Cuckoo

by Sophie Draper

  ‘Snow’s all gone then?’ I asked.

  ‘Not quite, but everyone’s getting on with life, you know. We’re used to it here.’

  Her voice had softened. I felt remorse at my ungracious thoughts. She wasn’t the same girl as when we were children – we’d both grown up. She’d become elegant and sophisticated. I imagined New York by night, lines of yellow cabs moving slowly down the streets, neon signs blinking from every building, cars honking, colours glinting in the reflections on the wet sidewalk, like a scene from Blade Runner.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Danny … I can’t remember him at all. How could I forget him? And I need to know. How did he die? You said it was an accident.’

  Steph looked over her shoulder. She was sitting on a sofa. Was there someone else in the room listening in? Scott perhaps?

  ‘Is someone else there, Steph? Is someone with you?’

  She faced me again, leaning forward.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Scott’s out.’

  I stared at her, waiting.

  ‘It was all a long time ago, Caro.’

  ‘But an accident – what kind of accident?’ Suddenly, I was determined to know.

  ‘I …’ Steph dropped her eyes.

  She brought her hand up to her hair, pushing it through the strands then letting them fall across her face. Was she crying? She was upset. Really upset. Why hadn’t I realised?

  ‘It was in the garden. In the … I’m sorry, Caro, I just can’t talk about it.’

  Her voice trembled. But her tone was stern. Was she cross with herself? Her own loss of control, her emotion. Steph had never liked to show weakness.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I rushed in. ‘You don’t have to tell me. It doesn’t matter, really. Don’t worry.’ I hadn’t the heart to insist.

  ‘I have to go.’ And with that she was gone.

  The blank screen tormented me. In the garden, she’d said. In the …

  My mobile buzzed with an incoming call. It was Craig. He was coming over, he said. I felt a leap of relief.

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, my tone deliberately neutral. I didn’t want to sound too enthusiastic. I must have sounded childish instead. I bit my lip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t come over sooner. I wanted to.’

  Then why didn’t you, I thought.

  ‘My project’s all done now,’ he added. ‘Thought we’d go out for a meal. Tonight?’

  I made a pretence of thinking about it.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Great. Pick you up at seven.’

  We ate at the Brassington Arms, near Ashbourne. A corner table by the fire. I was hot on one side and cold on the other, but I didn’t really notice. Craig’s thigh nudged up against mine and it wasn’t long before I was tucked into his body, his arm around my waist, my hands resting on his knee. His hand covered mine and he leaned down to kiss me.

  We skipped dessert, paid the bill and drove home, down lanes bumpy with the last frozen remains of snow and mud churned up by the 4x4s. So much for playing it cool. We had sex in the sitting room, climbed the stairs to bed and had sex again. This time he stayed the whole night. I slept with his legs wrapped around mine, one arm over my chest, my skin tingling with the afterglow of our loving and the warmth of his body contrasting with the cool air of the night.

  After Craig left, I checked my emails. There had been a message from my agent. He said there was a last-minute addition to the text for the commission, a new story. A file was attached. I clicked on the file and read it. It was about a water nixie, a mermaid-like creature that preyed upon lonely, suicidal men. I knew of one such tale in the Peak District, even if it was a land-locked area – Black Mere Pool, supposedly inhabited by a demon mermaid after the death of her beloved sailor.

  Craig rang later. A teasing call to remind me I was not neglected. I mentioned the new story.

  ‘A field trip – that’s what you need,’ he said. ‘It’ll do you a world of good to get some fresh air.’

  He was right – something to inspire my imagination away from the house and all my introspective musings.

  ‘There’s Black Mere Pool,’ I said. ‘But it’s a long drive from here, across the border into Staffordshire.’

  ‘Do you have to go that far?’ said Craig.

  I thought about it. ‘There’s Carsington Water.’

  It was a reservoir on the other side of Ashbourne. In the summer, it was known for its sailing and cycling, buzzing with tourists and families. In the winter, on a day like today, it would be grey and cold, a wide expanse of empty, silent water. Just the thing for a nixie.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ said Craig. ‘I’m only sorry I can’t come with you, but I have to work. I’ll speak to you later.’

