I finished my coffee. The door to Frank’s study was ajar. Now Mum was out of the way, I decided I may as well have a proper snoop. I went in and was hit by a strong citrus smell coming from a large Jo Malone candle. At either end of the mantel piece sat silver block initials; N and F. Naff. The room was bright and airy, like the rest of the flat. Everything was so neat and tidy – even the plaid dog basket was free from Tiggy’s hair – the room had been Nina-ed. The desk was clutter free with only a hardbacked diary and shiny ink pen on it and the books in the shelves behind were arranged in, of all things, rainbow order. The cream walls were covered with photos of Frank meeting famous people – a sort of grotesque Frank wallpaper – his fat face leering from inside every silver frame.
I sat on the edge of his desk and picked up the diary. There was a picture of a small sun shining in the corner – the logo from his pharmaceutical company, Zolis. I went back into the sitting room, grabbed my bag and pulled out the box of Lily’s pills. There was the exact same sun. Lily’s drugs were made by Frank’s company. Was that just a coincidence?
I put the pills back and returned to his study. I flicked through the diary, but there was nothing interesting there. The few lunch dates and drinks dos had all been written in by Mum. I slammed it shut and stared at the far wall which was taken up by one of Mum’s exhibits.
Mum’s art was more sculpture than drawing. She had made a name for herself by taking random objects and putting them together to make a 3-D picture. The one which spread across Frank’s study wall was called: Freedom. It was part of a triptych which together formed a wider work: What is Love? The other sections were being displayed in various galleries around the country.
I’d seen the piece lots of times before, but I liked it and went over for a closer look. In the far left-hand corner was a flattened birdcage with its door swinging open. Threading through the wires of the cage was a man’s watch with its face smashed in and the hands missing. From the bird’s perch hung an engagement ring with the precious stones taken out of their setting. Outside of the cage, a bird made up of brightly coloured feathers was suspended mid-air and appeared to be flying towards a huge moon made up of hundreds of painted wine corks. I was fairly sure these, if added up, made the number of bottles of sauvignon blanc Mum had consumed during the course of her many divorces.
When I turned back again I was faced with yet another wall of photographs. How many times could Frank be snapped smiling and shaking hands? Someone should tell him he needed to shake up the pose – maybe go for a high five or even a headlock next time. I turned away but then whipped back around. There, in the photo straight ahead, was a face I now recognised; it was James Buchanan. I lifted the frame down from the wall and examined the faded print. Frank was shaking James’ hand and the pair were standing in front of a large sign which said The Fanshawe Clinic with a large red ribbon lying around their feet. On one side of the camera was a bunch of white-coated, fresh-faced medics, one of whom was Dad. That in itself wasn’t so strange, but on the other side of Frank stood two young girls; one a teenager with a sulky expression, hair in a messy ginger bob, the other a small, dark-haired child with big brown eyes and an elfin face. The same girls as in the mermaid photo.
Lily and Grace.
Frank’s nieces.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grace
The dead of night. It’s what Gil used to call the witching hour. My heart was overflowing with happiness.
After all these solitary years, we were reunited at last.
Frank, dressed in a trilby hat and thick woollen overcoat with the collar turned up, leaned against a tree. He shone a torch at me and each time I looked up from my task I saw his gargantuan outline animated by dozens of fluttering moths. I thought of poor, dear Tiggy who assumed we were going for a night-time stroll. Instead he left my little dog whining inside the poky kitchen, claws scrabbling at the door to get out. I vowed to give her an extra treat when I returned.
“Put your back into it,” he shouted as I ground the shovel into the hardened soil. I was digging a shallow grave in a section of woodland which fell under the jurisdiction of the gatekeeper’s property. How clever of Frank to keep all the tainted bits of Aldeburgh to himself and surround them with electric fences and spirals of barbed wire, daubed at intervals with large ‘Keep Out’ signs.
