The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Joe,’ I cry as I push the door open and burst into the room, shining the torch in front of me. ‘Joe –’

  I hear myself scream as I drop the torch and see, in ghoulish green light, the shadow of a tall figure.

  I stand motionless as it comes towards me. I should get the hell out of here but my legs have turned to stone.

  ‘No,’ I cry as it bears down on me. ‘Please … don’t hurt me.’

  I drop to my haunches and cover my head with my hands, waiting for the blow to come, but nothing happens. I look up and see Joe standing by the door, the blanket still draped over his shoulders.

  ‘Joe, run downstairs,’ I say. ‘Run. Quickly!’

  Then I feel a hand on my shoulder and a low, familiar voice calls Joe’s name. I turn to see Mark, his face half in shadow. He’s wearing a black winter coat with the collar turned up.

  ‘Get out of my way, Lisa,’ he says, his voice thick with hatred.

  ‘No,’ I cry as he pushes past me and scoops Joe up in his arms. ‘Please, Mark, no.’

  ‘Daddy,’ shrieks Joe delightedly, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders. ‘Daddy come.’

  ‘Yes, my darling,’ Mark says, clutching Joe tightly to his chest. ‘Daddy’s come. You’re safe now. I’m going to take you home.’

  ‘Mark, please,’ I say as he walks towards the door. ‘Don’t take him. Please. I beg you.’

  I lunge for Joe but Mark pushes me away. I fall backwards and land in a heap on the floor. As I struggle to my feet I hear the door close with a thud and the sound of a bolt sliding.

  ‘No,’ I scream, running for the door. ‘Please, Mark. No.’

  36

  Grace

  It’s so cold I can see my breath floating on the air in front of me like a will-o’-the-wisp as I sit writing this. When I was a kid he used to tell me that things lived in this wood that were beyond explanation – sprites and goblins and the like – and I believed him. When we came out hunting he’d walk behind me through the trees and do this silly voice. ‘Is that you, Grace?’ he’d say, all high-pitched and squeaky. ‘Have you come to see us?’ And being a daft kid, I would fall for it and answer, ‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve brought you some scran.’ Then I’d lay some bits of stale bread down on the ground and look around me to see if they were coming. ‘Thing you gotta remember, Grace,’ he’d say, coming up behind me, ‘is that they’re shy, the little people. They won’t come out while we’re here.’ And I was such a silly little kid, I’d just buy that rubbish. I’d walk off with him back to the house and that night I’d lie in my doss bag and imagine some goblin sitting on a toadstool eating my stale bread. I did that because he told me there were spirits in that wood, magical things beyond my imagination, and I trusted him. He told me I had to have faith and that just because I couldn’t see something with my own eyes didn’t mean it wasn’t true. So I kept faith in him and all the things he told me. I mean, why wouldn’t I? He was my father and he would never lie to me. At least that’s what I thought back then. Now I know it was all nonsense, every bit of it.

  But despite the fact I knew he’d lied to me I still held those trips into the wood close to my heart and I was thinking about them when I went back to the house this morning. Thinking about being a kid and the times we’d had gave me a warm feeling inside. I had to hold on to that if I was to give him another chance, that was what I was telling myself as I made my way up the path towards the house. There had to be a reason why he’d lied about the dead mother in the desert. And there had to be a reason why he’d locked me in that room. He’d never let me down before. We’d been a good team. I’d never forget how proud he was when I made my first kill. And he could be kind too. If I was poorly he’d make soup and put cold flannels on my forehead and sing me my favourite song about old Stewball the racehorse who never drank water, but only drank wine.

  I started humming that song to myself as I walked round the back of the house. He was always in the kitchen making scran at that time of the morning so that was where I was heading. I was singing that song and I was happy and I was ready to forgive him. The racehorse’s bridle was silver, his mane was gold and all was right with the world. That’s how it felt. The world was a good place to be. Until I turned the corner and saw her lying there on the grass.

  Her beautiful eyes were wide open and facing the sky. Her right leg was bloody and mangled where the trap had got her. My vixen.

  I started to scream and the noise I made was like the ram we found one day who’d got its horns caught in the briars. It was snorting and raging and scraping its hooves on the ground. It was ready to kill in order to set itself free.

  I carried on screaming as I ran up the steps and pushed the kitchen door open. He wasn’t in there and there was no smell of cooking. I guessed he must still be in bed but then I heard snoring coming from the parlour. I stormed in there and saw him lying slumped in my gran’s old armchair, an empty tankard hanging from his hand.

  And I knew in that moment what I had to do. I ran out of the house and went straight to the outbuilding and grabbed my gun. I was going to need it now. Then I slung it over my shoulder and made my way to the village. A couple of old ladies gave me funny looks as I marched past the Post Office but I didn’t care. I was free now. With my vixen gone there was only one friend left and I couldn’t lose her. I just couldn’t.

  When I got to the vicarage I banged on the door in a frenzy and when Isobel opened it I gave her just three words – ‘I’ll help you’ – then turned and walked off down the path. But when I got to the edge of the village I heard her call my name. I looked round and saw her, all red-faced, running after me.

