The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  I’d never seen him so angry. He told me that I was a snoop and a thief and if he ever caught me going through his things again he’d put me in solitary. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t snooping, I’d just been looking for a book, but he wouldn’t listen. He took the photo and hid it somewhere. I never saw it again.

  Not that it mattered. I didn’t have to see the photo. If I closed my eyes I’d see her face, her warm eyes and those beautiful words. I didn’t need Sarge to tell me that the girl in the photo was my mother. I knew it in my heart.

  Anyway, for now I must put all thoughts of the dead mother in the desert to the back of my mind and concentrate on the new mission Sarge is planning. He hasn’t told me when we’re going to do it, just that I should expect it very soon. He’s not going to give me any warning so I will have to be prepared and on guard at all times. But, like Sarge has always told me, being prepared is part of being a soldier, it’s what makes the difference between victory and defeat, life and death. I’ve got a lot to prove to Sarge after what happened with the rabbit. I have to show him that I have what it takes to be an elite soldier. When the time comes for this mission, I’m going to make sure that I’m ready.

  5

  Lisa

  It’s getting dark when we arrive back at the lake. I turn off the engine and sit for a moment. I think about the evening ahead of us. The lack of light switches in the house means I now face a whole night sitting in total darkness with a child who is already restless and scared. I toy with the idea of sleeping in the car but that would leave us even more vulnerable and exposed.

  I look out of the windscreen. The sky is grey and leaden. A shaft of evening sunlight illuminates the house, making it look, for just a moment, quite beautiful. I notice the chimneys for the first time, three tall brick rectangles poking up to the sky, and the ornate cornicing round the windows. It reminds me of the pictures I used to do at primary school. The teacher would ask us to draw our homes and I would pretend I lived in some impressive stately pile with pillars and gates and peacocks in the garden. I remember my teacher’s face as I handed the drawing to her, a look of puzzlement as she tried to equate the modern first-floor flat she knew we lived in with the ornate palace I had created on the paper. I sit for a moment, the smell of chalk dust and pencil shavings in my nose. Then the sky shifts, the light dulls and I pull myself together.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, unclipping my seat belt. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat.’

  He is sitting rigid in his seat, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

  ‘Joe?’

  He doesn’t respond. A sick feeling rises in my stomach. I would rather he shout and scream and yell for his daddy than stay silent and motionless like this.

  I get out of the car and open the back door. He doesn’t move.

  ‘It’s okay, baby,’ I whisper, leaning across to unclip him. ‘I know you’re tired. Mummy’s going to make us some nice food and then we’ll get some –’

  The blow comes out of nowhere. I stagger backwards, cupping my cheek in my hand. Joe is still staring straight ahead, his tiny hands clenched into tight fists. My face throbs.

  ‘Joe,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm and steady, ‘that was very naughty of you to hit Mummy but I know you’re tired and hungry. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll go get some food?’

  I hold out my hand towards him. It’s shaking. Why am I so terrified? He’s a three-year-old boy. My boy. But the situation I’ve fled, the anxiety and fear, mixed with this wilderness I’ve dragged us both to, have cast a sinister light on everything. Even Joe. The person I love most in this world.

  I stand like that for a minute or so and then out of sheer desperation I find myself resorting to bribery of the worst kind.

  ‘Joe, if you come inside with Mummy I promise we’ll go and see Daddy.’

  As soon as he hears that word his head jerks towards me. The look of hope on his tiny face breaks my heart but I have no choice. I have to get him out of the car. I can deal with my promise later.

  ‘Daddy,’ he says, stretching his arms towards me. ‘We go find Daddy.’

  I don’t reply, just lean across and lift him out of the seat, cursing myself.

  ‘Mummy needs to get some things from the boot and then we’ll explore the nice house,’ I say, placing him on to the grass and taking his hand. ‘It’s going to be such a fun adventure.’

