The Cry of the Lake

by Charlie Tyler

  I saw St. Terence The Greater’s spire flash past the window. I was nearly home.

  “Little mice are all very well until they start squeaking,” he continued, spitting the words.

  I held my breath. It felt as though someone was filling my head with cotton wool. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Bluebells, stinging nettles, dens made of bracken.

  “I always told James he should have been more liberal with his discipline and I think that’s why he appointed me to be your guardians in the event of his untimely death.”

  My body went rigid. Tiggy opened one eye and stared up at me.

  “Ah yes,” he smiled and shook his head. “Uncle Frank, caring for his two nieces. I would have loved that chance.” The corner of his mouth curled into a snarl. “I was never able to have children,” he said, his words dying to a whisper.

  “I was heartbroken when you and Emily left, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before you were forced to return.” He rubbed his hands together. “But,” he snorted, “and here’s the funniest thing – I’ve always known exactly where you were and what you were up to. It was just a question of biding my time and waiting. So, that’s what I’ve been doing. Waiting for your sister to mess up everything so that, once again, she would need me to come to her rescue.” He reached out and chucked me under the chin, the skin of his fingertip rough against mine. “You really are the most troublesome pair of girls.”

  The car came to a stop and the chauffeur opened the door. I nudged Tiggy off my lap, frantically unbuckling my seatbelt.

  “Dear Cassie,” said Frank, grabbing hold of my arm. My jaw dropped open and blood rushed to the tips of my ears. He reached inside the armrest, pulling out a thin, white, polystyrene box. The sound of his fingernails against the material made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and the smell leaching out of it was overpowering. Even Tiggy whined in protest. Frank scribbled something onto a sheet of notepaper, tearing it off with a flourish before tucking it into the lid of the box. “Give this to Emily. I’ll be seeing you soon. Very soon.”

  I waited until the car was out of sight before ringing the bell.

  Grace opened the front door and I took a step back. She looked awful; her make-up was smudged, and she’d scraped back her hair so that her white roots were prominent. She propped herself upright against the door frame.

  “Yeeeeessss?” she slurred. “What d’ya want?”

  I handed her the box and she stared at it for a few seconds before grabbing it from me and staggering back into the house, her bare feet slapping against the tiles. I followed, closing the door behind me.

  She placed the box on the kitchen table, shoving aside the empty bottles.

  “What’ss thisss?” she said, her dull amber eyes staring and vacant. “It fucking stinks.”

  I shrugged.

  She pulled at the piece of paper sticking out of the polystyrene, but didn’t read it, casting it onto the heap of detritus. When she opened the lid, the stink of rotting fish made me retch.

  “Whaaaat…?” Grace gagged and took a step back. She grabbed at the note, unfolding it with trembling fingers, her eyes darting back and forth over the italics. Then she scrunched it into a ball, threw back her head and began to laugh.

  Chapter Twenty

  Flo

  It was our last exam and Lily was a no-show. English Lit was Lily’s favourite and I knew she wouldn’t have skipped it. There had to be something seriously wrong. For the entire exam I felt like something heavy was pressing down on my shoulders and it wasn’t just the whispering or the stares as I walked into the exam hall which triggered it. I could hack all of that shit. Dad was innocent and it was just a matter of time before they found the real murderer and he was released. I wasn’t going to think of all the fake stuff being said about him. I wasn’t going to think about the hug – I was remembering it wrong – it was nothing. No, what was really bugging me was Lily hinting she had a secret past and that Frank might know stuff which could prove Dad’s innocence.

  The more I thought about what Lily had written on the paper towel, the more confused I grew. Was Lily really trying to tell me that she had something to do with Amelie’s murder? It was dumb – impossible. But ever since Lily pitched up at the hotel, Frank’s fat face was stuck in my head. Even while I was writing about the role of witchcraft in Macbeth, he’d been there, on a loop, strawberry juice oozing from his mouth.

