As I got close to the house I saw there was a big window at the back which had doors built into it. The doors were open, which I thought was a bit weird considering the time of year, and for a moment I got worried, thought someone had broken in. What was it he used to always say? There are thieves everywhere in these parts, Grace, folk that would slit your throat soon as look at you, that would slice their own granny for a couple of quid. I heard his words in my head as I made my way towards the doors, gripping the handle of the paring knife I’d slipped into my pocket that morning. If there was a battle to be fought then I’d come prepared. But then I came to the doors and … I came to the doors and … well, I can’t quite put into words what happened next. It was so terrible. Worse than anything I’d ever seen before. But I suppose I need to try to describe it because if I write it down then it will be out of my head, that image, and I will never have to see it again.
Okay. Here goes.
I got to the doors and saw movement in the room. At first I thought it was the vicar but then I looked closer and saw a big hairy man standing by the fireplace. He had his arms round Isobel’s neck. She was making gasping noises like she couldn’t get her breath. Her face was all red. It was a horrifying sight. He was killing her. Right in front of my eyes. I had to do something. I had to save her.
Within seconds I was in there, hauling him off her. He was a big man but I’m strong and, unlike most girls my age, I’ve been taught soldiering skills. I felt like I had him subdued but then Isobel screamed and shouted, ‘Grace, no.’ She looked shocked because she’s only ever seen me as the young girl who sells the eggs, she has no idea that I’ve been trained to be an elite soldier. Anyway, I was in battle mode and, much as I wanted to reassure her, I ignored her screams and got him in a chokehold just like I’d been taught, and then, when he was completely still, I put the knife to his throat. I told Isobel to run, to get out of there as fast as she could and that I would deal with this bastard, but she just stood there shaking her head.
‘Grace, stop it,’ she said. ‘Let him go.’
I couldn’t understand it. This monster was attacking her and she wanted me to let him go. I told her this. Told her that if she made a run for it I’d deal with him, finish him off nice and cleanly. No need for police or anything like that. And when I said this she looked at me like I was the scumbag, like I was the most disgusting thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Then she took a deep breath and told me if I didn’t let him go she would call the police. She said that Steve was her boyfriend and he wasn’t harming her, they were just kissing. When she said this I felt sick with shame. I’d made a complete idiot of myself. This man wasn’t attacking Isobel. She wanted him to do what he was doing. Slowly, I loosened my grip.
When he was free he staggered to the sofa with his hand on his neck. ‘Fucking nutter,’ he said. ‘You nearly killed me.’
I looked at Isobel then, hoping she would say something comforting to me, ask me to stay, tell him she’d made a big mistake and that he’d have to go. I wanted her to be like she was the first time I came here, all lovely and sweet and smiling. I wanted to go see her doll’s house and listen to her talk about art.
But instead she just went running over to him and put her arms round him. ‘Oh my God, my baby, are you okay?’ Baby. That’s what she called him. How can a grown man be a baby? Her baby. I just stood there watching them, the knife still clasped in my hands. She looked up at me then and told me to get out. She said it so coldly I was taken aback. It was like, in the space of a few minutes, I’d become a stranger to her. A dangerous stranger.
‘Just go, Grace.’
That’s what she said. Three words. But each one was a bullet to my chest. I could imagine how those people in Iraq felt, the ones he had to kill. Standing in the street while shots come at you so quickly you don’t even realize it until you’re hit and you die.
But when I got back here, when I saw the blood on the ground and on my journal, I saw what Isobel had seen this morning. I wasn’t like her or any other normal girl and I’d been fooling myself in thinking I ever could be. Because no matter how hard I try to be like them, to see life as they do, to react to situations like they do, to be calm and controlled and respectable, it’s no use. It might not have been like that at the beginning, and had the dead mother in the desert raised me instead of him then maybe things would have been different. But she didn’t. He did. He made me this way and in doing so condemned me to hell.
I can smell the doe’s blood as I write this. It stinks of soil and metal and death. He told me about the smell of death when I was a bairn, told me how once you’ve had it in your nostrils it never goes away. And now I know what he means.
