It’s very dark in the room and it smells of stale mothballs. Stepping carefully inside, I can make out the frame of a bed in the centre. I approach it and see that the bed is covered in animal skins. It looks disgusting but I need to see if it can be slept in. I fold back the sheets. A cloud of dust rises, catching in my throat. This is old dust, ancient body particles. I try not to think about the person who once slept here, clothed in animal skins.
Yet to my relief I see that the mattress is clean and soft, and the animal skins, though not what I’m used to, will at least be warm. We can sleep in here tonight. I replace the skins then look around the room. There’s a shelf on the wall beside the bed. A set of beads is threaded across it. I look closer. It’s a necklace made of tiny pearls. It looks out of place in this house, a piece of beauty and femininity among the animal skins and the stench and the dirt. Next to the necklace is a metal candle holder, the candle long since melted, and a small leather-bound book. I take it down from the shelf and open it. It’s written in what looks like Arabic. As I turn the pages I see that someone has added little pencil drawings alongside the printed words. Foxes and birds and faceless women.
‘Daddy,’ says Joe behind me. ‘We go find him now?’
‘Not yet,’ I say as I push the skins to the edge of the room with my foot. ‘We just have to be here for a little while longer. We need to sort out this bed and make things habitable and then …’
I stop and turn to look at him, through the fog of dust, and my heart hurts. He is standing in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him. He’s still a baby, not even four years old yet, and I’m expecting him to understand things that even adults can’t.
‘I’m sorry, Joe,’ I say, placing the book back on the shelf. ‘Mummy just wants to make everything perfect for you and –’
My words are interrupted by a banging noise. It’s coming from outside.
‘Daddy,’ cries Joe, his eyes shining.
My body goes rigid. It can’t be. He can’t have found us. Not here.
‘Shh,’ I whisper, scooping him into my arms and edging out of the room into the passage.
‘Is it Daddy?’ he says, his voice bright. ‘Has Daddy come?’
I want to put my hand over his mouth, keep him quiet, but if I do that he’ll get hysterical.
The banging starts again. Three loud thuds. It’s then I realize it’s coming from the front of the house. I hold my breath for what feels like minutes but can only be a few seconds, my mind whirring with panic.
If it’s him, what will I do?
‘Want to see Daddy,’ says Joe, wriggling and squirming in my arms. ‘Let me down.’
I squeeze him closer to my chest, muttering prayers under my breath. But holding Joe tighter just makes him more agitated. He breaks free of my arms, kicking me in the stomach as he descends to the floor.
‘Ow,’ I cry, doubling over, and he makes a run for the door.
The pain winds me. My eyes sting with tears but I have no time to think about it. I have to get Joe away from that door.
I stagger after him. If he opens the door then it’s all over.
‘Daddy,’ he shouts, banging his fists against the door. ‘Where you?’
I stand in the hallway unable to breathe, waiting for Mark’s reply. But all is silent. The banging has stopped. A few moments later I hear footsteps and the sound of a car door closing. As the engine starts up my body starts to loosen. He’s leaving.
‘Daddy gone?’ says Joe, turning to me with tears in his eyes.
I stand for a couple of seconds, waiting. When I’m sure the car has gone I rush to Joe.
‘It’s okay, Joe,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Everything’s okay.’
‘No,’ he screams, shaking his head furiously. ‘Don’t want you. Want Daddy. I hate you.’
He yanks his hand away from mine and starts pounding the door with his fists.
‘Want to see Daddy,’ he cries. ‘Daddy’s outside. Want to see him.’
‘Joe, calm down,’ I say, guiding him away from the door. ‘Daddy’s not there. Look, I’ll show you.’
I pull back the bolt. The door is stiff and I have to yank it open.
‘See,’ I say to Joe. ‘There’s no one there.’
I quickly usher Joe back into the house but as I close the door I take a tentative look over my shoulder. All I can see is the lake and the gate and the blur of the road, yet somehow I can’t shake the feeling that someone is out there, watching me.
