‘It’s off to the care home?’
‘It looks that way, but you never know.’
‘I wish she’d died.’
‘Grace!’
‘Tell me you don’t wish it too.’
I look up at my sister and just as quickly look away. ‘I just wish sometimes that things had been different.’
Grace reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘I love you, Kat.’ And, then glancing at her phone, she exclaims, ‘Bloody hell, look at the time!’
‘I’d better go too,’ I say, and without thinking, I add, ‘I need to get to Falmouth before five.’
‘Falmouth?’ Grace’s eyes narrow. ‘Why Falmouth?’
My mind whizzes, but I have grown so accustomed to lying that I don’t even blink.
‘Just some fundraising stuff for Michael’s scholarship,’ I say, dismissively. ‘I’m not sure if it will amount to anything, but it’s worth checking out.’
‘As long as it’s not too much for you,’ Grace says in a motherly tone. ‘I mean with Mum, Adam, the house and that bloody cat.’
‘Of course not,’ I reply brightly. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’
I time it carefully, checking the estimated travel time to ensure I arrive just before office closing time. I drive on automatic, the countryside flashing past me like a fast-forwarded film. I stare straight ahead and focus on one place, one outcome.
The Edgecombe Hall estate just outside Falmouth isn’t much different to how I remember it; still a mixture of crumbling Georgian architecture and modern dormitories, with their prerequisite solar panels and living grass roofs. I find myself fumbling for a tissue from the glove compartment, recalling my last visit.
I had come to collect Michael’s things, insisting Adam wait for me in the car park. This had seemed like my final duty, and mine alone. I passed a sea of solemn faces as I made my way to the headmaster’s office, where the cardboard boxes were stacked impatiently by the door. Rice pudding. One of the boxes holding my dead son’s precious belongings had once contained tins of rice pudding. If Michael were still around, he would have found it hilarious.
I take a deep breath and blow my nose. My loss feels as intense today as it did six years ago, but there’s work to be done. I set my shoulders and carry on. It won’t take me long to find a brand-new Fiat 500 in the staff car park.
I hear the jingle of car keys before I see her. Turning, I’m surprised by how different Siobhan looks. Gone is the perpetual ponytail, t-shirt and jogging bottoms, replaced now by a tidy bob and standard office uniform of black pencil skirt and white blouse.
‘Shiv … Siobhan?’ My voice is shaky, weak.
‘Yes?’ I can see uncertainty in the girl’s eyes, and then suddenly, the clarity of recognition. ‘You’re Michael’s mum aren’t you?’
I smile and hold out my hand. ‘Kate,’ I say softly, ‘Kate Hardy.’ Then conscious of the uneasy look on her face add, ‘I hope I didn’t frighten you.’ I can sense her unease. ‘I was in the area, visiting friends.’ The words feel as false as they sound. ‘And, well, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’
‘Questions?’
Siobhan watches as I remove Michael’s diary from my shoulder bag. ‘Yes,’ I continue. ‘Questions about Michael.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Please,’ I say, near tears. ‘You’re the only one who can help me.’
Siobhan gives a reluctant nod and leads me to a nearby bench. We sit in silence.
‘I still think of him, you know,’ she whispers.
I smile gratefully. ‘I’ve been staying at Michael’s grandmother’s house. She’s recently had a stroke.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Hardy.’
I turn to Siobhan. I can see that her earlier look of uncertainty is now replaced by one of sympathy.
‘While I was at Mum’s I found a few of his things.’ I swallow hard. ‘Things I never knew existed.’ I hold out the diary, the page opened to ‘Jawbone Ridge’, one of his poems in progress.
‘I know this,’ Siobhan whispers, her eyes scanning the page. ‘I told him it was amazing.’ She shakes her head and grins. ‘Whoever thought a macho swimming star could write poetry?’
I turn the pages to his entries about Diving Fish. I watch as Siobhan’s cheeks redden.
‘I don’t think,’ she says, ‘I can do this.’