33
Lisa
‘Mummy?’
I look up and see Joe standing in front of me. He has dressed himself in yesterday’s clothes and is holding a toy lion in his hands.
‘Why you in bed?’ he says, looking at me quizzically. ‘You tired?’
The simplicity of the question melts me. Yes, Joe, I am tired. I’m tired of running like this, tired of messing up again and again. But something about the way he is looking at me, his eyes full of trust and innocence, makes me get out of the bed.
‘I was just having a little rest, baby,’ I say, sweeping him up into my arms. ‘But I feel better now. Wow, haven’t you been a good boy, getting yourself dressed.’
He nods his head and looks down at his crumpled sweatshirt and joggers as if to inspect them.
‘Now, we need to get some breakfast and brush our teeth,’ I say as I carry him into the kitchen. ‘And then we can …’
My phone is lying on the table. I pick it up and look at the time: 11.57. It was early morning when I threw Jimmy out, the sun hadn’t even come up. How long had I been asleep? I look at Joe and shudder as I think of him wandering around this place by himself all morning. Anything could have happened.
‘Pull yourself together, Lisa,’ I mutter to myself as I head to the scullery to find the bucket Isobel used for collecting water. ‘Right, Mr Joe,’ I say, putting him down on the floor. ‘We need to take this big bucket and go get some water from the lake. Will you help me?’
He nods his head.
‘Good boy,’ I say, hooking the bucket handle over my wrist. ‘But first we need to get our coats. It’ll be cold out there.’
There are two bread rolls and some tangerines on the kitchen counter. I take a roll and hand it to Joe.
‘Here, baby. You eat this while I go and get our coats.’
I pull a chair out and lift him on to it.
‘Mummy have some,’ he says, breaking off a piece of bread and handing it to me. ‘Make Mummy better.’
My eyes fill with tears but I blink them away as I take the morsel of bread. I can’t let Joe see me crying.
‘Mmm,’ I say as I eat it. ‘That is delicious. Thank you. Now you enjoy the rest of it and I’ll just grab our coats.’
He nods his head but as I walk away the familiar guilty feeling returns, gnawing at my stomach. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home in the warmth with all his familiar things around him. But then I think of that newspaper article, the police, the look in Mark’s eyes, and I know that if I cave in now I will lose Joe for ever. I grab the coats from the hook by the door and rush back into the kitchen, fearful that Joe might have disappeared into thin air in the seconds since I left him, but he’s still there, happily munching away on his bread roll. I stand for a moment looking at the back of his head, his curly hair matted from sleep and sticking out at all angles, and I feel my heart will burst. How is it possible to love someone as deeply as this? To feel like you will die without them yet would happily die for them? As I look at him I whisper, under my breath, that things are going to get better, that I will stay strong now, with no distractions, no doubts.
‘Right,’ I say briskly, heading across to him. ‘Let’s get your coat on.’
He looks up at me, breadcrumbs scattered across his front, and holds up
his arms. I lift him down from the chair, put his coat on, then mine, and as we head outside to the lake, I feel something resembling peace.
The air is cold but the sun is out and it casts a horizontal light across the surface of the water as we approach the lake. There is something pure and clean about the day, the sharpness of the air, the pale-grey luminosity of the sky, that makes it seem like the world has been swept clean overnight; that we can start again.
Joe trots off ahead of me, pausing by the edge of the lake to pick something up off the ground. I walk faster to catch up and when I reach him he looks at me and hands me a pebble.
‘Present,’ he says, his blue eyes reflecting the winter light. ‘For you.’
‘Thank you, baby,’ I say, turning the pebble over in my palm. ‘It’s beautiful. And look, there are more.’
I crouch beside him and pick up a handful of the mossy, damp stones.
‘Watch this,’ I say as I skim one across the lake. ‘Look at the ripples.’
‘I do it,’ says Joe, bending down to pick up another pebble. ‘I try.’
