The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘Michael had many talents,’ I murmur, ‘but art wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘So,’ continues Doris, ‘aside from the very real concern that someone – someone perhaps older – may have been taking advantage of Michael and may have been with him by the lake the night he drowned, there is also another serious matter.’ I look up from the diary in surprise. Is there something I’ve missed? ‘The fact is, Katie, that this person, whoever they are, may still be taking advantage of other young people like Michael.’

  So obsessed have I been with solving my own mystery that I haven’t even thought about the wider implications; the other innocent victims.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replies Doris. She clears her throat and sits up a little bit straighter. ‘So there really is only one thing to do isn’t there?’ I know the answer, but I need Doris to say it. ‘Find Diving Fish and get to the bottom of it.’

  Along with Michael’s diary, Doris has brought my files and Michael’s laptop with her. I make a second pot of tea and we begin the familiar task of searching online.

  An hour or so into our fruitless investigation, Doris glances at her watch.

  ‘Adam will be home soon,’ she warns. ‘You’d better start putting those things away, and I’d better be going as well. I’m not sure he’d appreciate my being here.’ She gives me a conspiratorial look. ‘Especially if he knew what we’ve been up to.’

  I rub my aching temples. What exactly have we been up to? We’ve got names, conjectures and suppositions, but no concrete evidence, no living witnesses, a police force that doesn’t seem to want to take any of this seriously, and most of all, nowhere left to go.

  Sensing my despair, Doris takes my hand and squeezes it.

  ‘Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.’

  Adam returns home that evening buoyant. I try to keep up with his upbeat mood, but by teatime I’m flagging. The afternoon spent with Doris has tired me out. It’s left me feeling determined but downhearted. Could Michael really have been having a sexual relationship with a woman nearly twice his age? Doris has shown me stark evidence to prove it isn’t unprecedented. I even looked up the story myself: some sordid tale about the teacher sending the boy topless photos and having sex with him in the back of her car. There was also testimony about threats to the boy if he told anyone. I think back to one of Michael’s diary entries.

  I told her I loved her, would love her forever. She just smiled. I told her I wanted the world to know. That’s when it all went ka-boom!

  Even though I’m still finding it hard to believe, Susan O’Neill is the only clear link I have to Diving Fish. Is that what Lisa was trying to say when she thrust the photograph at me and said, ‘You figure it out!’

  I could try calling Siobhan to try to gain some insight into Edgecombe’s former PE teacher and swimming coach, but I know from her Instagram posts that’s she’s already on the Gold Coast, snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef. What about another online search? I can’t really imagine finding anything more than Doris and I did this afternoon. I wonder about looking through her HR documents once again, but it’s getting late and Adam will be expecting his tea.

  I prepare something simple – grilled salmon and asparagus – and we eat our meal in the garden, enjoying the fading sunlight and cool evening breeze.

  ‘I’ve booked a weekend away for us in Dorset,’ Adam announces, biting through an asparagus spear. ‘I could do with a break. What do you think?’

  I sense that what I think is irrelevant to Adam, but if I’m really going to make a go of rebuilding our marriage, I’d better do my part.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  We travel to Lyme Regis on the following Friday evening and arrive to indigo skies and a moon so bright I can see every cobblestone on the pathway to the pub.

  ‘Just tonic for you,’ Adam says, as he sips the thin layer of froth from the top of his Guinness.

  I hadn’t fancied something alcoholic, but the thought of it being forbidden suddenly makes it more appealing.

  ‘And add a shot of vodka,’ I whisper to the barman, as I watch Adam negotiate a table near the fire.

  The sex that night is successful insomuch as Adam is asleep long before I am. I stand and gaze out of the open French doors, watching as moonlit waves disappear into the shadows. Try as I might to avoid it, water makes me think of only one thing.

  ‘What happened to you, Michael?’ I whisper, before closing the doors behind me and returning to bed.

