There is a long pause as Desra’s inebriated brain attempts to process what I have just said. Then she does something so unexpected that I am completely unprepared. She gives a deep growl of anger that seems to swell up inside her until it emerges as a scream. Her eyes bulge and her lips pull back. She reminds me of a rabid dog.
‘You can’t do this,’ she screams. ‘I won’t let you!’
‘It’s too late, Desra. It’s done.’ I don’t feel triumphant, or even pleased with myself. Just very, very tired. I press my palms together and rest them against my lips. ‘Susan O’Neill, you are finished.’
My mention of her former name; her former life; seems to tip her over the edge, and suddenly she is running towards me.
‘I’m going to kill you!’ she screams, and before I know what is happening, she has me around the waist, and both of us are tumbling off the jetty and straight into Loch Haugh.
42
Hitting the water is a shock: not just the intense cold and darkness, but also the realisation that Desra is gripping me tightly as we plunge deeper and deeper. The impact takes my breath away and I force myself not to breathe. I know from my lifesaving training that it’s one of the most common causes of drowning – the cold and shock initiate an involuntary breath. Great when you need a firm supply of oxygen to your brain to stop passing out after a trauma, but not so good when you’re metres under water.
Water fills my nose, and my lungs are screaming. My mind races in panic. I need air. I begin twisting and turning, digging my nails into Desra’s exposed arms. Her grip loosens slightly, and I kick for the surface. There is a brief, desperate moment when I suck in a lungful of air before being pulled back under again.
‘Now’s not the time to give up, Mum.’
Michael?
‘You’ve come so far; worked so hard to find the truth. You can’t give up now.’
But I’m tired Michael. So tired. I just want to go to sleep.
‘I can’t let you do that, Mum; you know I can’t.’
It’s too hard, Michael. I can’t do it.
‘You can, Mum. You must.’
But we could be together again. Just let me sleep, Michael.
‘We can’t. I won’t let you. And besides, if I do, she wins.’
The thought of a gloating, triumphant Desra is too much to bear and I fight back. With precious little oxygen left in my lungs I find myself grappling for Desra’s face. I can feel her shoulders, her neck, the back of her head, and then suddenly her jaw line. I slide my hands upwards, past the cheekbones and to the bridge of her nose. With my last ounce of energy, I dig my thumbs deep into Desra’s eye sockets. I can feel her body stiffen, then her head twist and turn, but I hold fast. Finally, after what seems like hours, Desra’s grip loosens and I struggle free. Fresh air seems miles away, but with one final effort I break the surface and emerge into the night. My first few, desperate gulps of air are intoxicating; then I start choking. Deep, lung-crushing coughs that rattle my body. I’m terrified I will sink down again. Just ahead, I see the jetty with its moss-covered pillars sunk deep into the loch. My arms ache, and my body feels like stone. I am taking my first tentative stroke to safety, when from behind me the water explodes.
‘Where are you, you bitch!’
Desra rubs her injured eyes, and then begins swimming blindly towards me. ‘When I find you, I am going to kill you!’ Desra’s fury has imbued her with a renewed energy and she is moving fast. Her vision will clear any second. ‘I know you’re there, Kate. If you think for one minute you can get away from me …’
In the moonlight Desra is a pewter Medusa, her wet hair curling around her forehead like snakes. Her dark eyes narrow and then focus. She spots me and smiles.
‘There you are,’ she growls, and begins swimming towards me. I am freezing, tired, and running out of strength. I must make it to the jetty before Desra. I turn and begin swimming, forcing my sluggish arms into action, pressing my legs to kick. The jetty is just an arms-length away when I hear a strange sound behind me. I turn to see Desra, her eyes wide with terror.
‘Something’s got me, something’s got me!’ Long ribbons of seaweed have twisted their way around her arms and neck and seem to be pulling her down into the depths. I’ve made it to the jetty and I’m desperately clinging to one of the slippery pillars. ‘Help me, Kate! Help me!’
She is only a few metres away. I could swim out, extend my arm, and pull her to safety. I could swim to shore and grab the life ring from the emergency station. I could use the emergency telephone and call for help. I do none of these. Instead I watch silently as Susan O’Neill kicks and splashes; as her tortured, terrified cries are caught by the night breeze and blown southward. I don’t move. Don’t even blink. Finally, as if pulled under by some unseen force, and with a final, strangled scream of terror, Desra slips into the deep, black water.
With agonising effort, I swim the few metres to the shore and drag myself onto the bank. My legs are cramped, and my left hand is tightly fisted. Something is pressing against my palm. During my attempts to free myself from Desra’s grip, I must have inadvertently grabbed something.
I force my fingers open. Nestled in the palm of my hand is a sterling silver necklace with a small blue sea-glass pendant of a fish on the end. The one Michael bought for Susan from the charity shop all those years before.
Moonlight bathes the shore in a ghostly iridescence. The wind howls its mournful cry. Warm tears stream down my freezing cheeks. Tomorrow there will be questions to answer, more lies to tell, but there’s only one thing left to say.
‘Rest in peace, Michael.’
