The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  My mouth drops open. ‘Your career? Innocent people have died, more are at risk, and all you can think about is your career?’

  Alistair steps back as if struck. Stumbling towards the desk he grabs the bottle of Jack Daniels from the gift bag, then two shot glasses from the shelf above. He cracks open the bottle and pours two shots. He downs one and places the other on the desk. ‘Drink it,’ he snarls, ‘and then get out.’

  36

  It is dusk by the time I reach the stag-framed gates of Lennoxton. I have spent most of the afternoon sitting in an anonymous car park, overlooking an anonymous beach, sipping endless cups of lukewarm coffee. With no Alistair, there is no concrete proof. With no concrete proof, there is no conviction. With no conviction, there is Desra with a publishing deal, a possible teaching post at a prestigious private school in Rhode Island, and a catalogue of discarded innocents behind her with no avenue to justice or recompense. Michael is just dust – collateral in Desra’s relentless rise to glory. The truth is like a dart in my vein, spreading poison to every tributary, accruing in my heart.

  I fake my way through dinner, but I can only manage the final night’s celebrations with wine, wine, and more wine. As the group moves outside for a singsong by the bonfire, I escape to my room. The dormitory is silent and unpeopled. I sneak into Julia and Marie-Claire’s room and slip the bottle of vodka from the desk drawer where I know Julia keeps it. In a moment of despair and disgrace, I search through the lining of my bag for a blue pill. With a gasp of relief I find one, nestled in amongst old shopping receipts and a lost stamp. I gulp it down with a slug of vodka and retreat under the bedcovers. Later, when I hear a knock on my door and Marie-Claire’s worried voice, I turn my face to the wall.

  I sleep badly, dreaming I am walking hand in hand along a forest path with Michael. Water oozes from his every pore, trickles down his body and pools at his feet. He opens his mouth to speak but something blocks his breath. I reach into his mouth, past his blackened tongue and deep into his throat. I feel something thin and slimy. It squirms beneath my fingertips. I pull it free and fling it to the ground. An eel. Its greasy body swivels and squirms as it wraps itself around my feet. Grabbing a large stone, I pound it against the creature’s head, smashing its tiny bulb-like eyes into oblivion. Slowly the creature transforms into something different; something human. When I look closer, I see Desra McKinley’s ruined face on the ground in front of me.

  I wake bathed in sweat, with a terrifying sense of the walls closing in. Throwing on my clothes, I race from the dormitory and into the night.

  Moonlight has transformed the loch into an undulating silvery blanket. A breeze blows in from the east, drying the perspiration that dots my forehead. Open water had once been my salvation: a place where I could find peace. From the moment I could sit up, I would go out with my father in his rowing boat. Later, there were canoeing trips along the Tamar with Brethren friends, and in my early teens, clandestine wild swimming with Ryan on moonlit nights. I would sneak back into the house soaking wet, teeth chattering, pulling at the thin tendrils of wet hair curled around the nape of my neck. The next morning my mother would sniff loudly and claim the house had damp.

  I slip off my trainers and dig my toes deep into the freezing sand. The scent of pine drifts on the cool night air. I find myself walking towards the water. I shed my jeans, my t-shirt, and lay them on a mossy boulder. I stare out at the loch; feel the night’s cool breath on my skin. Water calls to me: hypnotic; deceitful.

  Dressed only in a bra and pants I take a few tentative steps and splash water on my knees, thighs, stomach. It’s like ice crystals on my skin. I’m up to my waist now and moving deeper. It’s so very, very cold. I feel my nipples tighten and a pleasant numbness in my feet. Stretching forward, I reach out my arms and begin to swim. On and on I go, farther and farther from the shore. Some unseen force is driving me onwards. I think of Michael and our practice sessions in the river, of our unspoken understanding of the power and serenity of deep water. I haven’t felt so peaceful in months. Maybe I’m asleep.

