The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘If this were Ellie—’

  ‘Don’t!’ Grace jumps up as if stung. She fumbles through her bag for the packet of cigarettes, swearing as the contents scatter across the floor. Pulling on her jacket, she heads for the door. I sit on the bed unmoving, resolute. I hear the metallic click of the handle and the sound of the door being thrown wide open. There is a pause and then Grace speaks.

  ‘Are you coming outside for a smoke or not?’

  We stand by the back door of the hotel, smoking in silence, not even daring to look at each other. Even though I love her with all my heart, I know now that my sister is just one more obstacle keeping me from the truth. I also know from experience that it is best not to push her: she will talk when she’s ready. What I won’t do, however, is give in. If anything, our argument has only strengthened my resolve.

  ‘Does Adam know?’ Grace exhales loudly, the cigarette smoke curling around her ears like horns. ‘About the diary and mobile?’ I shake my head. ‘What do you think he would say if he did?’ I know where she is going with this, but I choose not to reply. Instead I think of the diary; of the gently sloping letters of Michael’s handwriting; of the heartfelt poems. ‘Don’t you think telling him might help?’

  ‘Help?’ I stub the cigarette out fiercely beneath my shoe. Leaning back against the metal railings I stare up at the night sky. ‘Do you know that after Michael died I wanted to hire a private detective?’ I wait for Grace’s response but there is none. ‘There were so many mistakes with the police investigation; so many inconsistencies. Do you remember when they lost some of his blood samples? I knew something wasn’t right. But Adam wouldn’t let me hire somebody to look into it, and the only way I could have afforded it was to use money from the joint account.’

  ‘And then he would have known,’ says Grace.

  ‘He said he’d put a block on the account if I did.’

  ‘Could he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I shrug. ‘But by then I’d sort of lost the confidence.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Grace, putting an arm around my shoulders. ‘Your husband can be an arse sometimes.’

  ‘I left it because I had no choice.’ I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of bergamot and sandalwood from her perfume. ‘But now – finding the rucksack, the diary, and that strange text – well I just can’t let it rest. Even if I’m completely wrong, at least I’ll know I did everything in my power to find out what happened.’ I rest my head on Grace’s shoulder. ‘Everyone is always going on about the need to move on. Why don’t they understand that solving the mystery of how Michael died that night is the only way I can move on? If this Diving Fish person can help, whoever they are, isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘I understand,’ Grace whispers, and, kissing me softly on the forehead, she adds, ‘I’ll always understand. I just worry you’ll get carried away, make yourself ill again.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern, really, but I’m fine.’

  I fact, I have never felt so sane in my entire life.

  We wake at eight – groggy, hung over and with tongues like sandpaper. I make tea and sit on the bed next to Grace. She’s reading her text messages, the bruise on her arm a kaleidoscope of purples, greens and yellows.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Grace sighs. ‘Ellie and Simon have had a row and she’s buggered off.’

  ‘Is she at a friend’s?’

  Grace rubs her eyes. ‘Who knows. I was hoping to stay a bit longer, but with this—’

  The words come out before I can stop them. ‘She can always come and stay with us for a while if that would help?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, maybe over the summer? She likes the seaside, and I could take some time off from work, take her to Cornwall?’ It’s nice to be the one offering advice and support for once. ‘It could give you all a little space.’

  There’s a telling pause before Grace replies. ‘I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Grace avoids my gaze. The first time she has done so all evening. ‘Just leave it, Kate. Okay?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Grace sighs, long and slow. ‘First of all, my darling, this isn’t about me and my family problems. This is about us, our mother and what we’re going to do. Secondly,’ she has her teacher’s voice on now, ‘to be perfectly honest Kat, I’m not sure I want my daughter staying in the same house as your husband.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ I get off the bed and make a show of filling up the tiny kettle. Even though I understand why Grace said what she did, it still hurts.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate with Mum, and now this diary thing.’ I’ve moved to the window and I’m staring out at the car park. Grace gets up and stands beside me. ‘After everything you’ve been through,’ it sounds as if she’s fighting back tears, ‘I just don’t know how you do it.’