10
Soldier Number 1
Rowan Isle House, July 2004
Right. This time I promise I’m going to write in this journal and not just put it away in a drawer like I did last time. It’s been nearly a year. But then not much has happened that would be worth writing about. In fact, there have been times when I’ve been so bored I’ve felt like screaming. I’m supposed to be in training to be a soldier, one of the elite, but I’ve done nothing but gardening and housework for almost ten months.
Again.
I thought by now I’d have had another mission to complete but there hasn’t even been so much as a whisper of one.
I know Sarge has his reasons for the whole boredom thing. It’s a test that I have to pass just as much as the active missions but it’s been so long since I held a gun I’m scared I’ve forgotten what to do, or worse still, that I’ve lost my nerve. But so far, despite my protesting, Sarge shows no sign of budging.
He’s been acting weird the last few days too, which isn’t helping. Like this morning, for instance, I was mopping the floor in the Mess and he came and stood by the stove. He didn’t say anything, just stood there with his arms folded across his chest, looking at me. I thought he was about to tell me off for something so I stopped what I was doing, propped the mop against the table and asked him what I’d done wrong. He was quiet for a moment then he smiled and said, ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, pet.’
I was taken aback then. First, cos he called me pet, not Number 1, and he hasn’t done that for a long time, and second, because he sounded so sad. I’m used to Sarge’s moods. I’ve lived with them all my life so I have a good idea of them, how they alter and shift like the sand in the desert. There are the angry ones, the excited ones, the broody ones. Those ones are the most worrying for me cos he just goes inside himself like a hermit crab, sometimes for days on end, and I’m never sure when he’s coming back. When he does snap out of it he’s always altered, like he’s left a bit of himself behind wherever he’s been.
But today’s mood was different. I’d never seen him like that before. He was sad, but not in a brooding way. It was like he wanted to open up, to share whatever he was feeling inside.
I couldn’t concentrate on the mopping while he was standing there looking at me so I left the mop against the table and went to go out to the garden to collect some eggs. But when I got to the door Sarge put his hand out and told me to stay. His grip was so tight I knew I’d have to do as he said so I moved the mop and sat down at the kitchen table. Sarge stayed where he was, leaning against the stove.
I looked up at him as if to say, ‘Come on then, what do you want to talk about?’ but instead of giving me a list of instructions like he usually does he smiled and said, ‘You’re so much like your mother.’
His eyes went all watery then and for a moment I was scared. I’d never seen Sarge cry and I’m not sure I wanted to. He’s always in control and that makes me feel safe. Crying is weakness. That’s what he’s told me since I was a little kid. If a soldier cries, he’s lost it. Sarge didn’t look like he’d lost it though. And I liked the fact that he had mentioned my mother. He never talks about her usually, and I’ve always been scared to, especially after what happened when I found her photo. He’d got so angry then that I reasoned it was best to just keep her in my head.
So this morning when Sarge started talking about her I didn’t know what to think. At first I thought it was another test so I was careful how I reacted. But it soon became clear that
he was being sincere. After a while he sat down at the table next to me and I plucked up the courage to ask him about my mother. There were so many things I wanted to know: what did she sound like, what did she smell like, what was her favourite food, her favourite colour? But in the end my question was a simple one: what was her name?
Sarge frowned at first and I thought he was going to tell me to shush but instead he put his head in his hands, stared straight ahead and started to speak, as if he was talking to some invisible person, not me.
He told me that my mother’s name was Noora. I liked it immediately. It sounded like a whisper, or a fairy’s sigh as Sarge used to call whispers when I was a kid. I rolled her name up and over my tongue until it became as familiar as the face in the photo. He said he’d met her in the big war, said she’d been hired by something called the UN to help the soldiers understand the Arabic words that the enemy were using. I asked if she knew how to use a gun and he said she didn’t have to; that words were her weapons. I wasn’t too sure what that meant but it sounded like she had a good mind. I wanted to ask Sarge about those words on the back of the photo and whether she had written them but then I remembered how angry he’d been that day so instead I asked him what she was like. He smiled then and I was relieved because every question was a potential explosion. She was kind and gentle, he said, with these amazing eyes that changed colour as you looked at them: first brown, then hazel, then amber. Sarge’s voice went quiet as he described her skin. It was warm and soft, he said, and it smelt of orange groves and sugar, and when she smiled it felt like he’d come home.
