‘I’m fine.’ I respond, and Grace raises an eyebrow. ‘Well there’s been so much to think about, and I haven’t really had the time to …’ I begin to feel unsteady, as if I’m standing on the juddering floor of a funhouse. Grace takes my arm and leads me to a bench opposite the lifts.
‘Are you really okay?’
‘I’m managing.’ I dab at the thin film of perspiration that has appeared above my upper lip. ‘It all just gets a bit much sometimes.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Grace. ‘I just wish I lived a bit closer.’ I’m not quite sure what response she expects, so I remain silent. She reaches over and grips my hand. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring on Michael’s anniversary.’
‘It’s okay.’ I know what to say. ‘I got your card.’
‘No, it’s not okay. I should have called.’ Grace closes her eyes, revealing dark circles hidden beneath expensive concealer. ‘I was thinking about you,’ she says, and she looks as if she’s going to cry. ‘And about Michael, of course. God knows I was.’
‘Grace, it’s all right.’
‘It’s just that,’ she pauses as if struggling with what to say next, ‘we’ve been having a terrible time with Ellie.’ She bites her lower lip. ‘Simon thinks we should get her to see someone.’
‘Someone?’
‘A therapist, counsellor, whatever.’ She pushes the sleeve of her jumper up to expose a large, fist-shaped bruise on her arm.
‘Jesus!’
‘All the crap we’ve had to put up with. Swearing, throwing things, cutting herself. She even …’ Grace shakes her head, unable to continue.
‘I’m sorry.’ I try hard to sound sympathetic, but I wish more than anything that I was in her place.
‘But this isn’t the time, is it?’ says Grace, aware of my discomfort. Taking a deep breath, she seems to gather herself in, as if buttoning a coat up tight. ‘So, aren’t you going to ask me how the drive was?’
‘How was the drive?’
‘Roadworks and an overturned caravan on the M25; the usual.’ She grimaces and tucks a long strand of chestnut-coloured hair behind one ear. ‘So, you’d better give it to me straight, Kat. How’s Mum?’
At first, Grace is calm, almost stoical; but when our mother starts to cough and the saliva trickles down her chin, her composure crumbles.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The stroke and associated dysphasia can sometimes make swallowing difficult,’ I say, adjusting Mum’s pillows. ‘All pretty standard stuff.’ After a moment Grace sits down, rests her arm on the edge of the bed, but refrains from taking our mother’s hand. She talks about the weather, her teaching job, Simon’s new car; a fixed smile masks the emotion that I know is bubbling just underneath. Once or twice I catch her desperate expression: get me out of here, she seems to be pleading, but I don’t know how. My mother is so pleased to see her.
Finally, a nurse arrives with medication, giving us both an excuse to leave. We take the stairs to the back entrance, follow a woodchip-covered path to the nature reserve that borders the hospital, and sit on a bench carved out of an old tree trunk. I hear birdsong, the gentle warbling reminding me of Michael’s fascination with a family of house martins that had nested in the eaves outside his bedroom window every year. Adam had grown impatient with not being able to clean out the guttering, but I still have the series of black-and-white photos Michael had taken of each generation as they hatched and flew to freedom. I can hear Grace breathing and feel the steady rise and fall of her shoulders next to mine.
‘Are you all right, Grace?’
Reaching into her handbag, Grace retrieves a small packet of menthol cigarettes. ‘I know I said I was going to quit.’ She looks as if she is sitting in shadow, even though the sun is bright. Something in her tone makes me look closer. Her expression – eyes narrowed, mouth in a firm, hard line – is one that I recall from years ago when we were both children and she was hankering after a fight.
‘Better give me one,’ I say, reaching for the packet. ‘I’m not going to let you go astray on your own.’ I feel her relax; her deep exhalation seems to swirl the leaves at our feet. She lights our cigarettes, the stone in her engagement ring catching the afternoon sun and splitting it into infinite splinters of light.
‘Be honest with me, Kat,’ she says, taking a long drag. ‘Will she be able to return home? Live on her own, I mean?’
