She shakes her head.
‘Tired now. We go home.’
I look down and see Joe standing at my feet. He’s holding a plastic Spider-Man figure in his hand and has jam smeared across his mouth.
‘Hello, beautiful boy,’ I say, stooping down and heaving him on to my waist. ‘Yes, let’s go back now and have a little rest. Have you had a good time?’
He nods his head then nuzzles into the crook of my neck, sleepily.
‘You’ve exhausted yourself,’ laughs Isobel. ‘That’s always a sign of a good party. Listen, I just need to check on something then I’ll drive you home. Wait here and I’ll be straight back.’
She walks out of the hall leaving Joe and me standing in the middle of the floor. A young mum standing by the buffet table smiles over at us. We’re too conspicuous in here. I need to get away.
‘Come on, Joe,’ I say gently as we head for the exit. ‘We’ll wait for Isobel out here.’
I open the door and step back out into the churchyard. It’s dark now and a great yellow moon looms above the trees. I see a shadow in the corner by the church and a familiar voice speaking, though distorted by anger.
‘Where are you?’ she hisses into the phone. ‘I thought you said you’d text when you’d arrived.’
She turns then and sees me, the light of the phone screen illuminating her face.
Isobel.
‘Oh, Lisa, Joe,’ she says, coming towards us, her voice softening. ‘There you are. Now, give me two seconds and I’ll bring the car round. What a day it’s been, eh? What a bloomin’ day.’
34
Grace
28 November 2004
The sun has just come up and I’m sitting under the oak tree watching the wood awaken. Another night of sleeping out here. It was cold and damp and uncomfortable and, I’m not going to lie, I would have preferred to have been back at the house, in my warm room, but I can’t go back there. I can’t see him. Not after what I’ve discovered.
It’s a beautiful sight, the wood at this hour. Each blade of grass glistens with the morning dew, like someone’s gone through it with a bucket of soapsuds and given it a good old clean. The trees and bracken are shrouded in a light mist, like something from a fairy tale, one where the monster has been beaten and a new day is beginning. Looking at these old trees, I feel safe and protected. After all, they have stood unmoved for hundreds of years and they’ll carry on long after I’ve gone. What harm can possibly come to me if I’m sheltered here amongst them? So I focus on the trees and the bracken and the soft sounds of the wood pigeons and I try my very best to stay calm, but my heart is jumping around my chest like a mouse caught in a cage.
For a moment my head feels fuzzy, a good kind of fuzzy, the kind that lets you forget everything, and I wonder why my chest feels so tight. And then I remember. She came to see me. She wants me to help her. And I don’t know if I can.
It was early evening. I was having a kip in my spot under the oak tree as I’d been up since dawn, after a night dreaming of the doe and the dead mother in the desert. I was so shattered the next day that by teatime I was dead to the world. My doss bag was pulled up tight round my ears so at first I couldn’t hear the crying, and if I had it would have sounded like the beginning of another strange dream, which in a way it was. Then I felt a weight on my arm and that woke me up. Someone was shaking me, violently. I was under attack and I had to act fast so I pulled the cover back, all set for a fight, but there was no enemy there, it was just her. Just Isobel.
She looked terrible. Her face was all red and puffy and her hair was all over the place, like she’d just got out of bed or something. I’d never seen her like this. She looked so bad that for a moment I forgot that I’d been angry with her. I just wanted to give her a cuddle. But then she opened her mouth and it all came back to me.
‘First things first, you shouldn’t have done what you did yesterday,’ she said. ‘It was so embarrassing. Poor Steve nearly had a heart attack.’
That name again. Steve. It felt like a stone in my throat. But it jolted me awake too and once I was awake I started to feel angry. I told her that if that’s how she felt she could bugger off, go back to Steve and her stupid house and her stupid dad and leave me the hell alone. Then I lay down and pulled my doss bag over my head again.
I thought that would be it but she started tugging at me again. I pulled the bag tighter so it was so far over my head I could barely breathe, but she wouldn’t let up. Eventually I threw the bag off and leapt to my feet with my fists clenched beside me, ready to fight, to take her on. Isobel looked terrified and stepped backwards into the bracken.