  I hear him mutter something about ‘Daddy’ as I open the boot and take out the shopping bags and our luggage. In the corner of the boot I spot my dad’s old toolkit. Dad was a firm believer in being prepared for every eventuality. Unlike me. I reach for it and tuck it under my arm. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I whisper, though I know if he were here he’d laugh at the idea of me attempting to use a toolkit.

  I close the boot then take the bags in both hands.

  ‘Right, Joe,’ I say, my voice sounding unnaturally bright. ‘Follow Mummy. This is going to be a real adventure.’

  I hear his little footsteps behind me as we make our way to the house and for a moment I tell myself that maybe this might all still turn out fine. But when we reach the door and I set down the bags and take the torch out of my pocket the sense of unease returns.

  I open the door and wedge the luggage into the entrance. Then, taking Joe’s hand, I switch on the torch and begin to navigate the dark corridors.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ he says, his voice echoing against the empty rooms. ‘You said we see Daddy.’

  I don’t answer. Instead I hold the torch ahead of me. It casts twisted black shapes on the walls. The smell seems worse than before. I try not to think about the cages and the skull.

  I decide that the room to the left of the corridor will be the best place to settle Joe. It seemed the only one with a modicum of normality about it. I push the door open and stare into darkness.

  ‘Daddy in here?’

  ‘It’s a special place,’ I tell him, pointing the torch into the centre of the room. As well as the bookshelves there’s a large sunken sofa, an armchair covered in blankets and a low, round, wooden table. ‘We’re going to have a big adventure here.’

  ‘Don’t like it. I want to go home. Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘Shall we have a picnic?’ I say, realizing how ridiculous this sounds. ‘I got you some lovely things from the shop. Why don’t you sit here and I’ll get everything ready.’

  I lift him on to the sofa, but instantly he starts to struggle.

  I run my hand along the sofa and feel the dampness.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, taking one of the cushions and placing it on the floor. ‘We’ll have our picnic down here. It will be even more fun.’

  ‘No,’ he cries, kicking his legs out. ‘Want to go home.’

  What the hell am I doing, I think to myself as I try to wrestle my little boy on to the cushion. Just go home. But I know what will happen if I do that. A punishment much worse than anything this house can throw at me. So I take a deep breath and crouch down in front of Joe, speaking slowly and calmly.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I say, remembering what the counsellor told me about keeping eye contact, not an easy thing to do in semi-darkness. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. Mummy just needs to get ready and then we’re going to have some dinner. Remember Max’s dinner in the story?’

  ‘Still hot,’ says Joe.

  His face softens and my heart aches. I hate myself for putting him through this.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, stroking his arm. ‘Max had a big adventure just like we’re going to have but he still had to come back and eat his dinner. And, yes, it was still hot. Well remembered.’

  ‘We have dinner with Daddy?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit here on the cosy cushion,’ I say, ‘and Mummy will see what we’ve got to eat.’

  I don’t know whether it’s fatigue or hunger or both but he does as he’s told and sits on the threadbare cushion, lifting his knees up to his chin.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say, stroking his soft hair. ‘Mummy l
oves you very much, you know that?’

  He doesn’t answer. I stand up and scan the room, pointing the torch at every surface. In this light the antlers above the mantelpiece look even bigger than they did before, like the beast they once belonged to is somewhere beyond the wall waiting to smash through. I move the light on to the top of the mantelpiece, wondering as I do why anyone would keep bottles of antiseptic lined up on there. And then I see, tucked behind the bottles, three large candles. I pick them up. Their wicks are intact.

  ‘Look what I’ve found,’ I say to Joe, placing them on the table. ‘Candles. Shall we light them?’

  Joe nods his head. I get a flashback to his three-month birthday, back when I would celebrate the seventh of each month, the day he came into the world. I remember the caterpillar cake bought from M&S and the three candles wedged in the thick chocolate icing. Mark said I was foolish for wasting money on a cake when Joe wasn’t even old enough to eat solids. But I’d wanted to make every seventh special, that’s how much the day meant to me, how much I loved my baby. And it was worth it to see his little face when I lit the candles, his eyes sparkling as he watched the flames dance. A few months later it would all change.

