Lost in the Lake

by A J Waines

  I tried on her velvet dress last time and the new pyjamas straight out of the packet. Maybe she got them for Christmas, who knows? The boots are tight, but I couldn’t resist them. I’ve polished them up and I’ll wear them at the weekend. The belt is cool, too. She had lots of others curled up in her drawer, so she probably won’t notice that one is missing. I have my eye on one of her towels and a scarf for next time – the pale blue one I’ve seen her wearing, but I’m careful not to take too many things at once. I watched a DVD while I was there and cleaned the windows. I haven’t done anything terribly bad – not really.

  I told Sam I’d met someone really nice recently, but I didn’t go into details. I don’t want Sam to think I’m a total saddo who doesn’t have a life – and it was only half a lie. I did meet someone a few months back and we had a cool chat, but it wasn’t a man. I didn’t tell Sam that, because I don’t want her getting the wrong end of the stick. I’ve always fancied guys and I’m not into women ‘like that’, but I’m definitely going to see my new friend again.

  The stuff about the crash doesn’t go away and as I lie on my bed reflecting, I keep coming back to the question of my viola. Why is finding it so important? Would it matter if I never saw it again? Could I let it go and stop these annoying half-memories from plaguing me? I’m not sure how much progress Sam and I are making on that front.

  In my dreams I keep hearing that phone call – the one that drifted up the stairs before the crash. Sam and I have gone over that scene time and time again, but I’m not getting any idea who the voice belongs to, or how it might be connected to me.

  Maybe the crash was about me, but I can’t think why. I may have been insignificant all my life, but this is hardly the sort of attention I’ve been craving.

  Bottom line is, I can’t give up; the compulsion to know what happened is too strong. Even if the crash wasn’t about me, I seem to be the one left with the aftershock. I’ve been wondering why some memories seem locked away and thinking maybe my brain is trying to protect me. When we crashed into the lake, when the van started filling up with water, did awful things happen that my mind can’t cope with?

  ‘Sometimes the brain is too terrified to let the memories come out,’ Sam explained, when I asked her about it. ‘Sometimes the real truth never emerges.’

  That was not what I wanted to hear. How awful would that be? To live with a huge question mark hanging around my neck every single day for the rest of my life?

  If I’m really honest, I’m worried that I might have done something bad when we were all fighting to get out. Why can’t I remember Richard after we went under water? Did he escape? Is Max still alive – was it really him I saw on Oxford Street – or is his body going to surface in the lake, like Stephanie’s? I’m doing my nut with so many questions.

  Oh, Richard, I wish you were here, so I could ask you in person. Get it all out in the open, once and for all. I’m never going to get anywhere like this.

  It’s Saturday, so I take a Tube up to the Urban Shack Café. I’ve been going there to eat lately. I want to be with chatty, up-beat people and switch off from the constant muddle over the crash.

  The couple who work there are obviously high on cannabis, you can smell it when you walk in. Dezzie, the guy making coffees has a pinafore around his waist with a red London bus on it and a fat crocheted cap on his head in red, yellow and green. His girlfriend, Shontal, has a little tot who often sits in his pushchair by the till. And there’s a yappy dog, that has to be shut away if the health inspector shows up.

  Dezzie shouts at people as they step inside: ‘Come an’ join da pardie!’

  He seems to recognise me or maybe he’s just friendly with everyone. Trade is good around here and it’s always busy. There are four people huddled around a table playing cards at the back and a woman is breast-feeding her baby just inside the door.

  There’s an old tune – Funky Town – blaring through the speakers. The music is always loud, heavy on the bass, so the windows rattle. It’s not the place to come for peace and quiet.

  I find a seat by the window and Shontal comes over to ask what I want. She never has a notepad. People order from a menu that covers three blackboards, another good selling point, and she always seems to get it right. You can have bangers and mash, risotto, bagels, jam and scones, paninis, curried goat, mushy peas or a weird sort of dried fish – they’re not fussy about sticking to one culinary style.

