vision spins like the red spotlights spattering the floor. Just as she heads towards the library, Lily stumbles. She reaches out but there’s nothing to hold on to. Her hand goes to her tummy as the floor hurtles up to hit her.
And then everything goes dark.