The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  Nuala Ellwood

  * * *

  The House on the Lake

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE 1 Lisa

  2 Soldier

  3 Lisa

  4 Soldier

  5 Lisa

  6 Soldier Number 1

  7 Lisa

  8 Soldier Number 1

  9 Lisa

  10 Soldier Number 1

  11 Lisa

  12 Soldier Number 1

  13 Lisa

  14 Soldier Number 1

  15 Lisa

  16 Soldier Number 1

  17 Lisa

  18 Soldier Number 1

  19 Lisa

  20 Soldier Number 1

  21 Lisa

  22 Soldier Number 1

  23 Lisa

  24

  25 Lisa

  PART TWO 26 Grace

  27 Lisa

  28 Grace

  29 Lisa

  30 Grace

  31 Lisa

  32 Grace

  33 Lisa

  34 Grace

  35 Lisa

  36 Grace

  37 Lisa

  38 Grace

  PART THREE 39 Grace

  PART FOUR 40 Lisa

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  EPILOGUE Lisa

  Grace

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Nuala Ellwood is the author of two bestselling novels: My Sister’s Bones for which she was selected as one of the Observer’s ‘New Faces of Fiction 2017’ and Day of the Accident. Nuala teaches Creative Writing at York St John University, and lives in the city with her young son.

  For Arthur and Nell

  What readers are saying about

  The House on the Lake

  ‘I finished it in one sitting’

  Julie, Netgalley

  ‘Wow. From first word to last this fast-paced, gripping story had me in its thrall’

  Ceecee, Netgalley

  ‘Another great read’

  Pauline, Netgalley

  ‘Emotional and extremely atmospheric … Highly recommended’

  Samantha, Netgalley

  ‘Oh, wow. From page one it pulled me in and didn’t let go till the very end’

  Charlene, Netgalley

  ‘I loved it … Great book – great, great, great!’

  Gill, Netgalley

  ‘Amazing read, I couldn’t put it down and actually read it in one go!’

  Hayley, Netgalley

  ‘I wish I could give this more than 5 stars!’

  Miriam, Netgalley

  ‘Another gripping story from Nuala Ellwood’

  Janet, Netgalley

  ‘Atmospheric, twisted and believable’

  Margaret, Netgalley

  ‘I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection’

  – Sigmund Freud

  Prologue

  Blood.

  That’s all I can think about as I sit here huddled in the corner. I close my eyes but I can still see it, a dark crimson stain on the new-fallen snow.

  His blood.

  I get to my feet and look out of the tiny window. The snow is falling still. White flakes drift through the air, obscuring my view of the crag and the woods beyond. All is as it was and yet everything has changed. The landscape I once loved and treasured is now a warped one, with no beginning and no end.

  It is rotten. All of it.

  I have nothing left, I think to myself, as I close the window. Nothing except the terrible images that swirl round my head.

  It’s been four days now with no word. Any hope I had left in my heart is gone. I am alone, utterly alone.

  I step back inside the room. My blankets are lying on the floor where I left them earlier. I have tried to sleep but it’s no use. Every time I close my eyes I see his face and I’m reminded of what I’ve lost.

  Love.

  Family.

  Home.

  That was all I ever wanted. All I ever needed. I just didn’t realize until it was too late.

  I lift the blanket and give it a shake. Dust particles rise up into the air and I cough as they hit the back of my throat. Then I hear it. Knocking. It gets louder and louder and it takes me a few moments to work out that it’s coming from downstairs. It’s the front door. Someone is knocking on the front door. My heart lifts.

  He’s come back. I knew he would.

  I run to the door, open it wide, and as I hurtle down the stairs I make a silent promise that from now on things will be better, I will be a better person. I won’t complain or argue. I will be thankful for the family I have been given, for the person I love most in this world.

  But it is a woman’s voice that greets me as I reach the front door.

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  It’s a sharp, menacing sound that seems to slice through the heavy wooden door as I stand trembling behind it.

  ‘Stand back.’

  There’s a pause followed by an almighty thud as the door is broken down and two uniformed officers – one male, one female – rush towards me and grab me by my arms.

  It happens so quickly I barely have time to catch my breath, though as they lead me outside I manage to catch a few of their words.

  And then, in those final moments before they take me away, it all makes sense. The silence. The blood. The nightmares.

  I realize what has happened.

  It was me.

  I killed him.

  PART ONE

  * * *

  1

  Lisa

  9 December 2018

  Joe’s screams fill the car as we come off the motorway and make our way down a series of narrow and twisty country roads. I turn the radio up to its highest volume then grip the steering wheel, hoping that a bit of Little Mix might calm him down. I sing along too at the top of my voice and pretend that everything is perfectly normal, that we’re off on a fun festive trip, my little boy and me. I try not to think about Mark and what he’ll do when he finds out we’ve gone but his voice is everywhere. I can hear it in my head above the music, dripping with menace: You silly fucking bitch. What the hell have you done? I turn the music up but Mark’s voice merges with it. Behind me, Joe starts wailing.