  By the time I’ve finish my toasted teacake, a nice-looking man on his own has joined my table. He smiles back when I look up; a broad lasting smile that makes his eyes twinkle. Forget the Great Boar, this is a much better place to meet people. I’ve always relied on guys needing a few beers to blur the edges when they look me up and down, but now I’ve changed my image, perhaps I don’t need my edges blurred any more.

  I glance down at my lovely boots. My feet are not only a bit bigger than Sam’s, they must be a slightly different shape as well, because I’m working new creases into them. I’m sure she won’t mind.

  The nice-looking man orders a falafel burger and ginger beer and I ask if he lives around here. He tells me he’s been playing five-a-side in the park nearby and has worked up an appetite. He looks like he’s about to ask me something, but as soon as an empty table becomes free at the back, he gets up and leaves me on my own.

  It’s so easy to misread people. I wish there was some kind of rulebook we all had to live by, so it was easy to know whether someone was interested or not. It would save a lot of time.

  I look at my watch. It doesn’t look like my new friend is coming in for lunch, today. Shame. Never mind, I can easily see her another time and I don’t want her thinking I’m deliberately trying to bump into her.

  I don’t know what to do with myself when I get home. I’d quite like to go for a swim, but since the crash, I haven’t been able to bring myself to step into the pool. To kill half-an-hour I run the shower. I close my eyes and, as whorls of steam suck the air out of the room, something comes back to me.

  It was when we were in the van just after we’d left Hinds’ place. Stephanie had definitely wanted the window open. There were button controls on the armrest beside Max, but when he tried them they were locked, so she asked Richard, who had the master controls on his side.

  ‘They’re not working, I’m afraid,’ he’d said. ‘Problem with the electrics. We can’t open the windows, but it isn’t far.’

  Max had said, ‘Bloody piece of junk,’ under his breath, but I don’t think Richard heard him. That would explain why the windows weren’t open when we went down, why the others couldn’t get out.

  But it raised another question.

  Was Richard telling the truth? Had he made sure the others wouldn’t have a chance of getting out so he could get his hands on Max’s violin?

  Chapter 31

  Rosie

  I finally cracked on Sunday afternoon. I was sick of huddling over my useless electric heater watching rubbish on television, so I blocked my number and rang Sam’s flat. After five rings it clicked to the answering machine. Was she there, not picking up, or had she gone out?

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The way things were between us now, it felt so much better than it ever had with Erica. We’ve got a bond that can’t be broken. Sam just needs to see it, that’s all.

  I had a yearning then to be surrounded by her stuff, to touch the things she owned. I decided to take a chance – even though I usually only go when I know she’s at work – and headed over there.

  All is quiet as I pad silently up the stairs. I wait outside her door, then press my ear against it. Not a thing. I ease my key in the lock and dart inside. I stand on the mat for a few seconds, just to make sure. Her coat has gone from the hall rack and there’s an empty space in the middle of a row of shoes. I let myself exhale.

  Now I’m here I feel so much better. I won’t stay long. I go to the kitchen first, leaving the door ajar so I can hear if she comes back, and make myself at home.
I help myself to a chocolate biscuit. Just one. I fold the packet just as she left it and put it back in the cupboard. She has some swish crockery; big white dining plates edged in silver. I lift up one of the glasses – it feels light in my hand. I flick my nail against it and it sings. I imagine Sam drinking from it and press my lips against the rim.

  I hastily put it back and go into the bedroom. This is what I’ve really come here for. I peel back the duvet, kick off my trainers and climb in. I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but I don’t know how long I’ve got. I curl into a foetal position and close my eyes. I’m snug and safe and happier than I’ve been in ages. So close to her.

  I must have been nearly asleep, when I hear a key rattling in the lock. I jerk upright. I wasn’t expecting her to be so quiet. She’s inside before I know what’s happening.

  I throw myself off the bed as I hear her footsteps in the hall, then she clomps across the lino in the kitchen. For some reason, I decide hiding under the bed isn’t a smart idea, so I creep out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, crouching down behind the settee.

