“You can get rid of your own mess,” she said and crossed the room, stumbling from side to side, as though the floor was moving beneath her feet. She opened the small door and the room filled with white sunlight. I crept forwards, the handle of the bucket looped over my wrists, and I saw in front of me a wooden walkway, surrounded each side by water.
“Go on,” said Grace. “To the end with it.”
The sun warmed my cheeks and my ears filled with birdsong as a pair of swallows flitted in and out of the frothy leaves of a nearby willow. I walked forwards until I reached the end of the jetty then tipped the contents of the bucket over the edge, afterwards kneeling down on the other side to swill it out. The water was cold against my fingers and I set down the pail, cupping a handful and throwing it against my face, willing it to bring me back to the real world.
I turned around and Grace was still there.
I was a prisoner, trapped by the very thing I feared the most – what was hidden beneath the surface of the water.
Grace tossed me a crusty roll; feeding time at the zoo. I tore at the bread, unable to remember the last time I had eaten anything. On one side of the lake a large house poked its head over the top of a row of fir trees. My mind jolted; there was something familiar about the custard colour of the stonework and the neat, rectangular windows which seemed to blink in the sunlight.
I had seen this house before.
I finished my breakfast and brushed myself down, the crumbs falling through the wooden slats and into the water. A tiny shoal of silver minnows came to the surface, making circles with their dark mouths. I closed my eyes, reaching out for the smiling man who was standing next to me, net in one hand, jam jar in the other. Daddy? But when I opened my eyes, I saw my fingers were clawing at thin air.
Grace rolled a bottle of water to me.
She sank to the floor and sat cross-legged like a child. “Mermaids. Everything that happened was because of a fucking mermaid.”
I frowned.
“Is it here now?” asked Grace, swishing her hand under the surface of the lake. I took a gulp of water and stared into her bloodshot eyes, holding her stony gaze.
Then I heard it; loud, mournful singing, bubbling up from the deep. I scrabbled to my knees and peered into the gloom.
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord, show me the way.
The singing grew louder. I pinched the soft skin of my forearm.
The wailing trickled into my ears and echoed around the walls of my mind. I plunged my hands into the cool water, trying to catch hold of whatever was hiding below. My body trembled – this was the first time I had heard her outside of my dreams. My stomach somersaulted. She was real.
You must unlock the casket, my darling girl. I loved you so much. Do this for me.
I pressed my body flat against the wooden slats and swirled my arms, willing the unseen creature to swim into my embrace. Pond skaters tickled my nostrils whilst strings of weed slid through my fingers.
I held my breath.
I could hear her so why couldn’t I see her?
Her unbearable wailing spilt into my soul causing a sharp pain which sliced across my stomach. The noise was deafening and pressed against my temples. Unable to resist any longer I slid my body into the water.
Immediately the singing stopped and all I could hear was the march of blood drumming around my ears.
I was sinking and my hair swirled around my head.
Then I heard screaming and I realised it was coming from above me. Water seeped into my nostrils and my chest tightened. When I looked up, there was Grace’s face, as though melting behind a sheet of glass. She was shrieking but the sound was muted.
Blind panic coursed through my body. I kicked my feet, but my bound arms were like lead weights pulling me down and strangling me. I was swept under the wooden bridge and plunged headlong into a tangle of olive weeds.
I was going to die. Bubbles like glass beads danced about my head, growing smaller with each second.
There was a loud splash and I felt a vice like grip under my arms and then all went black.
The next thing I remember was lying on the decking, coughing up water and undigested clumps of bread.
Grace was on her back, propped up on her elbows, panting. Rivulets of water trickled down her face and her clothing clung to her body and made a damp border around her frame.
“What the fuck?” she said. “You don’t get to choose. D’ya hear me? You don’t get to choose.” She rolled onto her side and then heaved herself onto all fours.
Her body froze and a noise came from within her which made my skin prickle.
I followed her gaze and there, amongst the bundle of dislodged blackened weeds, I saw the unmistakable shape of a human skull.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Flo
Mum and I sat in a café which was tucked into a corner of The Covered Market. I had chosen it mainly because Mum had turned her nose up at its sticky wooden floorboards and the limp flowers dangling out of their milk bottle vases. But it also had a huge selection of crazy sounding milkshakes and I was enjoying sucking pink froth off the top of my nutty butter n’ thimbleberry mix. My eyes were fixed on the shop opposite which had loads of bright coloured, old-school satchels stacked up in the window – they were ugly and cost a fortune; I really couldn’t figure out who would buy one.
Mum pinched the handle of her teacup and sipped her herbal tea as though she thought someone might have poisoned it. A great tragedy had occurred on our way over; one of her gel nails had torn and every so often, when she wasn’t giving a running commentary on the state of the locals, she picked at it.
“I think you should see if that fancy salon can fit you in,” I said, pointing at the peeling mauve husk dangling from her thumb.
“But, darling, I don’t want to spoil our shopping expedition. Maybe you could come with me and get your nails done too?” She cleared her throat. “Someone could tidy up your brows while they were at it.”
I snorted and pink milk splattered onto the table. That was such a classic Nina move. Mum tutted and wiped up the spillage with her napkin.