  I blink away the memory then dig in my pocket for my lighter. Despite several attempts to give up, I still can’t do without the odd cigarette. In fact, right now I could smoke a whole pack, if only to calm my nerves. But, on my meagre wage, cigarettes are an expense I can’t justify these days.

  I line the candles up along the table then carefully light each one. Once they catch, the room lifts. I look at Joe. His face is glowing.

  ‘Look at that,’ I say, standing back to admire the light. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’

  Joe stares at the flames, his tired eyes mesmerized.

  ‘Right,’ I say, taking the carrier bag that I left by the door. ‘Let’s see what goodies we can find.’

  We’re so hungry and tired we make our way through two large sausage rolls each (though Joe just eats the sausage and hands me the pastry), a family bag of crisps and two cereal bars. Joe’s eyes are growing heavier. I will have to put him down to sleep. I decide we’ll stay in this room tonight. There will be bedrooms in the house somewhere but I refuse to go looking while it’s dark. Further exploration can wait until morning.

  Instead I take the remaining cushions from the sofa and place them together on the floor. Then I scoop the heavy blankets from the armchair and bring them to where Joe is lying. The blankets smell of damp but they’ll be warm. That’s all that matters for tonight. Joe is asleep now. I ease him up on to the line of cushions and drape one of the blankets over him, tucking it round his chest.

  Then, blowing the candles out, I wrap the remaining blanket round myself and lie down on the floor next to Joe, placing my hand on his chest. We’ve both got our winter coats on but it’s still icy cold, even with the added layer of the blanket. As I lie here, I try to ignore the noises that are filtering through the window; the screeches and cries of wild animals, the wind battering against the panes. Instead I try to focus on the gentle sound of Joe’s breathing, the beat of his heart against my hand. And as I try to block out the immediate fear, that of the unknown, I think of the other fear, the monster I am running from. Please let this be okay, I whisper to myself, please let us be safe. But when I close my eyes all I can see is his face.

  6

  Soldier Number 1

  Rowan Isle House, January 2003

  I did it! Today I finally reached the next level of my training. Sarge has given me a smart new uniform with a badge on the sleeve and said that from now on I can call myself Soldier Number 1.

  It’s such a great feeling to have passed the test but, my goodness, that mission was tough, the toughest thing I have ever had to do.

  It took me a while to finish off the ghillie suit but a couple of days after New Year it was finally ready. The next morning Sarge appeared at my door and I knew it was time. We went up to the top of Harrowby Crag, both wearing our ghillie suits, and got into position. Sarge said he was to be the spotter on this mission. He had already reckied reccied the area and gajed gagied gauged the shooting parameters. That is very important, he said, as a misfired shot could be the difference between life and death. We dug the hide, then once we were inside Sarge gave me the gun and told me to keep my target in focus. I did as I was told. When I saw the target move into view I put my hand on the trigger and prepared to fire. But at the last moment Sarge put his hand on mine and whispered to me that we’d had enough for now and that tomorrow we’d be hitting that target for real.

  I was a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting the chance to carry out the mission that day, but after all that preparation I didn’t want to let Sarge down, so I was up and dressed by the time he knocked on my door at 4 a.m. this morning. After kit inspection we marched single file out of the house. The air smelt of fire and Sarge said it was the residue of the fireworks that the idiots had let off in the village to bring in the New Year. I liked the smell of it though and I’d also liked seeing the fireworks from my window on New Year’s Eve. The colours were so beautiful, it was like the sky was alive. I didn’t tell Sarge that though.

  When we got outside I went towards the gate as I thought we’d be going straight to the crag but Sarge walked in the other direction, towards the lake, and started to untie the boat.

