The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘She’s gone off somewhere with Professor Cardew.’ I study him closely. Gone is the bum fluff of a beard he was trying to grow, replaced by a cleanshaven face. He smells of aftershave and expensive cologne. I’m suddenly struck by the fact Michael requested a bottle of expensive eau de toilette for his fifteenth birthday, and try to push away the image of my son splashing Paco Rabanne on his smooth cheeks before meeting her.

  I walk in silence to the Ishutin Building, my desperate mood clinging to me like a Highland mist. Why didn’t I stop them? Just a minute, Desra. Professor Cardew, I’d like to speak to Dr McKinley in private please. And why didn’t I ask Turner? Are you having a relationship with Dr McKinley? Did you know that even though you are over the age of consent for sexual activity, in the eyes of the law you are still considered vulnerable to sexual abuse and exploitation, and it’s my duty to report it?

  Nothing. I did nothing. Self-loathing rages through me. I failed. I let Turner down, just like I let Michael down. My courage has evaporated and all that’s left is a deep, festering anger.

  I make my way down the stairs and into the darkened theatre where my classmates are waiting. I take a seat in the far corner, in the shadows. My mind is scattered, unsettled. I need to regain my self-control. There’s the sound of a far door being opened, and then footsteps. Everyone turns to see Desra and Professor Cardew take their places on the stage. I feel my lips curl back in disgust.

  ‘Before we start,’ begins McKinley, ‘I want to introduce our guest of honour today: Professor Findlay Cardew.’ She turns and gazes reverently at the gentleman beside her. ‘Many of you know him as an esteemed Scottish poet and recipient of the Saltire Poetry Book Prize, but he is also delivering the final lecture in Lennoxton’s prestigious summer lecture series this evening, in this very auditorium.’

  ‘Whoopee!’ mutters Julia from behind me, which is followed almost immediately by a swift ‘Hush!’ from Marie-Claire.

  For the next hour, Cardew regales us with anecdotes about his life as a ‘distinguished’ poet, after-dinner speaker and minor celebrity.

  ‘Shall we begin our feedback session?’ Desra eventually asks, interrupting Cardew’s account of his liaison with a Croatian glamour model.

  The first reading is from Marvin and Roz: a touching piece about how their pets became a substitute for their much-yearned-for children. Caleb’s contribution is an extraordinary and highly structured piece about salvation. Sally follows with a hilarious poem about middle-aged libido; and, finally, it’s my turn.

  I swallow hard and step onto the stage. I clear my throat and try to say the first few words. My voice feels small: unmanageable. I don’t think I can do it.

  ‘Remember what I said about reading aloud.’ Desra approaches and stepping onto the stage behind me, gently begins rubbing my shoulders. ‘Relax, clear your mind. Now a breath, not into your chest, but deeper.’ She takes my hand and places it on my lower abdomen. An image of Michael lying naked next to her, his head on her lap, bursts into my mind and makes me snatch my hand away in disgust.

  I pick up my notebook. On the page in front of me is an innocuous poem about Celtic myths that I have been working on half-heartedly for the last few days. I find myself flipping to the last page instead: my secret poem. It is a work of fury and spite; an exploration of utter pain, one that I had never imagined reading aloud.

  ‘I’m fine, Desra.’ I wait for her to retake her seat, and then I begin.

  Moonlight lingers

  on the pale abandon

  of

  your

  skin.

  Bodies entangle,

  contort,

  the greedy tendrils

  of

  your

  Sin

  Unnatural lovers

  Distort

  The shifting moonlight

  Into slivers

  Of sharp-toothed night.

  And deep under water

  where no fish swim,

  He

  Still

  Lives

  I am the bone deep, lone keep

  custodian of his light.

  I am Witiko

  Unblinking avenger

  Who will not sleep this night.

  I am every god and goddess,

  Every fate and justice

  I am tireless, resolute

  A sleeping shark

  A pay back in the dark.

  I am here. Waiting. I am Diving Fish.

  I know my piece is shocking, unexpected, and I think I have failed, but peering into the gloom, I spot Desra, frozen to the spot, her gaping mouth reminding me of my stroke-ridden mother at mealtimes. Then, as if having been shaken by the shoulders, she seems to collect herself and resumes her duties.

