‘What the hell has gotten into you?’ Adam yells, but there’s something different in his tone. It’s as if he knows that I can’t be intimidated any more; that I don’t care. The freedom offered by my mother’s legacy, along with my decision to register for the summer school, has given me a giddy sort of confidence.
‘You’d better get to work,’ I say dismissively, ‘or you’ll be late.’
I spend the day sorting out the house in preparation for viewings and doing more research.
Adam arrives home and I find myself carefully tiptoeing around his sullen mood and trying to cheer him up. I still must tell him about Scotland after all.
‘Why don’t I get us a curry?’ I say, handing him a glass of wine. ‘We can watch a film and maybe have an early night?’
Relaxing on the settee, Adam gives an indifferent shrug, but I can tell that the chill is beginning to thaw. I drive the few miles to our local curry house, humming to music along the way. I return home a half hour later to find the sitting room empty.
‘Adam?’ He’s not in the kitchen or dining room. I go upstairs to check the bedroom, thinking that maybe he’s having a nap. I hear a noise at the end of the hall, from my office. I approach cautiously, dreading what I might find.
‘Adam,’ I whisper, pushing open the door. ‘Is that you?’ Inside, I find the drawers of my filing cabinet have been thrown open. There are papers strewn across my desk. My husband looks up at me from where he’s sitting. On the desk in front of him is Michael’s laptop.
‘What’s the password?’ he says.
It takes a few seconds before the anger kicks in. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I knew there was a reason for all that attitude,’ he says, pointing a finger at me. ‘You’ve never stopped looking into Michael’s death, have you?’
‘How dare you break into my files?’
‘What, these?’ he says, picking up one of the folders. ‘Investigations of possible police corruption?’ He points to another. ‘Or research on how funding cutbacks have compromised forensic investigations?’
‘You have no right!’
‘I have every right,’ he counters, ‘especially if my wife is losing her fucking mind!’
‘How dare you!’
‘How dare I?’ Adam yells. ‘I’m not the one who promised to put this all aside to try and rebuild our marriage. I’m not the one who agreed to—’
‘Move on?’ I cry. ‘When I said that, I didn’t think it would mean you forcing me to move away!’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ Adam laughs patronisingly. ‘The old passive-aggressive it’s fine Adam, but underneath you’re just festering away.’
‘I never said it was fine! I never had the chance!’
‘You’re crazy, do you know that? Completely and absolutely crazy!’
I have never seen Adam like this before. His intimidation has always been subtle, understated; never as unredeemable as this. ‘All your bizarre theories about Michael’s death not being an accident.’ He stands up, his fists clenched. ‘All this bloody research on miscarriages of justice and police incompetence.’ He picks up a folder full of articles I’ve collected and throws it across the room towards me, the corner catching me on the side of the face. ‘I knew about it all, of course,’ he says, smiling as he points to the filing cabinet. He hasn’t noticed the blood on my cheek. ‘Knew where you kept your little key hidden.’ My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Well I had to keep an eye on you, didn’t I?’ He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing with all your secret dossiers? Is that what you’re up to now, still investigating Michael’s death? You’re determined to prove that your doped-up son didn’t die in some stupid, pointless accident, or – even better – off himself on purpose, aren’t you? Who the hell do you think you are?’ He steps from behind the desk towards me. ‘Some sort of fucking Miss Marple?’ Then Adam does something funny with his head, shaking and twisting it as if his brain is trying to reboot. I can see patches of sweat under his arms. His eyes are a stunning, bloodshot red.
‘Where’s the diary, Kate?’
‘What?’
‘Where is Michael’s diary!’ His voice is so loud it feels as if the windowpanes are trembling. ‘I’m going to take that bloody thing and destroy it once and for all!’ It’s only then that I notice the smoke from a bonfire in the back garden drifting past my office window. Thank God I asked Doris to take the diary back to Calstock with her.
