The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  I drink some wine, try to gather my story.

  ‘Er, no,’ I say, the alcohol stinging my gullet. ‘It was a … a friend who recommended it.’

  ‘A friend?’ he says, his eyes burning into me. ‘From round here?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Then how did they know about it?’ he says, frowning. ‘Thing about Harrowby is that when it comes to the leisure and tourism websites, there are basically three things featured: my pub, the woodland, which has just been bought by the National Trust, and Ken’s pie shop up by the park – and that’s only been mentioned recently cos some magazine editor got lost on her way to the Lakes and popped in for directions. Ken managed to flog her half-a-dozen steak and ales and she ended up writing a feature on them, saying they’d give Duchy Originals a run for their money.’

  He pauses to drink, then continues.

  ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is that this place is so small we get to know everything, and I mean everything.’

  He stares and I look down at the table.

  ‘And being in the hospitality industry, I keep an eye on all those websites,’ he says, his face softening. ‘Your Trip Advisors, your Last Minute, all that. And I have never come across this place advertised as a holiday home. I mean, look at it. It’s falling apart. Who the hell would rent it out like this?’ He throws his hands in the air and laughs. I smile at him, while in my head scrambling around for some way of changing the subject.

  ‘So you grew up here then?’ I say. ‘In the village?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I’ve lived here for six years now but I’m a city boy, born and bred in Leeds. Though the pub trade is in my blood. My folks ran a bar in the centre.’

  ‘So how did you end up here?’

  ‘Hmm, long story,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘But let’s just say that after a pretty messy break-up I was looking for a change of scene. I’d worked as a bar manager in Headingley for a couple of years after leaving school and, well, it didn’t help that my ex continued to drink in there with her new man. I wanted a fresh start, really. And I’d always fancied running a country pub. When I saw the leasehold for my place advertised online I thought, bugger it, what have I got to lose, so I went for it.’

  ‘It must have been a shock to the system, moving from the city to somewhere as remote as this.’

  ‘Oh yeah, big time,’ he says, scratching the top of his head. ‘And you’d know that, coming here from London. But then I’m a chatty sod, always have been. I’ll talk to anyone so after a few weeks I’d made friends, settled in, and what with the locals and the ramblers I do a decent trade so I can’t complain. Not that it was ever my life’s dream to live in Harrowby I hasten to add, but it’s all right for now. And it’s done me good, after all that shit with the ex. No one gives a toss about you in the city, you may as well be a speck of dirt on the bottom of their shoe. It’s different here. People look out for you. They watch your back.’

  He stops and looks at me a little too intently for comfort, and I worry that maybe he did see the newspaper after all and has put two and two together. But then he picks up the bottle of wine and refills my beaker.

  ‘How about you?’ he says, taking another sip of his drink. ‘Have you always lived in London?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, the wine warming my body. ‘I grew up in Highgate just next to the cemetery.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of that,’ he says, his eyes widening. ‘Is it near to Arsenal?’

  ‘Not far,’ I say, smiling. ‘Though I’m not much of a football fan.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I mean, whatever Leeds United are playing at the moment, it’s certainly not football.’

  ‘Are they your team?’

  ‘For my sins,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Anyway, enough of football. I’m probably boring you to tears.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I say, draining my wine. ‘It’s nice.’

  Jimmy fills my beaker again and soon the bottle is empty. My eyes feel tired, though it feels good to be sitting here with someone. Even the football talk is a light relief from the relentless anxiety I’ve been experiencing. For the first time in years I feel relaxed and at ease. Jimmy tells me some more about his childhood growing up in pubs and the close relationship he had with his parents. I like his honesty, the fact that he doesn’t feel he has to be anything but himself. It’s refreshing.

  ‘Oh God, sorry,’ he says, looking at his watch as I drain the last of my wine from the beaker. ‘I didn’t mean to stay this late.’

  He stands up and as I watch him put his jacket on I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I don’t want him to go. I want to extend this feeling of happiness, of normality, for a few more hours. I want to be held.

  ‘Don’t go just yet,’ I say, standing up from the chair a little too quickly so that white spots dance in front of my eyes. ‘It’s … it’s nice to have you here.’

  He looks confused for a moment then his expression softens.

  I touch his hand and pull him towards me.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ he whispers, placing a soft kiss on my cheek.

  He smells of peppermint and firewood.

  I turn my head and his mouth meets mine. His kiss is soft and butterfly light, so different from Mark’s wet, sloppy lips. I ease forward, letting his tongue explore my mouth, my lips, my teeth, and as I do so everything falls away. There is no reality other than this one, no anxiety, no fear, just pure pleasure.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he whispers, running his tongue down the side of my neck.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, warmth fluttering through my body.

  He pulls back then gets up from the table and holds out his hand. Taking it in mine, I let him lead me into the living room, where the dying embers of the fire are crackling softly in the grate. And as he lays me down, a velvet darkness seems to envelop me. There is no Joe, no Mark, no Grace, no screams, no prison cells, no nightmares. There is nothing but the rise and fall of his chest as he lies on top of me, the gentle beating of a stranger’s heart as he holds me close and, for just a few hours, takes away the pain.