Apparently, Uncle Frank heard the commotion from his postage-stamp of a lawn where I imagined he was wedged into a deck chair sipping his first Pimms of the evening. I heard him thundering down the overgrown track and when he arrived on the scene his cheeks were ruddy with exertion and rage. This was certainly not his idea of lying low. He slapped me around the face until I fell silent then dragged Cassie back inside the boat house.
All the while I cradled my beloved.
After twenty minutes he emerged, panting, with a crumpled Ikea bag tucked under his arm. He forced me back into the lake to retrieve what little of him I could find.
I hit the spade into the hard ground and every aftershock, as the metal made contact with the earth, ran through my body and made me quiver.
***
I remembered their tangled limbs poking out from under the pastel blanket.
I remembered screaming at them and the noise was inhuman; a vixen howling in the night. Immediately all movement ceased, and the men turned to gawp at me. I foamed with rage; how could they, how could they? Daddy moved towards me, his arms outstretched. He was tousled and out of breath with rose petals clinging to his hair. It was a ludicrous sight. I turned and, eyes cloudy with tears, I ran down the steps and out onto the decking, gulping in so much air I began to hiccup.
I sank onto the hot, wooden planks and curled myself into a ball. Soon I heard footsteps and without opening my eyes I knew that it was Gil sitting next to me; I could tell from how he breathed and the warmth his body radiated. I heard him swallowing; unsure what to say. I unfurled myself and stretched out my legs, staring into the distance, only allowing my eyes to rest upon the matted hair of the old willow. I took a deep breath in and spluttered – his skin was tainted by my father’s aftershave and it repulsed me. I dangled my legs into the lake and kicked. The coolness of the water and the gentle drag against my feet soothed my fluttering heart into a steady rhythm. I had run out of sobs. Gil put an arm around me to try and pull me close, but I shook it off and shuffled a few inches further away from him, splinters scraping my legs.
“I’m sorry you–”
“Don’t.”
He was staring at my profile and I tilted my nose towards the sky. “Why are you even here, Em?” He combed his fingers through his hair. “You should be at school.”
My scalp prickled and my cheeks burned. I remembered the note on the whiteboard and recalled the scribbled words. How could I have been so stupid to believe the message was for me? If I hadn’t got so carried away with my imagined love affair, I would have seen straight away that it was Daddy’s handwriting. I contemplated sliding my body into the water, would that I could dissolve or turn into the wretched mermaid I’d invented for Cassie. There were worse things I could think of than remaining in an underwater prison for the rest of my life.
I heard more footsteps. Daddy sank down on the other side of me and plunged his bare feet in the water. At least he’d had the decency to put his shirt back on. Here I was; flanked either side by the two lovers.
“Darling, I’m so sorry you had to see that,” said Daddy. He gave a soft cough and threw his head back. “A bit of a shock, hey?” He kicked his foot hard, flicking water onto Gil’s calves and Gil shouted hey and splashed him back. I, meanwhile, was caught in the crossfire.
Fuck off with the flirting.
Gil shrieked with delight and pointed at something in the lake. S-shaped ripples came rolling across the water. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun and could now make out a snake swimming towards us, its tiny head raised a few centimetres above the surface. Daddy murmured with appreciation at its elegance, but I saw it for w
hat it was; a sea serpent. I knew it had no venom but as it swam past me, I felt its poison seep into me through the soles of my feet. And just like that, Gil and Daddy were leaning over me and chatting about the creature, marvelling at the speckles of brown on its pale skin. It was as though what I’d witnessed five minutes ago didn’t matter. This was their world and I was the intruder – to be chastised for momentarily spoiling their fun.
“Cassie would love that,” said Gil. “Wouldn’t she, Em?” He dragged his gaze away from Daddy and once again stared into my eyes. His own so clear, the colour of a forget-me-not. I returned his gaze and my distorted face shone back at me. It was as though I was seeing myself for the first time. This must be how he viewed me; nothing but a stupid, plain, naïve girl.
I didn’t remember plucking the scissors from the storeroom, but there they were, in my hands.