  She asked me why I had a gun and I told her I was off hunting. I felt bad for lying but she couldn’t know the truth. I had to keep her trust.

  She told me to meet her at the crag tonight at eleven. I nodded my head. Her face lit up then and she hugged me and told me how grateful she was that I was helping her.

  I didn’t need her thanks so I didn’t say anything, just nodded and headed back here and fell asleep under my doss bag until the sound of the old tawny owl woke me up an hour ago.

  So Isobel thinks I’m going to help her escape with Steve. But what she doesn’t realize is that I have another plan. I will not let that monster take her away from me. I love her. She is my only friend. And if I’ve learned anything from that liar who brought me up it’s that you will do anything to be with the person you love.

  You’ll die for them.

  Kill for them.

  37

  Lisa

  I grip the handle and pull at it hard. It’s locked fast.

  ‘Let me out,’ I cry in a raw, desperate voice. ‘Please, Mark, you have to bring him back. I need him. I need my baby.’

  My hands are still gripping the handle. I take them away then start pounding my fists on the door.

  ‘Please,’ I yell. ‘Please let me out.’

  But the silence on the other side of the door tells me that my pleas will not be answered. I turn away, my ears ringing. The darkened room seems to spin around me as I stumble about trying to find my bearings. Then my foot catches something hard. I look down and I can just make out the shape of the torch that I dropped earlier. I pick it up and point it in front of me.

  The room is sparse. The walls and floor have been painted white, like some sort of sterile laboratory. The blanket Joe had been wearing when Mark grabbed him is lying where he dropped it by the door. I stoop to pick it up and hold it to my face. It smells of old dust and animal skin. I drop it back on to the floor, nausea swelling inside me.

  Then as my brain starts to focus I remember Isobel. I’d put her number into my phone the other day. Patting my jeans, I feel the reassuring bulk of my phone in my pocket. I pull it out and see that, miraculously, it has a signal, though the battery is down to the last bar. I scroll through my contacts until I reach Isobel’s number.

  It rings and rings.

  ‘Please answer, Isobel,’ I mutter under
my breath. ‘Please.’

  But she doesn’t answer and, after a pause, I hear an automated voice asking me to leave a message.

  ‘Isobel, it’s Lisa,’ I say, trying to catch my breath. ‘I’m at the house and … Mark was here when we got back. He’s taken Joe and locked me in the room upstairs. Please come and help me … if you … when you get this message. Please.’

  It cuts off and I’m left holding the phone in my hands, staring impotently at the screen as it fades from light to dark. I press the screen. It stays dark. The battery has gone.

  Fuck.

  I have to get out of here. There must be another way out. A window or something.

  I step further into the room and shine the torch into each corner, finding nothing but dust and spider’s webs. There’s no light trickling into the room but that might be because the moon has gone behind a cloud. There must be a window here somewhere. The problem is that the ceiling is curved in such a way it’s impossible to see clearly from this angle. I switch the torch on again then spot a wooden chair in the corner of the room.

  I lift the chair and ease it closer to the wall. It wobbles as I climb on but I steady myself by putting my hand on the back of it. Once I’m up there I turn off the torch and squint to adjust my eyes. A faint silver light trickles down on to the floor from above. From this angle I can see a wide ledge running round the edge of the ceiling. I place my palms on the ledge and ease myself forward. Following the diminishing trail of light, I look up to the right and see a tiny, rectangular window just within reaching distance.

  The window is thick with grime and dust and has an old-fashioned iron stay that juts out at an angle, away from the frame. Taking the stay in one hand, I push at the glass with the other. It’s stiff with dirt but after a couple of tries it finally yields and I’m met with a shock of cold air.

  Leaning forward, I open the window wider and poke my head out. I can see the hills in front of me and the outline of the cages in the garden. So this room is at the back of the house then. If it was at the front I could have shouted towards the road, shone the torch, hoped some motorist would notice and come to help. But out this way is just an expanse of wilderness with only the rabbits and foxes to hear my cries.

  Still, I have to try. There could be someone out there, a hunter or poacher, some overenthusiastic rambler taking a midnight stroll. The window is too small to climb through but I push my body as far out as possible and scream at the top of my voice.

  ‘HELP! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME? PLEASE HELP. PLEASE.’

  My voice comes out reedy and thin. There is no one coming to help. The only person at large, the only one who can hear me, is the person who bolted the door, the person who now has my child, and that thought makes me feel sick with terror.

  ‘MARK! COME BACK AND LET ME OUT. YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME. PLEASE, MARK!’

  I shout again a few more times but there is nothing. It’s hopeless.

  I ease myself back on to the ledge, but as I go to close the window something on the inner ledge catches my eye. I lean forward to take a closer look. It’s a book of some sort. I reach out and grab it as a gust of icy wind strikes the glass and sends the pages fluttering. Holding it to my chest, I step carefully back down on to the chair.