I shrug, relishing the sensation of nicotine seeping through my lungs. ‘Depends,’ I reply. ‘Mobility will be a problem of course. I’m not sure how she’ll get up those narrow stairs.’
‘Should we be having the conversation?’ I feel my throat tighten. Over the years, as our mother has grown older and increasingly frail, we have both skirted around the question of residential care. The fact that I haven’t seen my mother in nearly six months has made it seem all the worse. Grace has kept in touch, even if it has only been by phone and the occasional visit. I’ve only been sporadically engaged.
‘When it comes time,’ Grace lays her hand on mine, ‘I’ll make the decision. You’ve had enough crap from the old bat to last you a lifetime.’
‘Maybe I should have visited more often.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Grace flicks her cigarette into the distance, the glowing end creating a crimson arc through the air. ‘After her little pièce de résistance at Michael’s funeral?’
‘But—’
‘I know she must have loved us once,’ says Grace, her voice flat. ‘Maybe when we were very little. Whether she blamed us for Dad leaving, or for her being cast out …’
‘That was my fault not yours.’
‘I did plenty.’ Grace gives a little chuckle and I wonder if she’s remembering the time when she was collected, drunk and bedraggled, from the quayside, or the Sunday when she refused to attend a Brethren assembly and locked herself in the bathroom. We finally arrived nearly half an hour late to the soft tutting of the elders, with Grace, chin held high, sporting a vibrant purple bruise on her cheek.
‘But you didn’t have a baby out of wedlock.’
‘That was next on my list,’ says Grace, squeezing my hand tightly.
9
I follow Grace back to her hotel, and I’m surprised to see her heading straight for the bar.
‘I need a drink,’ she says, ordering a Jack Daniels for herself and wine for me. She downs hers in one and orders another. ‘It’s going to take a lot more than one drink to deaden what I’ve just seen. You?’
‘Just the one,’ I say. ‘I need to ring Adam and then I’ll be driving back to Calstock.’
‘You’re not still at Mum’s, are you?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘It’s just that …’
‘Well, someone needs to watch the house.’ I’m coming across as a little belligerent; not a good thing. I need Grace on my side. I smile and reset. ‘It’s easier on my own. And there’s the cat to think about.’
‘Ah yes, the cat.’ Grace is clearly not convinced. She swirls a piece of ice around her glass.
‘Why don’t we have something to eat?’ I suggest, hoping to change the subject. I slide a menu her way. We order game pie and mash, which neither of us finish, and a bottle of wine, before finally winding our way back to Grace’s room.
‘There’s no way you’ll be able to drive home now,’ she says, collapsing onto the double bed and kicking off her heels.
‘Maybe I should book a room.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Grace glances through the room service wine list. ‘Stay here with me. I’ve even got a spare t-shirt you can wear.’ She grins mischievously. I shake my head and smile, reminded of the transgressions Grace had enticed me into as a child.
‘Ah well,’ I say, forcing myself to join in on the fun. ‘You know me …’ Reaching into my shoulder bag, I remove a travel toothbrush and spare pair of pants. ‘Always prepared.’
Holding up the white cotton briefs for my sister to see, I watch as something drops from amongst the delicate
folds of lace and spirals its way to the carpet. Bending down, I find it’s the last remnants of the lilies I’d taken to the lake only a few days before. The pale gossamer petals are browning around the edges and the membrane is almost translucent in its decay. The faint scent of rot lifts to my nostrils and in an instant, I am transported back to the day Michael’s remains were lowered into the ground; the release of handfuls of earth into the gaping black hole, and the agonising desire to throw myself in after it; a demented Alice tumbling into darkness.
‘And a bottle of the Sauvignon Blanc please.’ I look over to the bed where Grace, legs dangling in the air, has the telephone pressed to her ear. On seeing my expression, she adds: ‘Actually, you’d better make it two.’
I’m having trouble focusing on the numbers on my mobile phone. I’ve forgotten to ring Adam again and I’m now desperately trying to make up for it by sending him a grovelling text. The letters on the keypad are quivering as if I’ve just stepped off a funfair ride. I’m certain I’ve written the words sorry or I am very sorry at least five times.
