The Cry of the Lake

by Charlie Tyler

  Annie drove us from the train station to Great Morton. She wasn’t concentrating on what she was doing, and I kept getting jerked from side to side along with all the tonnes of empty coke cans and crisp wrappers she’d chucked onto the floor by my feet. She was chewing gum as though her teeth had been sewn together with elastic, going over the plan again and again.

  I really wished I hadn’t eaten curry for breakfast.

  When we turned into the main car park, Annie’s phone beeped, and she grabbed it from the pocket behind the gear stick and handed it to me.

  “What does it say?”

  I entered the code for the lock screen, which was still set as Dad’s birthday, and scrolled down. “She’s changing the meeting place. She says The Reading Rooms are hosting an event and it’ll be too noisy.”

  “Oh! Right.”

  “She’s typing something else. Okay. She suggests meeting at Castle Café.”

  “Where the fuck is that?” asked Annie.

  “I’m guessing over there.” I pointed straight ahead at the huge grey building in front of us.

  We followed the brown road signs to Paget Castle and Annie parked on the road, half-way down a busy side street.

  “Pull your hood up,” said Annie. “Follow me at a distance.” We went through an alley which opened out onto a cobbled courtyard, full of market traders. The air was thick with the smell of frying onions and burnt sugar. Paget Castle stood in the far corner, towering over the wooden barrows and their striped awnings.

  I heard a distant rumble of thunder.

  Annie pointed to a large map nailed on the wall and I tapped my finger on the picture of the castle. “Okay,” I said. “It looks as though the café is inside the castle walls, so you’ll have to walk up that slope to get there.”

  We turned our heads and squinted. I could see the gravel path which twisted its way up the hill and stopped at a glass-fronted building with automatic sliding doors. “If Grace is already there, she’ll see me approaching with you,” I said. “That’s not going to work.”

  “You’ll just have to stay here and mingle. I’ll text you. Remember, Y is go, N is stay where you are and I’ll send Lily to you. Maybe get as close to the path as possible but keep under the canopies with your hood up.”

  I leaned against the wall and watched Annie go up the path. I waited until she’d disappeared inside the café and then decided to have a look around the stalls. It was getting colder and I shoved my hands into my pockets, finding a bit of loose change. I went over to a stall selling honeyed cashew nuts and the man filled a paper bag to the brim and handed it over with a big smile. The grease soaked through the paper and made my palms warm and sticky. As I chomped my way through the authentic Elizabethan snack, I riffled through a handful of leaflets telling me how I should be spending my time in Great Morton.

  Paget Castle was the star attraction, closely followed by The Reading Rooms and St. Mathilda’s Well, both of which were located in the town’s central square.

  I picked up a shiny brochure entitled ‘Castle News’ and started to skim read.

  Paget Castle was originally built on the remains of an Anglo-Saxon burial site. This fortress had been held by descendants of William The Conqueror for a century before being destroyed and it was left in ruins until the time of Richard The Lionheart when there was a complete rebuild. Since that time, the castle passed down the Paget family line until the civil war when the Royalist supporters were betrayed, and it fell into the hands of the Roundheads. After the Restoration it was bequeathed to the loyal Hopkinsons of Beauchamp who resided there until the last family member passed away and gifted it to the National Trust in their will.

  I stared at the jutting turrets which looked like a row of witches’ hats. I re-folded the pamphlet and spotted a sticker on the back which apologised for the temporary closure of The Reading Rooms. That was weird. I read on: The National Trust are converting the upper rooms of the library back to their original state which means the doors won’t be opening again until early Spring. Sorry for any inconvenience. I tucked the flyer into my pocket. Why had Grace said the library was hosting an event? That was a lie. Why didn’t she just say it was closed?

  There was another rumble of thunder and a raindrop splashed onto my nose.

  I stepped back under cover of a posh coffee stall. The smell of the freshly ground beans made my tongue tingle. I checked my change; I still had enough money for a macchiato – the caffeine hit but without all the liquid – the last thing I needed right now was to be hunting around for a public loo. I drank my coffee, staring up at the castle as the rain pelted down all around me, drumming onto the canvas.

