The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘Mrs Hardy,’ says Mrs Drake. ‘Could you come with us, please?’

  I find myself on a stiff wooden chair in the head’s office sitting under a poster that reads Stand up for what is right, even if you stand alone. Next to me, DC Ron Verby sits with a small leather-bound notebook balanced on one knee.

  ‘Can I ask what this is all about?’

  The detective and head teacher exchange a glance.

  ‘Mrs Drake informs me that you were talking to Mrs Gannon yesterday afternoon. Mrs Lisa Gannon?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ My unease grows with every syllable. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

  DC Verby clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Mrs Gannon is dead.’

  I wasn’t sure if his habitual approach is always so blunt, or if he is simply testing me, but it is a good ten seconds before I can reply.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘When? What? How?’

  ‘Mrs Gannon was found this afternoon in her home. We believe she may have taken her own life.’

  I feel a clenching in my gut as the blood runs from my cheeks. My brain seems to have shut down.

  As the reality of what I have just been told strikes, words form.

  ‘But …’ My throat closes. I am unable to continue.

  ‘It would be helpful if you could tell me about what you and Mrs Gannon discussed yesterday.’

  ‘Discussed?’

  ‘Mrs Drake seems to think that Mrs Gannon was quite upset.’

  I’m finding it hard to think. Lisa is dead. How is this possible? I have planned everything so carefully: the visit, the paperwork, the call to the solicitor in Truro. I’ve even dusted my mother’s bedroom and changed the sheets in anticipation of her coming to stay. ‘Mrs Hardy?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I feel hazy, sick. ‘Could I have a glass of water please?’

  Mrs Drake disappears, returning shortly afterwards with a glass of water. I sip it gratefully. ‘I was supposed to meet her today at a café on Godolphin Street.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Four.’

  The DC gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, which I take to mean that Lisa had been long dead by that time.

  ‘And your discussion yesterday?’

  I take another sip. ‘We were discussing the death of my son Michael at Edgecombe Hall six years ago.’

  ‘The public school near Falmouth?’ enquires Verby. ‘Where that gold medallist went?’ I think of the pretty, blonde teenager waving her arms high above her head as she stands front and centre on the Olympic podium.

  I take a breath. ‘For some time now, I’ve been convinced that my fifteen-year-old son Michael wasn’t alone the night he drowned.’ Verby looks confused. ‘My son drowned in 2015 at Argal Lake, Detective. Your own division investigated.’ He gives me an ah yes look and I carry on. ‘Recently I found a diary he wrote suggesting that he was in a sexual relationship with someone while at the school. He referred to this person as “Diving Fish”.’

  ‘Diving Fish?’ says Verby, clearly confused.

  ‘Chinese proverb,’ pipes up Mrs Drake, as she hovers near us both. ‘About a woman so beautiful that the fish forgot how to swim when they saw her and drowned. There’s also another version where the geese forget how to fly and fall to the ground.’ I look at her in surprise. ‘I did one of my undergraduate modules in Chinese studies.’

  ‘And did you get a proper name?’ asks Verby.

  ‘No,’ I reply, ‘but yesterday Lisa confirmed to me that she had also been in love with this Diving Fish person.’ By this point the DC has stopped writing.

  The head teacher steps forward. ‘Lisa told you this?’

  ‘Yes. And though she didn’t say it in so many words it was clear that she was also sexually exploited by this person.’ I begin to cry. ‘That’s why she was so upset.’

  ‘Jesus,’ mutters Mrs Drake. ‘As if that girl hasn’t hurt enough people already.’

  I look up at her in astonishment. ‘How can you possibly be so cruel? Lisa was a victim.’ Turning to DC Verby I say. ‘Why aren’t you writing this all down?’

  ‘Mrs Hardy,’ says the head teacher. She sounds kind, sympathetic. ‘Lisa was—’

  ‘You’d better let me,’ interrupts Verby. He pulls the chair a little closer. ‘I have to inform you, Mrs Hardy, that Lisa Gannon was known to the police in Helston.’

