The Cry of the Lake

by Charlie Tyler

  Apparently, a lady of importance fell in love with a beautiful stable boy and the tree was where they used to meet. Knowing that they would never be allowed to be together, there, in the forest, she made them each a crown of flowers saying that this made them equal in the eyes of the woodland folk and so they declared their undying love to each other. Surprise, surprise, her father found out and set up a false meeting where he killed the stable boy. The lady was devastated and hung herself from the tree – their garlands of snowdrops dangling from the bough next to her. Nowadays, in these parts, if you are truly in love with someone, you must come to this tree and hang a garland of fresh flowers from it.

  The really strange thing about the legend though was that I saw Grace hang a posy amongst the branches of the fat old oak. Okay, so I witnessed her putting the bag there too, but that had always been part of her plan.

  We’d gone for an early evening stroll and taken Mr Hutton’s dog with us because he and Mrs Hutton, she of the tucked-in knickers, were going out for the day to visit a sick relative and wouldn’t be back until late. Would we mind popping across to let Barney out every so often and to give him his kibble? Off we went, sliding through the broken panel at the back of the garden, Amelie’s bag rolled up inside my rucksack.

  Barney was a small, white Yorkshire terrier. He had a cute, teddy-bear shaped face but yapped a bit too much for my liking. The barking, however, was useful because he tended to woof the moment he heard another person or creature. It was like having a personal alarm.

  I thought The Tree of Promises was a dangerous choice for hiding Amelie’s belongings. On a late summer’s evening the tree would be swarming with young lovers/potential witnesses. But Grace explained she needed to put the bag somewhere it would be found and somewhere that would suggest love had played a cruel part in Amelie’s death. The tree was the perfect choice.

  We arrived at the empty clearing when the fat wood pigeons were flapping and chuntering into their roosting positions; sending dozens of white, fluffy feathers tumbling down to the woodland floor. Barney and I stood on sentry-duty, blocking the path which led from the main bridleway to the tree. I could hear Grace scuffling around the base, overturning moss and clumps of dark leaves, rearranging the woodland debris around the bag.

  She was taking too long.

  I hooked Barney’s lead around the peeling trunk of a silver birch and crept back to the clearing. I could smell damp earth and bruised nettles. Patches of white light shivered on the ground, lighting up a ring of sickly-yellow toadstools and within the pockets of sunshine buzzed clusters of tiny, winged insects.

  Grace was standing, gazing up at the underside of the branches, clutching a garland of tiny sapphire flowers. She appeared to be lost in thought. I was about to step forward, to discover more about this extra detail she was leaving, but something stopped me. Her manner was strange; her ribcage heaved in and out and her lips moved but she made no sound. She bent her head, her auburn hair falling like a curtain over her face and kissed the garland before she looped it on one of the branches. Then she took a step back, her eyes downcast, while a solitary tear ran down her cheek. This was not part of leaving a clue for the police. This was personal and yet, in my entire life, I had never known my sister to have been in love with another person; she simply wasn’t capable of such an emotion. I retreated then crunched around in the undergrowth so that, when I re-emerged, she had turned back into a creature hewn from granite.

  Grace hadn’t asked me any questions when I came back from my early morning dip in the lake which was just as well because my head was whirring with all things Flo.

  I was cross with myself for bottling it. I had wanted to explain everything to Flo, but the moment I saw her emerge from the lake, I realised it was impossible. I stood under the showerhead and let the water pummel the back of my neck as I scrubbed the silt from my skin. My body was breaking in half; I was scared of Grace and what she would do to me if I let her and Daddy down, but it was nothing compared to the terror I felt at the thought of losing Flo. There was no doubt that hurting Tom in this way was going to devastate Flo, but if I tried to prevent it now, Grace and I would be ruined. I was part of this, but I was a coward. I wouldn’t be able to stand the look of horror on Flo’s face as she listened to what I had done. That’s what I had been trying to show her down by the lake; that my life was not my own but, instead, all I had done was fill her with pity. She thought I was a freak.