He spins the pebble into the lake. It doesn’t carry very far and plops into the water just inches from our feet. It doesn’t matter though. He’s loving the game.
‘Good shot, Joe,’ I say, rubbing his head. ‘Now, my turn.’
We stand like that for a good ten minutes, skimming pebbles and watching them flutter across the lake. When I throw one particularly large pebble it makes a great splashing noise as it hits the water.
‘Ooh, that was like a big fish,’ I say, putting my hand across my eyes to shade them from the sharp sunlight. ‘Hey, Joe, shall we be fishermen?’
There’s a load of old bracken gathered in a pile by the gate. I walk across and find a long, thin branch then bring it back to the lake.
‘Look, here’s my fishing rod,’ I say as I lower the branch into the lake. ‘Now, let’s see if we can find a fish.’
‘Fish,’ whispers Joe, his eyes fixed firmly on the water.
‘Oooh,’ I cry, yanking at the branch. ‘I think I caught something. Wait … ooh … it’s a heavy one.’
I haul the branch out, then pull a face at Joe.
‘Oh no, missed it,’ I say, clicking my tongue. ‘That silly old fish was just too big.’
Joe giggles and claps his hands excitedly.
‘Again,’ he cries. ‘Get fish again.’
‘Again?’ I say, putting my hands on my hips. ‘You want me to try again? Oh, I don’t know. Do you think I’ve enough puff left?’
‘Yes, yes, again,’ he cries. ‘Want to see the big fish.’
‘Okay,’ I say, lifting up the branch. ‘Let’s see if we can catch him this time.’
I swing the branch towards the water and repeat the charade of trying to haul out the big fish. Beside me, Joe shrieks with laughter.
‘Again. Again.’
I do as he says and we’re laughing so much I don’t notice the car pulling up.
‘Wow, that looks like fun.’
The voice makes me jump. I drop the branch and turn to see Isobel walking towards us. She’s dressed for the weather in her long black coat and furry hat.
‘Did you catch anything, Joe?’ she says, crouching down next to him, the edge of her coat trailing in the water.
‘Big fish,’ he cries, pointing towards the lake. ‘In there.’
‘A big fish?’ she repeats, her eyes wide. ‘Big enough for my dinner?’
Joe laughs and my heart sinks. Though it’s nice to see Isobel, part of me wishes she would just go away. Joe and I were making a breakthrough there and for the first time in God knows how long he had called me ‘Mummy’. Now Isobel is here and he only has eyes for her.
‘Right,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘How do you two fancy coming to hear some Christmas carols? There’s a children’s concert on at the church. I organize it for Dad every year and it’s lots of fun. The children get to see the baby Jesus in the crib and sing some carols, then it’s back to the church hall for a little party with Father Christmas.’
At those words Joe squeals with delight.
‘Father Christmas! Want to see Father Christmas.’
He jumps into Isobel’s arms, his face beaming with happiness.
‘Ooh,’ cries Isobel, pretending to fall backwards. ‘I think that’s my answer. Let’s get going then. It starts in twenty minutes.’
I smile politely as I follow Isobel to the car but inside I feel nervous. What if someone recognizes me from the article? If it made the Sunday Times then the story must be all over the news, TV as well as the papers. I reassure myself with the thought that the photo shows a woman with long blonde hair and now mine’s short and dark. But as I get into the passenger seat I feel a lump of panic settle into my stomach. Please let it be dark in there, I think to myself as Isobel starts the car and we head off towards the village.
Five minutes later we’re at the church and as we step inside I forget my nerves for a few moments. It looks so beautiful. The pews have been decorated with evergreens and holly berries, candles flicker all around, and up on the altar, gathered round the crib of the baby Jesus, are about a dozen children aged between three and five.
‘Where’s Father Christmas?’ says Joe, his voice echoing around the tiny space.
‘He’s coming later,’ whispers Isobel, taking his hand. ‘But first I’m going to take you to see baby Jesus. Would you like that?’
Joe nods his head and Isobel gestures to me to sit in the front pew.