  ‘Of course she was. That’s where she reported the abuse.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not the case,’ says Verby. ‘As far as I’m aware there is no record of Lisa Gannon née Edwards reporting any abuse, or in fact anything else to do with any incident at Edgecombe Hall.’

  ‘But she said—’

  ‘The only police record we have for Mrs Gannon is for drink-related public disorder offences.’

  I am dizzy with confusion. ‘But she said she reported it.’

  ‘You weren’t the only one caught out,’ says Mrs Drake. ‘We took her on with an excellent reference from a school in St Ives and having seen the DBS check they’d run.’ The head teacher gives a loud sniff. ‘I had a call yesterday afternoon from the HR department at our lead school. Lisa’s new DBS came back with community orders listed. I just thank God she was never left alone with the children.’

  ‘Was she dangerous?’

  ‘Not as far as I could tell,’ says the head teacher, ‘but she clearly had some issues with substance misuse. She also failed to disclose her public order offences on her application form. Not only is that illegal, but it’s also cause for immediate dismissal.’ Mrs Drake reaches for a tissue from the box on her desk and I realise what their meeting had been about yesterday afternoon. Lisa was being sacked. ‘It could have put the school in an exceedingly difficult position.’

  All I can think about is the blood dripping down Lisa’s arm as she picked at her imaginary scab.

  ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘There is something else,’ says Mrs Drake, her tone a warning.

  I can’t imagine it getting much worse.

  ‘During our meeting yesterday afternoon, Lisa confided in me that she had been detained at the West Cornwall Hospital earlier this year.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’ says Verby, clearly irritated at this disclosure of confidential information.

  ‘The poor woman has a right to know,’ says Mrs Drake.

  ‘When you say detained, you mean sectioned, don’t you?’ I ask, and Mrs Drake gives a tiny nod of confirmation. ‘And the diagnosis?’ She looks at me in surprise. ‘I’m a nurse. I did a couple of rotations in the mental health ward at Royal Exeter.’

  ‘She wasn’t specific,’ she replies, ‘but from what she told me I gather it was rather serious; some form of psychosis. She had not disclosed this on her application form either.’

  I can’t believe this is happening. I am completely overcome. ‘After everything she told me yesterday.’

  ‘She was a very unwell young woman,’ says Verby, opening a fresh page of his notebook. ‘I would appreciate it if we could start from the beginning and you tell me everything you and Lisa talked about yesterday.’

  21

  It is nearly seven by the time I leave Helston. Following my interrogation by DC Verby and Mrs Drake, I also had to make a formal statement at the police station – the very same one that I had been expecting to attend with Lisa before this day was turned upside down.

  I’m exhausted, confused, and utterly, utterly dejected. It’s only after going through a red light and hearing the honks of furious drivers that I finally decide to stop to try and collect myself. Pulling into a lay-by, I remove the photograph from the folder and trace a fingertip around Lisa’s image, her sullen, frightened expression.

  ‘Oh you poor, poor girl,’ I whisper, and then, unable to hold back any longer, I break down and cry for a solid twenty minutes.

  Once the tears have dried and my emotion is spent, I am able to re-examine my notes from y
esterday’s meeting. Less than half an hour ago I had been sent away by DC Verby with a patronising pat on the arm and a list of bereavement services in the southwest.

  ‘She was a disturbed young woman, Mrs Hardy,’ he had said, barely glancing up from the computer screen where he was completing his report. ‘I have no doubt it wasn’t her intention to deliberately mislead you, but unfortunately it seems to be the case.’

  I hear the buzz of my muted mobile and notice that it’s a missed call from a Plymouth number. My pulse quickens as I press the recall button.

  ‘Acute stroke unit.’

  ‘This is Kate Hardy.’

  ‘Mrs Hardy, we’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m in Helston and couldn’t get a signal. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Hardy. Your mother has had another stroke. You need to get to the hospital as soon as possible.’