  My phone pinged. I took it out of my back pocket.

  No sign. Remember - keep yourself out of sight.

  Ok, I texted with my thumb. I finished my thimble of coffee and pulled my hood tight around my face. I needed to stop fannying around and focus on keeping an eye out for Grace. I really hoped Lily would be there too. I’d missed her so much. God – if only I’d paid attention to what she was trying to get at down by the lake then maybe none of this would have happened.

  Ten minutes passed.

  Her phone’s dead, texted Annie.

  The rain was now coming down in sheets and splashed off the cobbles, soaking my trainers. I took another step under the covers and wiggled my damp toes.

  “Hey!”

  I turned around. The fat, grey-haired woman behind the counter was waving her tongs at me. She put a cookie into a paper bag and handed it over.

  “On the house, pet,” she said. “You look a bit lost. Not a good day to be seeing Great Morton.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, so much. You know, it still looks pretty in the rain.” I took a bite of shortbread.

  She wiped her hands down her apron. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “Um,” I said, crumbs spilling out of my mouth. “Kind of.”

  “Well, pet, I’d get myself up into the Castle Café if I were you and wait it out there in the warm. They’ve got a great exhibition going on in the back room – it’s all about the time when the Paget family were betrayed by Cromwell’s sour-faced lot.” She smiled. “Plus, it’s free.”

  “Aren’t you just sending me straight into the hands of your competitors?” I asked, tossing the bag into the dustbin.

  The woman winked and held up her palms, silver ring on each finger. “You’ve caught me out. We sell our coffee beans direct to them so actually it’s a win-win situation. There’s a lovely art display there too by one of our local painters – she’s quite famous in those circles, you know. The details are in here,” she said, tapping her fingernails on a pile of flyers next to the sachets of sugar. They were the same as the one in my pocket. Just then a young couple came over to the counter and she moved away to serve them.

  I took out the pamphlet again. How had I missed this? For a limited time only, Nina Jackson will be loaning us one part of her famous triptych. Chosen for its extraordinary interpretation of this season’s theme.

  I felt sick.

  I phoned Annie who picked up straight away.

  “Yes?” she hissed.

  “The art exhibition. Can you see it from where you are sitting?”

  “Um, yes,” said Annie, her voice muffled.

  “Take a closer look.”

  I heard her chair scrape across the floor. “Okay. I’m taking a closer look. It’s a bit weird if you ask me. Right now I’m staring at a knife sticking out of.” She paused. “I think it’s meant to be the pages of a diary. Crazy.”

  “It’s by my Mum.”

  “Oh!” Annie coughed. “It’s…well it’s interesting.”

  “Never mind giving me your artistic interpretation,” I snapped. “What’s it called?”

  “Hang on.” I could hear her breathing. “What’s with the shredded shirts, covered in lipstick? Ah! Here we are. It’s called Betrayal. Oh! That kind of makes sense.”

  “Shit! Shit! She’s seen us. Seen we’re
both here. Don’t you get it – betrayal? It’s a message. She must have been watching us the moment we hit the main road into town. That’s why she made that decision to change the meeting place without making sure her story checked out. She knew we were up to something and now she’s bought herself some more time. She knows we’re coming for her.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Grace

  I sat on the jetty clasping the handle of Frank’s umbrella between my knees. My clothes clung to my body as though I had grown an extra layer of skin. The sky had become a sheet of jaundiced steel which cast an eerily bright glow onto my pale skin, turning my flesh luminous. The peculiar lighting made the boat in the centre of the lake appear as if it was nothing more than a cut-out silhouette, something Gil and Cassie had made out of black sugar paper whilst cosied up together in the playroom. The thunder and lightning had melted away, leaving only the loud splosh of water against water which churned the surface of the lake into a hem of white froth.

  The pelting of the raindrops onto the brolly skin was hypnotising me; drumming its way into my soul and stirring up the remaining embers of hatred, blowing on them until they glowed once more.