  We spend the morning at a ruined castle, and then at a fossil museum where Adam scours the gift shop for the perfect ammonite.

  It is late afternoon by the time we make it back to the hotel; still hours until dinner. Adam’s excess energy seems to flood the room. I find watching him completely draining. The solution pops into my brain so quickly that I know my recuperation is complete.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the gym and then have a nice long sauna?’

  He easily agrees, and I find myself alone in the lounge with a chilled glass of Chablis and a stack of daily newspapers. With so much on my mind I’m finding it hard to relax. I need a distraction.

  ‘Crosswords, crosswords,’ I mumble as I rifle through the nationals. I tut in frustration as I realise that the other guests have already beaten me to the best ones. All that’s left is the Quick Quiz and Word Match in the Lyme Regis Echo.

  I race through the quiz and word match in record time. Now pleasantly bored, I begin reading the paper. I work my way through stories about TB-infected cattle and the Dorset Super Slimmer of the Year before chancing upon the recent marriages section. The bride wore a strapless gown of ivory silk, finished with hand-sewn freshwater pearls.

  My wedding to Adam was a straightforward affair; an off-white designer dress and a civil ceremony at Exeter County Hall followed by lunch at a posh hotel. I check the Echo for any more reports of joyous celebrations, and something catches my eye. In the bottom corner is a recent write-up about a local society wedding.

  Professor Duncan Masters and Mrs Maureen Masters were delighted to host the wedding of their daughter Matilda Josephine to Captain Gerald O’Neill of the Royal Navy, from Portsmouth Hants. The ceremony was held at St Mathias Church in Bridport. In attendance were the bride’s younger sister and bridesmaid Lucy, and her older brother Niall, who also acted as best man to Captain O’Neill. In a departure from tradition, the groom was also attended by a ‘best woman’, his sister Mrs Desra McKinley of Perth, Scotland.

  Next to the write-up is a photograph of the bridal party. I can feel the blood pumping through my head so fiercely I think I’m going to faint. Had my mouth not been so dry I may have cried out. The woman in the picture – the best woman to Captain Gerald O’Neill – is Susan O’Neill. The woman from the photo.

  I have to look at the photograph a few more times to make certain. I even think about asking the woman at reception if she has a magnifying glass, but I know that isn’t necessary. The hair is different, but the face is the same: sharp-featured, unsmiling – even at a wedding – and with an air of adolescent sulkiness that clearly identifies her as the same person in the photograph with Michael and Lisa. I order another glass of wine and stare at the picture in front of me. Only moments before the path to finding Susan had seemed so unclear, so undecided. Finding this photograph, in the most unexpected of places, is a sign. An omen. There is no going back. My journey is set.

  I trace my finger around the small, dark spot that Susan O’Neill, now Desra McKinley, has left on the page. She has obviously married; but why the change of first name?

  Then I remember. On her HR file she was listed as Susan D O’Neill. Did Desra seem more exotic? Or more anonymous for her new life in Scotland? Does it matter?

  All this time I have been investigating, all the questions I have asked, all the phone calls and visits I have made. Now, out of the blue, without forethought or design, they are being answered, and the one person who has the answers to the questions I have bee
n so desperately seeking is staring right back at me.

  ‘Got you,’ I whisper, my smile vicious and victorious at the same time.

  When Adam returns from the gym, I have replaced my glass of wine with herbal tea. The newspaper article is carefully tucked away in my pocket.

  ‘I’m feeling really good,’ he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m really glad we came away this weekend.’

  ‘Me too,’ I reply, ‘me too.’

  23

  We have dinner in the Spinnaker Room where Adam devours a fillet steak and I pick at a vegetable risotto.

  ‘How would you feel about moving to Bristol?’ he says.

  ‘Bristol?’

  ‘I’ve been offered a job as a senior A&E consultant at the BRI.’ He holds my gaze. ‘The money’s good and it’s a fantastic opportunity.’

