I held on to the boat trying to breathe, no idea what would happen next. Then he looked at me like he’d just woken up from a dream. All of a sudden he was Sarge again. ‘Come on, love,’ he said, his voice calm and normal. And he lifted me out of the water into the boat.
I couldn’t speak. Just sat shivering while he rowed us back to shore. ‘Pleased to tell you that you’ve passed the first stage of this section of training,’ he said as he helped me out of the boat. ‘Now it’s time for the next stage. The part we’ve been working towards.’
He pointed towards the crag.
‘But … Sarge,’ I said, my teeth chattering. ‘I …’
I couldn’t get any words out. I was so cold. So scared.
‘The target is on the move,’ he said, walking ahead of me towards the crag. ‘We have to locate it and get into position.’
I just stood there, shivering uncontrollably. ‘MOVE!’ he yelled. So I followed him.
It was difficult to climb in wet clothes and I could feel myself slipping as we got to the higher part of the crag. I wanted Sarge to help me, to lift me on his shoulders like he used to when I was little, but he didn’t even look back at me, just kept on striding ahead. It was at this point that my head began to clear and I tried to make sense of what had just happened on the lake. Why had he done it? Why had he changed the plan? Why did he look surprised when he pulled me out of the water? Still, I knew that it wouldn’t help to ask these questions of Sarge while we were in the middle of the mission so I followed him obediently and kept my mouth shut.
When we reached the hide Sarge knelt down and located the rifle and binoculars. He handed me the gun then put the binoculars to his eyes.
‘We’re set,’ he said, lowering them. ‘It’s all down to you now.’
I got into position and tried to raise the gun but my arms were hurting from struggling in the water. I put the gun down and rubbed them. They felt sore and hard but I knew I’d have to ignore the pain and get through this test otherwise Sarge would be even more angry. I could see the target wandering in and out of view. I could hear Sarge’s words in my head as I picked up the gun, my arms throbbing with pain, and got ready to fire. ‘You’ll know as soon as you pull that trigger if it’s a hit or a miss.’ I thought about the last time. The rabbit I left half alive with its leg hanging off and the look on Sarge’s face when he turned to me and said, ‘You haven’t killed her.’ And I told myself in those few seconds that I had to do it this time. I had to make the kill. I widened my eyes, kept them fixed on the target, then on a count of three I pulled the trigger.
This time I was ready for the explosion, though it still made my ears ring. I heard the thud of Sarge’s footsteps running down the crag towards the target. I staggered out of the hide and made my way to the edge. When I looked down I saw Sarge waving his hands at me. Beside him on the ground lay a bloodied ewe.
‘You’ve done it,’ he cried, his face beaming. ‘You’ve made your kill.’
And he looked so happy, the lines had gone from his face, and his smile was so wide that, in spite of everything, I felt happy too. I ran down to join him and together we hauled the ewe back to the house. After we’d skinned and butchered it, Sarge sat me down and told me that I’d passed to the next level, that I was now Soldier Number 1. Then he sat in his chair and read one of his books, the one about the old man who lived in the woods, and I sat in mine and drank hot milk. And when I looked at Sarge he seemed so peaceful that I knew I was doing something right.
When Sarge had gone to bed I took the cups into the kitchen. I was just about to blow the candles out when I heard a scratching at the back door. My first thought was to go get Sarge but then I remembered that I was Soldier Number 1 now and I had to be brave so I went to the door and opened it a fraction. The first thing I saw was a pair of eyes, then the outline of a long nose, and all my fears fell away. It was the vixen. I opened the door wider then crouched down and stroked her rough fur. She’s such a gentle thing despite her sharp teeth. ‘Are you hungry, girl?’ I said to her. ‘Shall I get you some supper?’ She looked up at me and her eyes were so soft and kind. I went back into the kitchen and sliced some of the leftover meat into a bowl then took it out to her. She ate it in no time and it was then I noticed how thin she was. It had been a bad winter and food will have been hard to come by. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, stroking the top of her head. ‘I’ll make sure you get a good meal. I won’t let you starve. I promise.’ I don’t know whether she heard me because as soon as the meat was finished she scarpered back down the garden.
