The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  For now, Sarge says that we’re safe here in this house. That as long as we stick together no one can get to us. The people in the village are dangerous and to be avoided. I have seen them with my own eyes, seen how they look at us. Once we went into the shop because Sarge had got some money from selling a sheepskin and he wanted to put up a notice on the board telling people that there were more for sale, but as soon as we got in there the woman who runs it tried to get us out. She told us that it was too expensive to put a notice on the board, then she stood with her hands on this machine that Sarge told me was called a till, something that holds money in it. ‘She thought we were going to rob her, the stupid woman,’ Sarge said to me when we were on our way home. ‘Doesn’t she know that we have everything we need?’ That was the last time we ever went to the shop. And after that we set up our egg stall with our own little box to hold the money. Sarge said our eggs were fresher than the rubbish you got in the shop and he hoped that woman never had a day’s luck in her life. I agree with him because the way she looked at us that day wasn’t nice. It made me feel like we were bad people, me and Sarge, and we’re not. We’re good people. We’re just not like them.

  Anyway, I can do what I like in the house, though the upstairs is out of bounds as Sarge says the flooring up there is old and rotten and we don’t have enough money to get it fixed. It’s dangerous to walk on, he says. I had a peek up there once, though, when I was small, and the stairs were so loose and wobbly I was scared I’d fall so I came back down again pretty sharpish. I’m allowed to play out the back where we have a garden that looks out on to the woods and hills, though I’m only allowed to go to the woods when Sarge is with me. That’s a rule. And we don’t go to the village much. But I’m not too fussed about going there anyway, not after what happened in the shop that day, and, besides, there’s so much to do here. Even when it’s freezing out I can find things to occupy me here in the house and if he sees me looking idle Sarge will set me a task, like polishing our boots ready for manoeuvres the next day or loading then unloading the rifles. You have to be prepared for anything. That’s what Sarge says.

  And today I got a taste of that; of how it feels to be a proper soldier. It’s my birthday today, my eleventh birthday. Now normally, on my birthday, I would start knitting a pair of socks for the cold months. Sarge forages the wool from the briars around the sheep field. He wraps it in string and brings it to my room with a tray of homemade oat biscuits and a glass of goat’s milk. That’s what he’s done every birthday since I was five and I first learned to knit.

  But this birthday it’s different. Instead of wool I got this book and Sarge said that I must write in it every day, that it’s a logbook, something every good soldier needs. He also said that today is a very important day, a day I’ll remember all my life.

  And he was right. It was a good day. Because today I made my first kill.

  It began when it was still dark out. Sarge woke me earlier than usual, about 4 a.m. There wasn’t even time for a kit inspection because he said we had to hurry, that this was the best time to do it. You’ve got to catch them when they’ve just woken up, he said. Catch them unawares.

  I wanted to stay in bed. It was freezing out and I didn’t want to go off into the woods. Plus it was my birthday and usually Sarge lets me sleep late on my birthday. So I pulled my doss bag over my head and told him to go away. That was a bad move. I knew, even before the words had left my mouth, that he would have me for insubordination, birthday or not. He didn’t say anything though. And that is always a bad sign. I heard him storm out of the room. After a minute or so I looked out from under the doss bag and saw him standing above me with a bucket of water. Before I could dart back under, he threw the whole lot over me.

  The cold felt like tiny knives stabbing me all over. I screamed and jumped out of bed. Sarge said it was a lesson learned. That being tired was not an excuse. That in his big war he’d had to walk across the desert for six days with next to no sleep. And that he hadn’t been able to stop because he had a mission to carry out, that people had depended on him. ‘I never want to hear you say you’re tired again,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me?’

  I said I heard him loud and clear. He looked at me for a moment or so to check that I meant what I said, then he left me to get dried and dressed.

