‘I’ve got something on her.’
‘Hollie?’ Grace croaks. ‘Where are you?’
‘Ariel – I’ve got her. I’ve really got her this time.’
There’s movement. Some whispers of reassurance to her husband: I won’t be a minute, go back to sleep. Then the sigh as she hauls himself out of bed to speak somewhere private.
‘I’ll call you back.’ She hangs up suddenly.
Seconds later, she’s requesting FaceTime. Grace wants to see me, look me in the eye and check I’m not nearing burnout again.
I accept, reluctantly.
‘I thought you were taking time off?’ She runs her hands back and forth through her short hair. A thatch of thick grey, kinked and unruly from sleeping. Her face is in the shadows of her book-lined study and a small desk lamp glows from behind.
As CEO of Guerrilla TV – a small production company in east London – Grace took a chance on me when I walked out on my research at the lab. She bought into my vision for Bad Medicine and gave me the tools and a platform to pull together a pilot. A pilot that was snapped up by Netflix for an eye-watering amount.
After a childhood like mine, you’d think that was all I’d care about, but this has never been about the money. It’s sitting in a savings account, barely touched. I use what I need and get by on not a lot.
Grace says I should invest, put it towards my future. She fusses too much, she’s become a mother figure: the mum I should have had instead of the childhood I try to forget. But at thirty-two, I can’t see anything beyond the next few months, not until I’ve got justice.
She peers into her screen. ‘Are you in your car?’ A note of concern in her voice.
‘Just got back into London. Anyway, about this fresh lead . . .’
‘Why aren’t you at home resting?’
‘A nineteen-year-old who went to the retreat is missing. No sign of him for three months. Ariel’s denying any knowledge, but it stinks of her lies and cover-ups.’
‘The Ice Retreat?’ It doesn’t take Grace long to get up to speed.
‘The police refuse to help; I’m all the mother’s got. We have to find him, Grace.’
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks tentatively.
‘We need to move quickly on this.’
‘What were you doing, interviewing someone without giving me a heads-up first?’
‘Ariel claims the boy’s gone travelling, but his mum says that’s impossible, not with his health problems or without his medication. And he had no savings. A flight to Malaysia would have set him back £600. So where is he?’
I can’t stop thinking about what Mrs Eves said, turning her question over: Ice baths, for heaven’s sake – what harm could it do? I feel a swell of dread. I didn’t want to frighten Mrs Eves, she already seemed so worried, but I’m certain it’s not her son sending those messages.
‘How do you know Ariel’s involved?’
‘I just know. I can feel it. Something’s happened to him, and they’re covering it up.’
Silence. A heavy sigh. Then: ‘You’ve got to drop this; it’s turning into an obsession.’
I feel my pulse pick up. Why isn’t she listening to me?
‘I have something, I promise. Give me time and I’ll pull it together.’
The silence continues, growing in volume.
‘Leave it alone, Hollie.’
‘I’m close. I know I am.’
‘I don’t know how or why you’ve become so fixated on Ariel, but drop it before – Christ, before she takes legal action. It’s a litigation nightmare. You have no proof, of anything. She’ll have a restraining order put on you.’
‘Let her,’ I say defiantly.
Grace rubs her hand across her face.
‘That’s not the kind of thing I need to hear.’
I shrug.
‘I’m still cleaning up after last time.’
I look away. OK, so I’m a little outspoken on X. I can jump in without thinking it through. Grace is referring to my X rant accusing Ariel of brainwashing her followers. I may have even used the word cult.
Ariel, her army of warriors and the Ice Retreat have been on my radar for some time, ever since the suicides started happening. Ever since him. There’s three now, three deaths within months of each other. My throat tightens. Three normal, well-adjusted people who sought therapy for pain relief, with no prior record of depression, who suddenly took their own lives. It doesn’t add up.
And now Martyn.
There’s been rumours. Locks on doors. Strict confidentiality clauses. Patients signing NDAs. Abuse, extortion, fraud, even pagan rituals. But nothing seems to stick.
I’ve tried everything – speaking to family members and friends of those who’ve died, tracking down former ice warriors who left the tribe suddenly, but I’m always met with a wall of silence. Doors closed in my face. Nobody wants to talk. It’s as if they’re frightened, it’s as if they’ve been warned off.
I’ve been waiting months for something concrete that couldn’t be dismissed as rumour and hearsay. Now, finally, a lead. Someone who’ll go on the record, someone to flush out Ariel Rose, and Grace is blocking it. I feel my hands clench involuntarily. How can I make her see sense?
‘Being brave is our thing, that’s what we do,’ I say urgently.
‘We’ve always had a lot more to go on,’ says Grace. ‘They’ve been open-and-shut cases. This is a legal nightmare. Ariel’s a big player in the wellness community; a lot of important people care about her.’
I lift my head quickly. ‘Even more reason to take her down.’
‘We haven’t taken on a story this big before. It could backfire – we need to approach this carefully.’
‘We have someone willing to go on record.’
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘They won’t be able to ignore us, not this time.’
‘Hollie, Christ! Am I talking to a brick wall? DROP it.’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘Slow down. OK?’
But I don’t know how to. And especially not now when we’re finally making progress. I must find Martyn Eves.
‘We’ve had another one of those letters.’
What’s Grace getting so worked up about? Receiving death threats – it’s inevitable in our line of work. I have a bullish interrogative style. I go digging around where I’m not wanted. I’m authority-pushing and yes, I piss people off. And I send charlatans to prison. That’s what I do, it’s part of the job. Bring it on.
‘I don’t think you understand how big this story is.’ I exhale.
‘Get some sleep. Please.’ She rubs at her face and yawns. ‘It’s Christmas next week.’
I frown.
‘Have a digital detox. Relax, and we’ll recalibrate in the New Year. The world is full of health sharks to take down. We don’t need Ariel Rose to get our Netflix contract renewed.’
I feel the heat of frustration. A tightening in my chest. I press back into the car seat but my head is throbbing, the dull ache of a migraine coming on. I wish I could explain, make her see, tell Grace the truth – why I began all of this. But if I did, it would change everything. And I’m not ready for anyone to know my secret just yet.
As for Christmas, with everything that’s been going on, I’d genuinely forgotten all about it.
Grace tells me to go to bed – sleep is important – and hangs up. I slam the car door as I get out.
I hear a movement behind me. Sudden steps. Then silence. And there, in the stillness of the night, that feeling I had this morning when I set off for Leeds, of someone watching me. Like a cold wind on my back. I swing around but there is no one there.
More ghosts. Christ, I’m losing it. Grace is right, I need to sleep. My eye twitches in agreement.
I lock my door, check over my shoulder and then cross the road, changing my mind about heading home.