  The drive back to Plymouth is a blur of road signs and traffic lights. As I push through the swinging doors and into the ward, two nurses spot me and quickly approach. My mother’s bed is empty.

  ‘Mrs Hardy,’ says one nurse, softly. ‘Would you like to come and sit down?’

  They’ve laid my mother out in a private viewing room so that I can sit with her for a while before they take her to the hospital mortuary.

  ‘We thought it would be easier for you here,’ whispers the nurse I met on my very first visit. She places a cup of tea on the table next to me. ‘Take as long as you need.’ I’m overcome with gratitude and heartbreak. ‘It was very quick,’ she adds. ‘She didn’t suffer.’ I wait for her to leave before telephoning Grace.

  The call is as difficult as I had expected. Grace, never one for emotional restraint, howls like a wounded animal. I envy my sister’s ability to express her pain so openly. I, unfortunately, have held back my heartbreak for much too long. I’m not certain I can ever access those feelings again.

  I reach out and touch my mother’s face, something I would never have been allowed to do when she was alive. Her expression is serene, as if death has finally granted her some peace. I wish for tears – would welcome them – but all that comes is a numbness so profound I could push a sewing needle through my finger and not feel a thing.

  What else is there to do? Talk to her, kiss her icy cheek? Instead I sit upright staring at the wall until my eyes ache. I think of my blue pills; sadly only two left, certainly not enough to make a dent. If there had been more, a multitude of blue babies, I would have taken them all without hesitation, all with a gulp of cold tea and a smile.

  At some point a nurse comes in and tells me that they need to move her body to the hospital mortuary. When all is done, and the body is removed to that little white room on the lower ground floor, I find myself on the pavement outside the hospital, watching as the hopeful and desperate are ejected and engulfed.

  On the way home, I stop for a large bottle of vodka and some painkillers. My head throbs and my shoulders ache from sitting for so long. It is after midnight by the time I make it to the house. I don’t bother with proper food, just a tall shot and a packet of crisps. I run a scalding bath and lie amongst the lavender-scented bubbles trying not to think. There will be funeral arrangements of course, and the house to sort out and sell. The thought of it all makes me feel dizzy. Not for the first time, I wish I could sink into the water and never re-emerge. Next to me on the bath is a disposable razor. I run my fingertip across the blade, wondering briefly if it is strong enough to sever a vein. A drop of blood trickles into the bathwater and I watch it swirl amongst the bubbles.

  Once downstairs, I continue working my way through the vodka, hoping instead of numbing any feeling, it will evoke some.

  By two in the morning I am near oblivion. Staggering my way to the stairs, I bump against my mother’s display cabinet. A glass giraffe quivers and then topples, shattering into sparkling pieces that scatter across the cabinet top. With a shaking hand I reach for a white glass swan.

  After being cast out, my mother had seemingly replaced religion not with helping her youngest daughter negotiate the ins and outs of teenage motherhood – you got yourself into this mess after all – but with an obsessive desire to collect tatty glass animals. God forbid anyone even dream of touching her menagerie. When Michael was three he had toddled over to examine a newly acquired penguin family. She had pulled him away so fiercely that he had gone hurtling to the floor. I vowed then to get us out of that house.

  Cold, hard, unmoving, the swan glitters in the overhead light. I close my hand around it and squeeze. Squeeze until the glass wings shatter; squeeze until the long white neck breaks in two; squeeze until the blood runs down my arm.

  As I drift in and out of sleep I think I can hear knocking. My eyelids flicker but the front door is just too far away. There is a sound of a door opening, and then someone is screaming.

  ‘Kat!’ I recognise Grace’s voice through my alcohol fog. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’

  My sister reaches for the phone. I put a blood-stained hand on hers.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m calling an ambulance, what do you think?’

  ‘No.’ I sit up quickly, causing my head to spin and the wound in my hand to reopen. ‘No ambulance! I don’t want an ambulance.’