  30

  Grace

  Hours must have passed since I read Sarge’s book but I have no idea what time it is or what day. I’m not even sure who I am. I only know I’m alive because I can feel my lungs rising and falling and I can keep this pen moving, keep it translating my thoughts from my head to the page.

  If anyone finds this they will see blood splattered on the pages. Don’t let that scare you. It’s not my blood. I’ve just been doing what he taught me to do. Killing. As soon as I read his book and found out the truth I had to take out my anger on something, something that couldn’t fight back. I had my paring knife with me in case of emergencies and I took it out of my bag and went looking. It was easy, so easy I wish, in a warped way, that he had been here to see me do it. What would you say to that, mister, eh? Would you say I passed the test? Would you give me a badge, a medal? Or would you lock me in a room and try to turn me mad?

  It wasn’t a good kill. I knew that the moment I set eyes on her. She was lying under an old oak tree, one leg jutting out at an odd angle: a young deer with large, frightened eyes. She saw me as I approached, made to run off, but her leg was so mangled she couldn’t move. She was trapped. I should have put her out of her misery. Made a quick cut, not let her suffer. But I was in such pain myself, a deep pain right down in my heart like I had never felt before.

  When the deer stopped struggling I sat up and wiped my eyes. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the light faded but I knew, despite the horror of what I’d done, that something had changed. Something fundamental. And I realized that I hadn’t just killed the deer, I had killed Grace too.

  I know, as I write this now with the blood of the deer staining my hands, that if Grace is dead then everything she was is dead too. The soldier, the skivvy, the prisoner, the person he could control. It’s over. The nightmare is over and I am free.
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br />   I feel like the person I’ve always been: a girl. And that’s what terrified him, that’s what he could never let me be. If I had been allowed to be a girl then I would have done what girls do. I would have used my brain. I would have grown strong, questioned things. I would have made friends and laughed and loved. I would have painted my face with make-up if I’d wanted to, worn nice clothes if I’d wanted to, and then I might have discovered that all that was a bit daft so I’d bin them and try something new. But that wouldn’t matter because it would all have been part of growing, naturally, into whoever I was meant to be. He tried to stop that. He tried to interfere with nature. And that is something I can never forgive because I’ve lost so many years of being who I am, being a girl.

  The one person who could have helped, who could have understood, was ripped away from me. He did that because he knew how much she would have loved me and how much I would have needed her. He feared that more than any bullet, more than any bomb. Because that love was stronger than the greatest enemy. He always told me: ‘Know your enemy and do everything in your power to destroy them.’ And, after reading that book, it’s clear that he did just that.

  I want my mother. I want her so badly it hurts right here in my stomach. I want her to hold me in her arms, stroke my head gently and tell me that everything is going to be all right, that I’m safe and loved and protected. I want to close my eyes and know that she’s looking after me while I sleep and that when I wake up there’ll be blue skies and sunshine and no more pain. I want my mother.

  31

  Lisa

  I’m huddled under a huge fir tree, its needles tickling my cheek. The smell of it reminds me of Christmas with Mum and Dad. Then I look up and see that I’m back there, in the living room of the Highgate flat where I grew up. It’s very early in the morning, the sun not yet up, but Mum and Dad are here in their dressing gowns, watching as I unwrap my presents. Mum is perched on the arm of the sofa, Dad is crouched by my side.

  ‘What do you think it is, Lisa?’ he says, his eyes twinkling as he passes me a large silver parcel.

  I take the present in my hands and look at it for a moment. My eyes are still sleepy and, with the curtains closed and the Christmas tree lights glowing, the room takes on a vague, fractured quality. There is a sense of unreality, of time suspended. The outside world doesn’t exist, only we do: my mum, my dad and me, safe and happy in our fairy-lit house.

  ‘Go on, darling,’ says my dad, giving me a gentle nudge. ‘You can open it.’

  I look down at the present again. Something about it is bothering me. Something isn’t quite right.

  ‘Lisa?’

  I hear my mother’s voice as I rip open the paper.

  ‘Lisa, what is it?’

  My hand still grips the opened present while the discarded paper, red and blood-soaked, is scattered across the floor.

  ‘Take it.’

  Suddenly my parents are gone and Mark is standing in front of me.

  ‘I said take it. It’s yours.’

  He grabs the present and thrusts it into my face. I see the glass tumbler at the very last moment, see the dried blood coated round its rim, then I feel it slice into my cheek. I put my hand to my mouth, the taste of blood on my tongue and in my nostrils.

  ‘Lisa!’

  I open my eyes. I’m lying on my back, the smell of blood and pine trees lingering around me.

  ‘Lisa, are you okay?’

  I turn over and see a man lying next to me on the sofa. He has short chestnut hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. He is completely naked.

  Startled, I jump to my feet.

  ‘Lisa, what is it?’ he says, pushing the covers away. ‘You were screaming in your sleep. Was it a nightmare?’