“Thanks, Mum. If it’s alright with you, I might just poke my head into a couple of the colleges.”
Mum’s mouth twitched. “But I thought Oxford was far too elitist for you.”
“Ah. That was when I didn’t think I stood any chance of getting in.” I sat up straight-backed. “Ms Phibbs thinks I have potential.”
Mum arched an immaculately plucked eyebrow.
“Seriously, you go and get those nails seen to. I’m going to take a few photos of any colleges that I like the look of. Maybe see if I can find a couple of students hanging around and ask them what it’s like to study here.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
When we walked through the door of the salon, the temptations proved too much for Mum and, as well as having her nails done, she decided on having a seaweed skin wrap. It bought me at least a couple of extra hours to myself which was perfect.
As I was about to leave Mum in reception, filling in forms and drinking more herbal tea, I had a final go at getting some more info about Frank. “Mum, do you have any suggestions about which colleges I should visit?”
Mum remained focused on her questionnaire, repeatedly clicking the end of her biro. “They all look the same to me. Straight after the wedding your father and I had our drinks reception at one of them.”
“I didn’t know that. How lovely.” Any photos taken on that special day had either been destroyed or boxed up and shoved in the loft.
Mum set the clipboard down on the coffee table. “As you well know, my disastrous marriage to your father isn’t something I really like to talk about.” I bit my lip, resisting the urge to point out that I was the by-product of that disastrous marriage. A woman in a white coat came over and took the paperwork away.
“The Dark Ages,” I said under my breath.
“What did you say?
” Mum was now engrossed by the varnishes on the shelf behind her.
“I said it’s going to take ages, looking around the colleges. It would be nice to have a starting point. A connection. I mean, you always said you were a couple of weeks pregnant before you married Dad so, technically, I have been to one of them before.”
Mum laughed and picked up paparazzi pink. “Well, if I remember correctly, it was dear Frankie who sorted the venue for us. It was such short notice, but I think he managed to pull a few strings because he was one of the resident tutors and friends with the Provost.”
“That was kind of him,” I said, my heart beating a bit faster. “Can you remember the name?”
Mum shrugged. “Sadly, it wasn’t one of the one’s that’s always on Inspector Morse, but I seem to remember it has some connection to Alice in Wonderland. Yes, that’s it! We had our photos taken at the end of a long stone corridor which is meant to be the inspiration for the rabbit hole Alice fell down or some such nonsense. Your father, of course, thought the whole thing was marvellous.”
The woman in the lab-coat returned with a folded dressing gown which she handed to Mum. “We’ll meet at The Duke of Norfolk at five for a cocktail,” she said, leaning over and kissing my cheek. “That’s the one at the top end of the shopping street just over the road from our hotel.” The double doors behind the reception desk opened, filling the room with a minty lavender smell. Mum was shunted into the hidden bit, and I tried my hardest not to sneeze.
I went back onto the High Street, now rammed with tourists, and took a sharp right turn down a cobbled passageway. I leant my back against the wall, took out my phone, and googled Alice in Wonderland in Oxford. Fuck; almost every college claimed a link to this Lewis Carrol guy and even with the extra seaweed hours, I didn’t have enough time to go into every one of them.
I came out of the side street and ahead of me was a weird round, yellow stone building with a domed roof. I sat down on the steps in front of the main door, not giving a shit that I’d stuck myself right in the middle of an Asian trio’s super complex photo shoot. I rested my chin on my knees and swept my hand over the dusty ground next to my feet. This was a total waste of time – I’d have been better browsing on the internet back at the hotel.
When I looked up again, I was staring at a bloke wearing a velvet tailcoat with a frothy cravat around his neck and a wonky top hat. The woman standing next to him was in a floaty linen dress, a pair of fluffy rabbit ears on her head and a large, cardboard cut-out of a fob watch pinned to her waist. She held a wooden placard with the Queen of Hearts playing card pasted onto it and Alice Tours painted in black italics underneath.
I went over. “Excuse me.”
The girl turned and stared down her pointy nose at me.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me which of the colleges have a special connection with Lewis Carrol.”
She waved a fistful of pamphlets at me. “Join the tour and you can find out for yourself. Thirty pounds for an hour’s guided tour.”
“I’ll just take a flyer, thanks.”
“One pound fifty,” said the girl. What a rip off. I handed the money over and sat back on the steps to read the info. It was the last one on the list, Gloucester College, which claimed the tunnel link.
From a distance, the college looked like a Lego castle and I kept expecting a knight on horseback to come charging out of the large wooden gates. I walked across a small courtyard and through a cut-out door in the gate and then I found myself standing on a large stone patio, looking between fat, circular pillars at a stripy lawn. One side of the quad looked like it was part of a magnificent Georgian town house, but the other side was made up of little cottages with diamond windows and low rooves.
A door behind opened and a man in a hoody came out. He held it open for me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, ducking under his arm. I stood inside a rectangular hall with a high ceiling, wood panelled walls and large windows. Benches ran up either side of the room leading to a table set on a raised platform at the end. There were a few people sitting at one of the benches, chattering away and eating salad off china plates, but no one turned to look at me.