  After Frank and Lily had gone, me and Mum went back to the garden though I couldn’t face eating any more of the scones and jam.

  “Mum?”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t glance up from her magazine.

  “Frank’s such a good bloke…”

  “Hmm.”

  “Remind me how you met.” All Dad ever said about Frank was well, I never, who would have thought it? The Prof of all people!”

  Mum looked up. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  She shrugged, licked her finger and flicked to the next page of the magazine. “I first met him whilst Daddy and I lived in Oxford. It was just one of those funny coincidences that I happened to bump into him again a couple of years ago.”

  Her phone rang and she snatched it up. “Cally, sweetheart, are you nearly here? Yes – I know, hilarious. How’s setting up the exhibition going? Are the Castle staff keeping my little treasure safe?” No talk of Dad. She stood up, rolling her eyes at me as though she really didn’t want to have this conversation, then walked across the lawn out of earshot.

  That was all I was going to get.

  ***

  Not really giving a shit that my mocks were over, I left Stella and the rest of the gang, swigging cider and vaping. I knew they were only trying to be kind, but I was already pissed off by their fake cheerfulness and clumsy change of subject if anything relating to Dad cropped up. It wasn’t taking my mind off the situation – it made me feel even more lonely.

  Lily was the only one who I could talk to, but I swung from being worried about her to being pissed off; you didn’t just announce that you used to have a different life then vanish.

  As I said goodbye, my friends gave me sympathetic smiles and over-long hugs. I left them lying on the scorched grass in the park, giggling about nothing and throwing Stella’s cold chips at each other. All the chat moved onto what they were going to wear to Bea’s party, and I was relieved to get away. Everything was so fake.

  I’d made up my mind. I was going to find Lily. I wished at the time I’d told Mum she couldn’t tell Lily what to do and that Lily could bloody well catch the bus home if she wanted to, but it was too late. As we’d gone back into the hotel to shower and change for supper, the receptionist came over with a telephone message from Frank:

  “The girl is home safe. Thanks for a lovely afternoon, my dearest. I’ll see you back at the flat in a couple of days. All my love, Frank.” Frank didn’t know how to text.

  But Lily hadn’t been in touch with me to say she’d got home safely, and her phone was dead. Worried about that, I’d texted Grace and that’s when I found out the bitch had blocked my number.

  The only thing I knew about Frank was his surname and that he knew Dad from his time in Oxford.

  I bailed on the five-course supper using a banging headache as an excuse, but as soon as Mum went down to the Orangery for prinks with Cally, her agent, I got out my laptop. I did an internet search on Frank Fanshawe, but there wasn’t much info. He’d been a professor of psychology at an Oxford College before becoming a director of a big drugs company, Zolis. He no longer worked for Zolis but was still on the board. I typed Zolis into Google, but all I got was the picture of a shining sun and an 0300 telephone number. The address running along the bottom of the page was the registered, not actual, one.

  I was getting nowhere.

  The next day I got up super early and caught the bus into Far Langton. Walking as fast as I could without breaking into a run, I sped along the narrow, gravel path to the lake, towards the war memorial.
Now that Dad was banged up in a remand centre, most of the journalists had gone and all the Mums with pushchairs, MAMILs and oldies, throwing stale bread at the ducks, were back.

  Lake View Café was shut. I saw a notice on the back of the door: Closed due to personal circumstances. I banged on the window in case Grace was in the kitchen, but there was no one there; the chairs were upside down on the tables, the patisserie shelves empty, the till drawer open.

  I carried on along the street and made a sharp turn into a side road which led on to Number 37, Orchard Close. Even if Grace slammed the door shut in my face, I needed to know Lily was inside. Safe.

  The house looked weird. All the downstairs curtains were closed, and a bundle of post was sticking out of the door. I peeped through the letterbox and the mail flopped onto the mat below. Then it hit me, and I stepped back, nearly catching my fingers in the brass flap. There was a vile smell coming from inside. I held my breath and looked again, but there was nothing to see apart from bare walls and a couple of angry sounding flies.