  ‘Want Daddy. Want Daddy.’

  My heart starts to pound, the familiar prelude to the panic attacks I’ve been getting recently. Turning the radio off, I slowly exhale, remembering the technique I learned at the mindfulness class they made me take.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  ‘It’s okay, bubba,’ I say as the pounding subsides. ‘Mummy’s taking you on a big adventure. We’re going to the countryside where there’ll be sheep and cows and lots of fun things, and we’re going to stay in a beautiful house. You’ll like it, I promise.’

  I look at his face in the rear-view mirror. His big blue eyes are red and swollen with tears. His bottom lip quivers as he turns his head and looks out of the window.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, keeping my voice extra bright. ‘Let’s see if we can spot any sheep.’

  But the fields on either side of the road are empty and a thick frost covers the hedges. There are no sheep, no horses, no sign of any life at all. A feeling of dread uncoils itself in my stomach as I drive through the desolate landscape. What the hell are you doing, Lisa?

  Just turn round and go home, I tell myself. You don’t have to go through with this. It’s not too late. But then I remember Mark’s face, the hatred contorting his features, and I think of the piece of paper, tucked away in my bag, with the directions to the safe place. I’ve kept it hidden all these months and now it’s time to use it.

&
nbsp; But as I drive I feel doubt creeping in. I had felt so certain when I set off but now all I can hear is my dad’s voice, the voice of pragmatism and reason. ‘Nothing comes for free, Lisa.’ And part of me knows that is true. Have I made the biggest mistake of my life?

  ‘Not want you. Want Daddy.’

  Joe’s voice interrupts my thoughts and though his words sting I know that I have no choice now. I have to do it. There is no other way.

  I grip the steering wheel tightly as a road sign looms into view. Harrowby. I recognize the name of the village from the note. It sounds ordinary enough but as I take a left turn I see that the ‘village’ is nothing more than a cluster of decrepit terrace houses with smoke curling out of the chimneys. A grey mist hangs in the air as we drive past a pebble-dashed convenience store with a newspaper stand out front and a pub festooned with tired-looking Christmas decorations. An inflatable snowman floats ghost-like outside the front door. I shudder as memories of Christmas 2016 come hurtling into my head unbidden: the screaming, the blood – so much blood – and the fear that seeped into my bones as the horror of my situation became clear.

  ‘Look, Joe, quick,’ I say, pointing out of the window, in a feeble attempt to brighten the mood. ‘See the snowman. Isn’t he funny?’

  ‘Want Daddy,’ he screams. ‘Where is he?’

  It’s ripping my heart. I want to shout at him, tell him that I’m his mummy, that I love him more than he will ever know. But that won’t make any sense to him so instead I make some soothing noises then switch off the radio and turn on the story-time CD I bought yesterday. The opening bars of a jaunty tune strike up and then a soft male American voice begins the story of Where the Wild Things Are. It was my favourite book when I was a child and I’m hoping Joe will like it too. He has stopped crying at least.

  ‘Is that better?’ I say after a minute or two, keeping my eyes on the road.

  He doesn’t answer. He’s lost in the story.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I whisper, grateful for the silence.

  We’re on the edge of the village now. The sky is darkening and I blink as a boxy red-brick building comes into view up ahead on the right. Drawing closer, I see the words ALL HALLOWS painted in black letters on a wooden sign and a man standing outside the church. The vicar. I catch his eye as we pass and a chill flutters through me as I remember the last time I was in a chapel, my arms covered in bruises. I blink the memory away and concentrate on the road ahead. The satnav had told me to follow the road out of the village for three miles, though the words on the note are etched on my memory. The lake will appear right ahead of you. It’s impossible to miss.

  The hills rise up on either side, closing in on me like the folded pages of a pop-up book as I follow the narrow road. The sky is dark grey now. Night is coming. There are no houses, no people. No cars pass by. My chest tightens with dull panic and I can feel it rising in my throat. I focus on the soft voice on the CD, describing the wild things roaring their terrible roars, and suddenly I’m six years old again, curled up on the sofa next to my dad as he reads to me the story of a young boy who sailed away.

  The memory calms me and I sit up straight and focus on the increasingly bumpy and potholed road. And then, as we reach the crest of the hill, it appears in front of me: a wide expanse of black water. As I draw closer, a dark shadow seems to rise out of the lake and slowly take form, and I see a tall, black stone building with barred windows. This can’t possibly be it, I think, pulling up by the lake. It looks like a prison or one of those asylums they used to lock people away in back in Victorian times. And it’s clear nobody has set foot in it for years – it’s almost completely falling apart. I take the note out of my handbag and read, praying that I’ve taken the wrong turn.

  I look out of the window. There’s a sign next to the door but the light is fading and I can’t see what it says. I fold up the note and put it back into my bag.

  ‘Two minutes, Joe,’ I say, turning round to look at him. He’s fast asleep, his ragged old toy rabbit pressed to his pink cheek.