“My Lady of the Lake, forgive me,” whispered Gil.
I pressed the tip of the blade into my palm. It was sharp.
“You know I love you Em,” said Gil. “But not in that way. I love your father, and we’re just waiting until–”
“Until we can find a way for us all to live together,” chimed in Daddy. His voice was laden with childish excitement and the words tumbled out. They must have spoken to each other about this many a time, but I imagined this was the first instance they had uttered these words outside of their own private bubble. I really should have been honoured. “Obviously, with my job, it’s not going to be easy.”
Bla-bla-bla.
I tuned him out and flexed my fingers, allowing the poison to course through my veins. Meanwhile, the scissors burnt a hole in my palms.
I moved quickly, surprising even myself. Gil looked down and saw the blade sticking out from between his ribcage. The expression of astonishment dissolved into slack-jawed horror as his heartbeat began to fade with every second. The world slowed down and all I heard was my own breathing. Daddy wrestled Gil into in his arms, his chest darkening while the deck grew slippery with blood.
I watched as a nest of pondweed floated towards me. How ironic – for they were the very flowers he crowned me with all those days ago when our love was embryonic.
***
Loud tutting interrupted my thoughts. “Get a bloody move on, Emily,” barked Frank.
I leaned on the spade’s wooden handle and reached up to wipe my forehead which was blistering with sweat. Something rustled overhead and I looked up through the trees and glimpsed a couple of bats flying across the sky.
“You have too much of his tainted blood in you.” Frank wagged a fat finger at me. “James bloody Buchanan. What a weak-willed disgrace of a man, no, creature he was. And as for that disgusting nanny he cavorted around with.” His body trembled with rage. “Both of them perverted in the ways of the flesh. You know, everything that man touched he ruined.” Frank shook his head and gave out a small volley of laughter; his chin wobbled. “The poor fellow couldn’t even make a decent job of killing himself.”
I froze, my ears tingling.
“Hey! Why have you stopped?” Frank took a step forwards, torch now shining directly into my face, so I was forced to cover my eyes.
I muttered under my breath. “You told me I killed him.”
“What? I said, what?” He came closer and I continued my faint mumbling. “You made me believe that I killed him.”
“Now come along Emily, dearest. Enough silliness. Let’s get this job over and done with then we can get back to the cottage for a nice cup of tea with an extra spoonful of sugar to help with the shock.”
I cackled – half laugh half cry.
“What’s so funny?” He bent over me and as he did so, I brought the spade down on his head with all the pent-up rage I had inside me.
Again and again and again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lily
Grace said she wouldn’t be long. Then she locked the front door of Toad Cottage and took the key with her. I stood in the hall and watched my sister fight her way along the overgrown path at the right-hand side of the house. The grass was long, and its pale tips spilled onto the windowsills. Her hazel eyes rolled around her head as she commanded me to wait for her in the sitting room where she had left me out a glass of fluorescent-orange squash and a few books ‘to occupy my time’. There was a doll’s house in the corner of the room, but I absolutely wasn’t to touch it.
She tapped on the window and pointed to the sitting room. I nodded and collapsed onto the worn leather sofa. I was tired, but my body wouldn’t stop trembling, besides, I simply couldn’t allow myself to fall asleep.
Grace had been breathless when she had given me my instructions, but I guessed that was down to the woman at the gate’s sudden arrival. It had given her a shock. And then, of course, Tiggy had trotted over with a human skull wedged into her jaws. After Tiggy’s surprise appearance, Grace ushered the woman through the gate and then they both disappeared. I heard the woman’s car drive off so Grace must have smoothed things over. Tiggy, on the other hand, had disappeared into the undergrowth with her treasure.
For a while I had stayed glued to my seat in the garden, trying to breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth until the rhythm of my heart steadied. Then, after what seemed like an age, Grace beckoned me into the house.
