The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  My mother accepted their charity with reluctant grace, but underneath she seethed at the unbearable humiliation, growing angrier and more bitter every day. She became like one of those homemade apple dolls: faces carved out of fruit and left to wither and dry until they take on the appearance of a wizened old woman. After we were cast out, her drinking got worse, and that, along with our lack of connections outside the Brethren, made it even harder for her to find work. Eventually we were forced to live on benefits, a further humiliation.

  The additional benefits I brought in as a single mother in education were also crucial, and even though I desperately wanted to find a little flat of my own, just me and Michael, I knew I couldn’t leave her. Grace, just a silhouette on the horizon – a voice on the phone espousing the virtues of freedom and a fun time – had absolutely no relevance to my life. My plan was clear: finish my A Levels, get a place on a nursing course, get a job, and get out. I was perfectly happy to play the long game; I always have been.

  My brain feels heavy, overburdened. I know I will have to deal with it all, but maybe a little later. I wonder if it’s too early to have a drink. My mobile goes off; the ringtone tells me that it’s Grace calling. I could ignore it – that would be so much easier – but instead I push the little green circle with the phone icon on it. I have a few things I want to say to her.

  ‘Kat, it’s Grace. I’ve been trying to reach you for ages.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  There’s a long pause. ‘I guess you know about Adam.’ Grace sounds uncomfortable. ‘And the diary thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to tell him, Kat. I really didn’t.’

  I smile grimly to myself. ‘Adam has a way of getting things out of people.’

  ‘When he called me last night to say that you hadn’t come home, I was really worried.’ She rattles out the words, rat-a-tat-tat. ‘You said you were driving to Falmouth and I thought you might have had an accident or something.’

  ‘I got home late and forgot to call.’ I feel as if I’m reading the lines from a script.

  ‘He was in a real shitty mood when I spoke to him.’

  I rub my aching shoulders. ‘I know.’

  ‘Did he give you a load of aggro over the phone?’

  ‘It was in person actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Adam drove down, late last night.’ I long to add Giving me hell over the phone just wasn’t enough for him, but I stop myself. The more you say …

  ‘Oh God,’ Grace sounds remorseful. ‘I never thought he’d do that. Are you all right?’ I don’t answer. ‘I’m so sorry Kat. I should have never left you on your own. I told Adam that it was probably all a bit too much for you. I mean the last thing we want is for you to get ill again.’

  Here we go. Let’s all just revert to the familiar scenario of Kate as the helpless lunatic: weak, unbalanced and unreliable. I feel so, so tired. I search through my bag for the blister pack.

  ‘Only three left.’

  ‘What?’

  I hadn’t realised I had spoken aloud. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I just feel so bad for leaving you to handle it all,’ continues Grace.

  I love my sister, and respect her enormously, but at this very moment I couldn’t give a toss how she’s feeling.

  ‘Kat? Are you there?’

  ‘Why did you tell him?’ I ask. ‘About the diary?’

  There is another long pause and I hear my sister sigh. ‘I’m worried about you, Kat – about the effect all this might have on you. All that stuff you told me about Michael, about this Diving Fish girl. It just sounded—’

  ‘Crazy?’

  ‘No, not crazy,’ says Grace, almost too quickly. ‘Just … not healthy.’

  ‘And did you really think telling Adam would help?’

  ‘Well, I just—’

  ‘After everything I told you at the hotel about him refusing to let me hire a private detective, and not supporting me?’

  ‘Kat, listen to me.’ Grace’s voice has grown stern. ‘I simply said I was worried about you and when he asked me why, I mentioned the diary.’

  I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. ‘Why does everyone want to stop me feeling anything? Michael was my son – my boy – and I lost him. I will be experiencing this for the rest of my life. I’d rather have painful memories than nothing.’

  ‘I thought it would be too much for you.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you just give me the benefit of the doubt?’

  ‘It’s just so—’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Kat!’

  It’s as if I’m leaning against a brick wall in winter – I can feel the heat seeping from my bones. ‘I’m the one dealing with this, Grace, and as far as I can tell I’ve been doing okay. I wish, instead of expecting the worst, everyone would just cut me a bit of slack. Maybe then I wouldn’t forget to go home for tea, or forget to call Adam!’

  ‘Kat, I’m sorry.’ Grace’s tone has changed from stern to desperate.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why don’t Adam and I draw up some sort of rota to make sure you’re not on your own?’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, Grace, and considering the circumstances I think I’m allowed at least one lapse of judgement without people turning it into a complete drama.’

  ‘We overreacted, Kat – clearly we did.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Something about the way I say the words seems final. Grace senses it too.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Kat. Ellie’s staying at her friends for a couple of days next week, so I’m hoping to get some time off work and come up then. I thought maybe I’d stay with you at Mum’s?’

  I feel like ending the call – just slamming down the phone. As angry as I am right now, I still love my sister. That doesn’t mean I want her staying with me, getting in the way, dismissing my suspicions and offering the usual safe, generic explanations. None of this is concrete, Kat. Are you sure you’re not just imagining it? What I want now is to find Lisa Edwards, find out what she knows about Diving Fish, and make her tell me what happened to Michael.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, trying hard not to let irritation creep into my voice. I hope, however, without wishing any hardship on my sister, that something comes up to keep her away.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? What about Adam?’