  Ten minutes later I was following him across the moor towards the woods. It was pitch black out. Sarge was holding his rifle in the crook of his arm as he walked. I could see the metal glinting in the moonlight. I knew that if I kept my eye on that shiny light then I wouldn’t lose sight of him. I wasn’t scared. Not at that point. Even though I could hear noises, I knew it was just the sounds of the woods: the creatures that don’t go to sleep in the night, that prowl around in the bracken looking for food. And I could never be scared of them. Their noises make me feel safe.

  There are other noises too, the ones I can’t hear but Sarge can. The screams and shouts of people that he says have followed him from the desert. Sometimes he shouts back at them, other times he puts his hands over his ears and screws his face up really tight. I know never to talk to him when he hears those noises but I make sure I stay by his side so he knows he’s safe, that he’s not alone.

  I imagine some people might feel sorry for me. Living out here with just Sarge for company. I know how we live is different. It’s different from the people I read about in the library books – those people live in big fancy houses with servants or in sweet little cottages with pretty curtains at the window, with mothers who bake cakes and sing the kids lullabies at night. And it’s different from the way Sarge lived when he was little – in a thing called a bungalow in a place called Middlesbrough which Sarge says is to the east of here – and it’s different from the dead mum in the desert who lived in the blazing heat and shared food round a big table like in her photograph.

  But I wouldn’t change it. Not for anything. And though we live far away from other people, I never feel lonely because actually this place is full of life. Even at four this morning, though Sarge and I were the only humans walking out, I could feel the others all around me. I’ll try and describe it like I’m back there in the woods. There’s a noise that sounds like tickety-tack, tickety-tack. That’s the skylark. It sits up at the top of the beech tree, like some kind of general giving orders to his army. Then as you go deeper into the woods there’s a rustling of leaves and a scratching of claws. That’s the foxes nestling down to sleep in the hedgerow. There are two of them. A dog and a vixen. He’s a big brute, always wild-eyed and snarling, but she’s little and quite tame. She comes up to the house sometimes at twilight. Once she came right up to the door while I was peeling veg for tea. She looked so thin that I felt sorry for her so I held out a bit of potato peel and she came up and took it from my hand. She has kind eyes, that vixen. Amber eyes. Like the dead mother in the desert.

  Anyway, I’m going off on one, as Sarge says. Talking about foxes when I should be making a record of the very important thing that happened.

  It went like this:

  After I heard the foxes we walked on another few metres, into the deepest part of the woods. Sarge was up ahead, then he stopped suddenly, turned to me and raised his gun. Just a tiny bit, but enough so I could see.

  His face was all pearly white in the moonlight and his eyes were fixed on me.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  I wasn’t ready. I was terrified. My legs felt all wobbly and I thought I was going to be sick. Sarge knows me better than I know myself and he could see I was scared. He lowered the gun and walked very slowly towards me.

  Then he placed the gun on the ground and knelt down in front of me. His face looked softer.

  ‘Look at the sky,’ he said. ‘What do you see?’

  I did as I was told. A white circle hovered above the woods like a giant face.

  ‘All I can see is the moon,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sarge. ‘The moon. And do you know something?’

  His voice
was so quiet I had to lean in to hear.

  ‘The moon isn’t afraid,’ he said. ‘Do you see?’

  I’d never really thought about the moon having any kind of feelings but I nodded my head.

  ‘That moon up there,’ he said, looking up at the sky, ‘it keeps beaming its light, stronger and brighter, even though it’s out there all alone in that vast sky. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got to be like the moon,’ he said, picking the gun up from the ground and handing it to me. ‘You’ve got to be strong and bright and brave.’

  I took the gun in my hands.

  ‘Now,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll ask again. Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ I replied. But my legs were shaking.

  ‘Keep your nerve,’ he said. ‘And remember what I told you.’

  The dark was lifting as we walked on and I had to blink so my eyes could get used to the speckly light. I could sense Sarge walking behind me steadily but I kept my eyes to the ground, watching for movement. My ears felt like they had been carved open. Every noise, even just the snap of a twig or a flutter of wings in the trees above me, sounded like an explosion.