‘Give it here,’ says Grace, prying the phone from my hand and replacing it with a glass of wine. ‘You rang him before tea anyway. Is he keeping tabs on you or something?’ She sits down on the bed. ‘The trick is to keep it simple. The more you say, the more you give away.’ I watch my sister tap away. ‘How’s this? “Hi darling, sorry for not ringing. Grace was upset and wanted to stay at hospital until as late as possible. Had to get her settled in hotel first (she had a few drinks!) and just got back to Mum’s. Shattered and know you have a long shift tomorrow so will ring you first thing. Love you. K.” And … send.’
I regard my sister with appreciation.
‘Why did you say I was at Mum’s?’
‘Why not?’ Grace takes a sip of wine. ‘I mean we both know what Adam’s reaction would be if you told him where you really are tonight; pissed as shit in some sixty-quid-a-night Travelodge with your older sister, who is a notoriously bad influence.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ I say, taking the phone and re-reading the message. Even though I know she is right, I still resent her saying it. The truth is that if Adam decided to call me at this very moment, there is absolutely no way I would be able to answer; not just because I can barely string two words together, but more importantly because I would be caught in a lie. Adam doesn’t like lies. I need to clear my head, and right now Adam isn’t my main priority. I have something more important to deal with.
‘Grace,’ I say, draining my glass. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
At first Grace says nothing, just listens, as I drunkenly spill out my story, illustrating my suspicions with photographs from the pages of Michael’s diary taken on my mobile.
‘There’s even one entry, look!’– I point to a highlighted entry – ‘Where Michael says that this Diving Fish girl got nasty when he wanted to make their relationship public.’
‘He was fifteen,’ says Grace calmly. ‘How much trouble could two fifteen-year-olds get into for dating?’
‘It was a little more than dating.’
‘You were pregnant at fifteen!’
Seeing my hurt expression Grace takes my hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry, Kat. It’s, well, just – how dangerous can a fifteen-year-old girl really be?’
‘Maybe she wasn’t fifteen,’ I say. ‘Maybe she was older?’
‘Even so.’
‘And what about the mobile?’ I will not let her dismiss my suspicions. ‘Why would he need a pay-as-you-go burner?’
‘The phone thing is a bit weird,’ concedes Grace, ‘but if she was older and they were sleeping together,’ she takes a sip of wine, ‘I mean Michael was underage and legally she could have been done for it. We had a similar case in school a few years ago, but it was a sixth former sleeping with a year ten girl—’
‘It’s not about the sleeping together, Grace!’ I’m struggling with my growing impatience. ‘He arranged to meet with this Diving Fish person that night.’ I flip through the diary images on my phone until I find the one I’m looking for. ‘She was there, Grace, at the lake. Diving Fish was with Michael the night he drowned.’
My sister stares at me, her expression unreadable. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit of a leap? And don’t you think the diary entries, even the text,’ she speaks slowly, as if measuring every word, ‘are all a little … fanciful?’
‘Fanciful?’ Even drunk, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Are you suggesting he made it all up?’
‘Of course not.’ She pauses, as if carefully considering what to say next. ‘It’s just that he did tend to …’ I watch as she struggles for the appropriate word, ‘embellish things a bit.’
‘Embellish things!’
‘Oh, come on, Kat.’ We’re sitting only inches apart, but it feels like miles. ‘Let’s be honest. Michael could be slightly over-dramatic. Remember that thing with his Art teacher? You went storming into school only to find out that he’d copied the image from the internet.’
‘That was different.’
‘Was it?’ Grace looks troubled, then sad. ‘Michael drowned, Kat. He had a few too many beers, accidentally mixed it with some medication, went swimming and then drowned.’
‘Michael wasn’t on any medication.’
I can feel her tense. ‘We’ve talked about this before. The pathology report said there were traces of cyclizine in his blood.’
‘Not enough to indicate abuse!’
