The Dark Lake

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘Nothing like her,’ I whisper.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘She really didn’t look anything like them.’

  Felix glances back at the Ryans. ‘No, she really didn’t. It’s that blonde hair. She really did have amazing hair.’

  ‘Like Rapunzel.’

  ‘Yep.’ He stifles a yawn. ‘Fuck, I’m tired. I wish I could hold your hand right now. And more.’

  I smile at him and suddenly my mouth is twisting into a sob. ‘Later,’ I manage.

  He nods at the stage and straightens.

  A rumpled-looking John Nicholson taps awkwardly at the microphone and then mouths something to the blonde lady, who is looking on encouragingly. The shushing waves over the crowd until the only sounds that can be heard are cicadas and the ragged crying of an overtired baby.

  ‘Thank you all for coming here today.’ He swallows heavily. ‘Rosalind Ryan was …’ There is a pause and his hands grip the sides of the lectern, his eyes moving up to the sky as if in prayer and then slowly moving back to the crowd. ‘Rosalind Ryan was a gifted teacher, a wonderful student and an amazing person. You all know that. That’s why we’re all here.’

  A group of girls near us, faces wet with tears, clutch each other’s hands. One suddenly breaks into loud crying as the others rub her back, murmuring in her ear.

  Nicholson acknowledges the crying with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Today is about celebrating her wonderful life and the incredible passion she had for Smithson and her students. Rosalind was so proud of you all and proud of what she achieved here.’ Nicholson’s voice cracks and he steps back from the microphone, but I can still hear the guttural sob that escapes his mouth. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and appears to breathe in strength, steadying himself before he talks again. ‘What happened last week was a tragedy. Something we will never really understand. Rosalind would not want us to dwell on that though. There are so many things to celebrate about her short life that it makes no sense to speculate beyond that. That is the job of the police, and I know that they are doing everything they can to achieve justice for Rosalind and her family.’

  Nicholson gives a not-so-subtle nod in our direction and hundreds of eyes turn on us. I feel a mild flush creep across my cheeks and I lean away from Felix slightly.

  ‘People deal with something like this in very different ways. And that is completely fine. There is no right or wrong way to feel. Today a few students are going to perform for us in celebration of Ms Ryan, or simply tell us something special about her so that we can share our memories and remember how much she meant to us all.’

  Nicholson clears his throat loudly. ‘Rosalind’s family are also here with us today.’

  He turns to where the Ryans are seated. George Ryan seems to nod at Nicholson but his jaw remains set. The brothers are erect and steely. A low murmur rustles from the audience. I look to Nicholson again, who is shifting his weight back and forth.

  ‘Thank you for being here today. Your Rosalind meant a great deal to us. We can’t begin to imagine your pain. Please know she will never be forgotten at Smithson.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ George’s gravelly voice booms without a microphone and cuts through the singing cicadas.

  Nicholson continues, ‘First, two of our students are going to share a reading for Ms Ryan. And then we will have a song from Camille Hollback, one of our talented year ten students. And then the year twelves have a special announcement to make in Ms Ryan’s honour.’ He bobs his head as he steps backwards and makes his way off the stage.

  I lean forward so I can see the front rows. Behind the family and a little to the left are the teachers. I recognise most of them from our staffroom interviews the other day. The PE teacher’s broad shoulders form a large square in between two petite women. I recognise Izzy with her bright red hair and the older lady who grabbed manically at her hanky when we asked about Rosalind.

  Then I spot Candy Fyfe in a sleeveless red shirt talking intimately to a TV camera. She flicks her head dramatically and gazes steadily into the lens for a few moments before gesturing for her cameraman to focus on the stage.

  ‘He’s pretty upset, don’t you think?’ Felix is watching Nicholson.

  ‘He’s allowed to be, isn’t he?’

  Two girls clutching single red roses make their way onto the stage, holding hands. Nicholson nods at them encouragingly. The students look like otherworldly elves, with long feathery haircuts and large almond-shaped eyes. They exchange looks and smile grimly, as if summoning the strength to do whatever is coming.

  ‘Ms Ryan was the most incredible teacher.’ The first girl speaks in a hushed whisper. The second girl grips her hand a little tighter. ‘She was so passionate and wanted us to love books and reading as much as she did. She really helped us to learn. Really learn.’

  ‘She really did. Every day in one of her classes was like an adventure. She wanted us to know new worlds without having to go anywhere. She taught us that anything is possible.’

  The first girl starts to cry. The second girl continues, ‘We want to say thank you to Ms Ryan. We will never forget you.’

  The first girl nods through her tears and manages to speak. ‘This is a scene from one of our favourite texts. Ms Ryan always said that it shows how great love stories can change the way you look at the world.’

  ‘It’s from The Velveteen Rabbit,’ says the second girl.

  They draw deep breaths in unison, then take it in turns to read the characters.

  ‘What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’

  ‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’

  ‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’

  ‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’

  My eyes sting with tears. Felix’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The sound of sobbing fills the air.

