The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘I would never hurt my son,’ I say, my voice riven with anger. ‘Never. He’s my world. My life. I came out here because I’d only been allowed to see him for a few hours a week. It was killing me.’

  ‘I can see that now,’ says Isobel nervously. ‘But I was just so scared that you’d found me out. I thought I was doing it for the best.’

  ‘So you knew Mark would be here when you dropped me off?’ I say. ‘You knew Mark was in this house?’

  She nods her head.

  ‘He told me he would drive up,’ she says, her words coming out in fast, nervous bursts. ‘I gave him directions to the house and told him you’d be out at the carol service and that the door had no lock. He could let himself in. Then when you got back he would confront you and call the police. I had no idea he would lock you up like this or take Joe. I mean it, Lisa, I didn’t know he would do that.’

  ‘Mark has spent years trying to scare me,’ I say wearily. ‘Trying to undermine me, make out I’m mad and stupid and incompetent. That’s why I struck out at him that night, Isobel. Because he was abusing me, mentally, and he’s been doing it ever since we met.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa,’ she says, coming towards me with her hand outstretched. ‘I didn’t know. And I like you, I really do. It’s been good to talk to someone, to finally unburden this … this secret I’ve been carrying all these years. I know I shouldn’t have called Mark but I was scared you’d found me out. Yet, the strange thing is that now all that fear is gone. I feel … free.’

  I go to speak but before I can get the words out there’s a violent hammering on the door.

  ‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

  Isobel looks at me with a resigned expression. This is it. For both of us.

  45

  Harrowby District Police Station

  ‘This way, Mrs Ward.’

  The arresting officer, an expressionless shadow of a man with hunched shoulders and a receding hairline, escorts me along a narrow corridor that is lined with interview rooms. My eyes are red and sore from crying and my back aches from the plastic chair I’ve had to sit on for the last two hours while they interviewed me.

  I say ‘interview’ yet really there was nothing much to say. Mark had been to the station with Joe and told them where I was. Joe had confirmed that he’d been at the house with the big puddle next to it with his mummy and that I’d driven ‘for lots of hours’ in the car to get there.

  Though Isobel is the one who called them, I saw in her eyes those last few moments in the room that she regretted what she had done.

  Still, none of that matters now. Rather than anger or fear or bitterness, I feel a deep sense of calm as I walk down the lifeless corridor, a sense that the running is over now. This is where all the pain ends.

  ‘Just up here to the left,’ grunts the police officer, and as we pass another series of glass-fronted rooms my eyes are drawn to a person sitting at a desk in one of them. A slight, elderly man with curly grey hair and a pale thin face looks out at me as I pass. The vicar.

  I stop for a moment and our eyes meet. And then something strange happens. He presses both his hands together, as if in prayer, nods his head and smiles at me. It’s a warm, gentle smile, one that penetrates my bones and seems to say that everything will be all right. It only lasts a few moments before the vicar turns his head and the officer and I continue along the corridor, but it is enough. It is enough.

  ‘Here we are,’ says the officer, stopping outside a blue-framed door at the end of the corridor. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes.’

  He opens the door and a familiar face looks up at me. My heart sinks. I’d hoped that Mark might have brought Joe in to see me. But then why would he? After everything I’ve done.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say, taking a seat at the small square table.

  ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay,’ says Jimmy, leaning forwards, his hands clasped to his chest. ‘It’s all over the village what happened.’

  I don’t answer him. Instead I just shrug. What more is there to say?

  ‘We just couldn’t believe someone so nice and respectable could be capable of that,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Crikey, you think you know a person and then … wham!’

  ‘You don’t know me, Jimmy,’ I snap, irritated at his presence, that it’s him sitting opposite me and not Joe. ‘We only met a few days ago.’

  His face reddens then and he sits up straight.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about you,’ he says. ‘I was talking about her. Isobel.’