‘I’ll take him up,’ she says, smiling. ‘You can get a good view from there.’
I hesitate. Might it be better to sit at the back, so I can’t be seen? But then most of the people in here are parents whose attention is solely on their kids up on the altar. Still, I make sure not to make eye contact with any of them as I slip into the pew and watch Joe and Isobel take their places alongside the crib. Isobel raises her hand to someone at the back of the church and the opening bars of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ strike up on the organ. It’s the most beautiful sound and as I watch the children sing I’m transported back to my own childhood and the tiny All Saints Church where my parents and I would go on Christmas Eve to listen to the carols. I catch Joe’s eye and wave but he looks away then nuzzles his head into Isobel’s leg. Whatever closeness we’d just achieved by the lake has been ripped away and I’m back where I started. All around me sit parents with their children; families all huddled together, getting ready for Christmas. And here I am. An outcast. A failure. I look down at the carol hymn sheet but the words dissolve in front of my eyes.
‘Are you all right, dear?’
I turn to see an elderly lady sitting next to me.
‘You look upset,’ she says, leaning closer. ‘Would you like a handkerchief?’
I shake my head and stare straight ahead at the altar. I can’t let her see my face.
‘What’s your name, love?’ she whispers. ‘I could have sworn I’d seen your face before.’
I go to speak but my mouth is dry. Instead I shake my head. I have to get out of here. Now. But if I make a fuss the woman will get suspicious so I stay where I am. The rest of the carols go by in a blur and as the final note plays I slip out of the pew and head outside into the fresh air.
It’s quiet in the churchyard and I stand for a moment practising the breathing exercises they taught me at the counselling sessions. After a few minutes, the tightness in my chest begins to subside.
‘There you are.’
I turn and see Isobel heading towards me. She’s holding a plastic cup in her hands, steam rising from it.
‘I was just getting some air,’ I tell her as she approaches. ‘Where’s Joe?’
‘He’s with the other kids at the party,’ she says. ‘Father Christmas has just arrived and they’re all going nuts.’
I don’t like the idea of Joe being left alone with strangers. If I keep my head down I can go and get him out quickly.
‘We need to be
heading home now,’ I say to Isobel. ‘Where is the entrance to the hall?’
‘It’s just an annexe off the church,’ says Isobel. ‘But don’t rush off. Stay for a bit. Joe’s having such a nice time.’
‘Well, maybe for another half-hour,’ I say, following Isobel back into the church.
The hall rings out with the sound of children’s laughter. The party is in full swing and a large Father Christmas is making his way round the room with a red sack of toys. Under different circumstances it would be perfect, but I can’t relax. I scan the room to see if the old woman from my pew is here but thankfully there’s no sign of her. I smile at Joe, who is sitting on the floor surrounded by wrapping paper and balloons. A little girl cuddles into him and shows him the toy train Father Christmas has given her.
‘He must be missing his friends,’ says Isobel, taking a sip from her cup of mulled wine. ‘From nursery? He is at nursery, isn’t he?’
I nod my head, uncomfortable with the sudden probing. I’ll give Joe five more minutes and then we really need to go.
‘Is it a good nursery?’ she continues. ‘I know that city ones can be a bit … overcrowded.’
Her voice is loud and I’m aware that people overhearing who have read the paper might put two and two together. I need to get her away from the subject of Joe and London, so I ask the first thing that comes into my head.
‘Grace,’ I say, more firmly than intended, ‘did you know her?’
‘Grace,’ repeats Isobel, her smile fading. ‘Which Grace?’
‘The girl who lived at the house,’ I say, remembering what Jimmy said about the whole village being shocked by what happened. ‘Rowan Isle. You must have been about the same age as her. I just wondered whether you knew her.’
‘I knew of her,’ says Isobel, draining her mug. ‘Though I didn’t know her particularly well. It was such a sad case. The whole village was rocked by it, but Grace and her dad were strange. She was known for being wild and prone to angry outbursts, so I guess it was only a matter of time before something terrible happened.’
The House on the Lake Page 18