  I hammered on the door. “Hey!” I shouted. “It’s me. Please can you just come to the door if you’re there.”

  A blackbird rootled around in a nearby plant pot.

  I followed the path round to the back of the garden, but the gate was closed with a padlock. Then I remembered: one time me and Lils had been late back from a gathering in the park and she was desperate to meet Grace’s curfew so rather than taking our usual route around the south side of the lake we’d cut through the woods. Lily had got into her garden through a break in the fence. She texted later to say she’d made it inside with five minutes to spare and no bollocking from Grace.

  I went back round to the cut-through for Cupid’s Wood which ran the whole stretch of the cul-de-sac. When I reached Lily’s fence, I rattled each panel until I came across the loose one. I pushed it to one side and crawled through, putting it back again afterwards.

  I crept past the thick bushes until I reached the edge of the lawn. I froze. There straight ahead of me was Grace, her skinny arse in the air. She was on all fours and moving along on her hands and knees stopping every couple of seconds to pat the grass. She was searching for something – had she lost her engagement ring? Thrown it away in a rage and then had second thoughts?

  She carried on crawling until she got to the backdoor then stood up, stamped her feet and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  I didn’t know what to do. Five minutes later, me still trying to figure out what next, I heard the sound of tyres on gravel, car doors shutting and more crunching until the noise of the engine had faded.

  Maybe Grace had gone somewhere leaving Lily on her own inside.

  I sprinted to the back door but it was locked and, as I shook the handle, the bolts rattled. I stepped backwards, the edges of the lawn tickling my ankles, and stared at a freaky flower which climbed up one side of the door; it looked like it was covered with hundreds of unblinking eyes. As I followed the creepy plant along the brickwork, I saw there was a window on the ground floor which was open a tiny slice at the top. I grabbed one of the patio chairs and pressed it up against the wall. Climbing onto the seat I reached up and slid my hands into the gap, pressing down on the frame until it stopped moving.

  When I opened the curtains, a couple of flies dive-bombed me, and I squealed and almost lost my footing. Once I’d got my balance again, I looked around the room. It was untidy – not up to Grace’s usual standards. There were lots of empty bottles lying on the carpet and a half-eaten tray of iced buns, crawling with fat, noisy flies.

  I wriggled through the gap and twisted my arms until I was hanging, like a sloth, onto the thick wooden curtain pole. Slowly I lifted one leg through and balanced on the windowsill, knocking a few ornaments onto the floor. Suddenly the pole gave way and I crashed onto the carpet, banging my arse on the armchair. I lay there for a few seconds wondering how I was going to explain my terrible attempt at breaking-and-entering, but no one came.

  I took a deep breath and then wished I hadn’t. The house reeked and I’d never seen it looking such a mess. Perhaps the news about Dad had hit Grace harder than I thought. I felt a bit guilty – I hadn’t bothered to think of things from Grace’s point of view, who, in a couple of days had gone from being dizzy with wedding preparations to being questioned about her reasons for setting up home with a paedo. If only I could sit down and talk with her; make her see sense. But then I remembered what Lily had said back at the hotel and the fuzzy feeling vanished. If she’d been lying to me about who they were, what else had she been lying about?

  I ran upstairs across the small landing and into Lily’s room which was reasonably tidy; the bed was made. I opened the wardrobe door, and the empty hangers swung about in the draught. Some of Lily’s clothes were missing, but not many. As I closed the door, I spotted something poking out from the bottom shelf. Fuck! It was Lily’s phone and the back was missing – a gap where the sim card should’ve been. I sank onto the bed; no fucking wonder I couldn’t get in touch with her. Lily’s silly mermaid doll was sitting on her pillow. That was weird – she usually kept it hidden on a shelf to stop me from teasing her about it.

  Without thinking, I shoved the doll into my bag and went for a snoop in Grace’s room. The overnight case wasn’t lying on the top of her wardrobe.