His eyes went all glazed then and I knew I should have kept quiet but my eyes had turned to water too and there was a question burning inside me that I had to get out.
‘How did she die?’
He flinched at the words, it was like I’d smacked him in the face. Then, without looking at me, he pushed the chair back, stood up and walked into the garden.
I sat by myself for a bit, turning over in my head all the new things I’d learned about my mother. Then I heard a loud bang outside and my heart leapt inside my chest. I jumped up and ran out back.
The first thing I saw was an empty cage lying on its side by the door. Sarge must have picked it up and thrown it. Then I saw him. He was standing by the boundary wall, looking out at the woods. I walked quietly towards him, hoping that when he turned round he wouldn’t have that look on his face, the one that comes when he’s hearing the voices.
But when I reached him he started to speak and his voice wasn’t angry at all.
‘Look at those trees over there,’ he said, pointing his finger in the direction of the woods. ‘You know your granddad told me that the bark of most trees in Northern Europe was adapted to withstand attacks by elephants.’
‘Elephants?’ I said, trying to imagine one of those creatures stomping through Harrowby Crag.
‘Yes, elephants,’ he said. ‘They used to roam these parts before the Ice Age. Hippos too. Imagine that, pet?’
I tried to, but the thought was as crazy as trying to imagine my mother anywhere but the desert, or me and Sarge anywhere but here.
‘Funny, eh?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How things survive. Now the elephants are gone, the danger’s gone, but the trees are still protecting themselves. It doesn’t make any sense.’
His eyes got all red then and I realized that he wasn’t talking about the trees any more or the elephants or even the dead mother. He was talking about himself.
11
Lisa
Two hours later
I sit at the kitchen table looking at the dark screen on my phone. The battery is now completely dead. Without my phone I have no way of calling for help, no link at all with the outside world. In my head I try to plan out a crude escape plan. If someone broke into the house and attacked me then I would need to get out fast. And to do that the back door would have to be unlocked. But then it would depend where I was and how they had got in. My agitated thoughts fizz back and forth inside my head like a Catherine wheel.
The most important thing, I think to myself as I step out of the kitchen and go into the bedroom where Joe has finally settled on the newly discovered bed, is to keep my boy beside me at all times. That’s all that matters. Kneeling by the side of the bed, I watch as his chest rises and falls, his long eyelashes touching his cheek like spider’s legs, and my eyes fill with tears. It shouldn’t have had to come to this. I’m his mother. I carried him inside me for nine months, felt every wriggle, every kick. His heart had beat in time with mine as he lay on my chest that first day and I’d held his fat little hand and promised him that I’d be there for him for ever. He’s part of me. Without him I’m just a vessel floating through the world without an anchor.
I stand up and adjust the covers then, as Joe gently snores, I explore the room a little more. The windows are shaded with thin, yellowed nets that give the room an eerie glow. I run my finger along the top of the window and release a cascade of dust. Coughing, I step away from the window and go to the wardrobe, a dark wooden hulk that stands opposite the bed and looks, in this light, like the hull of a ship.
Opening the heavy door, I cough again as more dust fills my lungs. Behind me, Joe stirs. I turn and watch him. He’s lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then he closes them, turns on his side and starts to snore again. I swallow my cough down and turn back to the wardrobe.