  When I came downstairs Grace had a rather pleased expression on her face and when I frowned at her grin, she pointed to something on the table; a cream envelope with my name on it. It was a card with ‘nearly there, keep going, you’re brilliant’ written on it, but, and very out of character, she must have written it in a hurry because all the black ink was smudged. I nodded my thanks and ate my branflakes. That was strange; the little doll from the Lost Property box was sitting upright against a jam jar – her arms and single leg outstretched. All of her hair had been snipped off so that the uneven clump of glue which had stuck it to the doll’s head was visible through a thin, orange fuzz.

  Grace, like everyone in the county, had the TV permanently tuned into the news channel. The first headline of the day was that they had arrested a man in connection with the murder of Amelie Townsend; the police would be making a statement later that morning.

  I stacked my bowl in the dishwasher and put on my blazer then returned to the kitchen for Grace’s obligatory kiss on the forehead. Her breath reeked of alcohol.

  There was a loud knock. We glanced at each other and then stared into the hallway. More hammering. Grace downed the contents of her mug, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went to the front door. I waited in the shadows, trying to regulate my breathing.

  “Good morning Mrs Hutton,” said Grace, her voice overly bright and cheerful.

  I let out a big puff of breath and went to join my sister.

  “Have you seen Barney?” asked Mrs Hutton, wringing her hands together. “He’s gone missing.”

  Grace shook her head. “No. Oh, the little monkey. I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.” I thought I could detect a very faint slur to her speech.

  I reached for my phone, but Grace darted out her arm, snatched it from me and flung it into my school bag.

  Mrs Hutton dabbed her apple-red nose with a ball of tissue. “It’s just that we went out yesterday afternoon and, I simply don’t know how, but he seems to have escaped. We’ve searched absolutely everywhere.”

  I felt sick.

  “You poor thing,” said Grace, placing her hands on her hips. “I tell you what, go and get me a photo of him and I’ll make you a poster to put up around the village.” She turned to me and pushed me out of the house. “Off you get. You can’t be late for your exams.” Mrs Hutton churned up the gravel behind me as she hurried off to find a photo of her beloved pet. As I left the drive, I looked around and there was Grace standing at the window with a big grin on her face.

  I walked to school, tears welling as I remembered poor old Howie Meowie.

  Annie and Tom, when they were still together, had adopted a fat, Persian cat which they named Howie Meowie. They fussed over him, lavishing him with Swarovski collars and food fit for human consumption. When Annie and Tom split up, they decided that the cat should stay with Tom and Flo because their home was much more suitable for him, plus she worked shifts which meant Howie would end up spending too much time on his own. But they all agreed Annie should be able to pop over and visit him whenever she liked, and the arrangement was still in place when Tom and Grace became a permanent item.

  Then poor old Howie Meowie went missing.

  Grace spent all day putting up posters of the lost cat, but he was never found.

  ***

  The number of white vans and sharp-suited journalists in the village had grown overnight. Many of them, for want of somewhere topical, had positioned themselves outside the wrought iron gates with Mayfield School, in gold lettering on a wooden board, behind
their heads. A group of angry, scarlet-faced parents had come along to give them a piece of their minds and to try and herd them away from the pupils. It was public exam season and the mob presence wasn’t helping nerves, although the butterflies in my stomach weren’t reserved for English Literature.

  I walked into the Great Hall, clear pencil case sliding between my sweaty palms. I tried to remember my Shakespeare quotes, but all I could think about was Flo. I squinted amongst the sea of faces, but couldn’t spot her and a cold, jelly feeling vibrated on the back of my knees.

  The exam room filled up with students, arms stripped of watches, eyes bright, mouths full of weak smiles. I stood behind my desk, my head whipping around every few seconds, as though it were on an invisible wire. The chair reserved for ‘Marchant’ remained empty. We were told to sit down. A group of teachers had gathered at the front of the hall, the stage looming behind their heads. They muttered into cupped hands. All of a sudden, the secretary burst through the double doors, pencil skirt swishing as she walked to the front of the room. She hissed something into the Head of Sixth Form’s cauliflower ear and he, in turn, gave the command for the papers to be handed out.