  I knew Cassie would have to return to me, or they would both perish on the water.

  I wondered how long it would be before Flo and that stupid bitch Annie arrived. Their appearance would force my hand one way or another. I took a swig of gin and let the juniper firewater rinse through the gaps in my teeth. The liquid numbed my throat and stoked the fire inside my stomach. I kept my gaze on my sister’s hunched figure and reached my hand onto the decking, stroking the rifle lying next to me.

  This would all end soon.

  I cast my mind back to the events which led up to Daddy’s death.

  ***

  It was dark outside. Although it is was technically afternoon, the October nights had begun to make their presence felt along with the withering leaves.

  Daddy didn’t do much else now apart from sleep, cry or write feverishly; filling pages and pages of thick cream paper with his spidery handwriting. If it weren’t for Frank, Daddy would have remained unshaven and dirty. Frank took care of his brother-in-law as though he was caring for a mewling infant.

  I helped.

  I held the soapy bucket of water steady while Frank shaved Daddy’s face and I pulled him out of his armchair so that he went out to use the bathroom. I cut his apple into small squares and took it away again when the cubes turned brown. Before he went to bed, I brought him up his tea. I always made sure there was a spoonful of sugar stirred into it and exactly the right amount of his sleeping draught which Frank had shown me how to administer.

  I did basic housework and managed Cassie. There was no way of knowing what was happening inside her head now; she hadn’t uttered a word for over a month – from the exact moment she came back from the clinic. It prompted Frank to buy her a therapy puppy; a tiny Jack Russell with toffee coloured ears called Tiggy but, though Cassie spent every waking minute with the creature, her speech remained locked inside.

  If a passer-by had stopped outside on that dingy, blustery night and stared in through the window, they would have thought they were peeping in on a scene of blissful harmony: a father absorbed in writing his memoirs, a jovial uncle drinking a glass of port whilst his two nieces, dressed in pinafores, played at his feet; one with a puppy, the other a doll’s house.

  That same evening, I took Cassie for her bath as usual. She dipped her toe into the water and then shot it out again, biting her lip. I put my finger in but was unable to gauge the temperature. I was numb. I turned the taps off.

  “Too hot?”

  Cassie nodded.

  I turned the cold tap on fully and the water streamed onto an iceberg of bubbles, forcing a clump of froth to break off into the air which in turn flew onto Cassie’s nose. There was a time when the girl would have been beside herself with giggles at such an event; now she simply wiped the foam away with the back of her hand; mouth turned down at the corners.

  Frank said Cassie’s lack of speech was due to delayed shock and that it would eventually return, but my hair remained colourless so maybe Cassie’s words would stay away too. I couldn’t have cared less. I preferred it that way and without my sister’s endless torrent of chatter I was able to retreat further into my own thoughts. At times it was as if I was going through life viewing events from a distance. I saw myself reading the child a story before tucking her into bed, ignoring her longing glances. I heard the kiss I planted on Cassie’s forehead, but didn’t feel my lips pressing against the little girl’s skin. I watched my sister shrink into herself all the time avoiding the portrait of Mummy which hung in the stairwell at Aldeburgh House.

  Numb.

  My body was turning into stone. The only thing that kept me alive was the memory of falling in love with Gil and each day I tried to rekindle the surge of euphoria which filled every corner of my body when I had been in his presence.

  Between Daddy’s prolonged bouts of staring into space there were short bursts of frantic activity. Then he sat at a desk in the drawing room and scribbled words onto pages, humming Gil’s folksong under his breath. When the clock struck ten, Frank gave him a five-minute warning and he sighed then stuffed the papers into an envelope, begging Frank to take them to the post box immediately. Frank always agreed but the moment Daddy left the room, Frank tossed the thick envelope onto the fire. I was curious to know what he wrote about with such a sense of urgency. One time when Frank disappeared, almost tripping over Daddy’s shadow, I plucked the bundle off the fire and read the smouldering manuscript – it was a love letter to Gil.

  At night, Frank locked Daddy in his room.