I feel hope drain away like water into sand. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘That’s not all I found.’ I get out my mobile and show her the photos I’ve taken of Lisachick’s email, and of Michael’s text to Diving Fish. ‘Can you see why I’m so confused? I need to know who these people are, and what connection they had to Michael.’
Siobhan sighs and hands the diary back to me. ‘There’s a pub just down the road,’ she says. ‘I think you’re going to need a drink.’
11
The Old Wheel is as drab and run down as its name suggests; worn carpets, sticky tabletops and a constant jangle and flashing of lights from a fruit machine. I get us a couple of white wine spritzers and find a secluded table in a tiny alcove. We sit sipping our drinks and gazing at the faded photographs of local football teams, before finally daring to make eye contact.
‘What exactly is it that you want to know, Mrs Hardy?’
‘Everything.’
Siobhan takes a sip of her drink and clears her throat. ‘I don’t know a lot really. Only that after October half term things really started to change with Michael.’
‘What do you mean by change?’
‘He just seemed different. You know, got very secretive about everything. He stopped hanging out in the common room, didn’t spend his free time with us.’ Siobhan takes another sip. ‘He always seemed to be sneaking off somewhere. It was pretty clear he was up to something.’
It takes a moment for me to remember to breathe. ‘And this Diving Fish person. Do you know who she is?’
Siobhan shakes her head. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Why do you think he called her Diving Fish?’
Siobhan smiles sadly. ‘I think it might have been something to do with a story our Swimming Coach told us. She was always throwing motivational quotes and stories our way, most of them rubbish. There was this one she told us whenever we were messing around or getting distracted from our swimming,’ her brow furrows as she tries to remember. ‘A Chinese proverb or something about someone so beautiful that when the fish saw them, they forgot to swim, dived to the bottom of the sea and drowned.’
The word drowned sends a sliver of ice through my heart.
‘I’m sorry Mrs Hardy – I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s all right.’ People say things like that to me all the time. They don’t realise that six years, six days, six minutes is irrelevant. Time has no meaning, no perspective, when you’ve lost someone you love. But I don’t have time for sentimentality. ‘If it was an actual relationship, why would he keep it a secret?’ I take a sip of wine to steady myself. ‘I get that he may not have wanted me to know – his mother, I mean – but wouldn’t he have told his friends?’
Siobhan seems reluctant; coy. Running her fingertips along the side of the wine glass, she makes tiny circles in the condensation. ‘I’d heard things, rumours; but he never told me anything. And if they were both under sixteen—’
‘And in an intimate relationship, you mean?’
She nods and then continues, ‘If things got messy, not only could he have been kicked out of school—’
‘But he could have also been charged with statutory rape.’ Now it’s starting to make sense. ‘Do you think that’s why he kept it a secret?’
‘Maybe.’ She takes a sip of her drink and seems to be thinking over my question. ‘Or maybe he just wanted to keep it private.’
‘But you knew.’
Siobhan shifts in her seat. ‘He was on a mobile one night. Not his normal one, but some cheap piece of rubbish.’
The burner phone.
I’m trying desperately no
t to push too hard, but I need answers. ‘And you thought?’
Siobhan’s eyes meet mine then almost as quickly look away. ‘I didn’t think anything. He said the battery on his iPhone was going and that he kept his old one for emergencies.’
‘But you didn’t believe him.’
‘We slept, ate, trained and studied next to each other. It was virtually impossible to keep a secret in that house.’
‘So what happened?’
Siobhan sighs heavily. It’s almost as if a weight is being lifted. ‘I could see he was texting, and, well, I was curious. So when he went to make himself a smoothie, I took the phone.’
‘You what?’
‘Well he left it sitting on the arm of the chair.’
‘And you were, as you said, curious.’
‘I thought he had a secret girlfriend and was going to tease him about it.’ She gives an embarrassed, cheeky grin. ‘And maybe text something back.’
‘But Michael found out.’
‘It was stupid really. I mean the house was all open plan. He just had to look up from where he was making his drink.’