Through the murk I see a row of camouflage-patterned overalls hanging from the rail. There must be a dozen of them. To the left are a couple of shelves. On the top shelf sits a pair of shiny hobnail boots, man size. There’s a strong smell of mothballs in here and it sticks to the back of my throat. I can’t breathe. I need air. I go to close the wardrobe but as I do I notice a mirror running the length of the inner door. As I step closer I’m shocked to see a strange face looking back at me. Pale with blackened eyes and shorn dark hair. It looks spectral, monstrous. But then I realize with despair that I’m staring at my own reflection.
I think back to three days earlier. Holed up in my rented room, I’d set to work transforming myself with the help of a boxed hair dye and a pair of cheap scissors. The new start had to be just that. I could leave no trace of the woman who had existed before. She was gone. In her place was a dark-haired, responsible person who was heading to a house in the countryside for a nice break with her sweet little boy. As I look at this new person I see Mark standing behind me as he used to when we were first married and I would brush my long blonde hair in our immaculate bathroom. His hand resting on my shoulder, watching my every move. ‘Promise me you’ll never cut your hair,’ he’d whispered, his mouth so close to my ear that it made me shiver. ‘Promise me you’ll always be mine.’
The memory of that moment strengthens my resolve. I’m not under his control any more. I got away from him. I close the wardrobe then go to the window, pull aside the net and look out. It’s getting dark now, though without my phone I have no idea what time it is. The hills in the distance change shape as the light shifts and for a moment I stand mesmerized, a strange sense of peace descending on me, loosening my muscles. I turn from the window and go to gently wake Joe. If he sleeps too long now he’ll be up all night.
He scowls as he comes to, then yawns and rubs his eyes.
‘Daddy come?’ he says, looking up at me.
The peaceful feeling dissipates when I hear that. No matter how much I try to tell myself that I’ve done the right thing, Mark is still Joe’s dad and he misses him. I can’t change that.
‘No, Daddy hasn’t come,’ I say, lifting him off the bed. ‘It’s just us two for a little bit. But we’re going to have a lovely holiday. I promise you that, Joe.’
I need to think about dinner, I realize as I make my way to the kitchen, Joe trailing sleepily behind me, and I’m going to have to brave the lake at some point and give myself a wash. There’s a sour scent emanating from my armpits and I feel itchy and unpleasant. I’ve never gone more than a day without ha
ving a shower and I feel wretched.
My mind is so preoccupied with these thoughts as I enter the kitchen that at first I don’t hear the back door opening. But then I look up and see a dark figure standing in front of me and I scream.
12
Soldier Number 1
Rowan Isle House, July 2004
Reverend Carter came to buy eggs this morning. He’s not a regular customer, it’s been ages since he last came, so I was surprised to see him. It was just me manning the stall because Sarge had gone off to set traps in the woods. I didn’t tell the vicar that though. That kind of talk would get us into trouble. So when he asked if I was by myself I told him Sarge had some business to attend to. I liked how that sounded as I said it. It sounded like we were important. The vicar didn’t seem too impressed though. He just nodded his head then smiled this weird smile.
While I was boxing up his eggs he started asking me questions. Like how old I was and what subject I liked best at school. I told him I didn’t go to school and when I said this he put his hand on his chest and said, ‘Oh dear, my poor girl.’ I told him I was fine, that I didn’t need school, that Sarge had taught me how to read and write and count, and that he was training me to be an elite soldier. I also told him that Sarge said schools and churches were ‘the mouthpiece of the powerful and corrupt’ and that he was bringing me up to rebel against all that.
When I said this his face went pink and I thought he was going to drop the eggs I’d just handed him. But instead he put them back on the table then came round to my side and kind of grabbed my hand. I was a bit startled because no one except Sarge has ever touched me like that. I tried to yank it away but he gripped tighter and said that I had to understand that you can only find the truth through Jesus, that rebelling against Jesus was evil, that what Sarge was doing to me was evil. He asked me if I would like to go to the church one Sunday and find out what the truth was all about. I was about to answer him when I heard someone shout. When I looked up I saw Sarge coming towards us with two rabbits slung over his shoulders.
The House on the Lake Page 7