Beneath the Water

by Sarah Painter

  ALSO BY SARAH PAINTER

  In the Light of What We See

  The Garden of Magic

  The Secrets of Ghosts

  The Language of Spells

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Sarah Painter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542047012

  ISBN-10: 1542047013

  Cover design by Emma Rogers

  For Mum and Dad, with love and gratitude.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  3rd October, 1847

  My dearest Mary,

  I have barely left your side and am already writing my first letter home – I can hear faither’s words in my ears, telling me to ‘haud on’ and settle first, but my thoughts do not feel like true reflections until I have shared them with you. I do hope you are able to respond with haste and that you can tell me all that has occurred in my absence. I particularly wish to hear whether Flora D— was quite as green as she appeared. Some might think me wicked for thinking ill of such a wraith, but you know how well she tormented me for being both unlovely and likely to remain unloved. I can only hope that she is dining heartily upon her old opinion!

  Your ‘poorly wee Jessie’ has managed a good match at last. I feel as though I have been tugging at the skirts of life, hoping to be asked to join the dance and now – happy day – my card is full. I know that you worry, but my only concern is that the folk at home understand the nature of our swift union. Mr Lockhart’s readiness to marry stemmed from his ardent admiration and the pressure of his important work.

  After all the excitement at home, the journey to Edinburgh felt very long and I still feel as though I am rattling in that coach. The causey stanes as we drew near – my dear! I thought my teeth might shake loose. Mr Lockhart laughed when I told him, but he patted my hand quite kindly. We are still rather strange with one another, but perhaps that is usual.

  The weather was unseasonably bright and the house was shown in good aspect as we arrived. There are more trees than I imagined when I pictured Auld Reekie, and with the flaming red leaves set against the grey stone, my new home looked very fine indeed. Mr Lockhart made no exaggeration when he described his town house, it is both grand and large, with four stories and steps up to the front door bordered by shiny black railings. I confess I feel quite unworthy, but I hope I shall adjust in time. The high ceilings and wide stairs do not feel homely although that is not helped by the lack of furniture. Some rooms have shrouded items, as if some period of mourning is still in effect, while others are simply bare. It is cold, too, as my husband (see how I use the phrase – I am trying very hard to grow accustomed) prefers not to waste coal. Do not fret on my account, I believe there is plenty. Mr Lockhart is in great demand. Both with his work and with the men who wish to consult with him at every hour of the day and night. It is a far cry from our quiet wee village and I am frightened I shall let him down. I shall stop there afore I get maudlin.

  I miss you and the family terribly and I’m still your wee Jinty in my heart. Please kiss faither for me.

  Love always,

  Mrs Jessie Lockhart

  (Your wee Jinty)

  CHAPTER ONE

  We’re all dying one minute at a time, it’s just some of us are more aware of it. Stella Jackson placed her hand over her hammering heart and tried to slow her breathing. The familiar tightness in her chest increased. It became a band of iron which cinched her ribs smaller with every inhalation until she was taking shallow sips of air. She put one hand out, instinctively reaching to brace herself, relaxing her knees in case she fainted. Stella had done so many times before and knew it was better to crumple like a puppet with its strings cut, rather than topple like a tree.

  It was his jacket. It was still hung there in the wardrobe and Stella had forgotten. She had not even been thinking about him when she opened the wardrobe door; hadn’t thought about him in all the time since she’d woken up and dressed and had her morning coffee. That small miracle evaporated now, in the face of his navy-blue, mid-weight casual jacket. It was a velvet-like material and one of his favourites. She pinched the soft fabric between finger and thumb and wondered how he had been managing without it, whether he missed it at all.

  Stella leaned against the wall and kicked the wardrobe door shut, hiding the jacket from view. It didn’t help; the damage was already done. Ben’s blue jacket. Ben. She closed her eyes and let her legs fold, her back sliding down the wall until she was sat on her bedroom floor. Stella tipped her head back and let the tears come, wiping them monotonously with the sleeves of her woolly cardigan.

  Her phone was buzzing. The screen was blurry but she registered that it was the agency. They would be calling with a job or to tell her that she was running late for one she’d forgotten about. Either option was distinctly unattractive, so she ignored it. She had always been so reliable, but the break-up had smashed everything into pieces, including her work ethic.

  Once she could blink away the tears and see clearly, Stella looked through her emails, trying to summon the energy to reply to the increasingly concerned – and occasionally irritated – messages from her best friend, Caitlin. Or at the very least to distract herself from unhelpful looping thoughts. There was an email from her mum, too, wondering if she would like to visit on the weekend. There was mention of a roast lunch, a gentle countryside walk, and Stella tried to picture it, to conjure the comfort of home and have it fill the empty space which was gaping in her middle. Instead she found panic. It would be so easy to go home to Reading, to curl up in her old, familiar bedroom and slip into her old role. Poor little Stella. In an instant this dream of living a real life could be snuffed out.