Grace drops the phone on the bed next to me. ‘You’re the nurse,’ she says, now clearly annoyed. ‘You’re the one who told me that cyclizine causes drowsiness. What the hell else am I supposed to think?’
I close my eyes, praying for calm. ‘Michael didn’t suffer from travel sickness,’ I whisper. ‘There’s absolutely no reason he should have been taking that sort of medication.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Kat. Are you seriously telling me that there’s no buzz when it’s mixed with alcohol?’
I stand up quickly, the contents of my wine glass sloshing over my hand. ‘Michael may have liked a beer or two,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘What teenager doesn’t? But he wasn’t into drugs.’ Before my sister can reply, I add, ‘And even if he was, why would he take travel sickness medication?’
Grace shakes her head. ‘He was an athlete, Kate, competing against a lot of other top-notch athletes. Maybe it wasn’t for the buzz, maybe it was—’
‘Don’t you dare!’ I cry. ‘Michael was not doping. How can you possibly even say that?
Grace’s blue eyes flash. ‘There was that GHB scandal at the nationals.’
‘Michael tested negative, as did all his classmates.’ I stare at my sister, bewildered. ‘Why would you bring this up?’
‘It’s no more bizarre than suggesting he was drugged by some psycho classmate.’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
Grace sits back down on the bed and after a moment motions for me to join her. ‘Honey,’ she says, her voice thick with Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Do you know how ridiculous this all sounds?’
I am taken aback. ‘You do think he made it up.’
‘I’m not sure what to think.’ Grace reaches for her glass. ‘All I know is that before you found this stuff at Mum’s you were starting to get your life back together.’
‘My life will never get back together.’
Grace stares at me, her lips parted slightly as if in surprise, her slim fingers clutching the wine glass. It’s a moment before she speaks again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I suppose six years isn’t really that long, is it?’ She takes a tissue from the bedside table and hands it to me. I haven’t realised I’ve been crying. ‘I’m worried about you though. Fixating on Michael’s death like this – it just isn’t healthy.’
‘I just want to know the truth.’
‘What difference will it make? Will it bring him back?’
‘Of course not, but at least I can be sure justice is done.’
Grace frowns. �
��What do you mean by justice?’
‘For whoever was responsible.’
Grace replies so softly that I have to lean in closer to hear. ‘No one was responsible. It was an accident.’
‘It wasn’t,’ I say, finally able to voice the suspicions that have haunted me since the night my son died. ‘Michael may have been a bit dramatic, but he wasn’t a lunatic.’ I can feel my heart pounding and long to reach into my bag for a tiny blue piece of calm. ‘And I’m his mother. If it was an accident, why does every bone in my body shout out that it wasn’t?’
‘What else could it be?’
‘Someone did this to him, Grace. Someone killed Michael.’
Grace turns very pale. ‘You can’t really believe—’
‘Why not? The police report was inconclusive. The coroner’s verdict was open.’
Grace puts her wine glass on the bedside table, turns to me and grabs me fiercely by both shoulders. ‘I will not let you do this to yourself again.’
‘What do you mean do this to myself?’
‘Create some ridiculous scenario in your mind.’ Her eyes have gone very blue. ‘Do I have to remind you about last time?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Your trips to the school? The police station? Harassing that family liaison officer?’
‘I didn’t harass her!’
‘Kate, you were charged. If Adam hadn’t got that psych report—’
‘So, you’re on his side now are you?’
‘Of course not,’ says Grace. ‘I’m on yours. I’m always on yours.’
I don’t believe her. No one is on my side. This has become more and more obvious in the six years since Michael’s death. The police, the coroner, the school, social services; everyone including my husband and now my sister would rather let the truth lie than face the facts. My questions and subsequent confrontations with the so-called experts were in no way hysterical or unfounded – not like Grace is suggesting. It was all evidence-based enquiry. I have collected a lot of facts in the last six years. I know what I’m talking about. The realisation that my sister is one more doubter is more painful than I could have ever imagined. It’s time for me to shut down this conversation.
The Lake Page 6