The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  She must have finished because I heard her whisper ‘Bye’, so I looked up. Her face was so sad. I wanted to hug her, to beg her to stay, but instead I just watched as she walked down the path towards the gate. There are loads of potholes on the path, Sarge is always saying he’s going to fill them but never does, and as Isobel hurried away she stumbled on the uneven ground and fell over. Her body made a horrible thumping noise as she landed and I winced, feeling every bit of her pain. I wanted to go and help her, make sure she wasn’t hurt, but as I made to go I felt Sarge’s arm on mine. ‘Leave her,’ he muttered.

  I turned to look at him. His face was all red and bloated, like some dead sea creature. I hated him at that moment, for how he had treated Isobel, for what he had done to me.

  ‘Get in the house,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the gate.

  And I was so angry and full of hate that I did what I had never done before. I shook my head.

  ‘I said get in the fucking house,’ he said, turning to me, his voice a whisper.

  His face was so close to mine that bits of beer-scented spit hit me in my eye. I wiped it with the back of my hand then told him that he had no right to tell me what to do, that Isobel was my friend and we’d just been having fun and, remembering Isobel’s words, that it wasn’t a crime.

  He glared at me and started to sway on his feet and for a moment I thought I’d got through to him, that for the first time he’d been able to see that, yes, I may be an elite soldier in training but I am also just a kid, a kid who wants to have friends and go swimming in a cool lake on a warm day.

  But I was wrong. I was very wrong. The next thing I knew I had a pistol held to my head. I could hear the blood bubbling inside me as he pressed it deeper into my temple. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. I was terrified. I could feel the warmth of piss streaming down my legs.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered to him. ‘Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. I swear I am.’

  But he didn’t move. He kept that gun to my head.

  I closed my eyes, waited for the explosion, the pain, the darkness. My heart was racing and my throat felt like it was closing up. I didn’t want to die.

  Then, after what seemed like a lifetime, the pressure of the gun disappeared.

  ‘Get the fuck inside and clean yourself up.’

  I did as he asked then went to my room to wait for him. When he came in he still had the gun in his hands. I didn’t want to look at him so I turned away and fixed my eyes on a black stain on the wall. It’s just above where I sleep and it’s been there since I was five years old when Sarge was teaching me to clean my boots with black polish. I remember I dipped my finger in the gooey mixture and tried to eat it. Sarge shook his head and told me that it wasn’t meant for eating, it was made for polishing. I was a bit of a naughty kid back then so instead of going and washing my hand in the lake I just wiped it on the wall. When I did that Sarge didn’t shout, he just told me to go and get a cloth and wipe it off. But I didn’t do a very good job of it and it left a smudge. I remember Sarge saying that he would leave it there to remind me not to be insubordinate.

  I was thinking about the old Sarge as I stood there waiting for him to speak, remembering how calm he used to be, still strict but fair. This new Sarge was dangerous and unpredictable and I didn’t know how to deal with him.

  He was quiet for a minute or so then he put his face up to my face and I expected him to yell. But instead he spoke in this really weird, low voice. ‘From this moment on,’ he said, ‘you are no longer to be referred to as Soldier Number One. You have lost your rank and your liberty.’ I nodded my head but because his face was so close to mine my nose rubbed against his. I remembered him doing that when I was little. I remember how he used to laugh and call me his ‘funny girl’. My eyes started to well up as I thought about that but I quickly blinked the tears away before he noticed. ‘You have committed a serious breach,’ he went on, still in that weird voice. ‘A breach that compromised the safety and security of your fellow officer and that of the barracks. Do you understand?’ I should have said yes but I wanted him to know that Isobel meant no harm, so I said that he’d got the wrong end of the stick, that Isobel wasn’t a threat to our safety, she was just a really sweet girl. He went quiet and I thought he must be coming round but then he stood back, lifted his gun and pointed it at my head again.

  ‘I said,’ he yelled, jabbing the gun into my forehead, ‘DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?’

  I nodded my head and said yes, yes I did.

  ‘You’re to wait in this room until I come and collect you, is that clear?’ he said.

  I nodded again.

  He stayed with the gun pointed at my head for a moment or two longer then he lowered it, turned on his heel and walked to the door. But as he went to open it he stopped and looked back at me.

  ‘I suggest you spend this time thinking about what you’ve done,’ he said coldly. ‘Because tonight you’re going to face your greatest test.’

  He shut the door behind him and I carried on looking at the smudge on the wall for a couple more moments, trying to sponge his words and their meaning from my head. I tried to think of other things, happy things. I thought about Isobel but then that made me think about the look on her face when she was walking away from the lake, the horror and fear. Thinking about that was making me feel worse and I knew that the only way I could really calm myself was if I wrote it all down, so I went and sat on my doss bag and took this journal out from underneath it.