Now that I’m in bed I feel better. Sarge and I have eaten well and so has my lovely vixen. And I have become Soldier Number 1. For those things I should be grateful. So I’m going to forget about the water and the death and bones and all the horrid things that happened today, and just focus on the good. Sarge says I did well and that is enough for me.
7
Lisa
10 December 2018
I wake with a dull pain in my right arm. Something is pressing into my skin. I turn over and the pain subsides. As I come to I look down to see that I am lying on my phone. Instinctively I go to check my messages but when I hold it to the light I see it has no signal.
And then I remember where I am. The clutter on the mantelpiece is casting a shadow on the wall, turning the bottles of antiseptic into rows of toy soldiers looming over the room. I clutch my phone like it’s a weapon that can somehow protect me as the events of the past twenty-four hours return in fragments. I see myself, red-faced and frantic, running down the driveway, bundling Joe into his car seat. I see my gloved hands clutching the steering wheel on that interminably long journey from London, Joe screaming his head off in the back. I see the house rising out of the lake like some mythical creature in the dusk and a shiver slices through me.
I need to shake this feeling, need to think clearly, work out what to do next. I look down at my phone again. The lack of signal makes me uneasy but then I tell myself that at least this way Mark will be unable to trace me. To him, to the outside world, I have fallen off the radar, ceased to exist. Once, that idea would have terrified me. Now I feel reassured by it.
I put the phone back in my pocket and sit up. Joe is sound asleep on the cushions next to me. Sharp winter light is streaming through the bare windows, highlighting the grime and dust that covers every surface in the room.
I remember the cages and the skull, the kitchen with no amenities, and my heart sinks. I’d been so exhausted last night, so desperate to dissolve into dead sleep, the precariousness of the situation hadn’t really registered. Now as I stand here looking down at my little boy, his chest rising and falling, the reality of what I have done, what I have brought my child into, begins to sink in.
I pick up the blanket I slept in, fold it carefully and place it on the armchair. It smells of mould and animal dung. God knows what I inhaled as I slept in it last night. I glance at Joe. He’s swaddled in another filthy blanket, his blond curls matted to his forehead. What kind of a mother does this? I ask myself. Who would bring her child into this? He should be waking up in his own bed, with his spotless Mr Men quilt and cuddly toys standing guard about his head. In an hour or so he’d be at nursery, making paper chains for Christmas and playing with his friends. Now he’s lying in some dump.
‘I just wanted to keep you with me,’ I whisper to his sleeping form. ‘I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.’
My eyes fill with tears as I think about what I’ve run away from. The twisted feeling in my gut every single day, those four walls, with their exotic-bird-printed wallpaper, bearing down on me, his voice telling me what I’d done wrong that day, how he could have done it better. He could always do it better. ‘Lisa, are you actually that stupid?’
I exhale slowly, try to expunge his voice from my mind. I have to keep busy, I tell myself, or I’ll drive myself mad. I bend down and pick up last night’s empty crisp packets and sausage roll wrappers and put them into the carrier bag. Tying the handles together, I ste
p quietly out of the room and head to the kitchen.
My dad used to say that things always looked better in the daytime, that the sunrise brought answers to problems that seemed insurmountable in the middle of the night. I think of his words as I step into the kitchen that, in the morning light, doesn’t seem quite so terrifying. I put the bag of rubbish on to the table then take a good look around. There are jagged wooden shelves running along the wall that look like they’ve been fashioned out of an old tree branch. Like the mantelpiece, they are laden with clutter. There’s an assortment of tins and boxes, old candles, paintbrushes and more bottles of antiseptic. I see the words ‘Powdered Milk’ written on the front of one of the tins. Taking it down, I read the label: ‘Best Before 01/08/2003’. Fifteen years out of date. My stomach twists as I look at that year. The year of my dad’s death. That’s the second time I’ve been confronted with it since I arrived here. It seems to be mocking me.