  I feel a searing pain: shards penetrating my skin. As if lifted from a trance, I find myself awake to the world around me. What I see fills me with horror. I am at least a hundred metres from the shore. A breeze has picked up, forcing the inky waves against my numb body, and pushing me even deeper into the loch. I struggle forwards, but my arms ache and my legs are like lead. Beneath me, a swirling current drags me on. I kick, fighting against my enemies, wind and tide. I make it a few metres closer to shore before my muscles seize.

  I should scream for help; wave my arms like that hapless hero in that GCSE poem, but why bother? No one is around: no one will care. I attempt one final push, but I’m tired, defeated. Was this how Michael felt? I imagine myself sinking; my pale, bloated body settling amongst the silt, my flesh food for zebra mussels. I hear a sound – splashing – and then, astoundingly, I feel an arm slip beneath mine.

  ‘Kate!’ It’s a male voice: deep; resonant.

  ‘Caleb?’

  ‘Hang on to me, Kate – don’t let go.’

  I hook my arm around Caleb’s neck. He swims with one arm, the other supporting my back. I can feel the power of him as he kicks, and hear his laboured breathing as he pounds his way towards the shore. With one final, agonising effort he lifts me onto the sand. We both lie exhausted, coughing and panting. He covers my shoulders with his dry shirt.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, rubbing my hands between his. ‘You’re freezing.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to go out so far,’ I whisper through chattering teeth.

  ‘Water at night is always deceptive.’

  ‘If you hadn’t been here …’

  ‘I was,’ he says; and he puts his arm around me to warm me further. In the moonlight, his face is marble.

  ‘I thought I could do it,’ I say, biting back a sob.

  ‘You did.’ There’s something like admiration in his voice. ‘You were.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I reply. Then, in confusion, I ask, ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I’m not a great sleeper,’ he replies. ‘I often go out at night. I was walking past the outdoor adventure centre when I saw you race past. You seemed upset. Disorientated.’

  ‘It’s all such a mess,’ I say, no longer bothering to hide my tears. Caleb says nothing, just holds me tighter. ‘I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it; that I could conquer the water, for Michael.’

  He pulls back and studies my face, trying to put two and two together; making assumptions.

  ‘Well, the first thing I would say to you is that water is generally unconquerable.’ His voice is kind. ‘And the second is that you certainly gave it your best go. You were swimming so quickly that by the time I reached the shore you had nearly disappeared.’ He gets up and collects my clothes from the rock where I left them. My fingers are so cold and stiff he has to help me to get dressed.

  ‘I’m such an idiot!’

  ‘You’re in pain.’ Caleb leans forward and takes my face in his hands. ‘There’s nothing wrong with admitting that.’ He is so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. He kisses me. I feel the strength in his body; the question in his lips. I respond with an intensity that surprises me. His hand slides under my shirt and circles my waist, pulling me in. My body is molten. Taking me by the hand, Caleb leads me back to the dorms.

  37

  I wake to the beginnings of sunlight and the murmurs of a collared dove. Next to me, Caleb dozes contentedly. I kiss his neck and delight in the simple pleasure of watching him sleep. In a few hours, the bustle of our fellow students will force us into wakefulness and secrecy, but for now, there is just his warm body against mine.

  I drift in and out of consciousness, waking finally to an empty space in the bed beside me. There is a knock on my door and seconds later I feel someone tickling my toes.

  ‘Wake up, chérie,’ murmurs Marie-Claire. ‘You don’t want to miss the opportunity to read your poem t
o Professor Cardew, do you?’

  I turn over and look into her smiling face.

  ‘Where’s Julia?’

  Marie-Claire’s expression hardens. ‘Hungover,’ she sighs. ‘I’m not sure this summer school was such a great idea.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t ruin it for you both.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you, my darling,’ says Marie-Claire with an embarrassed smile. ‘This is perhaps just a little bit too far out of her comfort zone.’ She points to my bedside table. ‘A cup of tea for you, and I will expect both you and my fiancée in the canteen for breakfast in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I attempt a feeble salute. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘De rien.’ Marie-Claire smiles and taps a finger against her watch. ‘See you downstairs.’