  The book is damp and yellow, bleached by the sun. I turn it over in my hands. It’s leather-bound and has the remnants of some kind of gold lettering across the front. A name perhaps? It reminds me of the diaries I used to get from my parents every Christmas, the ones with a lock and a tiny key and my initials embossed on the front. I place it on my lap and open it up. The first few pages are damp and stuck together. Whatever handwriting had been there has been dissolved. The last few pages, however, are intact. I flatten the book out and point the torch closer. The handwriting is messy and smudged but I can just about make it out.

  I start to read and a chill flutters right through my body as I realize that this isn’t some childish diary, it’s a first-hand account of a murder.

  38

  Grace

  I want to write one last entry in this book before closing it down for good. In thirty minutes I’m due to meet Isobel at the crag and after that I’m not sure what’s going to happen to me.

  I am no longer an elite soldier but an assassin. It’s not going to be like shooting rabbits or sheep. This is the real thing. Serious. But I tell myself not to lose my resolve, to think about the vixen and her broken body, of never seeing Isobel again. I have to go through with this.

  It’s just begun to snow. Light flakes for now but I can tell from the change in the air that it’ll become much thicker as the night goes on. He always loved the snow. Said it reminded him of when he was a boy and his granddad used to take him up to the hills to build a snowman. I can’t imagine him being a boy.

  I remember when I was about seven years old the two of us walked up to Harrowby Crag in the middle of a snowdrift. I was quite scared because it was coming on thick but he insisted we were going to build a snowman. He always walked so fast I found it hard to keep up and the snow was so thick that I soon lost sight of him. I stopped to get my bearings and as I looked around me everything seemed wrong. When people write about snow in books it’s always a magical thing, soft gentle flakes, a world turned white, but I didn’t feel magical as I stood there that day. Instead I felt like I’d been transported to another planet, a cold, hostile world. I wanted to run, to get back to the house, light the stove and get warm, but back then I did whatever he told me to do and he had told me we were going to build a snowman so I started walking in the direction he had gone. In the end the snow got too thick to see and we had to turn round and go home. The next day we saw that some of the sheep in the next field had perished in the blizzard. I remember Sarge being sad that morning, said that he’d just wanted me to have fun and ended up nearly freezing us both to death. I told him that it was okay, that I liked the warm and he liked the cold, and then he smiled and said, ‘That’s right, pet.’

  It’s strange but I’d forgotten all about that night until now. Funny what you remember when you’re trying to forget.

  As I write this I can see the photo of the dead mother in the desert poking out of the top of his book. A few days ago I would have said it was her who made sure I didn’t come to harm in the blizzard that night, that she was protecting me from above. Now I know the truth, I know it couldn’t possibly have been her, but I still believe there was something watching over us that night, some all-seeing eye. He would go mad at me for saying this but I like to think it was God. That’s right. God. The thing that I’m not meant to believe in, that’s the root of all evil, all suffering and war. ‘A bloody fairy tale with no hope of a happy ending’ – that’s how he used to describe religion. But just cos he didn’t believe in God it doesn’t mean he or she or it or whatever doesn’t exist, does it?

  I think back to the day the vicar came to buy the eggs, the fear in the eyes of the man I once called Sarge. He made it seem like the vicar was a bad man when really it was the other way round. He feared the vicar because that quiet man represented everything he hated: truth, stability, God. I saw those things in the vicar that day and it didn’t scare me because those were the things I craved more than anything, to have proper guidance, not as an elite soldier but as a girl, a normal girl.

  When he asked me to go to the church I’d wanted to say yes because I was interested in it. I was sick of being told that it was this or that. I wanted to see for myself. I could see that the vicar was a decent man, a man I could trust, and I still feel that way now, even without going to church. The vicar wouldn’t lie to me like others have, he’s a good man.

  Which is why I think Isobel is wrong to want to go against her father. She’s got a lot of things wrong and I’m hoping I can set her straight. Because the person who needs to be punished, the person who needs to be kept away from Isobel, isn’t her father, it’s Steve. He’s the one that needs to be dealt with. He thinks he can take Isobel away from me, but I won’t let him.


  The snow is coming thicker now and it’s getting close to time. I have to get my doss bag packed up and put this book somewhere safe while I go carry out the mission. It’s a big one, this. It’s what I’ve been in training for my whole life yet that doesn’t stop me feeling sick with nerves.

  Anyway, enough with this writing. I’ve said everything I need to say. It’s time to put away my stories and get ready. Know your enemy, that’s what he always used to tell me. Know your enemy and be prepared to go down fighting. Well, Sarge, that is exactly what I intend to do.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  39

  Grace

  Rowan Isle House, 30 November 2004

  I have to write it down. Have to write and then everything will make sense.

  Surely it will make sense.

  What have I done?

  Write, Grace, write it down. Get it out of your head.

  Easier said than done when your hands are shaking so hard you can barely hold the pen.

  Okay, here goes.

  This is the account of what happened in Harrowby Woods on the 28th November 2004.

  The mission.

  At five minutes to eleven I crossed the road from the woods and made my way towards the crag. As I approached I could see Isobel. Her blonde hair was tied back with a dark-red ribbon. It was the most lovely sight. She looked like a sprite, like the wisps he used to talk about, the ones in the woods that we had to greet as we passed.