‘And when he did? When he saw you on his mobile?’
‘He went absolutely ballistic.’
I put my glass down and lean forward. ‘What did you find?’
Even in the dim light of the pub I can see her blush. ‘The texts,’ her voice is deep, hoarse. ‘They were, um, pretty explicit.’
I put my hands to my face as if trying to blank out the world. It takes a moment before I can speak again.
‘Do you think it was someone from Edgecombe? Someone in your year?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Oh come on!’ This faux bashfulness is getting on my nerves. ‘You’ve told me this much, why not the rest?’
Siobhan appears to be looking to the ceiling for an answer. ‘I thought maybe he was seeing a sixth former,’ she says, finally. ‘I mean why else would they be keeping it a secret?’
I exhale softly. At last. There is one more thing, however, I do want to ask.
‘Do you think they might have been together at the lake that night? The night he died?’
‘What?’ The girl’s expression changes from one of caution to one of fear. ‘Look, Mrs Hardy – I’m not really sure there’s any more I can tell you.’
I feel my heart sink, but I won’t give up. ‘Do you think Diving Fish was there?’
Siobhan looks as if she is about to burst into tears. ‘I … I don’t know!’ A few of the other customers have turned to look at us.
‘Why don’t I get us a couple of coffees?’ I say, forcing a bright tone. The last thing I want is a bunch of do-gooders sticking their noses in and stopping me from getting the information I so desperately need. I must keep everything under control.
I’m back a few minutes later, and, placing the coffees on the table, say, ‘Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? What have you been up to since leaving Edgecombe Hall?’ A look of doubt crosses Siobhan’s face and I know I’d better think fast if I’m going to keep her on side. ‘I always imagined that you and Michael would have stayed friends after graduating.’ I pause. ‘Had he lived.’
She smiles as if she had imagined the very same thing. ‘Popped my knee playing five-a-side football during my final A Level year, which pretty much put an end to my swimming career. Started a Sports Science degree but screwed that up too.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘So here I am, in some lousy admin job at a posh prep school with all the swimming superstars of the future just rubbing my nose in it.’
‘I thought you liked Edgecombe?’
‘It’s a great place when you’re a winner. Crap when you’re not.’
‘What about the lovely car I saw in the car park? It looks quite new?’
‘My parents lent me the money, but now that I’ve decided to go travelling, they’re hassling me to make sure I’ve got at least a year’s car payments in the bank. I’ve been saving like crazy, but that and travel expenses mean I’ll need at least another grand.’
‘I’m sure something’ll come up.’
Siobhan checks her phone. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, clearly desperate to leave the bleak hollow of the Old Wheel.
‘But I still have so much to ask you.’
‘Look, Mrs Hardy, I’ve pretty much told you everything I know.’ She takes a deep breath and I know at once there is something else. ‘There is one thing. Lisachick is Lisa Edwards. She was in her first year of A Levels when Michael arrived. Weekly boarder, went home for weekends. A real pain in the …’ Siobhan stops herself. ‘I’m pretty sure nothing was going on between them – as far as I knew, Lisa was only interested in girls. Things may have changed of course.’ Siobhan gives a wry smile. ‘Some kids were always experimenting. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that she did not like Michael.’
I feel as if I am travelling deeper and deeper into darkness. ‘What do you mean, did not like Michael?’
‘She was always slagging him off, saying he was undisciplined. Using.’
‘Using?’
‘You know.’ Siobhan looks uncomfortable, as if realising she has said too much. ‘Performance-enhancing drugs.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody believed her.’
‘Why would someone who barely knew Michael say that about him?’ My maternal instincts kick in, even though I no longer have someone to mother. ‘Why did she dislike him so much?’
‘I really don’t know.’ The girl’s voice drops, and I find myself leaning forward to hear. ‘There was one time, a few weeks before he d—’ Siobhan pulls herself back from saying the dreaded word, ‘before it happened, when they were arguing in the kitchen and she actually pulled a knife on him.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before? Or tell the police?’
