The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ I say, getting up from my seat. ‘It’s past Joe’s bedtime.’

  ‘Are you okay, Lisa?’ says Jimmy. ‘What is it?’

  I ignore him and weave my way round the table, almost knocking it over in my haste to escape.

  ‘Joe,’ I call over the mush of Christmas songs that seems to have got steadily louder. ‘Come on, baby, time to go home.’

  I see his blond head on the other side of the room. He’s still sitting by the fire with Isobel beside him. I call his name again as I approach and they both turn to face me. I know I’m drawing attention to myself but I can’t help it.

  ‘Playing with Tom,’ he says with a frown. ‘Don’t want to go.’

  He gestures to the large ginger cat that is reclined on his lap. Its yellow eyes are half closed and I can hear it purring. The purring seems to grow louder as I approach until it becomes unbearable, like an attack of tinnitus.

  ‘Joe, we have to say bye to Tom now,’ I say, my eyes strangely drawn to the fire. ‘It’s way past your bedtime.’

  Isobel gets to her feet but as she does I see a glimmer of flame behind her, hear the crackle of the logs as the fire consumes them, and suddenly I see myself, two years earlier, lying in that strange room while the woman I thought was my friend tells me about the house by the lake, the safe place that is mine if I need it.

  My body starts to tremble. I hear Isobel asking me if I’m all right, if I want a glass of water, but I don’t answer. Instead I grab Joe from the stool, upending the sleeping cat, who cries with contempt as it hits the ground.

  ‘Pusscat,’ yells Joe, thumping me in the chest as I march towards the door. ‘You hurt pusscat!’

  Ignoring his ranting, I yank the door open and head out into the freezing night, cursing myself for leaving the car parked outside Isobel’s house, for letting her persuade me to go to the pub.

  ‘Want see pusscat,’ yells Joe as I run with him towards the vicarage, its pointed roof a black silhouette against the purple night sky. ‘You hurt him. He was my friend.’

  ‘Tom will be fine,’ I say, grappling to locate my keys in the deep folds of my coat pocket. ‘Cats always fall on their feet.’

  Joe mutters something at me as I place him on the pavement and point the keys, which have got twisted up in my pocket, at the car. As the lock releases I hear footsteps coming from the direction of the church.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, opening the back door. ‘Let’s get out of the cold.’

  ‘Bye bye.’

  I turn on my heels. Joe is standing with his back to me, waving his hand.

  ‘Joe?’ I say, spinning him round. ‘Who are you talking to?’

  ‘Saying bye bye,’ he says, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand. ‘To the man.’

  I look up, my stomach twisting with fear, just in time to see a figure, small and hunched, disappear into the darkness.

  22

  Soldier Number 1

  Rowan Isle House, 23 September 2004

  ‘Open your eyes!’

  The shock of his voice made me jump. I turned and tried to salute but my legs wobbled and I almost fell over.

  Sarge was still dressed in his best uniform and he’d had a haircut. It was like we’d switched roles: he was now the elite soldier and I was the straggly-haired mess.

  ‘Turn round,’ he commanded.

  At first I was confused. I didn’t know which direction he meant so I turned to face the wall. Then I felt his hands on my shoulders and he spun me round and pushed me towards the other wall, where, I noticed for the first time, a mirror was hanging.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see me, Sarge.’

  ‘You?’ he said, a weird sneer creeping across his face. ‘And who might you be?’

  I told him that I was his daughter, Soldier Number 1.

  When I said this he grabbed my shoulders with both hands and pushed me closer to the mirror so that my face was touching the glass.

  ‘Really?’ he said, with spit spraying from his mouth. ‘That’s what you are? Is that right?’

  I nodded my head. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Who else would I be?

  ‘See, I always thought that’s what you were,’ he said, holding the back of my hair in his fist. ‘And that’s what you’d always be, but yesterday you showed me you were something else. That you weren’t a good soldier any more.’