The books she had given me to while away my time in the sitting-room were hard-backed picture books for young children. They smelled musty, and the corners of the brittle pages were dog-eared. They were full of fairy stories written in simple English. I flicked to the front cover and in the top left-hand corner the words ‘Cassandra Buchanan’ were scribbled in felt-tipped pen. I snapped the book shut.
So many thoughts rushed around my head and I couldn’t begin to process what was going on, although one thing was certain – Grace terrified me. Just the thought of being in the same room as her paralysed me with fear. The fact that the ‘we’ she referred to was a human skull made pulses twitch at the sides of my head. And who the hell did it belong to in the first place?
That Frank had vanished should have been a small comfort, but the mysterious circumstances left an uncomfortable shadow at the back of my mind. How could Grace be so certain Frank wouldn’t return? What had happened to give her the upper hand? I glanced around for any evidence of him, but there was nothing there; no overcoat; no overflowing ashtray and no trace of his musky cologne lingered in the stuffy air.
Grace wheeled her bike past the side of the house and the gate creaked open and then slammed shut. She had gone.
I took a sip of squash, so concentrated it stung the back of my throat and made my nose run. I set it back onto the side table and pinched my wrists to check I wasn’t dreaming. Surely the guardian angel from yesterday was a symptom of the simple fact that I was descending into madness. A side-effect from not taking my pills. It wouldn’t be long before I too was referring to inanimate objects as intimate friends. I glanced through the dingy hall at the empty hat stand by the front door. “How do you do?” I whispered.
I could see the doll’s house out of the corner of my eye. The colour of the roof tiles struck a familiar chord in my mind; their shape and texture similar to a bourbon biscuit. I went over, crouched in front of it; my fingers instinctively moving to the small, metal latch at the hinge. I opened the doll’s house and immediately recognised the tiny rooms within. A memory came tumbling into my thoughts; me sitting in front of a fire, the heat from the flames warming my cheeks while its orange light cast half of the miniature mansion in shadow. My heart pounded as I recalled the deep voice of the man sitting in the gloom, telling me to put the little people to bed. Grace smacking my hands away as I tried to move the figurines around. She had got everything just so and didn’t want me spoiling things.
I looked inside and the air vanished from my lungs. All of the matchbox beds had been broken – smashed. My gaze moved to the family sitting at the dining table and I blinked; each one was missing a limb which now sat staring up at them on a tiny
china plate.
I leapt to my feet as though stung and hugged my elbows. Pull yourself together, I scolded. Grace may have locked the door, but I could smash a window and climb out. I could run away. But where would I go? Who would help me? Maybe Flo had already unearthed our past and figured out what we’d done to Amelie and Tom.
The house was empty, and my ears prickled in the silence. From somewhere within the bungalow there was the sound of a tap dripping and the gentle whir of a washing machine. I went into the pokey kitchen, crossing the sticky linoleum to reach the kettle. The cream Formica units in the kitchen were scuffed and the stainless-steel handles were smudged with dirt – the entire room had the faint whiff of blocked drains. I opened the nearest cupboard to discover a meagre selection of beige crockery and I pulled out a cup, its rim stained with a thick tannin ring. The teabags were spilling out onto the work surface along with the empty box of Kipling cakes. A quick scout of the rest of the cupboards revealed nothing more than a half-empty jar of Mellow Bird coffee and an out of date packet of fig rolls. The milk in the fridge was fresh but there was nothing else inside apart from a sweaty block of cheese and a half-drunk bottle of tonic which lacked bubbles. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I stared out of the window allowing my gaze to soften, making the poppies, buttercups and cornflowers dance across my vision; their colours blurring into a rainbow wheel.
I took my tea into the utility room which was little more than a glorified cupboard. The washing machine under the window bobbed up and down on its final spin and filled the humid air with the scent of talcum powder. An upright hoover stood in one corner and next to that was a rusty ironing board with a wonky clothes horse leaning up against it. At last I had discovered where the dripping sound was coming from and I crossed the room to the metal sink and gave the tap a sharp right twist. The dripping continued.
The Cry of the Lake Page 18