‘He’s been dead for six years,’ Adam yells, moving towards me, ‘and still that little shit is messing up our lives!’ I find myself searching the room for some form of defence. On top of the filing cabinet next to me is a hand-painted paperweight Michael made for me in primary school. Lovingly created from a fist-sized piece of granite, Michael had painted a bright yellow smiley face on it. So you will always be happy Mummy. I pick it up and weigh it in my hand. If Adam takes one more step towards me, I will hit him. He looks at me, to the rock in my hand, and his expression changes, almost melts. He stumbles backwards, sits on the edge of the desk, and buries his face in his hands.
‘What are we doing?’ he sobs. ‘What are we doing?’ I stare at him numbly. After a few minutes he wipes his eyes and sits up straight. ‘Let’s talk about this, Kate.’ His voice is soft now, gentle. ‘Let’s just sort things out.’
I reach into my back pocket for my mobile phone. ‘I suggest you pack some things and find a place to stay.’
Adam’s face registers surprise. He stands, spreads his arms wide and whispers ‘Kate.’
I push the number nine on my mobile, ensuring he can hear the soft bleep. ‘If you don’t, I’m going to call the police.’
I wait until he’s gone before I let the tears come, and after a few minutes I pull myself together. I’m bored of crying; bored of being afraid. No matter what Adam says or does, this marriage is over. I take photographs of the small cut and the bruise on my cheek from where Adam threw the file folder at me. If he tries any further intimidation or manipulation, I have the evidence.
Wired on adrenaline, I tidy my office. I empty the filing cabinet, drawers and bookcases of their contents and place everything in a large box with the paperweight sitting proudly on top. Then I systematically begin moving through every room in the house.
First, I make my way into Michael’s bedroom. After his death I had wanted to preserve it, keep it untouched; a living memorial. Adam, however, convinced me to remove the Che Guevara flag and paint over the lime green walls with a more suitable magnolia. Opening the wardrobe, I remove a stack of A3 photo albums from the top shelf and slip them into my suitcase. Next is a tea-tray-sized hand-polished oak box. Contained within it are Michael’s swimming medals. I handle it as if it’s made of gold. Then I reclaim an old primary school jumper and a favourite baseball cap. Closing the wardrobe door, I turn to a nearby shelf. A battered teddy wearing a union jack t-shirt smiles its wilted smile. Billy. Next to that sits a small mountain of picture books. There’s a notebook I’ve kept from his primary school in which he had written and illustrated a story about a shy dragon named Ollie. His guitar is there, too; a reproduction of a Fender Stratocaster he found in a pawn shop and bought with his birthday money. I run my fingertips across the frets, remembering Michael doing the same. He was a competent guitarist, not brilliant, but he had a lovely voice.
Heading into my bedroom I collect clothes and shoes, adding them to my catalogue of escape items. I rummage through my jewellery box, taking the pearl earrings that Michael gave me one Christmas, but not the diamond studs from Adam. From the bathroom I take makeup, creams and lotions, and a faded rubber duck. I remove the box of Michael’s baby clothes from the loft and place it next to my suitcase.
At the top of the landing I stop and look around. The house, once Adam’s pride and joy, now seems just a shell; empty and unloved.
Something is missing.
Spinning around, I am shocked to find that a framed photograph of Micha
el which has hung on the wall at the top of the stairs ever since we moved in has been removed.
‘Bastard,’ I whisper, and I spend a frantic half hour searching before I finally discover it in the airing cupboard. I carefully wrap it in a towel and bring it downstairs with the rest of my things.
My final stop is the kitchen for the fridge magnet with the picture of Michael on it. Funny how the most apparently insignificant things seem to have the most meaning. Loading up the car, I lock the front door and drive away.
25
When I arrive in Calstock, Doris is waiting for me with a smile and a hot cup of tea.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind keeping these for me?’ I say, after helping her store the paintings, framed photograph, and box of artefacts in her loft.
‘Not at all,’ she replies.
‘I’m sorry to ring you at short notice like that.’