  The two girls nod at the audience then step down from the stage.

  The world tips as I spot Rodney Mason. Ghosts immediately ripple around me. He is standing to the side of the stage; he already looks older than Jacob ever did. Donna Mason stands next to him, a shoulder shorter, her puckered face and upturned chin challenging the crowd. I wonder if she too is thinking about Jacob’s memorial all those years ago. The sobbing students. The guilty teachers. The relentless rain. The crippling shock. The nothingness that lay ahead. Donna’s face looks like it froze that day and never thawed out again.

  Another girl is on the stage now, white fingers gripping a microphone, her long blonde hair pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail.

  ‘I’m going to sing a song that is very special to me. I wrote it last year and Ms Ryan helped me to practise it when I was auditioning for drama school. I will never forget her patience and support. I dedicate this song to her.’

  The girl looks across the crowd and into the fiery sun. She slowly shuts her eyes, her chest moving up and down for a few beats before she begins to sing. Low and husky, her voice wraps around the crowd, intoxicating. Electricity zaps through the air. The song is a haunting bluesy poem. The girl never opens her eyes. Felix glances at me and
raises his eyebrows, impressed. He can feel the current too. I can feel Rosalind around me: her sensual, addictive presence. I always knew why Jacob fell for her. She was magnetic. She was so beautiful, so special. In her presence it was hard to think beyond her face and velvet stare. Everything else simply faded away.

  The final note of the song blurs into the hum of cicadas. The girl opens her eyes as if waking. She looks skyward and mouths something to the clouds before whispering, ‘Thank you,’ into the microphone.

  John Nicholson is weeping now, tears rolling unchecked down his face. The PR woman watches him anxiously. I can tell she wants him to temper the public display of emotion.

  Breaking away from a huddle of teenagers, Rodney and Maggie Archer walk onto the stage. I spot Kai among the huddle, his head down, as he wipes his wrist across his nose. We finally interviewed Maggie yesterday morning, when she returned from Melbourne. She gave polite, slightly bored answers to our questions and kept repeating the words ‘tragic’ and ‘awful’. She recounted the opening night evening in helpful detail, including her walking to the after party with a large group of friends, but I found her overall tone deeply unsettling.

  Maggie appears overwhelmed by the crowd, ducking her head and shuffling her feet. I am still high from the song, the melody having entered my bloodstream. It’s disorienting. I feel incredibly hot; waves of white crash over my vision and there’s no sound. I grip my chair, trying not to faint.

  A few seconds pass before the scene shudders back into full colour and I can hear voices again. I look at Felix, who is oblivious to my little episode. I catch the end of Maggie’s speech.

  ‘It’s what she would want, so we hope to see as many of you on the second of January as possible. Plus, all of the profits will go towards supporting the ongoing arts program here at Smithson.’

  Rodney kicks his foot at the ground. ‘Being together right now is important. Stories, music and art will help us all to heal. Please do this one final thing for her. For Ms Ryan.’

  A flip rises in his voice and I remember him as a child, alone and broken, mourning a dead brother. He lifts his eyes and looks over at the Ryans before quickly looking back at the ground. Maggie walks away from the microphone, a soft smile on her face as she greets some classmates. Rodney realises he’s standing on the stage alone and shuffles backwards awkwardly, his eyes still downcast. Donna’s scowl deepens as she watches her son leave the stage. The Ryans haven’t moved. I think what stunning statues they would make.

  I will my brain to work, to emerge from this endless carousel of Rosalind, escape the red haze of the past. I turn slowly to Felix. He is real and stable. He is here. He meets my eyes.

  ‘I reckon that kid knows something,’ he says, leaning close to me.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, watching Rodney hugging his friends, his eyes closed.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Felix says, ‘looks like we’re going to the theatre.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Friday, 18 December, 1.48 pm

  ‘Yes?’ My voice is snappy as I answer the phone, reaching around the back of my neck to knead the muscles. I’m tired, broken by the memorial service. My face is tight from a light sunburn and memories play Tetris in my mind as I pore over the police reports, trying to find anything of note. Felix was supposed to meet me back here at 1.30 pm but he hasn’t shown up yet. We’re getting nowhere on Rosalind’s case and the collective frustration is becoming more tangible by the minute.

  ‘Woodstock, call for you.’ Kenny Prosie is on the switch, his whining voice curiously managing to be both distinctive and generic. Kenny’s dad is one of the old boys here and, because of this, Kenny thinks that working the switch is beneath him. In fact, Kenny thinks that pretty much any task he is asked to do is beneath him.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Some posh English bird. Says she wants to speak to the lead detective on the Ryan case. Lila someone.’

  Rosalind’s stepmother. I left her several messages after I spoke to George Ryan on Wednesday. ‘Put her through, Kenny,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Kenny sarcastically.

  There’s a click and then a pause. A soft clipped ‘hello’ comes down the line.

  ‘Detective Woodstock. Is this Lila Wilcox?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Hello. Sorry for my tardiness. I didn’t get your messages until today. I’ve been travelling.’