  As I stand looking at him the dream slowly peels away and the events of the previous evening return to me. The bottle of wine, the kiss. We must have …

  ‘You have to go,’ I say, collecting my clothes, which are lying in a tangled heap by the sofa. ‘Joe will be awake soon. He can’t see this.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says gently, holding his hands up. ‘Everything’s okay.’

  He’s talking to me like I’m an idiot, a child who has no control over herself. Mark used to do the same thing. From the moment we met at university he infantilized me, told me what I should wear, how I should revise, which friends I should see, what I should eat in restaurants. When we got married he booked the church and the honeymoon, he chose the rings and drew up the guest list. Once we were married I didn’t have to think for myself at all. Every bill was organized on a spreadsheet that he kept on his computer, the grocery shopping was done – by him – online, he even laid out my clothes each morning. ‘I just don’t want you to worry about anything, Lisa,’ he would say when I protested. ‘You’ve been through enough.’

  And he was right, I told myself, I had been through enough. When I met Mark I was still grieving for my father, though it had been seven years since his death. I had blocked out the world after Dad died, numbed my feelings to such an extent that the idea of having someone take me under their wing and make decisions about the ordinary day-to-day things that, back then, seemed so overwhelming, was an appealing one. My mother had been so distraught after my dad died that she had pretty much left me to my own devices so I arrived at university with no practical skills whatsoever. I couldn’t cook or clean or even change a light bulb. I was useless. And then, suddenly, here was Mark, this intelligent, good-looking man, who appeared to adore me and who wanted to help me navigate the confusion that was life.

  But in my numb state I had confused adoration with obsession, competence with control, and as time went on, Mark’s behaviour became more and more cloying. Joe’s birth had left me physically and mentally drained. In those early months I felt anxious all the time, my nerves were frayed and I was living in a constant state of fear. Everyone around me was a potential threat, that’s how I saw it. Beth realized that I was struggling and told me to go and see the GP, thought maybe I was suffering from postnatal depression. Her sister had suffered with it and she recognized the signs. But when I raised this with Mark he told me that Beth was overreacting, that I was just tired and needed to rest. So he drew up a timetable where I was made to go to bed at 6 p.m. and stay there until morning. He wouldn’t let me come down to see Joe or to eat together. I was forced to stay up there while he brought me trays of ‘calming’ meals: mashed potato with butter, mugs of warm milk, chicken soup. It was like I’d regressed, become the child he’d always wanted me to be. After weeks of this I couldn’t take any more and a few nights later I fought back. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life as that was the night I lost everything. But I only regret the violence, not the fighting back. What I should have done was get out of that bed and calmly tell Mark that it was over, that he couldn’t control me any more. But I was weak then and my head was full of rage and fear. It’s different now. I’m different. I’m stronger and no man is going to tell me what to do any more.

  ‘I said I’d like you to leave,’ I repeat, my voice firm and clear. ‘Now.’

  He gets to his feet and picks his clothes up from the floor.

  ‘Lisa, I don’t understand,’ he says, pulling his trousers on. ‘Last night? You were … it was … it was so lovely, I –’

  ‘Please, Jimmy,’ I say, getting frustrated. ‘Can we just leave it?’

  ‘Leave it?’ he exclaims, grabbing his jumper and pulling it over his head. ‘After what happened last night?’

  I have no idea what he means. My memory of the previous evening is sketchy to say the least.

  ‘Look, I just need to see to Joe now,’ I say, glancing towards the open door that leads out to the hallway.

  ‘I understand,’ he says softly. ‘You’ve got a child. It’s complicated. And you’ve been through so much.’

  He comes towards me and places his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Get off me,’ I cry, grabbing his arms. I push him away from me. He staggers and
almost loses his footing.

  ‘Lisa, what is this?’ he exclaims. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ I shout. ‘Do you hear me? Get out!’

  The ferocity of my voice seems to shock him. He nods his head, grabs his coat from the back of the sofa and walks out of the room.

  32

  Grace

  26 November 2004

  I can’t trust people. People let you down. Hurt you. I know that now.

  I’d decided to go and see Isobel this morning because, after what happened with the book and the deer, I just wanted to see something pure, and she is the purest person I know. Or at least I thought she was.

  I set off early, around 7.30, because I knew the vicar would have left for church by then. As I walked through the village I planned out the day in my head. First we’d have a bit of breakfast, maybe with some of that delicious hot chocolate she made me last time, then I thought I’d ask her if I could look at some of the books she had on the shelf in her bedroom. I could see the two of us sitting in the living room, me in one armchair, her in the other, both of us reading while the open fire crackled in the grate. That was as far as I managed to plan as by then I’d reached the vicarage, but the thought of that cosy scene made me feel all warm inside so I was in a happy mood when I knocked on the door.

  I waited for a couple of minutes but there was no answer so I went round the back of the house. There was a pretty garden, nice and neat, with potted plants and a tall wooden bird table. All the things he used to say were ‘signs of a civilization in freefall’ but that I thought actually looked quite nice. At that point I thought maybe Isobel and I could come out here later and watch the birds feeding on the bird table. But I was about to find out there would be no reading, no nice times.