‘Don’t apologise, my love.’ Doris is toying with a piece of shortbread on her plate. ‘When Adam came by to collect your things after your accident, he did ask me about the diary. If I knew anything about where it might be. He was most insistent.’ She shudders, and I pray that he didn’t do anything to intimidate her. ‘Michael was your son. He was and will always be an important part of who you are.’
I find myself so touched by Doris’s kindness that I can barely speak. ‘I really don’t know what I would do without you.’ I pause, trying to decide just how much I should tell her. ‘But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll collect the diary now.’
‘Of course. It’s still safely locked away in the filing cabinet.’ Doris gets up, stops, and then turns. ‘Aren’t you worried that Adam might find it if you take it back with you?’
I decide then that I can’t keep the truth from my dearest friend any longer. ‘I’m certain he won’t find it, Doris, because I’m taking it with me to Scotland.’
‘Why in heaven’s name are you going to Scotland?’
‘I think I’ve found someone who can lead me to Diving Fish.’
‘Sweet Jesus.’
I spend the next fifteen minutes relating the story of our weekend in Dorset and finding the article about Susan O’Neill. I even show her the wedding photograph from the newspaper. I don’t mention the scene with Adam though.
‘So you’ll be off to Scotland,’ says Doris. ‘But what are you going to do when you get there?’
‘Try and find out what really happened,’ I reply with chilling determination. ‘Find out if Susan O’Neill, or Desra, or whatever she’s calling herself now, was having a relationship with Michael and if she was with him that night at the lake.’
‘So you do think that she’s Diving Fish?’
‘I don’t know, Doris. All I do know is that the moment Lisa thrust that photograph at me there was no going back.’
‘And you still believe what she told you, after everything that happened?’
‘I’ve got to. I’ve got nothing else to go on.’
The next few days are agony as I settle back into my mother’s house and try to concentrate on my journey to Scotland. There are numerous calls from Adam, all unanswered, and then finally, one morning, an angry text suggesting I should think about getting a solicitor. Done that already. I’m determined to be legally separated before my mother’s estate is finalised and her house is sold. I decide not to pack until the very last minute, but I have arranged the clothes I will be taking with me into tidy piles. I have gathered most of my personal documents, including my passport, birth and marriage certificates, and I’ve secured them in a safe deposit box at a bank in Tavistock.
There’s only one thing left to do.
‘Hi Grace, can you talk?’
‘Kat, is everything all right?’ My sister knows me well enough to sense when something is up. ‘Simon and I just got back from a few days away and I tried calling you at home. Adam was … weird. Has something happened? Are you okay? Do you need me to drive down?’
‘Give us a minute,’ I reply. ‘Everything is all right.’
‘You can pretend as much as you like, Kat, but I can tell when something’s wrong.’
I find myself smiling grimly. ‘Depending on how you look at it, something could be wrong, or something could be right.’
‘What?’
I tell her about Adam’s decision to move us to Bristol without asking me.
‘Bastard,’ she replies, with barely contained vitriol.
I also tell her about our argument and my decision to leave him.
‘Did you call the police? Report him?’
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to hit me with the folder.’ I can sense Grace shaking her head at the other end of the phone. ‘I just wanted him out of there.’
‘But that’s assault!’
‘I’ve taken photos.’
‘And you’re safe at Mum’s? He won’t try anything will he?’
‘I’ve been in touch with a solicitor and a friend from the Domestic Violence Unit at Devon and Cornwall Police.’
‘But you should—’
‘Adam knows full well that an assault charge will end his career. He won’t dare approach me.’
‘That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be punished.’
‘I think I have quite enough on my plate for the moment.’
There’s a long pause as Grace clearly struggles with my decision-making process. Finally she speaks. ‘So what’s next?’
‘I was hoping I could stay here for a while when I get back from holiday. I thought I could do the place up, redecorate, you know, get it ready for selling. Then I’ll find a place of my own.’
‘And your job?’
‘I’ve handed in my resignation.’
‘Okay,’ says Grace, sounding supportive but uncertain.
‘I don’t fancy the two-hour commute to Exeter every day and until I know what I’m going to do next, where I’m going to live, I thought I’d sort of just go with the flow.’