  I told him that I was a good soldier, that I’d always done as he asked, that it was just a swim, an innocent swim, that I was still a good soldier.

  When I said this he pulled me back by my hair so I was about half a metre away from the mirror. I could see myself clearly. My face was red from where he’d dragged my hair back and my eyes were swollen from crying.

  ‘Now listen to me,’ he said, pressing his mouth to my ear. ‘I put this mirror in here so you could have a good look at yourself, ask why you succumbed to temptation, why you let the enemy get inside your head. Does that look like a good soldier, eh?’

  He jabbed his finger at the side of my head as he said this.

  ‘Well, does it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No,’ he said, letting go of my hair. ‘No, it doesn’t. Now I want you to sit there and take a long, long look at yourself and see if you can see the mark of the enemy on you.’

  He gave me a shove and I slumped to the ground. Then he came up behind me and pulled me to my feet. He said that what he was doing was fair, and that any good soldier needs to take their punishment graciously. I had no idea what he was on about but then I saw he had a line of rope wrapped round his arm. He slowly unloosened it and then, grabbing both my hands, he tied the rope round them tightly. I asked him why he was tying me up, said that I wasn’t going anywhere, but he just ignored me. The mirror was directly in front of me, and as I twisted my arms and begged for release Sarge kept telling me to look at that mirror, to see if I could find the good soldier.

  All the while I cried out, begged him to stop. I had no idea why he was doing it. What had I done wrong? He’d never been like this before. Even when I’d played up as a kid, the worst I’d got was a slap round the ear, never this. Never this.

  After a while my arms started to go numb and this scared me. I begged him to untie the rope but he just ignored me and walked to the other side of the room. After a few minutes he started talking but he didn’t sound like Sarge. His voice had changed. It was like some demon had got inside him.

  He told me that the world as I knew it had changed. Out there, out in the village and beyond, across the country, everything had gone to dust. It was just him and me. We were the only ones left.

  What he said seemed to come in and out, like waves, his voice loud then soft, muffled then clear, so I just caught certain words. Twenty-four hours. All gone. Despots. Time of reckoning. Illegal war. He said that bit over and over. Though I didn’t know which war he was talking about: the war in the desert or a new war, one that had just begun out there, that had turned everything to dust. It certainly sounded illegal. But then he said other things. Sweeping it clean. ‘I’m sweeping it clean’, that was it. Then he said her name. Isobel. Said she’d gone too. And her criminal dad. I wanted to know where she’d gone but I didn’t dare ask. Then he started talking about religion and he got all agitated. ‘Death to the zealots,’ he cried. ‘Death to the lot of them.’

  By this point my arms had gone so numb it felt like they’d disconnected from my body. I tried to focus on Sarge’s voice cos it was the only solid thing. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. He stopped. I heard his footsteps on the stone floor and then he began to untie me. My arms were like jelly and flopped by my side. Sarge just stood there, looking at me. His face was completely blank. It was like he was looking at a stranger. I wanted him back. I wanted my dad back.

  ‘Sarge,’ I said, my voice trembling with nerves. ‘Can we … can we stop now? I’ve learned my lesson. I promise you I’ll never do it again.’

 
I was saying what he wanted to hear, not what I believed because I didn’t know what lesson I’d needed to learn or what I’d done wrong. But I didn’t want to stay in that room. I wanted to get out and see what had happened outside, see if Isobel was all right.

  Maybe he read my mind because instead of letting me out he just shook his head and said I had to carry on looking in that mirror to remember who I was and what I could become. ‘What are you?’ he cried. ‘A good soldier or a sheep? It’s your choice.’

  He left me then and I lay curled up on my side staring at myself in that bloody mirror. As the hours passed I memorized every little bit of my face: the dark eyes swollen with tears, the long nose with the bump at the bridge, same as Sarge’s, the lips chapped from lack of water. But though I stared and stared as hard as I could, what I saw wasn’t a good soldier or a sheep. I saw me, a scared little kid, crying for her daddy to come and set her free.