  I ran after him and asked, ‘What’s all this about, Sarge?’

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at me either. I get nervous when Sarge goes quiet like that. What usually follows is him shouting up at the sky, kicking out at nothing, cursing the American murderers. I could feel a funny lump in my throat but I swallowed hard and tried to stay in position as Sarge tried to untie the boat from the dock. When the rope finally came loose he looked up at me, his face all screwed up and sweating, and told me to get in.

  ‘But I thought we were going up there,’ I said, pointing up to the crag behind him.

  Sarge’s face changed then. His eyes got all wide and he balled his hands into fists.

  ‘One more word and I’ll have you for insubordination.’ He was yelling really loudly and spit from his mouth went flying into my face. Then he got even angrier. ‘You think you have the right to question the word of your superior? You fucking little shit. Get in that boat and await your orders or you’ll be spending the rest of the week in solitary.’

  I got such a shock then because Sarge doesn’t swear like that unless he’s talking about George W. Bush. He’d never spoken to me like that before. Not even when I’d broken the door of the stove that time and the house filled with smoke. But I was a kid back then and he treated me like one. Now I’m eleven he treats me like an adult, like one of his men, and it’s hard to get used to. So when he yelled like that I was in such shock that my legs wouldn’t move. I just stood there staring at the water, trying to stop myself from crying.

  It was a cold day and the lake looked a funny grey colour. Sometimes, when Sarge and I go out in the boat and the sun is shining, I see little shapes rising up off the surface. They look like tiny dancing fairies spinning and twisting in the air. I’ve come to know them as the lake sprites and when I go to bed at night I open my window and say goodnight to them. Sometimes I hear them giggling and other times I can hear them whisper to each other. They are very mischievous little things. I wished they would appear as I stood there looking out at the lake this morning but all was silent and the only voice I could hear was his.

  ‘I said get in that fucking boat.’

  He grabbed my arms and dragged me to the water. I’d been in that boat hundreds of times but now as I stood looking at it bobbing in the water I felt scared.

  Then suddenly I wasn’t on land any more. Sarge had pushed me into the boat. He got in next to me, grabbed the oars and started to row.

  ‘What are we doing, Sarge?’

  I knew he wasn’t going to answer. Not with his face the way it was. He was muttering under his breath too, something about death and bone
s. He kept repeating it over and over again. Death and bones. That’s all it was. Death and Bones. I wanted to make him stop, get him to focus on our mission. He’d been so happy yesterday, all excited about what was to come. But last night when I walked past his room on my way to bed I saw that he was reading that book, the one with the squiggly words. He always goes strange after he’s read that book, like he’s in the worst mood ever, and now he was back to muttering to himself. But I didn’t dare say anything, not while he was like that. Instead I sat holding on to the side of the boat and watched as he steered it into the centre of the lake.

  He let go of the oars then and I looked up at him. The next thing I knew his hands were round my neck. I went to scream but my voice was trapped in my throat. I tried to prise his hands off but he was too strong. Then, suddenly, he picked me up and threw me into the water.

  I tried to grab hold of the side of the boat but he kept pushing it away from me. I could feel my head going under the water. I kicked my arms and legs until I came up but soon the water was back over my head. I was going to drown. I was sure of it. But why wasn’t Sarge helping me?

  ‘Please, Sarge,’ I gasped, spluttering and coughing up water. ‘Please!’

  But he didn’t answer. He just sat in the boat and stared at me as I flapped my arms and tried to keep my head from going under again. Then suddenly he put his arms out towards me. I lifted mine up for him to take but instead he grabbed me by the collar of my uniform and plunged me under the water. Within seconds he’d lifted my head out again. But then he repeated it again and again and again. I couldn’t breathe. I swear I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t scream or beg him to stop because every time I came up for air he’d plunge me under again. I don’t know how long this went on for but just when I thought I couldn’t take it any more, he stopped.