Then she put her hands out in front of her, defensively, and said that she was sorry, sorry for shouting at me. She said she hadn’t come to argue or fight, she’d come to ask for my help.
Well, that surprised me all right. Help? What kind of help could this girl with her perfect life and perfect home want from someone like me?
But I was curious so I unclenched my fists and told her to sit down. She looked at the doss bag and wrinkled her face. It was covered in bloodstains and bits of mud and bracken, a world away from her immaculate bed with its crisp cotton sheets, but, give her her dues, she sat down all the same.
I asked her how she knew I was here and she said she’d seen me earlier when I was up on the crag. She’d been up there looking for Steve as that’s where they usually meet but he hadn’t turned up. ‘Then I saw you and I knew it was a sign,’ she said. ‘That you were the one person who could help me.’ She said she’d followed me down the crag and through the woods, thinking that I’d be heading for Rowan Isle House, but then saw me settling down under the tree. ‘You looked exhausted,’ she said. ‘So I thought I’d wait a bit, but now I can’t wait any longer. You have to help me, Grace, please say you will.’
I told her that she’d made me feel bad the other day, that the things she’d said to me hurt more than any knife could. She repeated that she was sorry, but she said it so fast it was like she just wanted to shut me up so she could say what she wanted to say.
I was curious to know what she wanted and, if I’m honest, it felt good to have her sitting next to me. After embarrassing myself so badly the other day I thought I’d never see her again. I’d missed her.
So I told her to tell me whatever it was she wanted my help with. She went all quiet, like she’d lost her nerve. She looked down at the ground and started pulling bits of grass up. I got impatient then and told her to spit it out otherwise we’d be here all night.
She nodded her head and said, ‘Okay, okay,’ then she looked up at me and said that her dad had banned her from seeing Steve. He’d arrived home unexpectedly the other evening and caught them in the bedroom. I tried to imagine the look on the vicar’s face, seeing his daughter in the position I’d seen her in. Had he felt like I had? Like he wanted to rip Steve’s throat out? I can’t imagine the vicar getting violent, but then certain things shake us up so much they bring something out in us, a weird force we didn’t know was there before. I was thinking all this as Isobel continued talking. She was going on about how she hated her father and that she wished he was dead.
When she said this, I was shocked. Surely she didn’t mean that? But her face had changed when she said it. She didn’t look like Isobel any more. Her expression was like one I’d seen on a bull when I was little. We’d taken a wrong turn one day and ended up in some strange field. We didn’t see the bull until it was too late. He’d pulled me to safety but not before I’d looked that beast straight in the eye. What I saw in its black eyes was pure brute rage. And I could see the same in Isobel’s. For just a few minutes she’d turned into an animal.
She said that her dad had told her she was a wicked girl, that she had committed a grave sin and would need to pay for it. He said that she had sullied the memory of her mother, and not only that but her mother, he said, would have disowned her if she had seen what he had seen. He told her that things were going to change, that he had
given her too much freedom and had paid the price for it.
When she stopped talking her expression changed and she was Isobel once more, but I felt weird. It was like I’d just seen into her soul or something and I didn’t really like what was there.
She seemed to sense this because she stood up and said she had to go. I told her that she still hadn’t asked me what she wanted me to help with. She looked at me and smiled then and said something that took me by surprise. She said that I was the only real friend she had in the world. I found that very hard to believe. Her only friend? I mean, what about school and history of art and all that? Surely she had loads of friends, friends who could talk to her about all that stuff? After all, she was Isobel. Girls like her always have friends. At least, they do in the books I read. In reality I know nothing about friends, only that I’ve never had one.
But it felt good to hear her say it and all the pain I’d felt when she shouted at me the other day fell away. I couldn’t be angry with her. She was my Isobel. And she was my only friend in the world too.