  So that’s the reason for the surprise weekend away.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  Adam sucks a piece of meat from between his teeth. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open for opportunities; you know, fresh start and all.’

  By fresh start I expect he means getting me away from any memories of Michael.

  ‘When do you have to let them know?’

  ‘I already have. I’ve accepted.’

  I drop my fork and feel all eyes on me as it clatters noisily against my plate. ‘Without asking me?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Kate. For the last month I’ve had to make every decision for you. What food to eat, what clothes to wear, what pills to take.’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Look.’ He’s chewing quickly, and a tiny splash of gravy has settled on his chin. ‘I’m sorry if I didn’t consult you about this but considering your physical and mental state, I thought it best not to burden you.’

  ‘Burden me?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hisses, and then in a sudden shift his face softens. ‘I was just thinking of you. I mean if we’re serious about making a go of it, why not wipe the slate clean and start somewhere new?’

  Wipe the slate clean of Michael, he means.

  The risotto feels like pebbles in my throat. ‘I need to think about this. I mean I’m due to start back at the surgery next month.’

  Adam gives a little snort. ‘With this new job, I’ll be paying more in tax every month than you’ll be earning.’

  He might as well have plunged his knife straight into my heart.

  ‘I’m just not sure.’

  Adam takes a sip of wine. ‘I’ve accepted the job, Kate. I start next month.’

  And that is that.

  ‘It’s a lovely evening.’ Adam’s tone suggests the discussion is over. He takes his last bite of steak and then lays his knife and fork on the plate. I’ve barely touched my food, but he doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Shall we have our coffee on the terrace?’

  I stare at him in wonder. It’s as if recent events have stripped back his skin. I’m now starting to see the real man I married.

  ‘I’m doing this for both of us,’ says Adam, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Rising from the table, he takes my hand and leads me outside.

  It takes some effort to tire out an enthusiastic Adam, but when he is finally asleep I slip out onto the balcony with my mobile and begin searching the internet for more information, armed with a new name: Desra McKinley. The first hit is linked to the wedding report I have already seen in the Echo, but the second is much more interesting. It’s a newsletter from last year from a private boarding school in Scotland. Apparently Lennoxton Academy is amongst the most progressive and exclusive private boarding schools in Great Britain. Alongside a list of recent achievements in sport and the arts is a brief notice welcoming the new Head of Sports Performance. That’s not the most interesting bit, however. As I read on, it feels as if some of my questions are finally starting to be answered.

  Lennoxton Academy extends a warm welcome to Dr Desra McKinley, formerly of Lakeview College in Ontario, Canada. Not only is she a highly regarded sports performance expert, who has coached young swimmers moving on to the Canadian Olympic team, but Dr McKinley also recently completed her PhD in Contemporary British Poetry, and was shortlisted for Canada’s most preeminent poetry prize, the Governor General’s Award. We look forward to her contributions to the vibrant sports and creative programmes at Lennoxton.

  There are several other postings listing her steady rise from teacher and coach at Edgecombe Hall to Sports Performance Coach and Creative Writing Tutor at the famous Canadian private school. A bit more Googling informs me that she was married to Lakeview’s headmaster Elias McKinley, albeit briefly, and during that time also published two anthologies of poetry. There are plenty of articles and reviews of her poetry, including a short YouTube video of her reading at the Canadian Festival of the Spoken Word. After that, however, there is a surprisingly limited online presence.

  ‘Canada,’ I mutter. ‘That explains my not being able to find her.’ I stare at the moonlit horizon, realising that for the first time in weeks I feel vibrant, alive again. My brain is buzzing with possibilities. Gone is the doddering shut-in who couldn’t remember if she liked vinegar on her chips, replaced now with a newly confident and determined woman. Had I ever really been that helpless, or had I simply let everyone else take control and make me feel that way?

  None of that matters any more. My mind is crystal clear and focused. I know what I must do.