  As soon as the bell sounded, I went out of the exam hall and hurried across the cobbled courtyard to the library, leaving behind the excited chatter about ‘what did you put for question five? OMG!’ The library, also open to members of the public, was an intimidating Victorian building, set into the walls of the school grounds. It looked like an asylum, at best a prison. Its front was made up of a blanket of small burnt-orange bricks, divided by grey mortar. A large clock with roman numerals and dials resembling a black spider’s web sat in the middle of the crenelated tower; like a vast eye, keeping watch on all those who climbed the steps and dared to go through the arched entrance.

  I waved my card over the scanner and went through the barrier, ignored by the sniffing librarian who was sucking a menthol lozenge.

  When Flo and I studied together we always sat in opposite desks underneath the portrait of William Shakespeare. Flo said, if being next to him didn’t inspire you to write well, you ought to pack up and quit. After a time, Flo would get bored and kick me under the desk, pointing at the painting before going cross-eyed and pouting – that was her very own, awful impression of The Bard but it always made me grin.

  Our desks were empty.

  I turned and went back outside, fear clogging my throat, making it hard for me to swallow. I knew what I had been dreading happening was now, after all these months, unfurling around me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My feet were treading on quicksand as the world beneath me shifted.

  Tom’s time was up and mine with it.

  As I ran down the steps, my vision clouded by tears, I became caught up in the lead of a small dog; a caramel and cream Jack Russell with long whiskers, one folded ear and dark marbles for eyes.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said its owner, his voice deep and wheezy. I blinked up at an enormous rectangle of a man with silver eyes, dark eyebrows and a neat, white beard. “Tiggy. Come here, you little pest.” Something stirred in my mind – his voice sounded familiar. I untangled my ankles and stroked Tiggy behind the ears; her fur was coarse and waxy, and she wagged her stumpy tail with delight.

  “Are you doing exams?” asked the man, and I nodded.

  “Well, good luck,” he said tugging at the lead, and I waved and set off towards the main school buildings. As I walked, I reached into my bag for my phone to see if Flo had left me a message, but the screen was empty. My fingertips knocked against a stiff, cream envelope. At first, I thought it was the ridiculous motivational card Grace had given me that morning, but when I looked again it had ‘For the attention of Ms Emily B’ written on it in slanting copperplate. I startled.

  I should have taken it home and given it to Grace, but a stubborn streak within me decided against it. I took a right turn and headed into the girls’ cloakroom, went straight into one of the cubicles and locked the door behind me. I sat on the loo and sliced my finger under the gummed seal, careful not to rip it.

  Out slid an old photo. It was of two girls; one a surly teenager with short white hair, the other a young child, with a large gap between her front teeth. I looked again. It was us. I’d never seen a photo of me and Grace as children before. I turned the picture over and on the back, by the same hand as on the envelope, was written: To my dearest Emily, long time, no see, Uncle Frank.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Flo

  I tore up the gravel drive, barging past the village idiots who huddled around the gate, pressing their bodies into the blanket of flowers which trailed over the wall. So-called friends, now suddenly ashamed to be caught standing there, were unable to look me in the eye. Although this embarrassment clearly wasn’t enough to stop them from spewing out their stupid fucking opinions about Dad to any bugger who asked. One of our next-door neighbours, hoping for an interview, had been out first thing to mow his front lawn and I could smell the sharp scent of cut grass.

  Rumour that the police had a suspect in the Amelie Townsend case had been leaked to the national press and I shivered at the scraping sound as the paparazzi pushed their stepladders against the wall. One by one they clambered up, holding their cameras above their heads to get a shot of the police tape around the pond. I prayed that Dad had closed all the curtains.

