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

‘That bloody cat,’ Adam grumbles. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to call the department? Maybe they can find someone to cover for me.’

‘It’s a Saturday night, darling. They won’t be able to find cover at this short notice.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Adam, trust me, I’ll be fine.’

My husband looks uncertain, as if trusting me is something he hasn’t been able to do in a while. I’m not sure I blame him.

‘I’m coming up first thing tomorrow,’ he says. ‘No arguments.’

‘Okay,’ I whisper, and let him envelop me in his strong, secure embrace.

The car’s headlights bathe Adam in an eerie glow as I reverse out of the drive. I pull away, grateful to at last be on the road, but still wondering if I should have let him come with me. It isn’t that I’m ashamed of my family, it’s just that they’re so damned hard to explain. A long-absent father, a rebellious older sister, and a fundamentalist Christian mother aren’t exactly the ideal in-laws.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Eight fifteen. If traffic is good, I can make it to the hospital by ten. I put my foot down, head south. A sudden gust buffets the car, and my knuckles whiten as I grip the steering wheel. It takes a few seconds before I feel steady enough to reach over and turn on the radio. I’m grateful for the solid monotony of the weather forecast easing me on my way.

I haven’t long exited the dual carriageway and am just merging onto a poorly lit B-road, when from out of the gloom appear half a dozen small shapes. Without warning, the figures dash across the road directly in front of me, glowing in my headlights. I slam on the brakes and feel the Mini snake as I struggle to manoeuvre it onto the soft verge. Heart pounding, I watch as the creatures flee into the bushes across the road.

‘Bloody hell!’

Then I catch sight of it: just to my right stands a single roe deer. No larger than an Alsatian, the tiny creature stands frozen in fear. I ease open the door and manoeuvre my way out of the car. In the headlights’ glare, the animal’s eyes are huge golden orbs. If it wasn’t for its gently heaving lungs it could be made of stone.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ I whisper, edging my way forwards. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I register approaching headlights. As if waking from a trance, the animal blinks, flicks its ears and tears across the road – directly into the path of the oncoming car.

It’s just after ten when I finally reach the hospital. The main corridor is quiet, apart from a security guard and two cleaners leaning on their brooms. I ignore the lifts, choosing instead the concrete solitude of the stairwell. At the top I pause before pushing my way through the swinging doors. Ahead of me the green-grey hallway is empty apart from a metal trolley loaded with medical waste bins, and the neon light hanging above hisses and spits. From nearby drifts the unmistakable stench of hospital: a nauseating blend of antiseptic, old food and sick. I swallow hard. I can feel the bile rising at the back of my throat, can taste it in my mouth.

The memory comes to me then: sudden and unexpected, like a knife blade in the gut.

I am in a small white room. In front of me is a window into another, smaller room. The grey curtains that frame the window are drawn shut. Next to me stands a police officer. She’s dressed in a black uniform with bold white lettering on the back of her flak jacket.

White wall, grey curtains, black uniform. It seems strangely suitable that my world is now devoid of colour. The officer is speaking. I glance towards her. I can see her lips moving, but I can hear no sound. It’s as if my world is on mute.

The door opens and a man in a white coat enters. He stinks of cheap aftershave. The policewoman touches me on the elbow and nods to him. I watch as he steps forward and pulls on the cord to open the curtains. At first, they jam, and the man tugs impatiently at the mechanism, his pale cheeks reddening. I want to call to him; to scream don’t open them! If you don’t open them, I won’t have to see! But it’s too late. The curtains are sliding open and I can’t look away. Lying on a metal mortuary table in the room beyond the window is my fifteen-year-old son Michael.

3

Making my way into the Intensive Care Unit, my eyes fall to the white line painted on the floor, dividing the rectangular room into two. As I raise my gaze, I can see rows of patients on either side, some hidden behind tightly pulled curtains, all with cotton blankets forming peaks over their feet like tiny holiday park tents.

‘Can I help you?’

I find myself looking into the smiling face of a young nurse. ‘I’m trying to find my mother.’

‘Okay, what’s her name?’

‘Rebecca Penrose.’ It’s as if uttering my mother’s name has opened a well of despair. I begin to feel the room spinning.

‘Oh dear,’ says the nurse. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ I whisper, but my lips have gone numb. The nurse leads me to a chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I feel so silly.’

‘No need,’ replies the nurse. ‘It happens all the time. You sit here, and I’ll get you a drink of water.’

I close my eyes and force myself to remain calm. Who would have believed that I had once worked in a hospital almost exactly like this? Then Michael died and I found I could no longer bear the frightened looks of the patients, or the uncertain faces of their loved ones, so instead I took a part-time job as a practice nurse: blood tests, cervical smears, nicotine patches. In and out; minimal interaction. Just the way I like it.

‘Here