‘She looks stunning.’
I turn to see Julia’s normally critical disposition replaced by one of open admiration.
‘Down girl,’ chuckles Marie-Claire.
‘She looks so different,’ says Caleb, and I can tell that even he is entranced. Turner steps forward with his tray, offering drinks to both poets. McKinley takes a small sip, and then, placing a hand on Turner’s arm, leans forward and whispers into his ear. There is a clink of crystal, and I turn to see Becky desperately attempting to steady her tray.
‘Careful!’ cries the catering manager, who stops to give her a talking to. The music recommences as the piper leads Cardew and McKinley into the auditorium, followed closely behind by the headmaster, the Very Reverend Simpson, and the eleven members of the Board of Governors.
Once everyone is seated, the headmaster takes the stage.
‘Good evening everyone,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the final event in the highly successful summer lecture series hosted at Lennoxton Academy.’ He goes on to explain the history of the school and their decision to host the series, ending his introduction with the words, ‘But I can’t take the credit for the conception and, indeed, delivery of what I hope will be an annual event.’ He indicates to where Desra is seated. ‘It’s all down to Dr Desra McKinley, a sports performance expert who has coached a number of Olympic hopefuls, and as if that isn’t enough, is also an internationally recognised poet. Dr McKinley has worked tirelessly to make this series a success. Therefore, and without further ado,’ he continues, ‘I would like to ask Dr McKinley to introduce our guest speaker, Professor Findlay Cardew.’
A wave of applause floods the theatre and both McKinley and Cardew stand and make their way to the two leather chairs that sit centre stage.
The lecture and subsequent Q&A session seem to go on for hours. All I can think about is the bag under my seat with the thirteen brown envelopes. Three rows ahead of me sits the headmaster and eleven governors, all dressed in their academic robes.
The Q&A finally finishes – now is the moment to hand them the evidence. ‘There’s something inside that is of the utmost importance to the reputation of the school.’ That’s all I will say: any more would make them hesitant. Dubious. I certainly won’t mention the words ‘grooming’ or ‘sexual exploitation’.
I place a hand on Caleb’s arm.
‘Can I meet you in the foyer?’ I whisper. ‘I’ve got something I need to do.’
He gives me a quizzical look, and then seeing the seriousness of my expression, nods and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Of course.’
I watch as he follows Julia and Marie-Claire out of the auditorium before I make my way along the aisle towards the governors.
‘Wasn’t that wonderful?’ Sally is standing in front of me, blocking the way. ‘I can’t wait to get a signed copy of their books, can you?’
‘What?’ Unable to disguise my irritation, I attempt to push past her. ‘Excuse me.’
The rest of the crowd are making their way up the stairs to the foyer, and I feel like a Pitlochry salmon swimming against the stream. Someone knocks against me and my bag falls to the ground, scattering the brown envelopes in every direction.
‘Oh dear,’ says Sally. ‘Can I help?’
We spend the next few minutes retrieving the envelopes from under impatient feet and auditorium seats. By the time we have collected them all, the headmaster and the governors are gone. I race up the stairs to find them, hoping it is not too late.
The foyer is teeming with people; bodies shift and merge as guests impatiently make their way forwards for another glass of prosecco or a soggy canapé. Cardew and McKinley are chatting animatedly to a fortyish woman with a heavy gold chain around her neck: the Provost of Perth. Next to her, an attractive young woman records the exchange on her iPhone. Her guest pass reads PRESS. Finishing their chat, the two poets make their way towards the table. A small queue has formed, ready to purchase a personally signed copy of their anthologies. The headmaster and board members are nowhere in sight.
‘Dammit!’ I move through the crowd, desperately seeking out the black-robed governors. Why have I waited so long? I could have posted the envelopes this morning, or even left them with the school secretary. If I’ve missed this chance, I will never forgive myself.
There is the tinkling sound of metal on crystal and I look to see Desra tapping a spoon against her glass. The headmaster and governors, now free of their dark vestments, emerge from the cloakroom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Desra begins. ‘Before we carry on with the signings, I would like to make an important announcement.’ She leans forward and speaks quietly to Cardew, who responds with a smile. ‘I am delighted to announce that Professor Cardew has been offered a prestigious visiting lecturer’s post this autumn with The Department of Literary Arts at Brown University in Rhode Island.’ There is a round of applause, which Desra silences with a raised hand. ‘I am also pleased to say that I have been offered a teaching position in America and will be accompanying Professor Cardew.’ She places a hand on his shoulder, which Cardew takes and raises to his lips.
I feel my mouth open, then almost immediately tighten shut in rage. So that was the reason for all those applications to American private schools. Desra is going with Cardew to America. Considering the dates on some of the job applications I found in her desk drawer the other day, she must have been planning to do so for months. Will riding on Cardew’s coat tails advance her career? Will he be the next professionally useful husband?
I glance towards the headmaster whose face is blank with shock. Clearly he hasn’t been informed that she is leaving. Has he been one more pawn in her plan?