  I carried on; toothbrushes were missing from the bathroom, but when I opened the medicine cabinet, I saw it was full of boxes of Lily’s pills – Detra-holzepene – the bright sun logo running along the bottom of each carton. This had to be a good sign. Grace wouldn’t have left home without them so maybe they had just disappeared for a few days; left in a hurry because Grace needed time to think things through and get away from the journalists. I put a pack of Lily’s pills into my bag, just in case. As I shut the cupboard, I knocked a box of hair dye onto the floor. I picked it up – Ruby Sunshine – with a picture of a redhead on the front. I didn’t know Grace dyed her hair – I’d always thought she was a natural ginger because of her freckled skin and green eyes.

  I went downstairs and crossed through the hall and into the kitchen. The door was shut, but I heard loud buzzing coming from behind it. I opened it and retched – I had never ever smelled anything so awful in my entire life and there were flies everywhere.

  I wanted to run, but I couldn’t ignore the white box, open on the kitchen table. Swatting the flies away, I went closer; inside were seven bloodied fish tails lined up in a row. This was getting really twisted. I was in someone else’s nightmare.

  Gasping for air, I opened the front door and ran outside, glad of the sunshine and grateful that the fat little blackbird was still dancing about in the pot.

  The wheelie bin was behind the front gate, ready for the next collection. I didn’t want to, but I pinched my nose and forced myself back into house. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but I couldn’t leave those minging fish tails in there a minute longer. I grabbed the carton and ran out again, this time slamming the front door behind me. I sprinted down the drive and chucked the fish tails into the dumpster. But the bin was overflowing, and the lid wouldn’t shut so I had to press down on the top black sack to make a bit more room. When I did that the plastic burst and all sorts of yucky shit came spilling out; tissues, baked beans and a white, fluffy tail. White, fluffy tail! It took a few seconds to realise that the tail was attached to a small, white, furry body.

  I gasped, slammed the lid shut and put my head between my legs. Seconds later I threw up into the hedge.

  A car pulled into the drive. I couldn’t look up. They were back and it was too late to hide. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t just seen a dead dog in their bin.

  “There you are darling.”

  I looked up and there was Mum, stepping out of a taxi, wearing chinos and a silky blouse.

  “I thought you might be here,” she said, leaning back into the car. “Keep the meter running, won’t be a mo.”

  I’d never been so pleased to see her. I wiped my
mouth with the back of my hand. “I think they must have gone away.”

  “That’s understandable. Well, now that Frank has gone back to his countryside bolt hole to sort out a few things–”

  “Dad’s case?”

  Mum shifted from one Leboutin to the other, but didn’t say anything.

  “Can we go and visit him soon? I really, really have to talk to him.”

  Mum grabbed hold of my hand. “Of course, of course. But we should really let Clive Trundle-Jones go in there first. He’s used to these horrid places thanks to his delightful clientele.” She put her arm around my shoulder and her silver bangles jingled. She smelt so good. “He’ll manufacture a plan to get Tom out of there. They call him Clive the Liar for a reason, you know.” For once I didn’t care about Mum’s backhanded insults – it was just great to hear her voice. “He got one of his criminals off a murder charge even though there was CCTV showing him plunging the knife into the victim.”

  Okay – she’d gone too far. “But Dad’s not a murderer.”

  Mum sniffed, suddenly very busy with examining the nearest flowerbed. “We can’t dwell on it at the moment,” she snapped. “I’m here to take your mind off all things unpleasant and to treat you to an end of exam shopping splurge. Where do you fancy? Bicester Village, The Bullring?”

  Pushing all the confusing and horrid things I’d just seen to the back of my mind, I made myself a promise: I was going to find out Frank’s connection to Lily and I was going to clear Dad’s name. I’d been an absolute twat to think that there had been anything going on between him and Amelie and I’d already wasted far too much time by giving it head space. Dad deserved better and it was now very clear to me that I was the only person who was a hundred percent on his side.