  Why had he left the jacket? Had he wanted, on some level, to leave a door open? A reason to contact her? He didn’t seem to need excuses though, had been phoning and texting and emailing her every week since he left. Maybe, and Stella acknowledged that this was an unlikely, desperate thought, maybe he had wanted to leave a part of himself in their home. Maybe it meant that this was temporary, a nightmare from which she could wake up.

  Stella pulled herself up from the carpet and went to the bathroom to splash water on her face. She avoided looking in the mirror. The big stone tiles, so carefully chosen, seemed to be moving inwards, compressing the space. She had tiled the walls and floor all in the same colour, aiming for chic minimalism, but it just increased the sense of being inside a box.


  Downstairs, her second mug of coffee was on the low table in the living room, cold, and the television was playing, the sound muted. At once, Stella knew she couldn’t stay in this house any longer. She had managed four months, had imagined that she had turned a corner, was on an even keel – and a million other trite phrases for the ability to get through the day without falling into a black hole – but the jacket had shattered that illusion. ‘I am not okay,’ Stella said to the table. The words came out very quietly, almost a whisper. It was like a promise. I am not okay. I am not okay.

  Stella forced herself into motion. She made more coffee and cut up the apple that lay untouched on a plate, as she steeled herself to call the agency. She would see if she could get a placement for the rest of the week. She didn’t like to think any further than that, but it was a start. Caitlin was right; she needed to keep to a routine, and work would help her to get back to normal. She tidied away the laundry first, folding and smoothing clothes until she could feel her breathing was even and deep. Or as deep as it ever got. The phone rang, making Stella jump, even though she knew it was probably a cold call about PPI or double-glazing. The display showed Ben’s number and Stella’s heart stuttered. She was powerless to resist. She could no more ignore his call than she could fly. She was unable to take her hand off the stove, no matter how much it hurt.

  ‘Darling.’ Ben’s voice sent a bolt of longing from her toes to the top of her head. She closed her eyes, as if that would help.

  ‘I’m running late,’ Stella lied. ‘Work.’ She wondered if he was going to ask about his jacket and how freaked out she would be if he did. She’d always thought they were so in tune that they must have some kind of psychic link, but a demonstration of it would not be welcome now. It would only hurt more.

  ‘This won’t take a sec,’ Ben said. ‘I just need to check some figures with you. About the house.’

  The house. Not ‘our house’. Stella put her hand instinctively to her chest, but her heart wasn’t racing.

  ‘I still think you should keep it,’ Ben said, oblivious. ‘I don’t like to think of you having to move. I could help you out with the finances if you could just tell me how much—’

  ‘A change will do me good,’ Stella said. She didn’t want his guilt-money and she didn’t want to talk about the mortgage, the final splitting of their entwined lives.

  ‘But if it’s just a matter of a few months, just until you get back on your feet. Or until you—’

  Stella could sense the words ‘meet someone else’ lining up and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could get them out. ‘I want to move. It’s cool.’ Cool? Where had that come from? Nothing about this was cool.

  ‘I understand.’ Ben was using a strangely careful voice. She missed him so much. Not the Ben she was speaking to at that moment – the new Ben, the one who spoke gently to her as if she might break at any moment, fly apart at the seams and smash ornaments – but the old Ben. The Ben who belonged with the jacket she had found in the wardrobe. The Ben who had loved her. The Ben who had wanted to build a life with her.

  ‘I know this has been hard,’ Ben was saying, ‘but your mum says you’re still planning on selling up and we both think you’re being too hasty. I mean, it’s a stressful business.’

  He paused and Stella wondered when he had spoken to her mother. They used to talk all the time. She would hear him on the phone to her, relaying news about Stella’s health, her latest check-up, how well she was doing. Stella had pretended to be annoyed, with a ‘don’t talk about me’, but she had loved it. It had made her feel safe, cared for, adored.

  When she didn’t speak, Ben sighed. It was a ‘you are being difficult’ sigh. The sigh of a long-suffering man who was being reasonable. ‘I just don’t like to think of you having to go through all that upheaval. And you love that place, I know you do. I don’t want you to make a rash decision and regret it later.’

  Stella stared hard at the wallpaper. It had a beautiful abstract pattern reminiscent of a forest, and had cost an arm and two legs from Designers Guild. He was right, she did love the house, and she knew that Ben did, too. She couldn’t help but think that was part of why he didn’t want her to sell. He didn’t want it to fall into a stranger’s hands, even though he no longer wanted to live in it himself. ‘You’re being selfish,’ Stella said, surprising herself. ‘I need to move on. This isn’t helping.’

  ‘I understand,’ Ben said quickly. ‘You do whatever you think is best for you. I just want you to think about it. Promise me you’ll think about it, take a bit more time.’