‘Go with the flow?’ she says. ‘You?’
‘Yes, me. And I’m even going to have a little holiday.’
‘You are kidding me!’
‘I’m attending a poetry-writing summer school in Scotland.’
‘Poetry!’ Grace sounds astonished. ‘I never knew you liked writing poetry.’
‘I didn’t either,’ I confess, ‘but I guess reading Michael’s stuff has sort of made me want to give it a try.’ I pause before carrying on. ‘And I definitely won’t be going back to Adam when I return.’
‘Well, thank God for that!’
‘It’s over, Grace. Time to move on.’ I hadn’t realised how satisfying it would be to finally say those words aloud.
‘Well, you’re welcome here anytime, and for as long as you need.’
‘Thanks sis, but you know, for once I actually think I might be all right.’
‘Oh, Kat.’
‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘Of course I’m crying,’ she laughs. ‘All I ever wanted is for you to be happy.’
I’m not sure happy is something I’m aiming for. Not quite yet anyway.
26
I leave Cornwall at six a.m., travel all day and arrive in Perth at five. I considered stopping over at my sister’s house in Cambridge, but the thought of having to go over my marriage break-up with her in minute detail is too depressing. I just want to move on.
In a moment of indulgence, I’ve booked myself into a posh manor hotel with a glorious view of the Tummel Valley. Though tired from my long drive, I still take time to walk off my fatigue. The heather is a vibrant, ready-to-burst purple, and the valley stretches out before me like a lush, green carpet. I watch in wonder as a falcon punches a wood pigeon from the sky, before vanishing into the treetops. It’s as if nature itself is a sealing wax to my wounds.
I swim in the outdoor pool until my arms ache. Dinner is venison loin with blackberry sauce. I drink only sparkling water. After a hot bath in peat-infused water, I slip on a pristine white bathrobe and step onto the balco
ny. The sky is swathed in stars and a cool breeze gently lifts my fringe. I pull my bathrobe tightly around my body and stare into the wide gulf of darkness, striving for a focal point, something to fix on to. I thought by now the feeling of adventurousness that has recently seemed to infuse me would have settled my uneasiness, but in truth I still feel lonely and afraid. My desperate search for answers has become so much harder than I ever expected, the sacrifices greater than I ever could have imagined.
I sleep soundly and I don’t dream. I wake to the ping of an incoming text, and seeing that it is from Adam, delete the message without reading it. Then I block his number.
‘A whole new life,’ I whisper; then I turn over and go back to sleep.
The three days at Beginsy Hall have somehow finally grounded me. Whether it’s the homemade porridge, or the daily five-mile hikes, I can’t say. All I know is that the anxiety that has dogged me since leaving Cornwall is starting to fade. There’s still the uncertainty of what I will do once I get to Lennoxton and finally meet Susan O’Neill – or rather Desra McKinley – I must call her that from now on – but there is also a new sense of assurance, of resolve.
On my final morning I follow the footpath from the hotel to the water’s edge. I gaze into the distance, past the pine trees and rocky outcrops, over glistening water to where Lennoxton Academy sits waiting.
‘Not long now, Desra,’ I whisper, before turning and heading back to the hotel.
I check out early the next morning and drive the twenty-six miles to Lennoxton, arriving just before nine. Check-in time for the summer school isn’t until eleven, so I find a café and nurse my way through a cappuccino while reading a local tourist information brochure. At ten o’clock I drive the last few miles and park in a lay-by opposite the school’s front entrance. Towering stone walls are drawn together by an ornate wrought iron gate. On top of a stone plinth sits a large bronze statue of a stag. Clouds steal in from the nearby loch and within seconds my windscreen is pelted with hailstones.
I wait until I see three cars pass through the gates before I start my engine. I follow a long gravel drive that bisects the school’s private golf course and then gently curves past the riding stables. A low mist has settled, but as I near the school, sunlight dissipates the vapour and I get my first proper view of Lennoxton Academy.
The Lake Page 17