  In the end he did come. He brought with him a plate of bread and dripping and a mug of tepid water. I was so famished I wolfed it down within seconds, almost choking as I stuffed it into my mouth. When I’d finished I told him once again that I’d learned my lesson. I even lied and said that I’d seen a good soldier in that mirror, seen the person I had been and the person I still could be. I told him that I was ready to leave this place, ready to get back to normal, but he just shrugged his shoulders, picked up the empty plate and cup, and headed for the door.

  I screamed then, begged him to let me out, but it was hopeless. I knew that by the expression on his face when he got to the door and turned to look at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice all husky and quiet. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t let you out. You see, this is just the beginning. And believe me, girl, you’re going to wish that you’d never been born.’

  23

  Lisa

  12 December

  When I wake up I see a circle of light on the ceiling. It flutters from side to side, hovering but never settling on any one spot. My head aches. I check the time on my phone. It’s 1 p.m. We’ve slept in.

  I lie there for a while, watching the room turn pink with the winter sun, but then Joe wriggles beside me.

  ‘Too hot,’ he says, kicking the covers off. ‘Can have drink?’

  I’m just about to answer when there’s a knock at the front door.

  ‘I get it,’ cries Joe, and before I can stop him he’s out of the bed and running out of the room.

  ‘Joe,’ I shout, leaping from the bed on to the freezing stone floor. ‘Joe. Wait for me.’

  I walk down the corridor, the events of the previous evening flashing in front of my eyes like images on a projection screen: Isobel’s strange father cowering behind the door, the fat ginger cat purring before the fire, Jimmy, the screaming and those words I’ve tried to block out ever since hearing them: ‘She killed him.’

  I hear voices as I reach the hallway. Who can it be?

  ‘Lisa?’

  I look up. Isobel is standing at the front door. She’s wearing a black woollen winter coat and a thick baby-pink scarf. In her hands she holds a box of eggs.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I say, looking behind me to see where Joe has got to. ‘I’m sorry, I was just … Did Joe let you in?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Isobel, smiling. ‘He’s gone to have a play in my car.’

  I step to the door and look out. Joe is sitting at the wheel of the car, making an almighty noise sounding the horn.

  ‘I should bring him in,’ I say, my head beginning to throb.

  ‘Oh, he’s having fun,’ says Isobel. ‘Look at his little face.’

  She’s right. He’s beaming with happiness. After being cooped up in this house these last few days, anything would seem like fun, even a boring old car horn.

  ‘I just popped over to see how you were,’ says Isobel, cradling the box of eggs to her chest. ‘I was a bit worried about you last night, the way you rushed off from the pub like that.’

  ‘Rushed off?’ I repeat, my voice competing with the blaring noise of the horn.

  ‘I thought Jimmy might have scared you with his silly talk,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Honestly, he can be a bit much at times.’

  I think back to the previous evening and the woman Jimmy says is a killer. My friend. A murderer. I still can’t make sense of it. Then I remember leaving the pub, trying to get Joe into the car and hearing him say ‘bye bye’ in that strange voice.

  ‘There was someone …’ I begin, recalling the dark figure I saw disappearing up the street. ‘Someone watching … I –’

  ‘Lisa, you don’t look well. Why don’t you come inside and sit down?’ says Isobel, guiding me back into the house. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  I feel disorientated as I walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table, like I’ve been floating above everything and am only now coming down to land. I watch as Isobel takes a box of matches from the shelf under the window.

  ‘This will take a few minutes to get going,’ she says as she lights the stove. ‘Gosh, it’s like an ice box in here.’

  I look down at my palms. They are hot and clammy. My head feels wet with sweat. How can that be when it’s mid-December and I’ve spent the night in an unheated house?

  ‘I was worried when I saw Joe at the door,’ she says, smiling nervously. ‘The fact that he’d opened it meant it was unlocked. It was a relief to see that you were okay.’