I told her this and then something strange happened. She started to cry. Not just a little weep but great, breathless sobs. She said that she wanted to kill herself, that life without Steve wasn’t worth living. That was hard to hear, that she loved this Steve person so much she was ready to die for him. But all the same, I knew I had to do something, because I couldn’t live in a world without Isobel. I felt for her what she felt for Steve and one day she might just see sense and feel the same way about me, but for now being friends was enough and I had to do what friends do and help her.
So I put my arm round her shoulders and told her that everything was going to be all right, that she just had to tell me how I could help.
She looked up at me. She was still sobbing and it was hard to hear her. But when I finally made out what she was saying, my heart froze. She said that she and Steve had planned to run away together. They were going to meet at the crag the following night – this evening – at 11 p.m. and head off from there. Steve had told her to take some money from the vicar’s safe so they’d have enough to get going.
I was shocked when I heard this. I didn’t think Isobel had it in her to be a thief. And what about the vicar? He didn’t deserve that. All he was doing was looking out for his daughter. I didn’t say this to Isobel though, just listened as she told me how she wanted me to come and keep a lookout while she and Steve made their escape.
‘You know how to look after yourself,’ she said to me, gesturing to the bloodstains on the doss bag. ‘If my father follows us I’ll just go to pieces, but if you’re there you can threaten him.’
She stopped then and looked down at her hands. She was twisting the sleeve of her coat between her fingers.
‘Threaten him?’ I asked, still not sure quite why the vicar needed to be dealt with like this.
‘Just keep him distracted,’ she said, still twisting her sleeve. ‘So Steve and I can get away.’
She stopped crying then and looked at me. Her face was so sad it made my heart hurt. But I couldn’t promise her anything, so I told her I’d think about it and give her my answer tomorrow. She said she understood, then she got up, hugged me, told me I was the best friend anyone could ever wish for and that if I helped her she’d be grateful to me for ever. That was strange to hear, though it was quite nice too as it meant that she would always be my friend.
However, when she left I started to feel uneasy. I went over what she’d told me again and again in my head and the more I thought about it the more I felt that it was Steve who was making Isobel do this. He was a bad influence on her. Isobel loved her father and she loved her home. Now she was going to have to leave both and it was all down to him. I felt sorry for the vicar. He just wanted what was best for his daughter, like all fathers do. And that made me think of him, the man I used to call Sarge. Maybe that’s why he did what he did, because he wanted the best for me. And instead of sticking around and asking him, I’d just bolted.
The sun is fully up now and I have made a decision. I’m going to try to forget about the room and the torture, the book and the mother in the desert, and go back to the house. One last time.
35
Lisa
I stand on the side of the road and watch as Isobel’s car disappears over the brow of the hill. We had driven through the village in silence. Isobel kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as though fearful the car would skid off into a ditch of its own accord.
She was polite when we left the car, smiled at Joe, said she was glad we’d enjoyed the party, though there was a frostiness that hadn’t been there before, a sense that I’d offended her in some way, though I couldn’t for the life of me think how.
‘Right, Joe,’ I say, taking Dad’s torch out of my pocket. ‘Hold my hand now. It’s dark and we don’t want to get lost.’
I feel his warm hand in mine as we walk tentatively towards the house, the thin sliver of yellow torchlight guiding our way. Beside me, Joe starts humming a tune that after a few moments I recognize as ‘Jingle Bells’, the song that had been playing on a loop at the party.
‘That’s a nice song,’ I say as we reach the door. ‘Did you like the party?’
‘Saw Father Christmas,’ he says as I push my body weight against the door. ‘He gave me present.’
‘Yes,’ I say breathlessly as, on the third push, the door yields. ‘And it was a lovely present. You’ll have to introduce Spider-Man to your lions, I’m sure they – Joe, slow down.’
It is pitch black inside the house, though I can hear Joe’s footsteps up ahead.
‘Joe, wait for me,’ I call, shining the torch along the hallway. ‘We need to light some candles in the living room. Joe? Where are you?’