  CHAPTER 27

  After lunch, I parked in the main car park at Carsington, lines of unused bays interspersed with litter bins and gritstone boulders. A few lights glistened from the double-height barn tearoom, partly obscured by a thin drifting fog. I bought a parking ticket and slipped it onto the dashboard, fingers already numb with the cold.

  There were several tracks that circled the reservoir. It could take more than two hours to walk its full circumference, longer if you took the path that weaved in and out of the woodlands. I chose the shorter one, away from the dam which was prone to gusting winds. The trail followed the water’s edge before veering off into the woods that intermittently opened out to long vistas across the lake. I walked for an hour, seeing only a single runner dressed in loose jogging pants and a hoodie pulled low over their face. Him or her, I couldn’t tell, the figure briefly visible in the distance, as if following me on a different path. The androgynous clothing and solitary state of the runner seemed to be symptomatic of the bleak landscape, the story in my head and the growing pools of fog that hugged the trees around me.

  I saw a bird hide in the distance. It was right by the shore. Drawn to the water for my story, I followed a stretch of boardwalk to get to it. A brood of geese was feeding on the grass beside me. They gaggled in objection to my presence, shuffling their wings threateningly, stirring the fog as I gingerly stepped around their droppings, piles of green mush dotted on the boards. Reaching the shelter, I gratefully stepped inside.

  It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The gloom was generated by brown timber walls and the narrow horizontal slats that served for windows. The wood smell was overwhelming, accentuated by the moisture in the air and the closely growing oak saplings outside. Most of the shutters were closed, but one had been left up. It revealed a reed pool that merged into the lake beyond. I sat on a bench, opening another shutter. I picked up a pair of cheap binoculars chained to the wall, leaning on the wooden shelf to focus on a pair of chaffinches flitting from spot to spot. Their delicate weight bent the strands of grass, their coloured cheeks reflecting in the water beneath.

  The cool air pricked my skin. I tracked a new bank of fog rolling across the reservoir, engulfing the distant floating geese. The greyness all around had a dampening effect on my mood. It was exactly as I’d hoped, evocative of the toxic spirit of the nixie, her thirst for the dead and dying. I rooted the imagery in my head, pulling out a notebook to sketch some of the details I would need for my painting, the monochrome colours, the thin, long shapes, the shimmering reflections. Yet the cold, the isolation, the shadows in the hut, the musky, woody scent, it all served to comfort me in a strange kind of way. Time had stopped in this natural space, away from people and cars and busy streets, where nothing mattered to the birds on the lake or the trees that swayed in the breeze, other than food and weather and shelter.

  I tried to identify the different birds by reference to a wall chart but I was too immersed in my thoughts. Strands of white reached out towards the hide and dusk began to fall. I put away my sketchbook. Yet still I lingered, unwilling to go home, rooks cawing in the distance.

  I thought of Elizabeth, her death. At sixty-one, she’d been too young. I’d seen the array o
f alcohol in the kitchen, so many bottles for a woman on her own, some of it strong stuff – vodka, whisky. Perhaps Elizabeth had drunk too much, had tripped and crashed into the banister? I’d never seen Elizabeth drinking, not in all those years when I’d lived in the house. Had she grown lonely? I thought of the pills, the painkillers in her bedroom. Had she been ill? Had the alcohol been another form of pain relief? I tried to imagine her, stumbling out of her bedroom, glass in hand, dressing gown half undone, like in a Tennessee Williams play. Maybe the belt had been trailing, tripped her up so that she’d crashed against the banister and tipped over? Was that how it happened? I’d been told that Elizabeth’s death was a tragic accident. That it would have been instant, the moment her body impacted on the ground. Even now, the thought of it made me flinch.