  I quickly shower, dress, and apply makeup, concentrating on the dark circles under my eyes. I make a concerted effort to be bright and cheerful at breakfast. I haven’t spoken to Julia since we accessed the student database at St Andrews University. I suspect that she has already worked out the reason for my absence most of yesterday evening, because there is a new frostiness in her demeanour. Caleb, I am told, has already come and gone.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Julia enquires, not looking up from where she is buttering her toast.

  ‘Fine.’

  She glances up and our eyes meet, a silent exchange of both knowledge and guilt.

  ‘I’m glad you both managed to drag yourself from your beds,’ says Marie-Claire, placing a large cafetière on the table in front of us. She studies my face, her eyes creasing in concern. ‘You look very pale. Did you get any sleep last night?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply and force a smile. ‘Really.’

  Marie-Claire places a splash of warm milk into a mug, adds coffee and slides it towards me. ‘And the situation with your niece?’

  ‘Sorted,’ I reply. ‘I spoke to her yesterday.’ I sneak a peek at Julia, but she is studiously checking emails on her phone. ‘I’m grateful to both of you for all your patience and support.’

  Bright and cheerful. Bright, and cheerful.

  ‘Just glad it’s all sorted,’ says Julia, with little conviction.

  Marie-Claire gives us both a curious glance. ‘Speaking of being sorted,’ she says, ‘we’d better hurry up and finish our breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to miss a moment of our masterclass.’

  ‘Not like I care.’

  ‘Julia!’

  ‘Well, it’s not like I’ve ever disguised my dislike of this whole ridiculous exercise.’

  There is a moment of silence as Marie-Claire takes in her fiancée’s words.

  ‘Ridiculous exercise?’

  ‘A shambles,’ Julia mutters, and I watch as Marie-Claire’s ebony cheeks slowly grow rosy. ‘That ludicrous McKinley woman with her flagrant self-promotion and arrogance. A domestic drama that I didn’t really want to have any part in.’ She avoids looking at me, but the implication is clear. ‘And now a so-called masterclass in which we’re supposed to be grateful for being given the opportunity to read our mediocre work aloud to some poetic has-been!’

  ‘What has gotten into you!’ I can see that Marie-Claire is close to tears.

  ‘I’m tired of the bullshit,’ her fiancée replies, and throwing her napkin down, pushes back her chair and storms from the dining hall.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we meet you at the theatre in a bit?’

  Marie-Claire nods and blows her nose. ‘She always gets like this when she drinks too much.’

  I rush to follow Julia out into the quad where she is lighting a cigarette. ‘I didn’t know you smoked?’

  ‘I don’t,’ says Julia, taking a deep drag. ‘I nicked one of Marie-Claire’s.’

  ‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Furious.’ Julia’s jaw tightens. ‘I saw you yesterday afternoon leaving, in your car. You went to St Andrews, didn’t you?’

  There’s no point in denying it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you find him?’

  ‘I did.’

  Julia takes another drag, angrily blowing smoke out through her nostrils. ‘What if he complains to the university? What if they check who logged into the student database and put two and two together?’

  ‘He won’t.’ I think of the look on his face when I told him that Desra was in Scotland, and that he clearly knew. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about, Julia. There’s no reason for him or anyone else to suspect your involvement.’

  ‘That’s not the point, though, is it?’ she says. ‘I should have never done it in the first place, and you should have never asked me to.’

  This isn’t the first time I am being forced to question my conduct, and probably won’t be the last. ‘I’m sorry, Julia, I really am, but McKinley’s got away with too much for far too long.’

  Julia drops the cigarette, taking her time to grind it into the gravel at her feet.

  ‘What did he say?’

  I know what she means, but I take my time answering. ‘It’s clear they were together at Lakeview.’ I breathe in deeply, desperate for any last remnants of her cigarette smoke. ‘And he knows she’s here, in Scotland.’

  ‘Jesus.’ She sighs, then, studying me with fierce intensity, she says, ‘What’s the big but?’

  I look up at the clear blue sky above. ‘He got a work placement lined up next summer with a top company in Japan.’ I feel the tears falling. ‘Says a sex scandal could ruin his future career.’ I’m glad of a nearby bench and I stumble my way towards it. I feel it give as Julia sits down beside me.