  ‘Wonderful, Kate, wonderful.’ Her voice sounds far away, ghostlike. ‘You really have come a long way.’

  Maybe it is the mental image of Desra and Michael together, or maybe the fact that this is the last day of summer school and I haven’t achieved half of what I set out to, but there’s no time to falter. No more waiting.

  ‘I’ll let Findlay offer some feedback,’ Desra adds, forcing a smile. She steps back into the shadows and is gone.

  ‘Very interesting use of metaphor and repetition,’ begins Cardew, but I’m not listening.

  ‘Did you see the look on her face?’ whispers Julia, as I sit down beside her.

  I catch the familiar sent of musk and then someone whispers in my ear.

  ‘Was it something you said, chérie?’

  38

  I wait until after lunch before returning to the Ishutin Building. A banner has been placed across the front with the words Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series in large letters. A catering van is parked outside, and a steady stream of workers are transporting boxes of wine glasses, frozen canapés and prosecco into the building. As I step inside, I can hear one of the festival organisers giving instructions to the group of volunteers.

  ‘Make sure you work the room,’ the woman says. ‘And no more than two glasses of plonk per person. The budget on this event is tight.’ I scan the backs of their heads, searching for one in particular. ‘Back here at five p.m. precisely, where you’ll be given your station for reception drinks and canapés. Attire is black trousers, shoes not trainers, and a clean white shirt or blouse.’ The group begins to break up and she is forced to yell above the noise, ‘And don’t forget to collect your waistcoats from Jeremy on the way out!’

  I step back outside and watch as a cluster of people passes. At last, the person I have been waiting for approaches.

  ‘Becky?’

  The blonde American looks over in surprise. ‘Mrs Hardy,’ she says, giving me one of her automatic smiles.

  I smile in return. ‘May I speak with you for a moment?’ We wander over to the water fountain. ‘Excited about tonight?’

  The teenager shrugs. ‘I’m just handing out glasses of cheap prosecco.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say, pointing to the gaudy tartan waistcoat she is holding that all the catering staff are forced to wear.

  ‘Atrocious,’ scowls Becky. She slips the waistcoat over her t-shirt, where it hangs loosely.

  ‘I think you can adjust it at the back so that it fits better.’ I step behind Becky and slide the buckle to the left, pulling the cloth ribbon through to tighten it. ‘Better?’

  ‘A little,’ says Becky. ‘Thanks.’

  I take a breath. ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ and the rest of the words come spilling out, ‘and I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

  Becky can’t disguise her curiosity. ‘Go ahead, Mrs Hardy.’

  ‘I’m not sure if you know that I’m a nurse, and that I’ve worked with young people in schools, clinics. Safeguarding. That sort of thing.’

  Becky tilts her head sideways as if scrutinising me from a different perspective. ‘And what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘Not so much you, as Turner.’

 
; ‘Turner? What about Turner?’

  It’s clear I have hit a nerve. ‘I really don’t know how to put this—’

  ‘Put what?

  This is proving a lot harder than I imagined. ‘I’m a little concerned. About Turner. About his relationship with Dr McKinley.’

  ‘What relationship?’ She sounds defensive, almost hostile.

  ‘It’s just that, well, we’ve all noticed how close they seem.’ I watch as the colour slowly rises from her neck, past her chin and settles on her cheeks. I can’t stop now. ‘That alone isn’t a worry I suppose – I mean what student doesn’t like a strong connection with his teacher?’

  ‘A strong connection!’ Becky cries. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I look around. ‘Calm down, Becky. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about! You’ve just suggested to me that my boyfriend is having some sort of relationship with his teacher!’

  ‘That’s not what I said at all.’ I employ the slow, easy tone I use with patients. I need to keep things under control, for the moment anyway. ‘I was just concerned about what appears to be their unusual closeness. Is this typical, would you say?’

  ‘Turner’s friendly with everyone,’ snaps Becky, but there is little conviction. ‘That’s just the way he is.’

  ‘But all these trips to Edinburgh. Does she really need Turner to drive her there?’