  I should stop writing now but I find that using my hands stops them from shaking, though I know that what I’m writing is probably a load of nonsense and that nobody would be able to understand it if they picked it up and read it. But that’s not the point. This book is for me, not for anyone else, so I’ll carry on writing even though I can hear his footsteps coming down the corridor. I don’t …

  19

  Lisa

  It feels like something evil is in this house, some strange presence playing with my head and setting traps for me. It’s impossible that I could have missed Joe sitting at the table unless he’d ducked underneath it as I turned, but that’s unlikely as I would have sensed him being there. I swear there was just an empty space. He was gone. And what about the shadow in the garden? And last night when Joe thought he saw someone at the window. Though he had no recollection of that this morning. So is it me? Am I losing my mind?

  I don’t know what to think any more. All I know is that, after what happened this morning, I had to get out of that house for a while. So now Joe and I are in the car, parked up by the National Trust sign on the outskirts of the village. I’ve put Where the Wild Things Are on for Joe and he’s chattering along merrily to the story. He seems happier now we’re out of the house, less angry and agitated.

  I grip the steering wheel and try to gather my thoughts. If only I had somewhere else to go besides that house, somewhere safe where Mark couldn’t find us. But with limited funds even a basic hotel would only be possible for a few days and even then we’d run the risk of prying eyes, people asking questions. The house is our only option but I feel so vulnerable there. If only I could get my phone charged. I’m not going to call anybody but what if there’s an emergency? Having the phone charged would make me feel safer.

  Then I remember Isobel. She said she lived in the village, at the vicarage. Maybe she’d let me charge my phone at her house. At least then I’d have some peace of mind. And besides, I could do with some company. The events of the morning have left me shaken and Isobel was so helpful yesterday. I feel like I can trust her. I start up the engine and type the address into the satnav. She’d given me it as she left, telling me to pop in for a cup of tea if I was ever in the vicinity.

  I crawl at a snail’s pace through the village, noticing things now that I hadn’t the last time I was here, like the tiny play park on the left-hand side opposite the pub. I spot a wooden climbing frame and a brightly coloured slide. The sight of it makes me feel desperately sad. Joe lov
es the slide at his nursery school. He should be back there now having fun and playing with his friends. Instead he’s stuck with me, hiding out in some creepy house, terrified of every little sound.

  The audiobook finishes as we reach the church. According to the satnav, Isobel’s house is just behind the graveyard.

  ‘Again,’ cries Joe from the seat behind me. ‘Play again.’

  ‘We just need to go see the nice lady first,’ I say as I stop the car outside a large Victorian house. ‘Then we can listen to it again on the way h–’

  I’m about to say ‘home’ then stop myself. Nothing about that house is remotely like a home. In fact, it’s beginning to feel more like a prison.

  ‘Right, mister, let’s go,’ I say, trying to keep my voice bright as I get out of the car and open the passenger door.

  ‘Why we going see lady?’ he says as I unclip his seat belt and lift him out.

  ‘I just need to fix my phone,’ I say, holding up the blank screen so he can see. ‘Lady’s going to help me.’

  If Mark were here now he’d tell me off for speaking to Joe like this. He hated any kind of baby language, said it was detrimental to Joe in the long run. I hear his voice in my head all the time, like a running commentary, casting doubt and judgement on everything I do.

  I take Joe’s hand and try to put all thoughts of Mark to the back of my mind as I make my way towards Isobel’s house. It’s a very grand building with immaculate wrought-iron gates outside and bay trees on either side of the front door. I feel grubby as I open the gate, the stale smell of lake water clinging to my clothes like a second skin. I look down at Joe. There’s a clump of jam from this morning’s breakfast stuck to the front of his jumper. I bend down and try to scrape it off with my fingers but I end up smearing it even more.

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ I say as I stand up. ‘Why can’t you be a bit more careful?’

  Joe scowls at me and I realize that is exactly what Mark would have said. Mark with his order and neatness and insistence that everything be in its correct place. Sod it, I think to myself. It’s a bit of jam which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t the end of the world.

  ‘Never mind, baby,’ I say, stroking his soft face. ‘Let’s go and see the nice lady, shall we?’

  He flinches at my touch and gives me a look that is so reminiscent of Mark it chills me. How can he have brainwashed my son so much? How twisted can one man be?

  When we reach the door I run my fingers through my hair then ring the bell. The noise of it fills the air. It’s an old-fashioned sound that reverberates like church bells. After a few moments I hear the key turning in the lock. When the door opens I gasp.

  It’s not Isobel standing there but a bent old man with bluish paper-thin skin. He’s dressed all in black except for a white scarf wrapped round his neck. As I look closer I realize that I’ve seen him somewhere before. It’s the vicar. I saw him standing outside the church when we drove into the village that first day.

  ‘Yes?’ he says suspiciously, probably in disgust at my messy appearance. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Erm, I was –’ I say, my voice catching. The vicar is making me feel like Mark used to do, like an incompetent child. ‘I was hoping to speak to Isobel if she’s here.’

  He looks stricken suddenly, the colour draining from his face.

  ‘What do you want with Isobel?’ he says, half closing the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing serious,’ I say, trying to calm him down. His agitated behaviour makes me think he might have some sort of dementia. ‘My phone’s gone dead and I’ve got no way of charging it in the place I’m staying so I wondered if I could charge it here.’