  I give a little shrug. It’s a question I have heard time and time again since Michael’s death. Over time, I have come up with a few faultless responses to make everyone else feel better.

  Michael would have wanted me to carry on.

  Michael would have wanted me to remain positive.

  Adam and I made the decision to celebrate Michael’s life rather than his loss.

  This morning though, I am too tired to reach for that sort of default reply. This morning I speak the truth. I turn to my sister.

  ‘I fake it.’

  10

  ‘Why don’t you have the day off?’ says Grace after breakfast. ‘Go back to the house, see to the cat, get some rest. I’ll spend the day with Mum.’

  I don’t argue. The thought of having to spend another day with my mother had woken me before dawn. I had lain next to Grace watching the early morning sun steal its way in through the half-opened curtains to settle on her face. The large wide-set eyes, so much like our mother’s, had flickered as she slept. High on her forehead, just below the hairline, is a thin white scar, a relic from when we were children and I had thrown my Bible at her. I still remember the terror I had felt when our parents returned from their church meeting – I had expected Grace to pronounce my sin. Instead, I watched in amazement as my sister emerged from the bathroom with her hair newly parted to the left, her fringe hiding the injury.

  As I had lain there gazing at my sister’s beautiful, sleeping face, I had felt overwhelmed by love, loyalty, and a profound sense of gratitude. I had also realised, after our discussion the night before, that there is only so much I can tell her. If I am going to find the truth about the diary, Diving Fish, and what happened to Michael that night, I’ll have to keep my investigation to myself.

  ‘I can come back for visiting hours this evening if you’d like,’ I tell her, grateful for the hit of caffeine to clear my foggy brain.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Grace insists. ‘Come back tomorrow. We can visit Mum, have lunch together and then I’ll head back about three.’

  ‘I must admit I could do with a bit of a break.’

  ‘Are you going back to Mum’s?’

  ‘Tonight, yes, but I promised Adam I’d go home tomorrow. I could do with a change of clothes and to sleep in a decent bed for a couple of nights. That old one of Michael’s is a killer.’

  ‘Why can’t he come here?’ There’s a hint of criticism on Grace’s voice that I choose to ignore. ‘After all, you’re the one coping with a critically ill mother and driving back and forth to the hospital. And what about the cat?’

  My sister always won the arguments when we were little.

  ‘Adam’s work schedule is crazy right now, and Doris doesn’t mind looking after the cat for a day or two.’ I give her a hopeful look. ‘You could always come back for tea tonight. Stay over? See the old place again?’

  Grace shakes her head. ‘Too many shitty memories.’

  I nod in grim understanding. Part of me wants
to say I have them too, you know.

  I wave as Grace drives off towards the hospital, and then give a great sigh of relief. I could do with a day off and the opportunity to investigate the diary and mobile phone more deeply. Six years or yesterday – it doesn’t matter. My burden will not be lifted until I find the absolute truth. I desperately need to find a new inroad; a new source of information. Something has been playing at the back of my mind; a half-formed idea trying to work its way forward. With all the craziness of the last few days, however, I just can’t grasp it. Maybe some time away from the stress of the hospital will help. Climbing into my Mini, I feel the morning sunlight swaddle my skin. I give in to the dreamy sensation and close my eyes. My eyelids flicker, head nods and I find myself falling somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

  I am descending a narrow spiral staircase with no handrails. It shifts to a multicoloured vista of eye-watering green sprinkled with daisies. In the distance something draws my eye: a disc spinning its way towards me. A flash; and then a smiling freckle-faced girl follows. Even though her words are hushed I can still make out what she is saying. ‘I’m Shivie,’ she mouths, before dissolving into dust.

  I jolt awake with a new understanding. I know what I need to do.

