The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

Something has been playing at the back of my mind; a half-formed idea trying to work its way forward. With all the craziness of the last few days, however, I just can’t grasp it. Maybe some time away from the stress of the hospital will help. Climbing into my Mini, I feel the morning sunlight swaddle my skin. I give in to the dreamy sensation and close my eyes. My eyelids flicker, head nods and I find myself falling somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

I am descending a narrow spiral staircase with no handrails. It shifts to a multicoloured vista of eye-watering green sprinkled with daisies. In the distance something draws my eye: a disc spinning its way towards me. A flash; and then a smiling freckle-faced girl follows. Even though her words are hushed I can still make out what she is saying. ‘I’m Shivie,’ she mouths, before dissolving into dust.

I jolt awake with a new understanding. I know what I need to do.

I head out of the hospital car park and instead of turning left towards the bridge for Cornwall, I head inland instead, towards the moors. Beyond the A386, past Princetown, the towering stone walls of Dartmoor Prison rising above the landscape like a granite giant. Stopping at a vantage point near Widecombe-in-the-Moor I gaze up to where the remains of twenty-four roundhouses, remnants of a medieval settlement are laid out across the hillside like draughts on a board. Michael and I used to make this journey every summer. We would hike to the top of Hound Tor and sit on the rock drinking hot chocolate from a flask, our legs dangling precariously over the edge.

It’s sudden snapshots like these which still make my loss so unbearable. I give myself a little push and tighten my jaw in determination. It’s clear that Michael’s connection to this mysterious Diving Fish may finally provide the answers I so desperately need. If I can find out more about her, about their relationship, then maybe I can find out what really happened that night. The police report mentioned the presence of two sets of footprints in the sand by the lake, but concluded that they may have been made earlier in the day by someone unconnected with Michael’s drowning. Couldn’t they have been made by Diving Fish? Could she have been there that night? Maybe she was too afraid to come forward? Maybe she has something she can tell me that will finally allow it all to make sense. The diary and mobile phone are just the beginning. I must know more. This is the only way my life can ever return to even some semblance of normal. I have no choice.

I drive on, stopping for some petrol and a takeaway coffee. Conscious Adam’s shift doesn’t start for another two hours, I take my time. I need to make sure the house is empty when I get there.

I slow the car before reaching the house, all the time scanning the front drive for any sign of Adam’s car. I hate keeping the truth from him, but he wasn’t as supportive as he could have been when I first started looking into Michael’s death. Like the police and the coroner, he only seemed to want an easy solution. Open and shut. I’ve always sensed there was much more to it than that. Now I need to prove it.

I know that he’s on a twelve to twelve shift today, but I still feel a wave of relief when I see the empty drive. I pull up and check the neighbour’s bay window. The curtains are closed. I creep out of the car and around to the side entrance, feeling like a criminal trying to break into my own house.

Once inside, I head upstairs to the spare bedroom. I take a wooden pole from behind the wardrobe door. Giving the loft hatch a gentle tap, I wait for it to pop open and then, using the hook attached to the end of the pole, I pull the ladder down and climb into the loft.

The dry heat descends like a shroud. I switch the light on and wait for my eyes to adjust. Set out before me are the remnants of my life. Boxes of books from my student days, Michael’s Moses basket – a little saggy after all these years – and suitcases filled with baby clothes that I had been saving for the children Michael might have had one day. There are a few clearly labelled boxes of Adam’s things, and towards the back, just under the eaves, is another box, wide and flat, the tan packaging tape glimmering in the light.

I make one final check of the house, making sure the loft hatch is closed properly and the pole put back in its exact position. Making my way to the bedroom, I open the closet door and rummage through boxes on the top shelf to find it. The book of condolence. Every friend and classmate who had attended his funeral, and who may have known anything about Michael’s life at Edgecombe Hall, would have signed it. It’s a long shot, I think, as I trace the gold embossed lettering on the cover, but at least it’s a start.

The drive back to Cornwall seems blighted by road works and slow-moving traffic. Stealing into the house to avoid having to chat with any neighbours doing some afternoon gardening, I grab a packet of crisps and take the box from the loft straight up to Michael’s room. Once on the bed, I carefully remove the packaging tape, slide out the laptop and charger, and plug it in. I run my hand lightly across the brushed silver lid, tracing the outline of the apple. I wonder if the latex-gloved hands of the police officer who recovered it from Michael’s room at Edgecombe Hall had done the same. I turn it on and type in the password Bobby 123 – based on the name of one of Michael’s