  Becky gives a tight smile. ‘She suffers from car sickness. Has to take tablets that make her drowsy, so she can’t drive.’

  I feel a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. ‘What kind of tablets?’

  Becky shakes her head in exasperation. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘But you’re sure she takes the kind that make her drowsy?’

  ‘That’s what Turner said. That’s why she needs him to drive her.’

  Suddenly my head seems too heavy for my body and my legs weaken. I perch myself on the stone wall that borders the fountain and think back to the conversation I had with Grace only a few months before.

  ‘You’re the nurse. You’re the one who told me that cyclizine causes drowsiness.’

  ‘Michael didn’t suffer from travel sickness. There’s absolutely no reason he should have been taking that sort of medication.’

  Becky sits down next to me. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hardy?’

  I fight for control, but the knowledge that time is running out threatens to overwhelm me.

  Becky takes a long, shaky breath. ‘She’s always fussing over him, you know? Touching his arm, chatting to him like they’re mates or something. I know they were drinking together in the boathouse the other night; I saw them …’ She absent-mindedly scrapes a speck of moss off the side off the wall with her fingernail. ‘But it doesn’t mean that they’re …’ she glances at me. ‘Well, you know. Does it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But if I did know, or even suspect, I would have to do something about it.’

  ‘Because it’s not right, is it?’ Becky says, almost to herself.

  I’m operating on autopilot, still stunned by the realisation that Desra McKinley may have supplied my son with the medication that contributed to his death. ‘No, it isn’t,’ I reply. ‘Have you asked Turner about it?’

  She gives a bitter laugh. ‘Do you really think he’d tell me?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Have you asked her?’

  Becky’s eyes narrow and a fiendish smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘Now that would be interesting, wouldn’t it, but maybe asking isn’t quite the way to put it.’

  39

  A tangible sense of energy and excitement hangs in the air as the final touches for Findlay Cardew’s lecture are put into place. A marquee has been erected and extra staff have been called in to help with security and to direct parking. The mobile catering van is now standing under a large oak, offering food ranging from haggis to vegan curries, and tables and chairs are being set up for early arrivals from Edinburgh or Perth who may require a bite to eat or a gin and tonic. I barely take in the activity as I make my way from my meeting with Becky towards the senior dormitories. Becky’s revelation that Desra took travel sickness medication, possibly containing the same chemicals that were found in Michael’s bloodstream the night he died, has unnerved me more than I can say. It’s time to act. I’ve dithered long enough.

  On my bed the pile of A4 envelopes I bought at a post office in St Andrews yesterday, along with photocopies I made of everything I have on Desra: photos, emails, texts, and also including my own notes on my meeting with Alistair, and Turner’s questionable relationship with her. They are addressed to the head teacher and the eleven members of the governing council, including the chair, the Very Reverend James Simpson. All will be attending Cardew’s lecture this evening.

  ‘There’s nothing like bringing down the mighty,’ I whisper, as I seal and address the envelopes. There is a knock at the door, and I hurriedly slip the envelopes under my pillow, next to Michael’s diary.

  ‘Yes?’

  The door eases open and I’m surprised to see Sally’s smiling face.

  ‘I was wondering if you might need a little help getting ready.’

  ‘Getting ready?’

  ‘For tonight, you daft thing.’ She sits down on the bed. ‘I was a beautician in one of my previous incarnations. I can do your hair if you like?’ I stare at her in amazement. ‘You want to look your best, don’t you?’

  Sally has arranged my hair in a messy bun which looks both elegant and informal. I paint my lips a deep, blood red, imagining myself as a fair-haired Lady Macbeth. I had originally planned on wearing a floral summer dress, but instead I opt for a dark maxi dress with a low-cut back. I apply perfume to my wrists, behind my ears and in the groove between my breasts. Finally, as if lifted from a trance, I inhale deeply as I put on the pearl earrings Michael bought me. On the bed next to me is the bag with the envelopes containing the evidence I need to destroy Desra McKinley. All I need to do is find the right moment to hand it over. I imagine standing at the drinks reception, glass in hand, laughing with Marie-Claire and Julia, kissing Caleb on the lips. Desra will be waiting anxiously for the press to arrive. She will be so full of – almost overflowing with – self-importance. There will be the sound of footsteps and a door slamming. The headmaster and the Very Reverend Simpson will storm into the room, followed by a police inspector waving the brown envelopes accusingly. One by one, he will expose her catalogue of sins: her misconduct; her abuse.