  We arrive back home in Exmouth on Sunday just after lunch. Eager to get on with preparing for his new job at the Bristol Royal Infirmary, Adam retreats to his study. I’m grateful for a few uninterrupted hours alone with the internet.

  I find out everything I can about Lennoxton Academy. Founded in 1842 by the social and educational reformer Sir Richard Woodley Johnston, it offers a ‘new and compassionate approach to higher education’. Located less than an hour from Edinburgh, it consists of over fifty acres of woodlands, orchards and playing fields. There is even a golf course. Nurturing a philosophy of ‘individuality, initiative and an enquiring mind’, it has a long history of prestigious alumni including a Prime Minister and numerous members of European and Middle Eastern royalty. From the blog and other online posts, it now appears to be the private school of choice for the children of the super-rich. Actors, oligarchs, footballers: you’d better have connections to get into Lennoxton. I search the website pages for any other news about Desra McKinley. It isn’t until I click on the upcoming calendar of events that I spot it.

  Events in August

  Lennoxton will be opening its doors once again to poets from around the United Kingdom as part of our annual residential poetry summer school (in conjunction with the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series). Geared towards emerging poets, the summer school will comprise a five-day residential experience to include group workshops, one-to-one tutorials, and plenty of time to write. Included in the price is room and board, and WiFi. No experience necessary, just a desire to explore your creative side and a willingness to learn. For more information contact …

  I scroll down further.

  Note: Due to unforeseen circumstances, local poet Maire Donaldson will no longer be leading the residential experience this year. However, we are pleased to announce that celebrated Canadian-British poet Desra McKinley will be directing the week. Click here for more details. We are also delighted to announce that acclaimed Scottish poet and Saltire Society Scottish Poetry Book of the Year Award winner (2003) Professor Findlay Cardew will be presenting the final address as part of the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series on the last night of the summer school.

  It’s time to send an email.

  My enquiry about the poetry summer school receives a response the following morning.

  Thank you for your enquiry regarding the poetry residential summer school at Lennoxton Academy. Due to a last-minute cancellation there is a single place left on the course. We will require a non-refundable deposit of £75 within the next 24 hours to secure your place. As per instructions on the website, all tr
avel arrangements and associated expenses are the responsibility of the guests. Please click on this link to secure your place.

  I don’t hesitate. Grabbing my credit card from my purse, I book, uncertain if or how I will get there. Running it by Adam will be quite a challenge. I can’t see him being thrilled about my going to Scotland for a week. Trying to sell him on the fact that I have suddenly developed an interest in writing poetry will be my biggest challenge yet. All I know is that if I’m going to find out the truth about Michael’s death, I need to get to Scotland and ingratiate myself with Susan O’Neill – I mean Desra McKinley. This is now bigger than Adam and bigger than me. Maybe I can use the move to Bristol as leverage; a negotiating tool. I’d better think of something fast though. It’s just over two weeks until the course begins.

  24

  ‘You realise that the estate agent is coming to look at the house tomorrow?’ Adam is standing in the kitchen, noisily slurping his tea; a sure sign that he’s angry. ‘We’ve still got a lot to do.’ He puts his mug down on the table with a thud. ‘There are rooms to clear; the loft to empty.’

  I wait for my bagel to pop up from the toaster before replying. ‘Don’t worry, darling – I’ll sort it all out.’

  ‘When will you sort it all out?’

  I look over at him, smile, and say calmly, ‘When I’m bloody well ready.’

  Occasionally, when I have drunk too much wine or indulged in one blue pill too many, I have a private moment of courage or resolve. Something, however, has shifted since the return from our weekend in Dorset. Maybe it’s my renewed sense of purpose; or perhaps it’s the thoughtless blatancy of Adam’s behaviour, accepting that job in Bristol without even asking me, that has made me so angry and so bold. Most likely it’s the sixty-thousand-pound legacy my mother left for Grace and me, as well as the estimated value of the house with its ‘original Georgian features’ and ‘exquisite riverside location’, at nearly two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.