  I head out of the hospital car park and instead of turning left towards the bridge for Cornwall, I head inland instead, towards the moors. Beyond the A386, past Princetown, the towering stone walls of Dartmoor Prison rising above the landscape like a granite giant. Stopping at a vantage point near Widecombe-in-the-Moor I gaze up to where the remains of twenty-four roundhouses, remnants of a medieval settlement are laid out across the hillside like draughts on a board. Michael and I used to make this journey every summer. We would hike to the top of Hound Tor and sit on the rock drinking hot chocolate from a flask, our legs dangling precariously over the edge.

  It’s sudden snapshots like these which still make my loss so unbearable. I give myself a little push and tighten my jaw in determination. It’s clear that Michael’s connection to this mysterious Diving Fish may finally provide the answers I so desperately need. If I can find out more about her, about their relationship, then maybe I can find out what really happened that night. The police report mentioned the presence of two sets of footprints in the sand by the lake, but concluded that they may have been made earlier in the day by someone unconnected with Michael’s drowning. Couldn’t they have been made by Diving Fish? Could she have been there that night? Maybe she was too afraid to come forward? Maybe she has something she can tell me that will finally allow it all to make sense. The diary and mobile phone are just the beginning. I must know more. This is the only way my life can ever return to even some semblance of normal. I have no choice.

  I drive on, stopping for some petrol and a takeaway coffee. Conscious Adam’s shift doesn’t start for another two hours, I take my time. I need to make sure the house is empty when I get there.

  I slow the car before reaching the house, all the time scanning the front drive for any sign of Adam’s car. I hate keeping the truth from him, but he wasn’t as supportive as he could have been when I first started looking into Michael’s death. Like the police and the coroner, he only seemed to want an easy solution. Open and shut. I’ve always sensed there was much more to it than that. Now I need to prove it.

  I know that he’s on a twelve to twelve shift today, but I still feel a wave of relief when I see the empty drive. I pull up and check the neighbour’s bay window. The curtains are closed. I creep out of the car and around to the side entrance, feeling like a criminal trying to break into my own house.

  Once inside, I head upstairs to the spare bedroom. I take a wooden pole from behind the wardrobe door. Giving the loft hatch a gentle tap, I wait for it to pop open and then, using the hook attached to the end of the pole, I pull the ladder down and climb into the loft.

  The dry heat descends like a shroud. I switch the light on and wait for my eyes to adjust. Set out before me are the remnants of my life. Boxes of books from my student days, Michael’s Moses basket – a little saggy after all these years – and suitcases filled with baby clothes that I had been saving for the children Michael might have had one day. There are a few clearly labelled boxes of Adam’s things, and towards the back, just under the eaves, is another box, wide and flat, the tan packaging tape glimmering in the light.

  I make one final check of the house, making sure the loft hatch is closed properly and the pole put back in its exact position. Making my way to the bedroom, I open the closet door and rummage through boxes on the top shelf to find it. The book of condolence. Every friend and classmate who had attended his funeral, and who may have known anything about Michael’s life at Edgecombe Hall, would have signed it. It’s a long shot, I think, as I trace the gold embossed lettering on the cover, but at least it’s a start.

  The drive back to Cornwall seems blighted by road works and slow-moving traffic. Stealing into the house to avoid having to chat with any neighbours doing some afternoon gardening, I grab a packet of crisps and take the box from the loft straight up to Michael’s room. Once on the bed, I carefully remove the packaging tape, slide out the laptop and charger, and plug it in. I run my hand lightly across the brushed silver lid, tracing the outline of the apple. I wonder if the latex-gloved hands of the police officer who recovered it from Michael’s room at Edgecombe Hall had done the same. I turn it on and type in the password Bobby 123 – based on the name of one of Michael’s childhood teddies. It takes a few seconds for the screen to come to life, and then the flat nothingness is slowly consumed by a catalogue of small icons and images. Folders entitled Coursework, Music, CCleaner and File Manager emerge from the smoky blankness. There is a shortcut to Facebook, and at some point, Michael must have downloaded the Jack Wills summer catalogue. I move the cursor to the left side of the screen, to a small icon of an eagle in flight.