  ‘And what about this?’ the headmaster will yell, forcing her to read the coroner’s report. ‘Cyclizine in his bloodstream? And you knew very well, didn’t you, that mixed with alcohol it becomes a very dangerous drug indeed. Did you watch as he struggled? As he sank into the water? And then as he surfaced before he went under again? Did you hear his cries for help, the last sound he would ever make, before turning away in cruel abandonment?’

  Desra will collapse to the floor, hysterical and remorseful, pleading for forgiveness. All around her the other guests will stare, their mouths open in disbelief; but I will be laughing. I will empty my glass, tip back my head and laugh. I won’t stop laughing until the dark blot that is Desra McKinley is nothing more than a tiny black spot on the carpet that can be swept away and forgotten.

  My crimson smile twists itself into a grimace of doubt. For that fantasy to come true, I should have gone to the police yesterday immediately after my meeting with Alistair. What’s stopping me? Why haven’t I been more determined?

  I was never one for confrontation, never brave enough to make a scene. That was Grace’s gift. I gained my ground in more surreptitious ways. When I was nine, I was bullied by a classmate. The name-calling, pinching and general torment went on for weeks. I bore it bravely, stoically, until one day, fed up with the abuse, I waited until I was alone on the stairwell with my tormentor. When no one was looking, I threw myself down the steps, claiming to have been pushed. Terrified of the bad publicity that would come with an a
ccusation of religious intolerance, the bully was expelled. I didn’t mind the fractured wrist. It was worth it.

  Now though, sitting on the bed, the brown envelopes beside me, I wonder again if there really is enough evidence to convict that vile woman.

  ‘Sorry, Alistair,’ I whisper, knowing full well that once all is revealed, he will be forced to speak to the police.

  I politely decline the invitation from Marie-Claire and Julia to join them for a drink before the event. When Caleb knocks and enters at half-past six, I have been sitting on the bed staring at the wall for nearly half an hour.

  ‘Kate?’

  He looks handsome in his pale linen suit and tie. His fair hair is slicked back and his tanned skin glowing. He sits down on the bed beside me. ‘Kate, what’s wrong?’ The concern in his voice is poignant.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Don’t want to go to the lecture?’ he asks.

  I turn to him and counterfeit my brightest smile. ‘Of course I do. I wouldn’t miss this evening for the world.’

  40

  A sizeable crowd has already gathered outside the Ishutin Building. Inside, in a corner near the bar, a table and two chairs have been set up. Piles of Findlay Cardew’s most recent poetry collection are stacked on the table, and next to that, a smaller pile of McKinley’s Canadian anthology, along with a poster advertising Carnation: to be released by Epiphany Press in the autumn.

  ‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Caleb. He places his arm around my waist and gently leads me to where Becky is stationed.

  ‘Mrs Hardy,’ she says, holding out her tray. Caleb takes two glasses and hands one to me. I down it almost immediately. I watch as Becky scans the room, eyes finally settling on the handsome young man in a tartan waistcoat who is also distributing drinks to the crowd. Turner.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask. There is a slightly wild look on her face and her unfocused expression suggests that she has been sampling the merchandise. She opens her mouth to reply when a sudden hush descends upon the room. From outside, the slow wail of a bagpipe commences, the sound growing louder as the piper mounts the steps and emerges into the foyer. Cardew, clad in full Highland dress, enters, accompanied by Desra McKinley. She’s wearing what can only be described as a silk tango dress. As she strides confidently into the room, the pipe music stops, replaced by applause and hoots of appreciation. Smiling in delight, Desra does a dramatic swirl, finishing with a kick that exposes the dress’s blood-red satin lining. With its strapless back and dramatic side slit, the outfit accentuates every curve of the lecturer’s petite frame. She has clearly spent a lot of effort with her hair, slicking it back into shiny curls, and her makeup is flawless.