  ‘What about him?’ This time I can’t contain the vitriol in my voice.

  ‘Have you two had a row? Did he do anything to you?’

  A bit late for you to ask that now, don’t you think?

  ‘Everything’s fine, Grace. I’ll call you later, okay?’ And in a herculean effort to sound bright, normal, I add: ‘Give my best to Simon and Ellie.’

  I’ve just ended the call when my mobile rings again. It’s Adam.

  ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ I mutter, and take the call.

  14

  I make a quick stop at the hospital – no change with my mother – then head up the A38 to Exmouth. The phone call from Adam was civil, apologetic. Kate, please try and understand, I’m just concerned. I care about you. I love you. I can’t live without you.

  I feel angry, guilty, and terribly uncertain. Adam has always been my lifeline, my strength, someone who was always able to make things right again. If I’m ever going to get through this, I need him on my side, at least for the moment. Choose your battles, Katie, my father used to say. As focused as I am on finding Diving Fish, I need to maintain my perspective and make sure everyone else knows I’ve maintained it as well.

  I text Adam to let him know I’ll be coming home for the weekend. I add a few banalities about starting afresh. I checked my bank balance online this morning and realised I’m going to need some financial support if I want to get the answers I need. When did I become so mercenary?

  The house is warm and welcoming. Vibrant purple irises line the drive, and the Bride and Groom rosebush – a wedding pres
ent from Adam’s mother – is just beginning to bud. Everything feels so normal. A reminder of what was … and what could still be?

  He’s waiting for me at the door, his expression warm and welcoming. He hesitates before enveloping me in a hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re home.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Come inside.’

  The house is pristine and orderly. A large vase of flowers is prominently displayed on the dining room table.

  ‘An apology,’ he whispers.

  ‘No need,’ I reply.

  Our lovemaking is passionate, frenetic; a place of forgetfulness. Later, when we’re lying in bed sipping ice-cold beer, Adam reaches over and touches my arm.

  ‘I spoke to Claire today.’

  ‘Claire?’ I know several Claires.

  ‘Your therapist. She’s got a cancellation tomorrow morning.’ He takes a sip of Peroni. ‘I’ve booked you in for eleven.’

  The next morning, I make the half-hour drive to Exeter and pay for overpriced parking in the city centre. It’s just after ten and the streets are already crowded with Saturday shoppers. I turn left just past the Royal Albert Memorial Museum and enter Gandy Street, a pretty cobbled lane with hanging baskets and endless bunting. I’m not interested in the sights, however, and I keep my eyes low. A little more than halfway down the alley is the jeweller’s where Adam and I bought our wedding rings. Next to it is a door, and to the left a sign that reads Claire Hodgeson: Integrated Therapeutic Counsellor. Please ring buzzer to enter. I push the buzzer; the door clicks open and I climb the narrow stairs to the second floor.

  ‘How lovely to see you,’ says Claire, welcoming me into her office. To the right is a two-seater settee with a colourful throw strewn across it; next to that a comfortable chair, and, opposite, a small desk and chair where Claire usually positions herself. ‘Come in. Sit down.’ I do as instructed. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Water, please.’

  She pours me a glass of water then sits, hands folded on her lap, watching me. ‘So,’ she says, finally.

  I take a sip of water. ‘So.’

  ‘It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Three, I think.’

  She nods. After Michael’s death, my sessions were as regular as clockwork. Once a week you would find me sitting on her settee, wrapped in a throw, bawling my eyes out. God, I was a mess. ‘It’s lovely as always to see you again, Kate. Is there a particular reason you felt you needed to meet today?’

  ‘I didn’t make the appointment. Adam did.’

  Claire nods again. ‘That’s why I asked the question.’

  We talk about my mother, the hospital, Adam, the weather; but I keep clear of the diary, the mobile phone, and the scene with Adam the other night.

  I like Claire, she’s understanding and accepting no matter what I say. In the early days after Michael’s death when I was challenging the authorities and scrutinising the evidence, she didn’t try and stop me, didn’t say I was paranoid or mad with grief; she simply listened. She also provided the psych report, which helped to get the harassment charge against me dropped – although I fail to see how asking a few questions, demanding a few answers, constitutes harassment.

  ‘So how do you feel about Adam making this appointment for you?’

  I shrug. ‘He’s only trying to help.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you believe that.’

  ‘It’s been difficult.’

  ‘For him or for you?’

  Something about the way she says that last sentence makes me decide that, of course, I can trust her. ‘I found some things of Michael’s.’ I tell her about the diary, the mobile phone. We talk about Michael’s poetry, the beauty of it. We talk about Diving Fish, about his experience of love. It feels good, healthy. Claire, as always, senses something deeper.

  ‘And Adam,’ she asks. ‘What does he think about it?’

  ‘He wants to put it somewhere safe.’