  ‘Isobel?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘like I said just now, it’s all over the village. It wasn’t the daughter who killed the mad soldier. It was Isobel.’

  ‘She confessed?’ I say quietly, aware of the officer sitting in the chair behind me.

  ‘Apparently she confessed it to her dad years ago,’ he says, leaning closer to me. ‘But old Reverend Carter decided to keep it to himself. Probably told her to do some penance, three Hail Marys or something. Oh, hang on, that’s Catholicism, isn’t it? What do they do in the Church of England world when they’ve sinned? I’m not religious, see.’

  ‘So what changed?’ I say impatiently. ‘How did it come out?’

  ‘Well, apparently the vicar decided to grow a pair,’ he says. ‘According to Val, the woman who does the cleaning up at the vicarage, Isobel and the vicar got into a huge argument the other day, just before Isobel brought you to the pub, and she called him all sorts of terrible things. So bad, Val said she couldn’t bring herself to repeat them.’

  I think back to Isobel’s dishevelled appearance that day, her eyes puffy from crying.

  ‘Anyway, they had another big row last night,’ continues Jimmy. ‘Isobel stormed off and the vicar must have thought “enough is enough”. He went down to the station and told this lot everything. Val’s son Dave is the desk sergeant. He rang Val as soon as he came off duty this afternoon and, well, you know what small villages are like, soon everyone knew.’

  He lowers his voice to recount the last bit, aware that police officer Dave might get into trouble for his slack mouth.

  ‘So there we are,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Apparently she’s confessed it to the police now too.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, irritated by the brightness of his voice. To him and Val and Dave and the rest of them this is just another bit of juicy gossip, something to chat about at the bar over a pint of Black Sheep and a bag of pork scratchings, but Isobel’s lies led to the ruination of an innocent young girl’s life.

  ‘Could you take me back now, please?’ I say, turning to the officer.

  He nods and gets to his feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ I say, getting up from my seat. ‘I need to go now. You understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, smiling. ‘Like I said, I just wanted to check how you were. I know we’ve only just met but I like you, Lisa. I care about you. I just wish you’d told me what was happening. I’m sure there’s more going on than they’re saying in the papers. I would have listened.’

  Beside me, the officer clears his throat. Time to go.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, walking to the door. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming, Jimmy. I appreciate it. But I do need to go now.’

  He nods his head, and as the officer escorts me out I wonder how long it will take for my words to be relayed across the village.

  I’m grateful for the silence when I return to the cell. The past few hours have been so full of voices and questions and noise that it’s been impossible to think clearly. Now, sitting on this hard bed in another prison cell hundreds of miles from home, I can finally allow myself to return to the night that brought me here.

  I’d taken Joe swimming at a new leisure centre that had opened up in Barnet. We’d had such fun that I’d lost track of time so when we eventually got back to the house Mark was home from work. As I pulled into the drive I saw him standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway illuminating his tall, skinny frame. All the exhilaration I’d f
elt from swimming evaporated as I turned off the engine and heard his voice through the passenger window.

  ‘Do you know what time it is, Lisa?’

  I looked across and saw his face, pensive and scowling. Next minute he’d opened the back door and started to unclip Joe from his car seat.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, his hair’s still wet,’ he cried, lifting Joe out and clutching him to his chest as though rescuing him from a car wreck. ‘Surely they have hairdryers at the leisure centre?’

  ‘We didn’t have time,’ I explained as I followed him into the house. ‘But I got him straight in the car. Honestly, Mark, a bit of damp hair isn’t going to harm him.’

  ‘It’s December, you foolish woman,’ he exclaimed as he marched up the stairs with Joe. ‘Freezing cold. God, you don’t have an ounce of common sense, do you?’