  ‘You never said if your niece mentioned any inappropriate behaviour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘From McKinley.’ Julia’s expression is flint-like. ‘You said Lisa visited her flat.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And did McKinley do anything? Try anything?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  Julia sighs again and runs her fingers through her thick, blonde curls. ‘I’m sure there’s something going on between her and Turner. She’s hardly discreet, is she? Getting him to drive her to Edinburgh, tarting herself up every time he’s anywhere in the vicinity. They stayed in the boathouse the other night drinking together until God knows when.’

  ‘But Marie-Claire said …’

  Julia gives a wry smile. ‘Marie-Claire would give Hannibal Lecter the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Do you think I should talk to him?’

  Julia gives a derisory snort. ‘If you want answers, Turner’s not the one to talk to. Becky is.’

  I head back to my room to brush my teeth and collect my notebook before the masterclass. On the desk sits the green file folder I started six years ago, a few weeks after Michael’s death. It contains police and coroner’s reports, photos, emails, handwritten notes and action plans, letters, newspaper clippings, research, spreadsheets, and even the weather forecast the night that Michael died. Was all this for nothing? The summer school ends tonight after Cardew’s lecture and I have nothing more concrete than I started with. I stare at my pale reflection in the mirror, slowly raise my fist, and begin pounding it against my head.

  ‘Idiot,’ I mutter, ‘loser,’ and from somewhere deep inside comes the word ‘sinner’.

  I think of my brief sprint of activism while at university – I joined a protest group for human rights in Darfur, and followed the Italian human rights group ‘Non c’è Pace Senza Giustizia’ – No Peace Without Justice. I could never have imagined how deeply it would resonate with me fifteen years later.

  I grab Michael’s diary and make my way to Desra McKinley’s office.

  The door is open, and I find her sitting at her desk flipping through the proof copy of Carnation.

  ‘Kate,’ she says brightly, ‘how are you?’ I pause, uncertain how to step beyond that tainted threshold. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need to speak
to you.’

  ‘Of course.’ She moves towards the two-seater settee at the back of the room and sits down. ‘Come,’ she says, patting the cushion beside her, ‘sit.’

  The diary is soft and sweaty in my hand. I step towards her.

  ‘Desra!’ I hear a voice behind me. I turn to see a middle-aged man, bearded, dishevelled, and carrying what looks like a ream of loose-leaf paper in his arms. ‘I’m having a bloody awful time with my notes.’

  She gives a soft, girlish, giggle; nothing like the woman who has been teaching us for the last four days. ‘Oh Findlay, you are a sight.’ I feel as if I’ve stepped into an Alan Ayckbourn farce. ‘Kate,’ she says. ‘May I introduce you to Professor Findlay Cardew.’

  I attempt a pleasant smile, but Professor Cardew is clearly not interested.

  ‘I can’t decide which is the best couplet,’ he says, stepping past me.

  ‘No need to worry,’ Desra purrs. ‘I’m sure they’re all wonderful.’

  I dig my fingernails into the soft leather of the diary. There is a brief, intimate moment as she moves close to straighten his tie.

  ‘Professor Cardew?’ I turn to see the receptionist, Mrs Roe, standing in the doorway. ‘The reporter from the Perth Courier is here.’

  If it’s possible for Cardew to look any more flustered, he does. ‘You must come, Desi,’ he pleads. ‘I need you.’

  ‘Sorry, Kate. Duty calls. Can this wait?’ Desra says, with a nonchalant air that tells me she doesn’t really care whether I say yes or no.

  And before I can say another word, they are striding past me and out of the room.

  Mrs Roe clears her throat. ‘I really must lock up,’ she says, indicating for me to leave. As I make my way down the hall, I see Turner approaching.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  He gives that 100-watt smile. ‘Of course Mrs Hardy, I was just hoping to talk to Desra.’

  I’m slightly surprised by his casual use of the teacher’s first name, but this is summer school after all, not term time, and maybe Lennoxton has a more casual approach to teacher-student relationships. I hope not.