  ‘He wants to take it from you?’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t let him.’ I pause to let that last statement lie. ‘Michael wrote something about him in his diary.’

  ‘About Adam?’

  ‘Referred to him as threats-behind-closed-doors Adam.’ Claire raises an eyebrow, but remains silent. ‘If he did something to hurt him …’

  ‘Do you think he did?’

  ‘He was strict with Michael; controlling. But I never witnessed any actual physical violence.’

  ‘But?’

  I reach over for my water, take a sip. ‘I never told you this before.’

  Claire responds with her usual kindness and composure. ‘You know you’re safe with me.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘When Michael was thirteen, Adam prescribed Ritalin for him.’

  My therapist suddenly looks interested. ‘Ritalin? Was Michael having difficulties?’

  I think back to his mood swings and manic behaviour. ‘Not more than any teenager. In my opinion, at least.’

  ‘Can he do that?’ Claire asks. ‘Prescribe for a family member?’

  ‘Whether he could or not, he did.’

  ‘And how did Michael respond?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘And you? How did you feel about it?’

  Claire is one of the few people in my life who still asks how I feel about things. ‘I was furious. Even threatened to leave him. Well I did leave, actually.’

  Claire nods. ‘We spoke about that period, didn’t we? You went to stay with your mother for a bit.’

  ‘It didn’t work out.’

  ‘So you went back home.’

  ‘Adam apologised, claimed it was a misjudgement, said he was only trying to help, couldn’t live without us.’ I’m shivering and pull the throw over my shoulders. ‘The following year, Michael started his GCSEs at Edgecombe.’

  ‘And how was that for you?’

  ‘Unbearable.’

  ‘But Michael was happy?’

  ‘Yes, so I coped.’

  ‘And now? How do you feel now, particularly with this new information?’

  I take a moment to frame my response. ‘What I’d like to do is find out who this Diving Fish is. If she knows anything about the night Michael drowned.’

  ‘Would that be helpful to you?’

  ‘Very helpful.’ Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. ‘I understand that Adam is concerned for my well-being, but finding this diary has finally offered me an opportunity to get answers to the questions I’ve been asking for six years. I can’t understand why he thinks this is unhealthy.’

  Claire does the usual therapist thing. ‘Why do you think that is?’

  I remember him on Thursday night, towering over me, shaking me by the shoulders, but I don’t tell her that. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Claire’s expression is neutral, but there’s something in the tone of her voice that catches my attention. ‘Putting your mental health aside – and let’s be clear, this is an important issue and must be addressed if you intend to pursue this course of action, but putting it aside for the moment – have you really considered why Adam is so adamant about the diary?’

  ‘He just goes on and on about our need to move forward.’

  ‘Yet from what you’ve told me there are still plenty of questions – about the investigation into Michael’s death, the ambiguity about the inquest findings.’ I get the feeling Claire is moving beyond professional boundaries. ‘Why would someone want to stop you from finding the answers to questions that are so essential to your being able to move on?’

  I leave Claire’s office invigorated. After the scene with Adam and my conversation with Grace I had, briefly, considered putting the diary aside for a bit – maybe just to get my grounding back – but my conversation with Claire has made me realise my need for answers, for closure, is not mad, unreasonable, or unhealthy. It’s perfectly normal. I am perfectly normal. It’s just everyone else around me that’s not on point.

  The main thing now is to keep up my relationship
with Adam. What to do about the diary is another matter. I’m going to have to try and find some way to keep the diary and keep Adam satisfied at the same time. I text Adam saying I’m going to spend a few hours doing a bit of shopping, but instead I sit by the cathedral green with a latte and a notebook, planning my strategy.

  I arrive home to the smell of lamb roasting and a cold glass of Chablis. I help Adam in the garden; the gladioli bulbs I planted after Easter are starting to sprout, and, with each gust of wind, freshly washed sheets flap and flutter on the line. As conflicted as I am it’s nice to be home, in my own space, with all my things around me. Later, when Adam is watching the telly, I’ll sneak into my office to continue my research.

  We eat outside, a delicious meal of lamb tagine and couscous. It’s been a good day. My conversation with Claire, the pleasant atmosphere at home. Maybe things will be all right after all. I’m just finishing my last morsel when Adam pushes back his plate and clears his throat.

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘Did you bring the diary with you?’

  I’ve been expecting this, but not quite so soon. ‘No.’ My heart is thumping but I hold my nerve. ‘The diary is safely locked away at my mother’s house.’ In fact I have given it to Doris for safekeeping. ‘It won’t be a problem; I promise you that.’ Well not for you, anyway. He looks at me with a mixture of frustration and what might just be admiration. Hopefully this will be the end of it.

  Sunday afternoon, just before leaving to head back to Cornwall, I sneak into my tiny office – just a box room really – with a desk, filing cabinet and a few diplomas on the wall. I reach into the very back of the filing cabinet, where hidden behind some old warranties and instruction manuals is a green file folder. I wait until Adam is outside checking the tyre pressure on my car, before slipping it into my overnight bag.