  I didn’t respond. Instead I closed the door, put the bags on to the rack in the hall then made my way despondently to the kitchen. Mark had already been busy. The dishwasher was whirring, the washing machine was on a spin cycle. Probably he’d come home from work, seen the dirty pots stacked up in the sink and the overflowing laundry basket in the utility room, and sprung into action. I could imagine what he’d said as he buzzed around the kitchen. ‘Christ, Lisa, no wonder I can never find a clean shirt.’

  As I stood in the kitchen I felt like I was sinking into an abyss, suffocating under the weight of Mark’s controlling ways. I hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in months. Joe was teething at the time, waking up every hour or so screaming in pain. I was spending most of my nights pacing up and down the hallway with Joe in my arms, rocking him and willing the Calpol to act fast. The sleep deprivation left me feeling spiky and short-tempered, as though the slightest thing could send me hurtling over the edge. The only time I felt calm was when I went swimming. The water, just as it had done as a child, always made me feel better, like I was floating between worlds, with no cares, no responsibilities, just a wonderful sense of peace. Mark had never understood my love of swimming, of how necessary it was to my well-being. He saw the water as dangerous and unknowable. And the fact that I was drawn to it, needed it, made him distrust it even more. You see, Mark liked to control every aspect of our lives and he hated the fact that when I swam I was free again, wild again, beyond his control.

  The events of that evening have blurred slightly, though I remember standing in the kitchen holding a glass of water, trying to wake myself up. Mark had dried Joe’s hair and got him ready for bed, muttering loudly how terrible it was that ‘Mummy let you get cold and wet’. I could hear his voice in the next room as I stood there and I remember trying to think of something positive, something to cancel out Mark’s constant criticisms. I closed my eyes and saw my father standing by the side of the pool holding his arms out to me, a tiny girl of six. ‘Come on, Lisa,’ he cried, his eyes warm and encouraging. ‘You can do it!’ And for a few moments I was back at the lido about to swim for the first time. My shoulders relaxed and I felt happiness, pure, simple happiness flood through my body.

  But then Mark walked into the kitchen. It all happened so fast. He was taking the glass out of my hands, telling me that I’d been foolish to go to the pool today. That I wasn’t fit to look after Joe. That I was stupid, useless, a bad mother. I opened my eyes and looked up at him and in that moment something else emerged from me, some wild, uncontrollable thing. All the rage I’d repressed for so long came hurtling out of me.

  I struck out at him, again and again, not even aware that I was still holding the glass in my hands. I could hear him scream but I was beyond caring. I carried on striking at him. The next thing I knew the police were at the door and I was taken away from the blood-splattered kitchen.

  I’d never felt anger like that before or since, anger so raw it took my breath away. Yet now, sitting in this tiny cell, my knees pressed up to my chest, I feel it all dissipate. There is nothing left to rage against, nothing to run away from.

  EPILOGUE

  Lisa

  London, 25 September 2019

  The brightly coloured room has been designed with children in mind. There’s a mural of cartoon characters running the length of the wall, soft yellow beanbags dotted around the floor amid piles of toys and books. This is what is known as a safe space, a neutral place where Joe and I can get to know each other again, away from any distractions. I sit on a beanbag, clutching a cup of tepid coffee in my hands, and watch as Joe pieces together an impressive Lego castle. His little face is focused intently on the task in hand and I feel, not for the first time, that he is barely aware of my presence. Still, these things take time according to my social worker, Lynn. Joe has been through a huge ordeal, his foundations and trust have been shattered. Now it’s up to me to be patient, to let him heal, let us all heal.

  For absconding with Joe last Christmas I received a suspended sentence on the condition that I attend regular counselling sessions. So for the last six months I have sat in the tasteful but neutral office of Dr Rose Newton, a tiny, birdlike woman with large green eyes that sometimes seem like they are boring into my soul. It took me a while to open up to her, to myself, but slowly, bit by bit, I can feel myself returning to the girl I was before my father died. The girl who believed in magic and happiness and the power that comes from just being herself. Dad was the first person I spoke about to Dr Rose; his presence was everywhere as I described my grief at his death, the empty space I thought could never be filled, until the day I held my newborn son in my arms. It was painful to open up about my grief like that but now I can feel myself slowly letting Dad go, trusting in my own abilities. You could say I’m ready to face life now, ready to be a grown-up. My father was right. I can do it.