‘Don’t let the dark thoughts in,’ I mutter to myself as I put the tin back on to the shelf. ‘Keep focused and clear.’ I make my way to the back of the kitchen where the odd contraption I noticed yesterday sits. I realize it must be a stove, though it juts out at all angles, like someone’s cobbled it together from bits of old scrap. There’s a flue with a ledge running across the bottom on which sit a black cast-iron kettle, a two-handled heavy-set cooking pot and an old-fashioned iron. There is a door in the bottom that I presume is where the wood goes but when I try to open it I find it’s wedged shut with grease.
I take a deep breath and try to contemplate living in this place over the winter with no form of heating. I’ve got to get that stove to work. But how the hell do I do that? As I stand looking at it I hear Mark’s voice in my head again, what he said to me the night we had Beth and Harry over for dinner. I was pregnant with Joe and suffering badly with morning sickness. Mark had invited our friends over at short notice. I usually wouldn’t have minded. I’d known Beth since I was eighteen. We’d met during the first term at university and had quickly become inseparable. Back then I was a bit of a party girl, always up for a glass of wine and a night of clubbing. To outsiders I must have looked like I didn’t have a care in the world but Beth soon saw through that. One night, over a bottle of Merlot in the cheap Italian bistro that served plates of pasta for five quid, I told her about my dad’s death and she opened up about losing her mum to cancer when she was five. We swapped our sob stories and formed a bond that remained unshakeable for two years. Then I met Mark and the friendship took a back seat. I could tell Beth didn’t like him but I told myself she was envious, that the fact I’d found someone as attentive as Mark while she worked her way through a series of one-night stands trying to find the ‘one’ had made her resent me. How wrong I was. I remember her face that night as she sat watching Mark criticize me. She knew. She’d known all along. Why hadn’t I listened to her?
Mark seemed oblivious to Beth’s dislike of him. Probably because he barely spoke to her. What interested him was Beth’s new husband, Harry. Harry was a solicitor, specializing in property law. As an estate agent and would-be property developer, Mark saw Harry as someone who could be of use. This is what he based all his friendships on: whether or not the person could be of use. As for me, I was his fragile flower, the person who made him feel useful, feel in control.
That evening he persuaded me to cook a roast. He knew I was a lousy cook at the best of times let alone when I was struggling with nausea but he said that as it was my friend – Beth – who was coming I should be the one to cook. ‘A roast chicken’s nice and simple, Lisa,’ he’d said, opening up the cookbook. ‘All you have to do is follow the instructions.’ And I did follow them, right to the letter, but it was still a disaster. The chicken was raw in the middle, the vegetables were overdone, the gravy stuck to the bottom of the pan. The thing is, I’d always associated roast dinners with my dad. He’d loved to cook them, delighting in the ritual of prepping the meat and the vegetables then gathering round the table to eat and chat. After he died my mum couldn’t face Sunday lunches so the tradition ended along with our happiness. As I grew up I avoided eating roast dinner altogether because of those memories, because of the happiness I’d known and lost.
I remember the look on Mark’s face as I sliced the chicken and a load of blood poured out on to the plate. He looked mortified. Beth and Harry looked awkward too but Harry tried to lighten the mood. He said it happened to him all the time when he cooked chicken. ‘They’re a bugger to get right,’ he laughed as he dialled in an Indian takeaway for us all. Beth nodded at me and mouthed, ‘Are you okay?’ I’d smiled brightly, rolled my eyes and said I wouldn’t be giving Nigella a run for her money any time soon. But inside I was screaming. I’ll never forget Mark’s words as we waved Beth and Harry off at the end of the evening. They have stayed with me ever since and each time I think of them they take on a new meaning. ‘Well, that was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t it?’ His breath reeked of beer and Chicken Madras. ‘I don’t know. You just haven’t figured out how to be a grown-up, have you, Lisa?’
Looking at the stove with its seemingly unfathomable parts, I tell myself that no matter how difficult this becomes, no matter what I have to face, I’m going to prove Mark wrong. I’m twenty-eight years old, not some silly child.