  Her voice is precise, like that of a newsreader. I picture a long lean throat, coiffed hair. I flick my headset on, quickly google her and confirm that I am right. A handsome-looking woman with piercing coal eyes and ivory skin stares out at me.

  ‘I’m glad you called me back. I want to talk to you about Rosalind.’

  ‘Rose,’ she corrects me quickly. There is a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened. She was your stepdaughter?’ I’m still scrolling down pages of search findings on Lila Wilcox. From what I can tell she is a very high-profile person in HR.

  ‘Yes. I married George in ninety-seven. We divorced four years later.’

  Rosalind was about fourteen when they split. A fairly impressionable age to lose a mother figure. I should know. ‘What was your relationship with Rose like?’ I ask her, remembering that George said they were close.

  ‘Well, she was a Ryan,’ starts Lila, and then seems to interrupt her own train of thought. I can tell she is shaking her head. ‘No, look, really, she was a delight. A bit prickly at first but then she completely won me over. I certainly ended up being closer to her than the others. I am devastated about this. I’m in shock, I suppose, but I haven’t seen her in over ten years. So it all seems very distant. My life is over here now.’

  ‘Where is here?’

  ‘Shanghai. I moved here in 2004.’

  ‘And you and Rose didn’t stay in touch?’

  ‘We did a little. Especially at first. We would talk on the phone. Write sometimes. I felt guilty for leaving her, I suppose. Such a bright child.’

  ‘But then?’

  ‘Then, well …’ Her voice trails off and I can only hear soft breathing. ‘Then I guess I got busy and she grew up. She moved out. I invited her to come and stay with me but Rose was not much into travel. She was very much a homebody. Even as a teenager.’

  I think about her neat little place. Felix was right: it could have belonged to a grandmother.

  ‘Why did you feel guilty about leaving her? She was always going to stay with her father, I assume?’ I emphasise the word ‘father’ to see if it sparks any response.

  ‘Oh well, I don’t know. A young girl alone with just boys. Especially those boys. I suppose Marcus was okay. The others could be a bit predatory—just the age they were at, I think, but I still worried for her. Her father was useless.’ There’s a flash of malice in Lila’s words, a bitterness.

  ‘Useless in what way?’

  Lila sighs. ‘Look, nothing that bad, nothing that is really notable. In fact, it’s so textbook it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Textbook?’ I venture.

  ‘Oh, you know, pretty young childless woman falls for handsome, rich widower with lots of children. I was basically Maria in The Sound of Music. Or at least George wanted me to be.’

  ‘But that didn’t suit you?’

  ‘No! And I told him before we were married that I was very serious about my career. I think he just hoped my maternal instincts would kick in.’

  ‘But they didn’t.’ There’s a fierceness about Lila. I imagine her and a younger George Ryan fighting. I’m sure it would have been something to witness.

  ‘Not really. Perhaps a little with Rose. Like I said, she did win me over, but I’m not made for motherhood.’ Lila pauses and her prim voice cracks slightly. ‘She did get under my skin though. She was quite a magnetic child, quite unusual. I found myself wanting to look after her. I worried about her but I don’t quite know why. I think it really bothered George, actually.’

  ‘When did you last speak to Rose?’

  She cle
ars her throat delicately and there’s a tissue involved; I can hear it rustling. ‘That’s really why I called you back. We spoke last week. We used to speak every few months or so. She seemed uncharacteristically chatty. Happy. We talked about her play—she called me just before the final rehearsal. From the school, I think. She was incredibly excited about it.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘No, no. She also told me that she’d met someone.’

  ‘Like a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, yes, a boyfriend. Someone who she said she was very serious about. But she seemed nervous. She wouldn’t actually tell me anything about him.’

  ‘You asked?’

  ‘Of course I asked! She and I are close when we do talk, but she doesn’t usually share things like that with me. I was happy for her. She sounded very keen on him, but when I asked her his name, what he did—you know, the normal things—she was very cagey.’ Lila lets out a little sob. ‘The poor man must be beside himself, whoever he is. I suppose you have spoken to him?’

  I tap my fingers on my desk. Someone has put the cricket on and there is a rumble from the crowd as a wicket is taken. I still can’t see Felix anywhere. ‘We’ve been in contact with all of her friends and family,’ I tell Lila neutrally. ‘Did Rose say anything else?’

  ‘Just that they were going to move in together in the new year. She said they had it all worked out.’

  Chapter Thirty

  then

  Letters shook across the page. I tried to reread the words, tried to take them in, but it was as if they had turned into numbers. It was my last exam. The summer stretched out in front of me, bleak and empty. Someone had forgotten to wake the sun. Jacob had called me just like he said he would and we’d spoken like we always had, about school, his job, my dad and The X-Files, but there was a fault line now, a dangerous shaft that we tiptoed around, in case it gave way and we found ourselves falling. Something was wrong with him but I didn’t know what and I didn’t know how to ask. I was too busy with my own grief.