  Careful not to wake him, I gently open the door and step outside. The air is cold and there’s a biting wind. I button up my padded coat and walk towards the building. My stomach twists when I think about that last conversation with her. Everyone said she was unhinged. What if this is all some sick joke?

  There’s a broken jetty on the edge of the lake. An old rowing boat bobs beside it, rocking from side to side in the breeze. Thud, thud, thud. The noise makes my skin prickle and I hurry towards the house.

  It’s bigger up close, an intimidating bulk that looms above me like a great ship. The windows are dark and caked in mud and there’s a thick wooden door straight ahead of me with a heavy brass knocker in the centre. The sign I saw from the car is thick with dirt and grime. I step forward and wipe it with the back of my hand then read the name, written in what looks like a child’s handwriting.

  Rowan Isle House. This is it. This is the house.

  I half walk, half run back to the car. Thankfully Joe is still fast asleep in the back. I open the door on the driver’s side and slump into my seat. I should just turn on the engine and get the hell out of here. That would be the sensible thing to do. But then I think about what I’ve done and how angry Mark will be. I can’t go back there. Not to that hell. I try to think of other options. Hotels. B&Bs. But that’s a short-term solution and with the cost of rooms my money would run out after a few days. I have no option. No other way out.

  Then I twist round in my seat and look at my little boy sleeping, his soft, fair eyelashes peeking out from behind a curtain of golden curls. I love him so much it hurts. I’m his mother and I have to keep him close, have to protect him now.

  2

  Soldier

  Rowan Isle House, 2002

  This will be my first entry in this book. I’ve been given it to record my progress as an elite soldier. You may think that if I’m a soldier then I must live with other soldiers in a camp or out in the desert where people drop bombs. But I’m not like other soldiers. For a start I’m not a grown-up, I’m a girl. I have black hair and black eyes and I live in a big old house that looks out on to a lake. It’s not a pretty house, not like Misselthwaite Manor or Green Gables, the houses that I read about in the books I get from the mobile library. It doesn’t have clean white shutters or fancy furnishings. It’s a dark house with old wooden beams and stone floors. We don’t have much furniture either, only the very basics. But then Sarge says that’s all we need.

  Sarge is my dad but I call him ‘Sarge’ because that’s what he was when he was in this thing called the SAS. His real name is an OFFICIAL SECRET, though I’ve told him that I’m good at keeping secrets and I won’t tell.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The house. Well, I’ve lived here all my life so it’s all I’ve ever known. And even though I like reading about pretty houses in my library books I wouldn’t swap this one for the world. It may not look like much but we make it cosy, especially in the winter when Sarge brings out the old animal skins. I like sitting in front of the fire with the skins across my feet while Sarge reads me my favourite book: The Wind in the Willows. Those are the best times. When it’s freezing out and we’re warm inside listening to the tales of Ratty, Toad, Mole and Badger, my best friends. How can you be friends with them, you may ask, when they’re not real? But, you see, that’s the thing, Sarge makes them real, and has done since I was small. When he’s reading the bits with Badger he puts on his glasses and makes his voice all low and serious, and in my head I can see the old badger as clear as anything. I see him with a book in his hands because he’s clever, Badger, or ‘well read’ as Sarge likes to put it.

  For Toad, he sits up straight and puffs his chest out. And I giggle because he’s not Sarge any more, he’s that silly Toad strutting about Toad Hall or zooming through the country lanes in his fast little car. ‘Beep, Beep,’ shouts Sarge as he sits in his chair holding a pretend steering wheel. ‘Out of my way!’ And then, like magic, I’
m out there on the open road with him, feeling the wind in my hair, even though I’ve never been in a car in my life.

  Like I said, Sarge makes everything seem real.

  It’s not just stories and soldiering though. Sarge also makes sure I get what he calls a ‘proper education’. By that he means learning about the things that matter, the things that will help me when I’m grown. Sarge says that other children go to school to learn what the government wants them to know. It’s how they control them, he says, how they keep people in line, so they don’t ask questions or start revolutions. I’m not sure what a revolution is, though Sarge says it’s about time this country had one. Anyway, Sarge has taught me well. I know my times tables and I practise my maths when I sell the eggs that our chickens lay. We set up a little stall out front and put a sign by the gate that says FRESH EGGS FOR SALE. We sell them for £2 a dozen which Sarge says is a bargain. I’m in charge of serving the customers because Sarge doesn’t like talking to people so I get to work out how much change they need and things like that. Sarge says I wouldn’t learn how to think on my feet like that in a classroom.

  Sarge taught me to read when I was three. I love reading. Besides soldiering, it’s my favourite thing to do. When I read it feels like travelling all over the world when I haven’t even left my room. Just by opening up a book I can be taken away to America or China, India or Africa, and when I’ve finished the story it feels like I’ve actually been to those places, like I can feel the hot African sun on my skin or the smell of the spices in an Indian market. I told Sarge how I felt and he said that the world is a dangerous place and it’s best that we stay put. I know he’s right but I secretly wish I could feel the real African sun or take a dip in the River Ganges. One day maybe.