  I side-stepped around the three abandoned police cars in front of the house – grateful that at least they blocked out the view for those lame idiots at the bottom of the drive.

  As I reached the front door, it burst open and out came Dad, blinking in the sunlight, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. There was a loud surge of noise; bulbs popping, people shouting his name and asking horrid questions.

  Although he wasn’t handcuffed, two large policemen had their palms pressed on either side of his shoulders as they bundled him to one of the cars. He looked at me and his lower lip quivered.

  “Try not to worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Can you phone my lawyer?”

  “Sure,” I said although I didn’t even know we had a lawyer, unless he was talking about Ollie Rudstock who, as far as I could remember, had dealt with a boundary dispute when we first moved into the area. Ollie, of the floppy hair and mustard cords, often found boozing in the King’s Head at lunchtime.

  One of the PCs pressed Dad’s head into the car and shuffled in after him. There was more hollering and shouting from the onlookers as the car drove away. Chris Gumlin, with his straggly ponytail and pierced nose who had tried to get with me last week at Dizzy’s Nightclub shouted “Kiddy Murderer,” and slapped his fist against the windscreen. It took all my willpower not to launch myself at him and knock his front teeth out. Instead I swallowed it all down and went into the house, slamming the door behind me.

  I went into the kitchen, desperate for a packet of Haribos.

  Annie was standing by the sink, staring out of the window. She jumped as I walked through the door and turned; her face was puffy and covered in pink blotches. I glared but didn’t say anything; it was like the words inside me had shrivelled up and turned to dust. This couldn’t be real. I kicked back the chair and sat at the table, burying my head in my hands.

  There were officers in Dad’s study, and I watched through the open door as people in plastic suits searched through drawers, stopping every so often to stuff things into plastic bags. Someone walked out of the front door carrying his computer in their arms, tangled wires trailing behind. Annie put a finger to her lips and closed the kitchen door then she sat down opposite me and grabbed my wrists.

  “Flo,” she said, her voice a whisper. “We don’t have much time.”

  I frowned and pulled my hands away.

  “Look. Everyone around here knows that Tom and I used to be an item. They aren’t going to let me stay in charge of the case now he’s been taken in for questioning, in fact, they’re appointing a new DCI as we speak.”

  “But why have they taken
Dad in for questioning? I mean, I’m guessing they’ve discovered that the shoes in the pond did belong to Amelie, but, even so, how does that prove anything? None of us had a clue what they were doing there and if Dad had put them there, then why would he draw attention to them by poisoning the fish?”

  Annie put her hands behind her head and rubbed the nape of her neck. “I agree. The whole thing does seem odd, but that’s not why they have taken Tom in.”

  “What?”

  Annie glanced towards the door. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this at all, but they found Amelie’s bag in the woods and there was something inside it which suggests your Dad might have been having a relationship with Amelie.”

  I laughed; a horrid tinny noise which stayed at the back of my throat. “This is a joke. You really think Dad was having a relationship with one of his students? That’s so not Dad.” I paused, remembering the hug. “Why would he, when he’s found the love of his life?” I spat the last sentence at her.

  “Flo, I think you ought to call your Mum. You need someone to take care of you.”

  I let out a groan and shoved my forehead back into my sweaty palms. “There’s no need for that,” I mumbled. “I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen; I can stay here on my own. They’ll find out the whole thing is nonsense and then they’ll have to let him go. Dad will be back before tea.”

  Annie shook her head. “Flo, it’s best if you don’t stay here while they continue to search the house.”

  I folded my arms. “Fine. I’ll go and stay with Grace.”

  Annie nodded. “That sounds like a good idea, but don’t you think you ought to let your Mum know what’s happening?”

  “What? I take it you have met Nina before, haven’t you?”

  Annie smiled. “Yes.”

  “Well then, you know she will make an enormous fuss about the whole thing and use it as an excuse to keep me in London forever so she can send me to some god-awful finishing school where they have to wear stupid straw hats in the sixth form.”