  My fingers traced the lines of wood on the shelf of the shelter, tentatively touching a splinter poking out at right angles. It was sharp, waiting to draw blood. It reminded me of the one on the banister, except that one hadn’t been so obvious – only when my hand slid over the wood had it become apparent. Why did it worry me? Something or someone must have hit the banister unless it had already been damaged. A careless workman perhaps. I held my finger on the point of the splinter. It didn’t hurt. I pushed the spike into my flesh. This time it did hurt. Blood, my own, trickled down the wood. I pulled my finger away and sucked it, the taste warm and sweet in my mouth. The pain was strangely comforting.

  Beyond the hide was a wall of white. The fog had evolved into a thick blanket, strands swirling through the shutters, curling up against the draught moving within the hide. I had stayed too long, indulging myself. It was colder, damper. Darker.

  Time to head home.

  I left the wooden shack, intending to follow the boardwalk to the main path. But as I stepped into the fog, I was shocked by how dense it was. I couldn’t see beyond the end of my arm. The white swept across my face, tugging at my feet. I’d never experienced fog like this before, not even in London. I was an idiot – why had I stayed so long?

  I tried to think which way I’d come. I turned left to retrace my steps, but the fog was so impenetrable and the boardwalk seemed too short. My foot skidded off the edge and I tripped. Landing on my knees, I caught my breath. I stood up, but once off the wooden boards I was disorientated. I spun around searching for the path. My feet slipped in the wet mire. I swung back. The fog caressed my face. Claustrophobia clawed at my chest. Cursing at my own stupidity, I plunged forwards, each step blindly taken, the air ice cold around my body.

  Then the white wall drifted apart. A figure emerged in the distance, in a hoodie and tracksuit. Was it the runner on his way back? He seemed to hover ahead, lifting one hand to wave at me.

  ‘Hello!’ I called.

  The hand lifted again, beckoning, then pointing towards my right. He was too far away to hear me but the signal was reassuring. The fog closed and the figure disappeared. I heaved a sigh of relief, stepping towards the direction he had indicated. Wet branches brushed against my legs, brambles caught against my jeans. Somewhere I heard a pathetic bleating. Sheep loomed in and out of vision, tottering on their short legs, weighed down by their wet coats. I felt heartened. At least they were a sign of land and human habitation.

  The day had gone. The fog was now a thick curtain masking the night. It shimmered as if lit from within, swallowing my hands and my feet as I tried to reach out. I cursed myself again for my tardiness at the hide, brooding on a woman who’d always hated me. How would I get home if they’d closed the barrier to the car park? I increased my pace, then spun around to get my bearings, but nothing seemed familiar. I could feel the bogginess of the ground, sucking at my boots, water seeping through inadequate soles. Something brushed past me, I couldn’t tell what it was. I stumbled in alarm, throwing out a hand to grab a branch. My aim missed and I tumbled down to my knees again, thick clay clogging my clothes.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I cursed out loud. One of my feet was stuck.

  I fought to move it, reaching down with my hands to pull. My leg released with a glug. I took another step but my foot sank even deeper, water flooding the holes left by my feet. The fog swept around me, clearing enough to reveal a great arc of black water ahead. It was the lake – I’d somehow walked straight into the lake. Jesus Christ! I swallowed hard, disbelief washing over me. How had I done that? I must have misunderstood the jogger’s signal, still distracted by my thoughts. I felt the water between my toes.

  I tried to return the way I’d come but the fog spiralled with me, rolling around my body, another wall of suffocating white. With every step, I waded further into the water. It rose above my knees, lapped against my thighs. Like a sick lover reaching up with cold arms.

  Oh God! What a fool I’d been, not taking the fog seriously. I was going to die here, my body floating between the lush green reeds like Ophelia in her pre-Raphaelite grave. No, I told myself. I wasn’t going to drown. The water was back down to my knees. I could walk my way out of this! But whichever way I turned was fog, thick, all-encompassing fog. I finally admitted I had no idea which way to go, horror rising in my gut.