I can feel my cheeks burning, and a thin sheen of perspiration glazes my forehead. There’s no way I am going to allow Desra McKinley to get away again. I find myself moving forward, pausing only to pick up a cheese knife from the catering table. I make my way towards her, the knife clenched so firmly in my fist I can feel the bone handle cutting into my flesh. Desra is only inches away. Our eyes meet; her smile freezes. I lean forward, but before I can utter the words forming on my lips, there comes the sudden crash of breaking glass from the rear of the hall. All the guests turn to see Becky surrounded by shattered crystal flutes.
‘You screwed her, didn’t you, Turner?’ she screams. A clearly drunk Turner, swaying like a puppet in the wind, does not reply. ‘Why don’t you just admit it?’
The guests stand frozen, engrossed. I think of one of those contemporary theatre experiences where the audience are expected to follow the actors around a performance space, eavesdropping on their lives.
‘There’s no use in denying it,’ continues a now hysterical Becky. ‘I saw you coming out of the boathouse with her the other night, and you weren’t just drinking, were you?’
The crowded room is pin-drop silent, and there seems to be a sudden suspension of breath.
‘So what if I did?’ replies Turner, with such casual arrogance that I think Becky will step forward and slap him. She does more than that. Stepping over the broken glass, she propels herself towards Turner, pushing him with all her might. He topples backwards, where he overturns two tables and finally lands prostrate on the floor just inches from the group of governors. The headmaster, his face white with fury, picks Turner up from the floor and guides him firmly towards Becky.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he says to the two teenagers, barely managing to contain his anger.
‘What’s going on here is that that woman,’ Becky turns, narrows her eyes in unequivocal hatred, and points across the room, ‘has been screwing my boyfriend!’
It’s like something out of a detective novel. All heads turn to follow the direction in which Becky is pointing, where stands Desra McKinley. The lecturer’s eyes are wide, her expression stunned. I feel the warmth of two bodies taking up positions on either side of me.
‘Mon dieu,’ whispers Marie-Claire.
‘This is karma in a very big way,’ add
s Julia.
It takes at least a half hour before the headmaster can calm Becky down. By that time she has already made a call to her father, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and her corporate lawyer mother in Upstate New York. Desra, meanwhile, has been ordered to the headmaster’s office – ‘The Crucible’ – where the Board of Governors is waiting.
‘And where the offence is,’ I whisper, watching as Desra, accompanied by a stern-looking Simpson, leaves the foyer, ‘let the great axe fall.’
41
High drama dissolves into banality as broken glass is swept up, explanations are attempted, and the one hundred and fifty guests creep away, as if they in some way were responsible for the discomfiture of the evening.
The summer school students stunned and adrenaline-filled, escape to the boathouse with pilfered bottles of booze, where we drunkenly dissect the events of the evening.
‘You don’t believe she did it, do you?’ asks Sally, her eyes pink.
‘It’s probably best not to comment until it’s looked into properly,’ replies Dave, with his usual compassion.
‘Where are Marvin and Roz?’ asks Caleb, passing a large bag of crisps to the group.
‘Packing,’ Sally replies, blowing her nose. ‘They said they’ll not stay another moment more in this den of iniquity.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ says a subdued Julia. ‘The broken glass, that poor boy toppling over the table, and the j’accuse drama of it all.’ She drains her tumbler. ‘If it wasn’t so tragic it could almost be funny.’
‘So, you do think she did it?’ says Sally, no longer bothering to hold back her tears.
‘Yes,’ Julia replies, and glancing my way adds, ‘and worse.’
I remain silent. I know the full extent of Desra McKinley’s wickedness, and I can only hope that at this very moment the Scottish police are escorting her to a holding cell.
The group break up a few minutes later, retiring to their rooms and their own uncomfortable thoughts about the evening.
‘Do you want to be alone?’ asks Caleb when we stop at my door.
‘No,’ I reply, and taking his hand I lead him inside.
In the pandemonium that followed Becky’s dramatic accusation, I forgot to distribute the envelopes. By the time I remembered, Desra was already in her meeting with the headmaster and the Board of Governors, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging prominently on the office door and Mrs Roe standing guard nearby.
I wait until Caleb is gently snoring before getting dressed and tiptoeing out of the room. A full moon illuminates the path and I find myself glad to be alone.
I enter the keycode for the reception area and ring the bell for the night porter.
‘It’s important that the headmaster and the Board of Governors receive these first thing tomorrow.’ The porter, a gentle middle-aged man named Paulo, nods an acknowledgement. ‘It’s to do with what happened this evening.’
Tomorrow morning, I will speak to the headmaster in person, then travel to the nearest police station and to the Perth Courier, where I will drop off an additional brown envelope each.
‘Evidence,’ I whisper, as I follow the path to the boathouse, ‘of that woman’s deeper crimes.’
I stroll along the jetty, the small solar lights casting a soft glow on the weatherworn timber. Now that the awful truth about Desra McKinley has been revealed, I will ensure all the evidence is presented appropriately and clearly, then go home, wherever that may be. Maybe back to Cornwall, maybe not. I hear the soft tip-tap of high heels on wood. I turn. Desra McKinley is standing just a few feet away.