  Stella had been standing too long. She tried not to picture somebody pouring liquid from a jug into her chest cavity, but it was difficult. She’d had too much practice. ‘Okay,’ she said, to finish the conversation. She ought to say goodbye and hang up, but she couldn’t. A small part of her was waiting for Ben to say he’d changed his mind, made a mistake. That stupid small part of her which didn’t appear capable of keeping up with current events.

  ‘Right-oh,’ he said instead. ‘I’ll let you get to work.’

  Stella almost said she didn’t have to go, forgetting that she’d already said that she did.

  ‘Bye, bye, bye.’ Ben always said ‘bye’ three times, very fast, when finishing a telephone conversation, and he hung up immediately afterwards, not waiting for the answering ‘goodbye’.

  Stella’s strength was sapped. She sat on the sofa with her phone and tried not to think about how she ought to be in work. Just because she was grieving didn’t mean she didn’t need money. It was difficult to be motivated about a losing battle, though. Stella knew that she couldn’t afford the mortgage even if she worked seven days a week, and that selling the house was another inevitable stage in this horrible process.

  She read the latest email from Caitlin. Do come up whenever you like. It would be so good to see you. She and Rob had been inviting Stella to stay with them ever since the break-up and Stella had turned them down. First she’d been in denial, expecting Ben to change his mind. Then she hadn’t been able to comprehend leaving what was familiar. Now Stella stared at the black characters on the lit screen and wondered. It would be ridiculous to go to Scotland. And Caitlin and Rob were probably only being polite. Caitlin had been in the role of caretaker their entire friendship, had probably breathed a big sigh of relief when Ben had taken Stella on and was now just offering out of habit, a sense of duty. Stella knew that wasn’t really true – or not, at least, entirely true – but it burned nonetheless. Poor Stella. Poor, delicate Stella. And now, just when her physical heart had been fixed, her metaphorical one had been smashed to pieces instead.

  She ought to stay, to bag up Ben’s stuff and drop it at his flat like a grown-up. She ought to phone the agency and get work for the rest of the month. Go to her parents’ house on the weekend and smile nicely and eat all of her lunch and laugh at her dad’s awful jokes and reassure them that she was fine, fine, fine.

  In one of her earliest memories, Stella is at the doctor’s surgery. She is sitting on what feels like a very high bed. It’s just the standard type, of course, but she is very small and the floor seems far away. Her legs dangle off the edge and she is frightened of toppling forward and falling and falling. Stella is stripped to the waist and ripping electrodes off her chest, as fast as the doctor can reattach them. Her hands are a blur, moving quickly to pull the hated things away, her terror overriding the innate sense of good behaviour.

  That’s what Stella remembered most: that she had been misbehaving. In that moment, she had been a wild thing.

  It felt like that again, now. Stella’s heart was racing, stuttering, but there was excitement mixed in with the fear. She felt a wildness. There weren’t any electrodes to rip from her skin, but she could do the unexpected.

  Stella moved before the feeling passed, knowing that if she waited she’d likely end up back in bed, the duvet pulled over her head.

  It took less than an hour to reply to Caitlin’s email and pack a ba
g. There was a line of ornaments on the retro G Plan sideboard and she took her favourite, her grandmother’s green glass inkwell.

  It was as if she didn’t plan to come back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It didn’t seem possible, but the clouds actually got thicker and darker as Stella navigated the road towards Arisaig. Caitlin had given her detailed directions and warned her not to rely on satnav and to make sure she had a decent amount of petrol when she left Fort William, but she still felt ill-prepared.

  When she was little, Stella had wanted very much to live in a Gothic fairy tale. Something with dark, enchanted woods and lakes filled with monsters and mermaids. A part of her had been expecting a little of that fantasy to come true in the Highlands, a part of her that had no doubt been seduced by novels and ‘Visit Scotland’ adverts. Instead, it was merely wet. She could barely see the road, let alone the scenery.

  The rain continued as she crossed the River Lochy, and there were more cars and caravans than she had expected. Why the hell were people out in this weather? She was desperate, possibly experiencing some kind of psychological breakdown; what was their excuse? It seemed a ridiculously narrow road, too. Stella’s knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel after another lunatic overtook her car, but Caitlin had told her that, unbelievably, it used to be single-track only. She saw by the signs that she was approaching Glenfinnan with its famous Hogwarts Express viaduct, but it was too dingy to see anything; the clouds had closed around the day, as if shutting shop early.

  When she finally saw the sign for Arisaig village, the cloudy blankness had merged into proper night-time dark and a howling wind had sprung up to join the party. Caitlin and Rob lived on the edge of the village, and Stella crawled along until she saw the turning Caitlin had described. Hedges and trees were just shapes, and when she switched off the headlights, Stella was plunged into an unreal blackness. The ground was soaked and she stood in a deep puddle the moment she stepped from the car.