I point the torch ahead of me and see the outline of the kitchen door frame. Stepping slowly towards it, I cast the light across the room. The black stove looms ahead of me like some kind of crouching beast; the table is scattered with crumbs and orange peel from this morning’s makeshift breakfast.
‘Joe?’ I say, backing away from the kitchen door and going to the living room. ‘Joe, please answer me. Where are you?’
He’s not in the living room, though I shine the torch behind the sofa and both chairs in case he’s hiding behind them. Nothing.
‘Joe, baby,’ I call as I make my way down the narrow passageway towards the bedrooms. ‘Joe?’
And then I see him. He’s standing outside the bedroom with a blanket over his shoulders. He looks at me then lets out an ear-piercing yell.
‘Joe, what are you doing?’ I cry, my ears ringing with the noise.
‘Being a wild thing,’ he says, ‘with terrible roars.’
He’s smiling innocently, waiting for me to come back with the response I always make when we read the story – ‘and gnashed their terrible teeth’ – but I’m so shaken I can barely speak.
‘Joe,’ I say, lifting him into my arms. ‘You … you must never do that again, do you hear me? Never. Mummy was so frightened.’
I pull him into my chest but he resists and jerks his body backwards.
‘You horble,’ he cries, his face twisting with rage. ‘I want Daddy now. Daddy not tell me off. Daddy’s nice.’
His eyes fill with tears.
‘Shh,’ I whisper, stroking his head gently. ‘I didn’t tell you off, Joe, I was just scared, that’s all. I thought you were a monster.’
‘You a monster,’ he yells, pummelling his fists into my chest. ‘That’s what Daddy says. You a horble monster.’
He lifts his hand up and strikes me on the side of my face. The shock almost knocks me off my feet but I steady myself quickly.
‘Joe,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘You mustn’t hit Mummy. That really hurt.’
He wriggles out of my arms then turns and runs towards the staircase, the blanket in his arms.
I go after him, but he’s running so fast I can hear his footsteps on the stairs. Then I hea
r something: a faint humming noise which grows louder as I approach the staircase.
‘Oh what fun tis to ride …’
‘Jingle Bells’. Joe is still singing it.
‘That’s a lovely song,’ I call out to the empty passageway. ‘Now shall we go and light the fire and make some cocoa? Then we can sing some more Christmas songs. What do you say?’
I pause at the foot of the stairs and listen. There’s a clatter of footsteps overhead and then he starts to giggle.
‘Come on, Joe,’ I call up the stairs. ‘It’s too dark to play hide and seek. Now come downstairs and we’ll get a nice hot drink.’
The footsteps intensify, loud and heavy like he’s dancing or jumping up and down.
‘Joe,’ I call, my voice louder and firmer. ‘Please come down. Now.’
The footsteps stop. I wait for him to emerge at the top of the stairs, my heart pulsating in my chest, but there is no sign of him.
‘Joe?’
I realize I will have to go up there and get him. It’s dark and he could fall and injure himself. Gripping the banister with my right hand, I slowly make my way up the stairs, calling to him as I go.
‘Coming ready or not,’ I cry, trying to keep my voice steady as I shine the torch ahead of me. ‘No more hiding, baby.’
The air smells stale and cloying as I go further up the stairs and as I reach the landing a cloud of thick dust hits me and I start to cough. Putting my hand to my mouth, I slowly make my way along the narrow passage.
There’s a half-closed door ahead of me and as I shine the torch at it I see that the walls and floor inside have all been painted white. I blink to adjust my eyes but the glare of white makes me feel dizzy and disorientated.
‘Joe,’ I call as I step towards the door. ‘Joe, where are you?’
I take hold of the door handle, my mouth dry and clammy, and then I hear it again. The song. But something about it sounds wrong. It’s a distorted sound, like an old LP being played on the wrong speed. And then I realize it’s not Joe’s voice I can hear singing, it’s something much more disturbing. The voice behind that door, growing louder and louder as I stand trembling with fear, my hand gripping the handle, is a man’s voice. I need to get Joe out of there. Now.
The House on the Lake Page 19