  ‘But Kate, you’re bleeding.’

  ‘It’s just a few cuts.’

  I grab the towel I had been using to staunch the bleeding and wrap it around my hand. Grace’s attention shifts to the display cabinet.

  ‘Sit back,’ she says. ‘Don’t move!’ She returns a few minutes later with a bowl of warm water, disinfectant, and plasters. Pulling up a chair next to me, she carefully unwraps the tea towel. My left hand is a crisscross of cuts and puncture wounds. ‘Jesus,’ she mutters. ‘At least there doesn’t seem to be any glass in there.’ She gently dips my hand into the warm water. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there was any thinking involved.’

  Grace gives a shaky sigh and after drying my hand with a clean towel begins bandaging it. ‘Kat,’ she says after the last plaster has been applied. ‘This isn’t like before, is it?’

  I know exactly what she means. Grace is asking me if I’m having another breakdown.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘Really.’ She looks at the small pile of broken glass on the cabinet top.

  ‘Did it make you feel any better?’

  ‘At the time, yes,’ I reply sadly. ‘Now, maybe not so much.’

  The unforgiving darkness brightens into morning. Sunlight streams in through half-opened curtains and my eyes wander to the mantel clock, then I drift back to sleep. When I open my eyes a few hours later, I momentarily forget the night before, yawn and stretch, then wince in pain as my injured hand protests. On the settee next to me, my sister stirs.

  ‘What time is it?’ says Grace, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  ‘Nearly eleven.’

  I feel the settee give as she moves closer. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ she asks, and then unexpectedly kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Yes please.’ I smile, realising I have never felt so grateful for my sister’s presence in all my life.

  We sit on the sofa, cover ourselves with a throw, and eat hot buttered toast washed down with sweet, milky tea.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ I say, just beginning to feel like myself again.

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ Grace replies. ‘The only thing I know is that the minute I put down the phone after speaking to you last night, I knew I had to get here.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Well I couldn’t let you deal with this all alone, could I? So I just threw a few things in the car, told Simon and Ellie if they fell out with each other while I was away, I would never forgive them, and here I am.’

  I rest my head on my sister’s shoulder. ‘I’m really glad you came.’

  ‘Me too.’ Grace reaches her arm around my shoulders a
nd gives me a hug. ‘But you can’t keep going on like this Kat.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want you to promise me you’ll see a doctor, make sure you’re okay, and if necessary, get some medication.’

  More pills are the last thing I need, but I don’t want Grace to worry. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good,’ says Grace, shaking out the throw. ‘Why don’t you go back to sleep for a few hours? I can sleep in Mum’s room tonight.’

  ‘I’ve cleaned and dusted it,’ I say. ‘Changed the sheets too.’

  Grace smiles. ‘It’s almost as if you were expecting me.’

  I wake two hours later to the smell of bacon frying and freshly brewed coffee.

  ‘Hi, sleepyhead,’ says Grace, as I wander into the kitchen. ‘Have a seat.’ She pours me a steaming mug of coffee from a cafetière.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? I bought it for Mum ages ago.’ She points to a box on the counter. ‘It’s never been taken out of the packaging.’

  ‘And the bacon?’

  ‘I can still remember how to get to the Spar.’ Grace places a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs in front of me. ‘How’s the hand?’

  ‘Sore.’ I can see my sister’s eyes are red and puffy from crying. ‘How are you?’

  Grace gives a resigned sigh. ‘A little sad,’ she says. ‘But even more sad that I feel so little.’ She discreetly wipes a tear away from her cheek. ‘I’ve arranged for a funeral director to collect Mum from the hospital. We’ll be able to see her tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks Grace.’

  ‘The sooner we get this settled and over with, the sooner we’ll be able to get on with our lives.’

  I nod in agreement, but I don’t know exactly what I have to get on with. Grace has Simon, Ellie, her students, and a wide circle of friends. All I have is an uncertain marriage, a dead child, and a ridiculous obsession with finding out what happened to him.