  Sarge and I know the layout of the wood so well we could walk through it with our eyes closed. But this morning everything looked different. Or maybe it was me who had changed. Sarge says eleven is a good age, the age when you see the world for what it is.

  And what I saw in that moment was our target.

  She appeared from nowhere. She had a plump body with dirty brown hair and her eyes were black. She looked up at me. I stopped. Deadly still. Behind me I heard Sarge take a breath. He didn’t speak but I heard his voice in my head telling me what to do.

  ‘Hold the gun firm but gentle. Like an honourable man’s handshake.’

  I can tell you now that it isn’t easy to do that when you’re shivering with cold and fear but I kept my eyes on her and steadied myself.

  ‘Get into firing position.’

  I tucked the gun into my shoulder and kept my eyes on the prize. Then I pressed my cheek against the stock. I could hear Sarge’s words in my head.

  ‘Take off the catch and keep your eyes open.’

  I knew what would come next. The loud bang. And when you know that’s coming all you want to do is close your eyes, block it out. I could feel mine going but I forced myself to keep them open.

  ‘Keep the target in sight.’

  I stared down at her. She could sense something. Her eyes moved fast from left to right. Then her body went all frozen, like one of the ice statues in my Narnia book. I heard Sarge whisper behind me.

  ‘On a count of three.’

  Taking a deep breath, I started to count.

  ‘One.’

  I curved my finger back towards the trigger.

  ‘Two.’

  My heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.

  ‘Three.’

  The noise was so loud it almost knocked me off my feet. I staggered backwards and swung the gun round.

  Sarge ran towards me and grabbed the gun.

  ‘Jesus, be careful, child,’ he shouted. ‘That’s a weapon in your hand, not a toy.’

  For a moment I forgot where I was. The noise of the gunshot was ringing in my ears and I went all dizzy. Then I saw Sarge heading towards her so I pulled myself together and followed him into the clearing.

  ‘Did I … did I get her?’ I said.

  Sarge was crouched down near where she fell, but his long woollen army coat was blocking my view of her.

  ‘Sarge? Did I get her?’

  He turned round and my heart sank. I recognized the look in his eyes. Disappointment.

  He shook his head.

  ‘You shot her in the legs,’ he said. ‘You’ve paralysed her but she’s still alive.’

  ‘But she can’t be alive,’ I shouted.

  It didn’t make sense. I’d followed Sarge’s instructions to the letter.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. He said this in a nicer voice because he could see I was upset. ‘This was your first time. It takes practice.’

  ‘What shall we do with her?’ I asked.

  ‘She’ll need to be put out of her misery,’ he said. ‘She won’t survive out here with this injury.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Do what you need to do.’

  Sarge looked at me then and shook his head. His face was hard again.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is your kill. You have to finish it.’

  Of course I was scared but I thought of the moon all alone up there in the vast night sky and I thought of Sarge trampling through the desert on next to no sleep and then I thought for a second or two about the dead mum in the desert and the vixen with the amber eyes but I put those two out of my head. Then I bent down and wrung her neck, just like I’d seen Sarge do with the chickens we keep in the garden.

  When it was over we walked without speaking back to the house. My hands were stained with blood and the air around us smelt like meat and metal. When we got to the door, Sarge patted me on the shoulder and told me I’d done well.

  We cooked the rabbit that night. Sarge said it was my birthday feast. He’d made some home brew and he poured a glass for the two of us. Then he raised his cup in the air and said, ‘To the victor the spoils.’

  Sarge says the meat will last us for five meals. The bones will then go into a stock for soup that will feed us for another five.

  ‘Survivors’ is what Sarge calls us. The two of us out here on our own, facing down the world and winning. And today I felt like a winner when I carried that rabbit home. I did me and Sarge proud.