Epilogue
I wake to the sound of gulls, their high-pitched screams piercing the morning calm. I shiver, pull on my dressing gown, and go downstairs to make some tea. While I wait for the kettle to boil, I wander into the front room and open the curtains. Outside the River Tamar flows onwards, unmoved by human loss or misery, unfeeling in its endless journey to the sea. Tam is basking in a sunny spot on the garden wall. Next to him stands a large estate agent’s sign. My mother’s house has been sold, its contents divided or given to charity. All that’s left is for me to collect my few remaining things and move on. I hear a soft tapping, and, recognising a familiar silhouette through the frosted glass, I smile and open the door.
‘Doris, come in.’
The elderly woman shakes her head. ‘No, my love, I’ll only get all weepy again. I know we said our goodbyes yesterday, but amongst all the hugs and tears I forgot to give you this.’ She hands me a large, padded envelope. The postmark is from Scotland. ‘Were you expecting it?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I wasn’t.’
I give Doris one final hug, then wait for her to leave before I tear open the package. Could it be Julia and Marie-Claire’s wedding photos? It is, in fact, a book. I turn it over and am stunned to read the title. Carnation.
There is a short note from Julia sending best wishes and saying that following Desra McKinley’s tragic death, Epiphany Press decided to publish the anthology posthumously, but it has only achieved mediocre sales.
After all, writes Julia, it was a tragedy, her drowning accidentally like that, wasn’t it? It’s a shame the Scottish police decided not to investigate Becky’s claim any further, but I suppose with the alleged perpetrator dead and the victim back in America, not much they could do, eh?
Did you know that the Headmaster resigned? Marie-Claire suggested I apply for his post. Can you imagine!
There is another paragraph about the couple’s honeymoon in Bali, and a final few sentences.
I always wondered why you didn’t go to the police with your niece’s story, but I suppose, like you said, she just wanted to put it all behind her. Move on, so to speak.
I can’t resist flipping to the original title poem; the poem which Desra has so blatantly plagiarised from Michael. It is just as I had first read it in Michael’s diary, word for word. I spot something at the bottom of the page, a notation of some sort, a
nd squint to read the small print.
‘Diving Fish’ first written 2013 for The Arts Council of England Southwest Artists’ Anthology of Poetry
The poem had been Desra’s all along.
I slip Julia’s letter between the front pages, snap the book shut and then, tying my dressing gown tightly around my waist, slip on a pair of flip-flops and step out into the spring morning. The cool air nips at my ankles, but I still walk the twenty steps from my front door to the riverbank opposite. Raising the small volume to the sky, I fling it as far into the river as possible. It flies through the air, the cream leaves spread wide, then tumbles into the river, where it floats on the surface for a few seconds before disappearing into the wake of a passing motorboat.
Shivering, I hurry back to the warmth of the house and close the door. I hear footsteps behind me.
‘What were you doing outside in your dressing gown?’
I feel the warmth of Caleb’s body against mine, feel as his hand caresses my swollen, pregnant belly. I raise my hand to my neck and run my fingertips along the silver chain that rests there, and then down to the sea-glass pendant that sits nestled between my breasts.
‘Just getting rid of some rubbish,’ I whisper.
Acknowledgements
I owe grateful thanks to all the people over the years who supported me on my journey to publication.
My children Danielle and Dominic, who listened, encouraged and offered welcome suggestions, and my husband Nick, who was always there to lend a critical ear, and provide love, support and positive ways forward.
I would also like to thank all the friends and family who looked out for – and after – me: Ce and Dick Sharland; the Johnstons – Heather, Paul, Richard and Fiona; David and Valerie Horspool; Ann Pelletier-Topping, Tre Grey, Sharon Bray, Penny Manios and the lovely Sue Ferry.
To my writer friends, I couldn’t have done it without you. Finn Clarke, your unending encouragement and sound advice was, and always is, welcome.
To trusted readers David Horspool and Helena Boughton, thank you for dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s.
To my classmates on the UEA MA in Creative Writing – Crime: Denise, Natalie, Femi, Niamh, Mark, Freya, Dimitris, Bob, Niki, Peter, Roe and Matt, and to tutors Henry Sutton, Laura Joyce and Tom Benn, and also my current workshop buddies, Judi Daykin, Wendy Turbin and Karen Taylor for making feedback fun.
Very special thanks goes to The Big Issue for creating this opportunity, and the wonderful team at Avon Books: Sabah Khan, Phoebe Morgan, Ellie Pilcher, and especially Molly Walker-Sharp, whose unending support, patience and guidance has allowed me to continue to learn and grow as a writer. Thanks too to copy editor Felicity Radford and proofreader Anne Rieley for their fresh eyes!
A final thanks to my brothers Alan and Bob Michael, my late mother Marielle, and the late, great Roy York who convinced me this story ‘had legs’!
About the Author
Louise Sharland moved to the UK from her native Canada nearly thirty years ago after falling in love with a British sailor. She began writing short stories when her children were little and her work has appeared in magazines, anthologies and online. In 2019, Louise won The Big Issue Crime Writing competition, and this is her first published novel.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
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