I spotted a load of group photos which ran the length of one of the walls. Each frame was full of dorky students wearing black gowns and silly square hats. The name of each student was written underneath in italics and the year was drawn in metallic pen at the very bottom of the frame.
Mum and Dad had been married sixteen years ago.
I counted back on my fingers and stopped in front of what I reckoned was the right time Mr and Mrs Marchant would have been hanging around Oxford. One photo stood out – it was more colourful than the rest – the people in it were wearing bright gowns with fluffy edges. Their faces were wrinkly, there was more grey hair, or no hair, plus there were a lot of men with beards. The professors. I ran my finger along the names and found F.J.P. Fanshawe with a load of random initials after his name. There he was; big round face and neatly trimmed beard. He hadn’t changed much over the years; he’d just got a bit fatter and his facial hair had turned whiter.
So what? So, he had taught here and met Dad. That didn’t prove anything.
I went back outside and walked down the steps towards the lawn which was covered in keep off the grass signs. Though I was pissed off I decided I ought to at least see the tunnel but it didn’t make me feel any better. I didn’t feel the magic flowing through my veins. Alice in Fucking Wonderland.
I returned to the lodge and was nearly flattened by two students running up the stairs with folders under their arm. I followed them up the spiral staircase and as they swiped their cards against the magnetic reader, I snuck in. I had found the library.
I remembered how pleased Frank had been last year when someone asked him to write an article for one of the big newspapers and Mum had gone out and bought loads of copies to send to her friends. I didn’t see the big deal, you could have got it online, but Dad said that academics always liked to see their name in actual print.
I went into the medical area and found Frank’s name in the psychology section. I hopped from book to book searching every index. Time and again his name came up under the heading “Fanshawe’s Safe Housing theory.”
I tried to read some of the entries but didn’t understand the language – it was too complicated. A huge medical dictionary had a more basic summary:
Once considered pioneering treatment for trauma: Fanshawe’s Safe Housing theory relies on creating a safe place within the patient’s mind then storing the memory and unpacking it at a later stage when the patient is able to deal with it. Trials have had limited success, with doctors preferring other forms of cognitive therapy. Fanshawe himself has said his therapy is no longer necessary thanks to the emergence of Detra-holzepene, a drug which he claims to be a much more effective method of trauma management. See article 2008 in Harper’s Medical Journal for further examples.
Fuck! I searched along the row of paperback journals and picked up the one with 2008 on its skinny spine. I flicked through, expecting to see another dull essay, but then I spotted the initials PTM at the end: Phineus Thomas Marchant. It had been written by Dad. I slipped the journal into my bag.
I went back to my hotel room, ordered tea and chocolate cake then sat in a comfy chair by the window and went through the article. It was very Dad – all facts and no detail.
“Girl X. Eight-years-old. She has behaviour issues, is disruptive and suffers from night terrors. Together we created a safe place for her to retreat. She chose an aquarium as her favourite place and we have buried her bad memories there inside a treasure chest. She has a key, something I picked up from a charity shop, and with which she seems taken. The prop is effective in making her take control and will act as a trigger to unlock her thoughts at a later date. After two weeks, with the memory safely stored, her family note that there has been an improvement in behaviour.”
That was it. I poured a second cup of tea and continued flicking th
rough. There were a few photographs in the middle of the book; one was a child’s drawing done in thick crayon. Underneath the picture was the title: Girl X’s drawing of her Safe House. I smoothed the page and looked closer, trying to make out what the shapes were meant to be. The girl had drawn a rectangular tank with a treasure-chest at the bottom and dotted all around were coloured triangles – fish, I guessed.
I spilt tea onto my lap.
There, at the bottom of the tank was a tiny creature; it had a fish’s tail but a human body with hair swirling around her face. Murtle had been scribbled next to her head.
It was Lily’s mermaid.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace
I loitered at the foot of the drive and leant my head against the first in line of the army of redwoods which guarded the mile-long sweeping entrance to Aldeburgh House, now Alpha Apartments. I was relieved that the Wellingtonians hadn’t been carved up along with my home. I shut my eyes and imagined the gravel beneath my feet, refusing to acknowledge the tarmac which had been laid to appease the Porsche owners. I pressed my palm against the tree’s rough surface and gulped in the evening air which mingled with the sweet scent of resin and damp bark.
The taxi driver revved his engine.
I veered off to the left and unlatched the gate to a bridleway which was peppered with dandelions. I glimpsed the slate roof of the gatekeeper’s lodge through the leafy treetops and beckoned for the car to carry on. I wanted to walk the last bit.
There! There is Emily delighting in her mother’s gowns, ringing a bell to summons Cookie into the drawing room with a pot of Earl Grey.
I laughed at the irony; the Grace I had created was born to be the new Lady of the manor and I almost felt guilty that I’d got rid of her.
I always knew I would have to return to Frank at some stage. After all, we had made a deal; he would make everything go away as long as I kept myself hidden. But I couldn’t keep my promise and now that I had allowed myself to be found I must go along with the consequences, whatever they might be.
The Cry of the Lake Page 15