  3

  Lisa

  I sit for a minute and try to gather my thoughts. Behind me, Joe snores gently. I look at the time on the dashboard clock: 4.00 p.m. Soon the light will be gone altogether. And exploring that house in the dark doesn’t bear thinking about. I take my dad’s torch out of the glove compartment then open the car door and make my way back towards the house.

  As I grip the torch in my hands and shine its reassuring light ahead of me, an image of my dad walking through Highgate Cemetery flashes before me, his long black coat trailing behind him. He would take me to the cemetery at twilight on Halloween to ‘get into the spirit’. I smile as I remember his round pink face peeking out of the hood of his coat as he stood by the statue of Karl Marx. ‘You’re about as scary as a wet lettuce, Frank,’ my mum would giggle as he came down the stairs in his Halloween get-up. And she was right. But that didn’t matter to Dad. What mattered was making every occasion special for me, whether that was Halloween or Bonfire Night, Christmas Day or my birthday – each one was to be treasured and celebrated. When you’re loved as much as I was as a child you feel invincible, like the horrors of the world will never find you. You’re protected.

  If only Dad were here now, I think to myself as the torch illuminates the front door, he’d know what to do. He always knew what to do.

  The door is covered in dirt and cobwebs. Following the instructions from the note I turn the handle and push against the heavy wood with my shoulder. It eases a fraction but it’s stiff and heavy. The cobwebs cling to my skin like that sticky weed that used to grow in my parents’ garden back in Highgate. I wipe my hands on my jeans then push at the door some more until finally, with a sharp creaking sound, it yields.

  As I stand there, looking into the darkness, a strange sensation comes over me. It’s like tiny needles piercing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a silent wish that all will be okay, that nothing terrible will greet me on the other side. Opening my eyes, I look into the blackened doorway. The silence is suffocating. I should get the hell out of here right now. Drive Joe away from this. But where would I go? There’s no option. I take a deep breath, glance quickly behind me to check that the car is still there, then slowly step inside.

  The smell that hits me is a fetid, animal scent, a mix of shit and straw. I clos
e the door behind me then see that there are two bolts on the back, one at the top, the other on the bottom. The sight of those bolts reassures me somewhat. I can lock the door and hide in here, hide from Mark and all my troubles.

  Shining the torch ahead of me, I can see that the walls of the hallway are covered in faded yellow wallpaper with the ghost of a flower pattern just about detectable. I scan the walls for a light switch but there is nothing. Pointing the torch to the ceiling, I see that there are no light fittings. My stomach twists as I walk on, trying to contemplate spending the night in this house. My feet make a rustling sound and when I look down I see that the stone floor is strewn with what looks like straw or grass. It smells raw and pungent, like silage. How could anyone have lived in this way, I ask myself, as I lift the torch back to shoulder height and point it ahead of me.

  There are three doors leading off the hallway, one in front and one on either side of me. I open the door on the left and step into what I reckon must be a living room of some sort as I can just make out the shape of a sofa under piles and piles of rubbish. As I step closer I see that the ‘rubbish’ is in fact a collection of yellowing newspapers. I pick one up and look at the date: 7 September 2003. The year my dad died. A shiver flutters across my chest as I read the date again, remembering the pain and sadness of that year, then I drop the paper back on to the floor.

  There is a fireplace beyond the sofa. As I scan it with my torch I can see that the mantelpiece is cluttered with bits of paper and ancient bottles of antiseptic. Above it is a set of antlers that have been nailed to the wall. They loom out at me ominously. I look down at my feet. It looks like they have been bound in barbed wire but it’s just the twisted shadow of the antlers. To the left of the fireplace are three rickety-looking shelves, piled high with paperback books. I can just about make out some of the titles: The Science of Animal Husbandry, A Farmer’s Almanac, The Turn of the Screw. I pull this one out, remembering it from my A-level English class, and open it up. Inside is a library sticker with a return date stamped on it: 10 January 2005. Long overdue now. The covers are dusty and yellow, and a sour scent hangs about them, like cat pee. I close the book, put it back on the shelf, then slowly make my way out of the room.