‘Kate bloody Hardy.’ She sways slightly, and I think she may topple into the water.
‘Desra.’
She stumbles forward and now I can see that she has a whisky glass in her hand.
‘So, I couldn’t figure it out really,’ she says, her words garbled. ‘This persistent feeling that we had met.’ The clouds above shift, and slivers of moonlight ignite the loch. I can see that her dress is torn. Her hair is dishevelled and there are large streaks of mascara on her cheeks. I think of Jane Eyre’s woman in the attic. She gives a deep chuckle, drains her glass and then, cocking her arm, throws it far into the lake.
‘I should go.’
‘No, no, no,’ says Desra, moving closer. ‘Why would you want to leave? I expect you’ve been waiting for this moment for years.’
‘Let me by.’
‘So, the thing is,’ she continues. ‘I was happy to accept the fact that you were from Devon was just an unpleasant coincidence.’ I find myself slowly backing away towards the end of the jetty. ‘But that poem – and your reference to Diving Fish.’ She closes her eyes and raises her face to the night sky. ‘Moonlight lingers on the pale abandon of your skin.’ I feel my knees weaken. ‘He read that to me you know.’ Desra is smiling: a wide, demented grin that exposes two prominent incisors. ‘After the first time we fucked, he read that to me.’
‘Michael,’ I whisper. ‘His name was Michael.’
‘Michael.’ The way she says it makes it sound dirty.
‘Why did you do it?’
At last I have said the words that have polluted my mind for so long.
She feigns an innocent look. ‘Do what?’
‘Let him go into the water that night. You knew he was drunk. Why did you let him go swimming on his own?’
She gives an indifferent shrug, and not for the first time I understand what it feels like to genuinely want to kill someone.
‘I had to be somewhere.’ She laughs, an eerie high-pitched cackle that shatters the midnight calm. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kate,’ she says, and hands on hips in a universal gesture of defiance, adds, ‘I wasn’t his fucking mother.’
I have been right all along. My darling, trusting boy was betrayed in the most horrendous and evil way imaginable.
‘And the travel sickness pills?’
‘What about them?’
‘You gave him some the night he died, didn’t you?’
‘He liked the buzz.’
‘You killed him.’
‘He was a big boy; he knew what he was doing.’
‘He was fifteen!’ I suddenly feel an odd sense of calm enfold me. As if somewhere within all this astonishing madness, there may be peace. At last I am saying the words that I have only practised in my head for years. I think of my beloved Michael; of Lisa, Alistair, the poor, heartbroken Becky, and all the other unnamed victims. ‘Why do you do it, Desra?’
Her eyes are two flat discs. ‘I do it because I can.’
There is a sort of perverse tranquillity in her response. At least now I know I am dealing with a madwoman.
‘You’re finished,’ I say, trying to work out some way of getting past her without falling into the water.
‘I doubt that.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody likes a scandal, Kate.’ The look of triumph on her face is infuriating. ‘At this very moment, both Turner and Becky are seriously reconsidering their positions.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘After all,’ she smirks, ‘Turner did sneak into my room and sexually assault me.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sure the headmaster and the Board of Governors will understand that the trauma of it all meant that I couldn’t really speak about it until now.’
‘You’re lying!’
‘I really wouldn’t want to have to make a formal statement,’ says Desra, trying her hardest to look helpless. ‘After all, a rape charge will be bound to affect Turner’s university applications.’
My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘You really are crazy.’
Desra gives a little tut. ‘I’m not the one who travelled across the country to stalk someone she blames for her idiot son’s death!’
I clench my fists ready to punch. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
‘Of course I will. Do you think the headmaster and his little bunch of flunkies want a scandal of this calibre associated with
Lennoxton?’ She makes an unsuccessful attempt to straighten her ruined dress. ‘Do you really think Becky’s rich mommy and daddy want a dirty little court case on their daughter’s Google profile? Trust me, they won’t.’ She smiles smugly. ‘And I’ll be speaking to my solicitor first thing tomorrow morning about little Becky’s scene this evening. Slander, defamation of character. I’m sure we can agree on a tidy out-of-court settlement.’
We stand facing each other, only inches apart.
‘I don’t care what you say. You won’t get away with this, I promise you that.’
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Kate?’
‘On the headmaster’s desk right now is an envelope containing copies of the letters of complaint against you from Edgecombe Academy.’ Well, they will be there tomorrow. ‘There’s also a taped recording and transcript of my conversation with Lisa Edwards,’ I lie – anything to get this arrogant parasite off guard – ‘regarding your sexual relationship with Michael.’
Desra stares at me through heavy, drunken eyes. ‘Shame both your star witnesses are dead.’
I bend my knees slightly; plant my feet. ‘Alistair March isn’t.’ Even in the half-light I can see Desra’s expression change. ‘I found him. He’s agreed to make a statement to the police.’ Well, he’ll agree when he’s given a witness summons. ‘That will include, I’m certain, how you groomed, exploited and manipulated him into a sexual relationship. It’s called underage rape, Desra; minimum of two years in prison.’
The Lake Page 27