  My cheeks redden with shame. How could I have been so stupid as to leave the door unbolted? I shudder as I think about what could have happened. What if it hadn’t been Isobel at the door? Christ, Joe could have been taken or he could have wandered off. What a fuck-up I am, what a complete and utter fuck-up.

  ‘Anyway, let’s get you that cup of tea,’ she says, turning back to the stove.

  I watch as she makes the tea, wondering what she must think of me. A frazzled mother who leaves the door open? Isobel can only be a few years older than me but I feel like an incompetent child next to her. That’s certainly what Mark thinks. And I’ve tried to prove him wrong but I just keep slipping up. Again and again and again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Hey,’ says Isobel, putting the kettle down. ‘Don’t be silly. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. God, if forgetting to lock the door were a crime then I’d have been banged up a long time ago.’

  She smiles then sits down at the table next to me.

  ‘I’m just so ashamed,’ I say, putting my head in my hands. ‘I really am. You must think I’m a complete idiot.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ says Isobel, placing her hand on mine. ‘What I think you are is a mum. A mum who’s trying to look after a boisterous little lad all on her own and who would rather die than ask for help. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. ‘It’s just been so … so …’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ says Isobel. ‘We’ve all been there. Divorce, separation, whatever, they take their toll, mentally and physically. It’s why my dad, bless him, counsels young couples for months before they get married. He wants them to be sure they’re making the right decision because, if not, it’s a hell of a battle getting out of it once you’ve tied the knot. I’ve seen women lose their mind over it. Throw in a little one and the stress alone is enough to kill you.’

  She looks at me intently for a moment and I avert my eyes. No matter how kind Isobel is, I can’t risk telling her why I’m really here. It’s too dangerous.

  ‘I should go check on Joe,’ I say eventually, getting up from the table. ‘The car horn’s stopped.’

  ‘I’ve locked the doors,’ says Isobel, putting her hand into her pocket and pulling out her car keys. ‘Here, catch.’

  She throws the keys. I reach out to catch them but they drop on to the stone floor with a clatter.

  ‘Oops,’ says Isobel as I stoop to pick them up. ‘I don’t know about tea, we need to get some coffee into you.’
r />   I smile but inside I feel unsettled. I want to be alone so I can clear my head. If only I could get my strength back then I could think about what to do next.

  I hear Isobel pour the tea as I go out into the hallway and open the front door. My head throbs as I step on to the uneven tarmac and I feel heavy and lethargic, the result of too much sleep. A shaft of sharp winter sun falls on to the car window. I squint as I approach, temporarily blinded by the light. It’s eerily quiet. No murmur from Joe as I point the key fob at the car and push the button. It unlocks with a click. I’m right next to the door but as I go to open it an old memory returns to me.

  I’m putting Joe into his car seat in the back of the car. It’s a freezing-cold day and he’s wearing his snowsuit, which is so thick I’m finding it hard to secure the seat belt properly. When I finally get it closed I hear Mark’s voice behind me. ‘Are you sure you should be taking him to the pool in this weather, Lisa?’ I remember turning round and seeing his face, that familiar look of mistrust cast across it. I’d told him that the pool was heated, that it would be good for Joe to have a swim, though actually it was me who needed to get out of the house and lose myself in the water. ‘Are you sure you haven’t forgotten anything?’ he’d said with a strange smile on his face. ‘Anything at all?’ I’d shaken my head, impatient with him now. I just wanted to get to the pool. Then he’d laughed and pulled my purse out of his pocket. ‘Wouldn’t get very far without this, would you? Honestly, Lisa, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on, wouldn’t you?’ He’d held my wrist then and I’d pulled away, grabbing my purse and putting it into my bag where I was sure it had been when I left the house. It seems in my haste to get away I must have left it behind. As I’d closed the door I could sense Mark putting another black mark next to my name, another reason why I needed him to keep me right.