  She comes in and I peek round the edge to see what she’s doing. She keeps stopping every few steps to listen, as if she knows someone is there, then she starts opening doors and checking cupboards – the one in the hall first, like she’s searching for an intruder.

  Her face is serious when she comes back into the sitting room. There are no cupboards in here. I squeeze my fists and will her to go into another room, but she’s so close, almost within reach. I snatch a gulp of air as she approaches the sofa, barely two feet from where I’m squatting.

  I’m lucky. Her mind seems distracted by the long billowing curtains. She creeps towards them, not looking my way. As she ruffles the fabric at arms’ length, I dodge behind the comfy chair by the door, hoping she doesn’t hear my feet scuff the carpet. She lifts the second curtain and then draws them both, before heading for the bedroom. I daren’t let out a breath. She’s checking every room.

  She’s huffing to herself as I hear the click of the wardrobe opening. I glide behind the sitting room door, watching her every move through the crack. And then – I was right – she ducks down and looks under the bed, all the while with her phone in her hand like it’s a weapon. My trainers are still beside the bed. Will she see them?

  I could run for it now, but I know she’d hear me and it would all be over. She wouldn’t understand, she’d be shocked and furious and I’d lose her forever. So I stay still and wait.

  Instinctively, my hand goes to my phone in my pocket. Did I switch it off? I pull it out gingerly and press the button. I think about what else I brought in with me. My jacket – I hung it under Sam’s dressing gown on the back of the bedroom door. She can’t have seen it. Not yet, anyway. That would give the game away for sure; I know she’d recognise it. She’s a stickler for details.

  Suddenly she’s in the sitting room again. She’s like a wound-up toy spinning all over the place. Why can’t she calm down? I want her to change into comfortable clothes and put some music on. I want her to come and join me, sit down, so I can watch her closely. I’m getting fed up with all this dashing around. Let’s have some downtime, Sam.

  I’m terrified she’ll find me, yet part of me is thrilled to be this near to her. This is what it’s like to be with the real Sam: no professional front to hide behind, no airs and graces, no pretending.

  But she’s obviously disturbed. She’s in the kitchen now and keeps sighing loudly as if something has upset her. I’m tempted – oh, so tempted – to break cover, to reach out and hold her. To comfort her and let her know I’m there for her. But before I get the chance to move, she’s got her coat on again. I’m disappointed. She’s leaving me. Don’t go. Please stay, Sam. I hear the click of the front door. She’s gone. I feel cheated. I’m all on my own again.

  I go into the kitchen. Sam has boiled the kettle but not used the water, so I fill up the mug beside it and make the cup of tea she was going to have. That cheers me up a bit. It feels like we’re sharing something. Then a thought occurs to me and I shiver with delight. I’m going on a treasure hunt!

  I’ve snooped before, of course, but this time I’m looking for something specific. Would she hide it away in her own flat? She certainly wouldn’t leave it in plain view in the sitting room; she knows I look at her bookshelves when we have our weekly session and she wouldn’t risk leaving it there.

  I go through every room with a fine toothcomb. I check top shelves, the backs of drawers, between folded sheets, under the mattress. All I come across is a couple of adverts for dating agencies torn from magazines and an out-of-date packet of condoms in a drawer. So that tells me something, I suppose. Not quite got the perfect life, then?

  I’m about to leave empty-handed when I come across something. It’s not her personal journal, but a ring binder with my initials, ‘RC – confidential’ inside her briefcase. Could it be a special file just for me?!

  I slide it out. She doesn’t use my full name, but it’s about me, all right; on the front page she’s written details of the crash and a few lines about my past. It’s not as good as her diary, but it’s still enough to set my heart racing.

  It will be almost as good as having Sam here herself. Her words, her thoughts. I only get to see her for one hour each entire week; so that means a hundred and sixty-seven hours a week without her. How am I supposed to survive on that? Reading her notes will be like climbing inside her head and taking a good look around.

  In my excitement I nearly drop the file and it falls open at the last page. I start reading, but within seconds I feel all queasy and churned up inside. I don’t like what I see. She’s written all kinds of awful things about me – saying I’m clingy and attention seeking.