  There are a few emails dated just before Michael’s death. One is from his best friend Joe, telling Michael about his upcoming holiday to Ibiza, and another is from someone I don’t recognise with the subject heading ‘Mental Strength in Sports’. I scroll down further, finding nothing of interest. I check his deleted items and then methodically begin going through his archive folder, which contains dozens of emails, including notices about training days, swimming competitions and tips from fellow swimmers including how to jack up those lame timings bro! I’m about to give up when I spot an email from someone called Lisachick. Who the hell is Lisachick?

  Re: last night

  Lisachick@gmail.com

  Sent: Wed 27/05/2015

  To:Michael Penrose

  _________________________________________________

  I SAW YOU AGAIN LAST NIGHT!

  WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!

  I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!!

  The email was sent just before Michael’s death. I feel my head spinning. Was Lisachick Diving Fish? Had Michael been cheating on her? It seems to me that the more I discover, the less I know. What about the police? They had examined the laptop. Didn’t they find a hysterical email from someone wishing my son dead days before his actual death suspicious? Had they even bothered to question this Lisachick person? Why haven’t I heard about this before?

  An entirely new line of investigation has opened up. For the first time in days I feel strong, determined, clear-headed. Something about having a focus – a mission – seems to have settled my nerves. I search through the Facebook alumni page from Michael’s year to see if I can find any record of a Lisachick.

  After a frustrating hour, I concede defeat. Who is this woman? And what is her connection to Michael? There’s no doubt in my mind now that what happened to Michael at the lake that night wasn’t an accident – it wasn’t suicide, but something else; something I’m not ready to name yet. All I have to do now is prove it.

  After a glass of Merlot, I feel able to tackle the book of condolence. The black leather smells nothing like the warm, buttery scent of Michael’s diary. Maybe i
t’s the silica gel pack, but it has an oddly toxic quality; like burning rubber. I race through the list of names, read them out loud, hoping for some definitive recognition: Thomas Davies. Astrid Strom. Sarah Thomas. Daniel Stacy. There is no record of anyone named Lisa, but on the final page, three quarters of the way down, I spot something just as important. Written in elegant looping handwriting is the name Siobhan Norris. Shivie, the Frisbee-playing student who Michael met on his first day at Edgecombe Hall. I can still recall the girl’s soft cheek against mine as she offered me her condolences at the funeral. Now that I know her surname, I’ll be able to find her.

  I’m amazed by how much I can find out about Siobhan Norris on Instagram. I learn that the twenty-one-year-old has recently secured a job in the Human Resources department at Edgecombe Hall (she posted a photo of her contract!), bought her first car (a white Fiat 500), and is saving up for a trip to Australia (lots of images of beaches). I contemplate messaging her, but suspect that like a lot of Michael’s old classmates, she has moved on. The intrusion of an obsessed, grief-stricken, mentally unstable mother – because that is how I’m beginning to think people see me – won’t be the best approach. It could take days, even weeks, before Siobhan replies; if ever.

  I check my watch. It’s too late to travel. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

  I meet Grace the following morning, as promised, for another depressing visit to the hospital. Our silent mother mostly sleeps.

  ‘Is it just me,’ says Grace during lunch, ‘or does she seem to be getting worse?’

  ‘I had a word with the ward sister,’ I reply, picking at my baguette. The pale, plastic-looking chicken and wilted rocket is made even more unappealing by the café’s bright lighting. ‘It’s not so much that she’s getting worse, as that she’s not getting better.’ I push the sandwich aside. ‘With these kinds of strokes, any improvement will generally be seen within the first few weeks; the return of motor functions, speech.’ Grace nods in understanding. ‘After that, well …’