  I hold my dead phone up and he looks at it with wide eyes as though it’s an unexploded bomb.

  ‘Isobel can’t help you,’ he says briskly. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be –?’ I begin, flinching as Joe kicks me in the back of my calf.

  ‘Don’t want to see lady,’ he says, his voice hardening as it always does when he’s about to have a tantrum.

  ‘Shh, Joe,’ I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him to my side.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say to the vicar whose face is now shadowed by the half-closed door. ‘He can be a little monkey sometimes. I was just going to ask if you knew when she’d be back. Isobel.’

  ‘No,’ he says, his eyes bulging. ‘No, I do not. She’s not here and that’s an end to it.’

  He slams the door in my face and I stand for a moment trying to work out what just happened.

  ‘Dementia,’ I think to myself as I walk back down the path. ‘Poor man.’

  But as we make our way along the street towards the pub I see Isobel coming towards me. She’s wearing a white dress with large red flowers printed across the top. It looks a few sizes too small and clings tightly to her hips. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her eyes are ringed with smudged mascara, like she’s been crying or asleep. She looks like a different person.

  ‘Lisa,’ she says, seemingly unperturbed by her appearance. ‘Where are you off to?’

  Her dishevelled state has thrown me so much that for a moment I don’t know what to say so I just stand there looking at her.

  ‘Lisa,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, taking Joe’s hand. ‘I just … I just went to your house because I wondered if I could be cheeky and ask if I could charge my phone. There’s no electricity at the house, see, and I just thought –’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ she says, placing her hand on my arm to stop me gabbling. ‘I was just on my way back there.’

  She pulls at my arm but I stay where I am.

  ‘What is it, Lisa?’

  ‘Well, it’s just your dad answered the door,’ I say, remembering the hostile look on his face. ‘And he was a bit off with me. I don’t think he wanted visitors.’

  Her smile fades and she nods her head.

  ‘Oh, poor Dad,’ she says, looking over my shoulder in the direction of the house. ‘He’s not himself these days. He gets nervous over the slightest little thing.’

  She leans towards me and a scent of cinnamon and clove floats across the air. It’s a Christmassy scent that propels me back to my childhood kitchen in Highgate where my dad would spend the autumn months religiously adding more ingredients to his legendary Christmas cake.

  ‘I’m attempting to make a Christmas pudding,’ she says, lifting up the carrier bag she is holding. ‘And I had to dash to town to get supplies. Though I think I’ve left it too late this year what with one thing and another. Still, you can never have too many cloves at Christmas, can you?’

  ‘They smell lovely,’ I say, rubbing my arms to warm myself up.

  ‘Oh, you’re freezing,’ she says with a frown. ‘Come on, let’s go up to the house and charge that phone for you. Dad will be having his nap now.’

  I reluctantly follow her back to the house, hoping that she’s right and the old man is safely tucked up in bed. I can’t face another encounter with him.

  ‘It’s this way,’ says Isobel, unlocking a gate at the side of the house.

  I follow her round to the back garden. I see a set of French doors up ahead. They remind me of the ones Mark had fitted in the kitchen. As we approach them an image blindsides me. A flash of glass, screams then sirens. I blink the memory away as Isobel slides the door open and we step into a very formal living room.

  There are two green Chesterfield sofas on either side of an oblong oak coffee table. The walls are covered in framed prints of pastoral scenes but the room is dominated by a huge open fire. It crackles and spits as Joe and I stand staring at it in wonder.

  ‘Sit yourselves down,’ says Isobel. ‘And I’ll go get us some drinks. You can charge your phone over there.’

  She points to a rather grand-looking desk. There’s a plug socket on the wall above it.

  ‘Thanks, Isobel,’ I say, but when I turn to look she has already disappeare
d into the hall.

  After I’ve plugged my phone in I lift Joe on to the sofa then take a look around. I feel uneasy in this house. There’s a feeling of dust and decay about it despite its immaculate facade, as though it’s been frozen in time. I try to repress a shiver as Isobel comes back into the room holding a blue-and-white-striped jar.

  ‘Now, who would like a biscuit?’ she says, holding the jar towards Joe. ‘I’ve got Jammy Dodgers or choc chip cookies.’

  Joe’s face lights up as he delves his little hand into the jar and pulls out a Jammy Dodger. I look at Isobel and smile, though inside I feel wretched. How is a complete stranger able to deal with my own child so effortlessly when everything I do is wrong?

  ‘Now if you take your biscuit in there,’ she says, pointing to a door leading off from the living room, ‘you’ll find some books and toys from when I was a little girl. If you promise to be careful you can play with them. Would you like that?’

  Joe nods his head and trots off happily, leaving me wondering if his bad behaviour is down to me.

  ‘Right, let’s get a drink for Mummy,’ says Isobel. ‘What would you like? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘A coffee would be great,’ I say wearily. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  I close my eyes as she goes to get the drinks. In my mind’s eye I see snow, thick snow getting higher and higher. It’s creeping under the doors and windows, filling the room, trapping me. I wake with a start as Isobel comes back into the room.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, placing the coffee pot and assorted cups and jugs on the coffee table. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’