Siobhan cowers slightly. ‘Things like that happened sometimes. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. We were all pretty highly strung. Regionals were coming up.’
‘So, you just let it go?’
‘I really don’t think she would have done anything, Mrs Hardy. She put the knife away just as quickly. And anyway Michael was winding her up something awful.’
‘Winding her up?’
‘He kept on singing “Creep” to her.’
‘“Creep”?’
‘You know – the Radiohead song. “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo” – but Michael just kept on singing “you’re a creep, you’re a weirdo” to Lisa. It was really pissing her off.’
I force myself to remain calm and not get carried away with this new information.
‘And she threatened him?’
Siobhan’s expression returns to one of guarded alarm. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ She whispers. ‘I mean I’m sure Lisa wouldn’t have actually done anything.’
‘But she did threaten him.’
Siobhan stares at me, unwilling to reply. Standing up, she wipes imaginary crumbs from her skirt and glances towards the exit. ‘I’ve really got to go.’ She gives me an awkward smile and, picking up her handbag from the chair, adds, ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mrs Hardy. I really do.’
‘Lisa Edwards. Lisa Edwards,’ I mumble, as I walk back to my car. Frustrated and tired, I ease myself into the driver’s seat, but there’s no time to waste, and taking my mobile out of my bag I begin searching the internet for any information on ‘Lisa Edwards, Cornwall.’ My mobile gives a desperate buzz and then suddenly goes blank.
‘Dammit!’ I begin searching through my glove compartment for my car phone charger but only come across some tissues, a torch, old sweet wrappers, and, in the far corner, a leather bracelet I bought Michael for his fourteenth birthday. Worn once too often when training, the chlorine had started to erode the leather and the clasp had rusted. I clutch it in my fist like a talisman, then forcing myself to remain calm, I slip it into my handbag, start the car and begin my journey back to Calstock. I’ll have to wait until I get home before I can do any searches on Lisa
Edwards.
When I reach the cottage, Tam, as usual, is sitting by the front door meowing loudly. Inside, I can hear the muted ringing of the telephone.
‘Out of the way,’ I say, gently pushing the cat aside with my foot and opening the door. The cat races past me and into the kitchen. ‘There’s a cat flap in the back door you idiot!’ By now the ringing has stopped. ‘They’ll phone back,’ I mutter, and head towards the kitchen to make myself a drink. I take it upstairs, settle back on Michael’s bed, and scroll through my laptop looking for any information on Lisa Edwards. It’s been a long week and my brain feels as heavy as wet cotton wool. I lean back and rest my head on the pillow.
In my dream, Michael is swimming towards me, his muscular body powering through the water. He lifts his head, and I can see the delicate filaments of gill tissue on his neck gently pulsating. His eyes are shiny, glutinous orbs. He glances at me, then away, his attention fixed on some distant point.
I jolt awake. I reach for the blister pack of blue pills on the bedside table, then stop. My stash, which I deliberately started hoarding during that unbearable period after Michael’s inquest, is running low. I’m going to have to find some other way to cope. I hear the soft hum of Michael’s laptop. It’s open on the bed next to me, and, with little airflow, the fan has started running to cool down the machine. I glance at the screen. My Google searches for Lisa Edwards threw up dozens of hits, including a hairdresser, a quantity surveyor and a chiropodist, none of which fit the profile of a twenty-three-year-old ex-competitive swimmer. It seems like the closer I get, the further away it all becomes.
I run a steaming bath and sip from a tall glass of vodka and tonic. I wash my hair, shave my legs, and apply body lotion from a gift set I bought for my mother years ago which has never been used.
I’m just nibbling on a cracker and pouring myself another drink when I hear a knock at the door. Tightening the belt on my bathrobe, I glance at the clock on the cooker. Nine thirty. Who would be coming by this late?
There is another knock, this time louder. I hide my glass behind the toaster and make my way to the front door. Through the frosted glass window, I can make out a familiar shape. My stomach tightens and apprehension floods through me. Holding my breath, I open the door.
The Lake Page 8