  I smile as Joe carefully places a turret on the top of the castle. ‘Children need to feel secure,’ Lynn had told me at our first supervised session at the parent unit. ‘They need consistency, boundaries and an understanding that home is home, that it won’t suddenly be ripped away from them.’

  She was right, I knew that. A loving, stable home is what every child deserves. I was thinking about that as I sat in a prison visitors’ room three months ago listening to my friend Grace tell me the story of her life. She is due for release this month, though, as always with Grace, she kept the details of the latest crime to have detained her a secret from me. ‘You don’t need to worry about me, Lisa,’ she said, grinning at me with those stubby, chipped teeth. ‘Like I told you when we first met, I’m a survivor.’ I knew that. After all, she had been my protector during my time in prison, a wall of steel that the others couldn’t penetrate. But I also knew there was a little girl inside Grace who had never had the chance to grow up, never had the comfort and warmth of a proper loving home. That was apparent as I prepared to leave and Grace leaned forward and told me to stick with the counselling and the parenting classes. ‘That bairn needs his mother,’ she said, fixing her dark eyes on me. ‘We all do.’ Then she had slipped a piece of paper across the table. It was yellowing and crumpled, and when I opened it I saw it was a letter, written in Arabic. It had been sent to Grace when her case had made the papers again after my arrest. Her family in Iraq had recognized her father’s name and decided to get in contact. ‘I got a friend in here to translate it for me,’ Grace told me in her gruff Yorkshire accent. ‘Apparently, my mother died of cancer in 2014. Though they tell me she never gave up hope that she would find me again. Fancy that, eh?’ She’d taken the note from me then and placed it in her pocket, a reminder of the home she never knew, the mother she had lost.

  The draining of the lake gave the villagers of Harrowby plenty to gossip about. The roads around the house were sealed off while divers excavated the watery grave. As I read the news accounts I knew that Jimmy and Val and the rest of them would be waiting eagerly for a discovery to be made, for the sorry tale of Grace and Isobel and Sarge to come to some sort of resolution. Yet I don’t think anyone, not even Jimmy with his overactive imagination, could have predicted what came next.<
br />
  At Isobel’s trial it was revealed that when the divers drained the lake, as well as the remains of Grace’s father, Michael Lightowler, they found another body, that of a newborn baby, born just a few months after Michael’s death. Investigations revealed it to be the child of Isobel Carter and Steve Markham. At the trial Isobel told how she had given birth to the baby, a girl, at the vicarage early one morning while her father was at the church. After a few minutes she realized the baby was silent and, though she tried to resuscitate her, it was clear that her newborn daughter was dead. Terrified and confused, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and walked through the woods to the house on the lake. Once there, she laid the baby in the boat and rowed out across the water. The transcript from the court makes for heartbreaking reading as Isobel describes how she sang to her dead baby as she unwrapped her from the blanket and dropped her into the lake. ‘She was a tiny little thing,’ she told the court. ‘No bigger than a doll.’

  Grace

  Yorkshire, 1 January 2020

  In my dreams I’ve returned to this place a thousand times but each time I live out a different version of the story. Sometimes he’s alive and well, other times he’s just lying there on his back in the snow, his eyes open to the sky and the stars. Sometimes he’s nowhere to be found and I run from room to room, calling his name over and over again. ‘Dad,’ I cry, the word as natural as the air. ‘Dad, where are you?’

  Now as I stand here, looking at the empty space where the house used to be, I hear echoes of the life I once had, a trail of memories extending behind me all the way back to that mysterious arid desert where men with guns and tanks drove themselves mad with the guilt of their killings.