  Then I remembered, my mobile was in my pocket. It would still be dry. I fumbled with frozen hands, cursing at my own stupidity. I pulled the phone out, stabbing the numbers for emergency services. I knew I was in trouble, this was no time for pride. It began to ring. My breathing slowed, the familiar sound already soothing me. But I was shivering, the mud beneath my boots shifting uneasily. I felt something slither against my calf. I yelped and lashed out, but the fingers of my free hand snatched at nothing. My feet slipped. I tipped forwards into the lake, suddenly out of my depth. The ice-cold water hit me like a slab of rock. My lungs heaved, water filling my mouth. I scrabbled for air, feeling the phone slide between my fingers. I watched in horror as it plunged into the lake.

  ‘Shit!’

  The words spluttered from my lips, green stagnant water gagging at my throat.

  I thrashed about, coughing and gasping for breath, gulping in the air. I could swim, I was a strong swimmer, or so I thought, but the shock of the cold had thrown me off balance. My head sank again beneath the surface. I kicked with my legs, arms reaching out uselessly until my feet found solid ground. My head emerged into the air and I stood there, heaving and spluttering, half in and out of the water, the soggy weight of my wet clothes threatening to drag me under.

  I was stranded. Petrified. The lake stretched out for over a mile. If I took the wrong direction … I couldn’t move either forward or back.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

  I wanted to cry. I was stuck, partially immersed in the lake, in the fog and the night, with no phone and no one to hear me.

  ‘Help!’ I screamed.

  And again, with all my strength. ‘H … ELP!’

  CHAPTER 28

  My world had shrunk to a small cube of air surrounded by pearlescent black fog. I don’t know how long I remained there. Ten minutes? Or was it nearer three hours? I crouched in the water shaking, no longer able to stand upright, no longer aware of the cold and the wet.

  I felt fear and nausea, sick with my own stupidity. How had I allowed this to happen? My shaking slowed. I was hoarse from shouting, each call quieter than the last, fatigue seducing me. I closed my eyes. I deserved this.

  The water slapped around my body, green weeds winding about my legs. I thought of the water nixie then, from the story. She who preyed on foolish humans. In my delirium, it seemed to me the strands of weed parted and I saw a face. Blue eyes shone through the water and the face slid silently out of sight, then back into view. It was as if she was curious, the water nixie, wondering what it was like to die, watching my last throes of life, the light fading from my eyes, my final threads of hope pulled to their very edge, like wet leather drying out.

  ‘Caroline Crowther!’ The voice was distant but commanding.

  The nixie smiled, knowing the voices were too far, that they would never find me.

  ‘Caroline!’r />
  Her green hair wound itself around my legs, tightening their grip.

  ‘Caroline Crowther!’

  ‘Over here!’ A man’s voice bounced across the water.

  Torchlight swept through the fog. A beam caught the nixie’s eyes. They glittered with anger. Her face skimmed just below the surface of the lake. I felt her rage, her mouth opening and closing, making me a promise. Then her face sank from view, one long sweep of her slime-green hair gliding out of sight.

  ‘Miss Crowther!’

  A pair of hands reached about me, taking my weight. There were more voices, shouting.

  ‘She’s here!’

  I lifted my head. I saw yellow suits, faces peering at me, men and women wading through the lake. I felt myself being lifted up and out of the water. A single line of bubbles wriggled up from beneath and I closed my eyes and let it happen.

  I awoke lying on a hospital trolley. Blue plastic curtains swung from a rail to my left and a nurse stepped into view. She began tapping on an iPad. I moaned. She put it down and picked up my hand, holding it firmly as she smiled.

  ‘Caroline? Can you hear me? Squeeze my fingers if you can hear me, my love.’

  I squeezed her hand clumsily.

  ‘That’s fantastic. Well done. Don’t try to speak. You’re fine, you’re absolutely fine. You’re suffering from mild hypothermia, but you’re going to be okay. Rest.’

  She moved to check the machinery. A drip dangled from my arm and I could hear the competing beeps of a heart monitor and something else. I closed my eyes and slept.

  ‘You’ve had a very lucky escape, Miss Crowther. This could have been very serious. If that boyfriend of yours hadn’t spotted your car and alerted the police, well I dread to think what would have happened. I hope you’ll think twice before taking another stroll in thick fog by a lake!’

  Stating the bleeding obvious, I thought. I smiled weakly.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’