  That terrible evening, after I’d been a good girl for Frank, he told me to tidy up before I went to make Daddy’s tea. I cleared away the newspapers and stacked the empty plates and cups to take into the kitchen. I removed the saucer of shrivelled clementine segments from Daddy’s bureau and there, tucked under the paperweight I saw two tickets; one for James and one for Cassandra. One-way tickets to Toulouse. I searched the desk for another ticket, but it wasn’t there. I felt sick. I went into the kitchen to make the tea, all the time my stomach churning. There must have been a mistake. He wouldn’t go without me. I took up the tea. Frank was in the room, standing at the window, looking out onto the moonlit lake. I set down the cup and saucer on the bedside table. Daddy was sitting up in bed, staring at the ceiling rose.

  I stepped back from the bed and folded my arms across my chest. “Uncle, please may I talk to you for a moment?”

  “Not now dearest.” I saw his pale reflection in the pane of glass and his skin glowed white under the shadow of the moon.

  “But–”

  “I said not now.” His voice was harsh sounding and I knew not to press him further. It would keep until the morning. The date of travel wasn’t until next month.

  I was woken by Frank the next morning. He burst into my bedroom, calling my name. He pulled back the curtains so that the slow rising dawn lit up a rectangle of the floorboards. I sat up and Cassie, lying next to me, stirred. As usual the brat had woken early and crept into my bed for warmth and company. I blinked back my confusion at the serious expression on Frank’s face.

  “Dearest,” he said. “Last night…” He swallowed and rubbed his hands together. “You brought James his tea last night, didn’t you?”

  I pulled my dressing gown about my shoulders, watching my breath rise in a cloud before my face.

  “Yes, Uncle. Of course. You saw me. Why?” I shivered.

  “Dearest one.” He shook his head. “Terrible news. I’m afraid you have killed him.”

  “What?” I had misheard.

  “You killed him. You must have put too much of the sedative in his tea.”

  “No,” I gasped. “No, I know I didn’t.”

  Frank drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m telling you, dearest, you must have put too muc
h of the sedative in his tea. There is no other explanation for it.”

  “But…” I screwed my eyes shut and tried to remember. In my head I heard the kettle shriek. I tipped the water into the mug, squashed the teabag for a few seconds removed it and added the milk; then the sugar, next the powder – a level teaspoon just as Frank had shown me. I shook my head again.

  “Dearest, it is perfectly understandable. You have felt pushed out and neglected. To be honest, I blame myself,” he hung his head, “I blame myself.” He pinched the skin under his eyes and sniffed. There was silence apart from Cassie’s soft breathing, she had curled herself into a ball and her spine pressed against my thigh.

  “No, Uncle. You are not to blame.”

  Frank dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and sat down on the edge of the bed; the springs groaned in protest. “I should have seen it coming. Your father blamed you for what happened to Gil and–” he gasped, shooting a hand to his head. “The tickets. Oh! My dear child, you saw the tickets.”

  “Yes.”

  Frank leaned across and pulled me to his chest; the brass buttons on his jacket pressed against my cheek. His breath smelt of coffee. “You poor dear thing. You weren’t meant to see them. I was going to tell James that it was impossible – that he simply couldn’t abandon you.” He rocked my head back and forth, squeezing my temples with each movement.

  Cassie peeped out from under the duvet then slid from the bed. She trotted across the room and disappeared.

  “But I didn’t do anything.” Loud woofing rose up through the floorboards.

  His eyes narrowed. “Dearest, you have killed before. You have an unfortunate condition which means that when you are angry, emotion takes over your whole body and makes you oblivious to your actions. I know exactly what happened – it is obvious.” He rose from the bed.

  I hugged my knees to my chest. Now that Cassie had gone, I wondered if he was going to want our special time, to show me how much he loved me.

  He stood at the foot of the bed. “You saw the tickets, were livid with hurt and disappointment and you went straight into the kitchen and put an extra spoonful of sleeping draught into James’ tea. On top of all the other chemicals that he puts – put – into his body it wouldn’t have taken much to finish him off. It was a moment of blind panic, dearest.”