  ‘…shows tendencies to manipulate…’

  What? I can’t believe it! I thought she liked me. I read on and…what the f—! It says here she’s been trying to end our sessions, for ages. She’s had enough of me. It sounds like she hates me. What’s going on?

  I slam the file down; it’s dirty, evil.

  I want to rip out all the pages, but I make myself shove it back where I found it. I should go. If I stick around I might do something rash and ruin everything.

  I slip on my trainers and pluck my jacket from under her dressing gown. I bury my face in the fluffy pink fabric to comfort myself for a moment and before I know it, angry tears have made their way onto the collar. I let them linger there as a gift.

  Chapter 32

  Sam

  On Sunday, I took my bike on the train over to Richmond Park so I could pedal like a maniac into the wind and pretend I was in open countryside. As I wheeled it back to the station, I felt myself being spooked by the sound of footsteps gathering speed behind me, then by a car slowing down at the kerb. The silent calls were doing this to me. Turning me into someone who listens too hard and peers over their shoulder far too often. When I got home, I couldn’t shake off that jittery feeling and for some reason my flat didn’t feel as comforting as usual.

  I was convinced there was a new smell in the air; some sort of floral perfume. Cleaning fluid? Air freshener?

  My skin prickled. Was someone else here? How could they possibly have got in? The windows were all locked. I went into the hall and checked my front door; there was no sign it had been forced and there were mortice locks in addition to the Yale.

  I had to set my mind at rest, so I started in the hall and began checking all the cupboards. I tugged at the thick curtains in the sitting room, squashing them against the wall before closing them. I checked the shower cubicle, then in the wardrobe and under the bed. I started to feel ridiculous. If someone had got in they’d have taken things of value; the television, iPad, laptop, camera – but nothing seemed out of place. I opened my jewellery case, but nothing appeared to have gone.

  Finally, I gave up and went into the kitchen. I switched on the radio so I couldn’t hear the day-to-day creaks of the flat and misinterpret them. I did a few jo
bs to keep myself on the move; re-arranged books on the bookshelf, emptied the waste bin from my bedroom into the swing bin in the kitchen, but in truth there wasn’t much to do. The bath looked shiny and clean, the shelves weren’t dusty. I was about to put last week’s dead roses in the bin when I realised I’d already done it. The vase was empty and upside down on the draining board.

  I was still uptight and couldn’t settle, so I decided to head out again. I wanted to wear my comfy brown boots, but couldn’t find them anywhere. This was getting weird. Maybe Miranda had borrowed them without telling me – except she hadn’t been to the flat in ages.

  It was too cold to stroll around the common, so I drifted mindlessly in and out of shops on St John’s Road, trying to lose myself in the wafts of freshly baked bread, the rainbow colours of thick winter woollies with twenty percent off. I held mohair scarves up to my cheeks, ran my fingers through the coarse oily fibres of Icelandic jumpers, trying to capture some of the comfort and get rid of my uptight feeling.

  A display with a running model train in a window caught my eye and I stood to watch the locomotive stop at the station, then carry on into a tunnel. I was about to turn away when a shape in the reflection made me shudder. A man was standing still, conspicuous because everyone else was on the move, heading somewhere. I turned slowly, but by the time I was facing the pavement, he’d moved.

  He must have had a trim; the bald patch between the two tufts was more pronounced, but it was definitely Bruce. He was carrying two plastic carrier bags and was looking away from me, marching purposefully up the road. Did he live around here? Had he been following me? Was this just a coincidence?

  I didn’t want to risk bumping into him, so I swiftly retraced my steps and jumped on the first bus to Camden. I found myself walking into the Urban Shack Café, where I’d been with Miranda, and ordering a coffee with a cheese and onion pasty. The people here seemed like Miranda’s kind of people – colourful, exuberant and spontaneous. With the familiar bustle and lively music, it felt safe. I half expected her to walk in – half hoped she would, but I was unlucky.