I stand up straight and try to imagine that I’m sensible, grown up, that I know what I’m doing, but then I’m hit with a smell so pungent it almost takes my breath away. Putting my hand to my mouth, I see that to the left of the stove is a small alcove. The foul smell seems to be coming from that direction. Holding my breath, I step inside it. There’s a tall wooden box in the middle of the space. As I approach I see there’s a hole in the top and an old rusted bucket to the side of it. It can’t be. But as I peer inside the hole my fears are confirmed. This is the toilet.
I retch and stagger back through the kitchen and out into the hallway. I stand looking at the two doors that lead off to the left. I open the first one and step inside. The smell is different here, a sweet, musty scent that reminds me of a perfume my mum used to wear when I was a child. She used to douse herself in it and Dad would tell her she smelt like she’d ‘raided the perfume counter in Selfridges’. Dad meant it as a joke but Mum used to get upset. Any little comment like that would set her off. She would sulk for hours and Dad would try to coax her with freshly baked biscuits or suggest we all go for a nice walk on the heath. But once my mother got into a bad mood there was no shaking her out of it. I push my parents to the back of my mind as I look at the room I’ve entered. The bare walls are painted a pale-blue colour, like a hospital waiting room. It’s empty except for a pile of sheets and blankets in the corner. I step towards them tentatively. There could be rats or mice under there. Or worse.
I prod the pile of blankets with my foot. Thankfully there’s no sign of life. I breathe out. Every nerve in my body is on edge. I crouch down to see if any of the blankets are salvageable. They don’t smell as bad as the ones in the living room. I lift the top one off and see a khaki sleeping bag beneath. I lift it up and press it to my face. It smells of damp and must. Then I hear an ear-piercing scream.
Joe.
I drop the sleeping bag and run to the living room. He’s standing in the doorway, his face red and swollen with tears.
‘It’s okay, Joe,’ I say. ‘Mummy was just in the kitchen.’
But he’s inconsolable.
Then I notice the dark patch on his blue joggers.
‘Oh, darling, it’s okay,’ I say, taking his hand in mine. ‘Let’s go and get washed.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, it hits me. There is no bathroom, no proper toilet or bath or shower. I have fresh clothes for Joe and a couple of packets of wet wipes in my handbag but he’s going to need a proper clean and the only source of water is the great bloody lake out the front.
‘Hey,’ I say, crouching down so my eyes are level with his. ‘Would you like to play a game?’
He shakes his head furiously.
‘Come on,’ I say, scooping him up into my arms. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Not want game,’ he shouts, smashing his fists into my shoulder. ‘Want Daddy. Want to go home.’
Unable to withstand any more punches, I put him down then go and retrieve my suitcase from the entrance. Luckily, I packed some towels in case there weren’t any here. Little did I know they would be the least of my worries. I pull out a large bath towel and a flannel.
‘Right,’ I say, returning to the living room. ‘Let’s get those wet clothes off.’
He folds his arms across his chest as I try to wrestle the sodden joggers from his legs. Once he is undressed I wrap the towel round him, tuck the flannel in my pocket and lift him into my arms.
‘Okay,’ I say, my back straining under the weight of his rigid body. ‘Let’s go and play the splish-splash game.’
I open the front door. Thankfully, the sun is out, though the air is chilly. I pull Joe towards my chest as I head for the lake. Mark would go mad if he knew what I was about to do. But I can’t see an alternative.
‘No,’ shouts Joe as we reach the water’s edge. ‘Want to go home. It’s cold.’
I look at the water. Just a few days ago I was sitting in a warm house planning Christmas. Now I’m contemplating plunging my child into a freezing lake in the middle of winter.
I dip my hands in the water. It’s icy cold. There’s no way I can put Joe in there. So instead I take the flannel, soak it in the water then squeeze it tight.
‘Right, let’s get you clean,’ I say, holding Joe close to me and removing his towel. ‘I wonder if Max saw a lake when he visited the wild things. Can you remember?’
Joe doesn’t answer, though he screws his face up and lashes out with his fists as I wipe his body with the flannel.
‘There. All done,’ I say, wrapping the towel back round him. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
I stoop to pick him up and, as our eyes meet, I see fear in his eyes. But it’s not the water my little boy seems to be scared of. It’s me.
The House on the Lake Page 5