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

I need some space to figure out what to do next. Maybe I would like a visit from Grace after all; maybe then I wouldn’t feel so lonely. Relief and regret seem to mingle together like colours on a paint wheel. I’m not sure what to feel any more; or even if I feel any more. Visits with my mother are anything but uplifting; just my stilted monologues about village life and how the cat is coping. I never speak of the future. The few friends I do have are so connected with Adam; either fellow doctors, or wives of his friends, that I know speaking to them will be impossible.

Where are all my friends? When and how did they drift away? I stumble upstairs to the bedroom, find what’s left of my blue pills and swallow one with a gulp of water from a half-empty glass that has been sitting on the bedside table for days. Collapsing onto the bed, I slip Michael’s hoodie from beneath my pillow and lie with it nestled against my chest. I have never felt so alone in all my life.

I wake an hour later. The rain has cleared, leaving glistening streets and muddy puddles that will be the downfall of any mother trying to get their child home from after-school club without wet socks. I feel my stomach grumble and make my way to the kitchen. I’ve been so preoccupied with pacifying Adam and looking after Mum that I haven’t done a proper shop in days. As expected, the fridge is empty – only milk, bottled water and a piece of ham hardening around the edges. I check the time and give a little huff. The corner shop is long closed. I open the pantry and scan the contents for possibilities. Hearing the door creak, Tam races in from the lounge and begins circling my ankles. Did my mother really say a few months ago that his hearing was going?

‘The one thing I do have is cat food,’ I say, emptying a pouch of something foul smelling into a bowl. ‘Looks like it’s the pub for me.’

Once upon a time The Bell and Anchor had been a prosperous watering hole for the small narrow-hulled sailboats that transported goods up and down the River Tamar during the late 1800s. As a child I was fascinated by the pub; the sounds and smells, and the conspicuous sense of danger that hung like pipe smoke in the air. There had been a stabbing one Friday evening when I was eight, and my father, a trained first aider, had been summoned to help. He returned a few hours later with blood on his shirt and a pale look of disbelief on his face. The next morning, when Grace and I tried to ask him about it, my mother silenced us with a glare. Later, when we were sent to the shop to buy milk, we wandered on, desperate to see the bright splash of blood that would stain the pavement for months to come.

This evening, however, the newly replaced pub windows glow with light, and smoke curls its way upwards from the repointed chimney. I’ve been told that a Londoner has recently arrived in the village and bought up the site with the view to converting it into a gastropub and B&B, catering mostly to well-off holiday makers. I duck through the squat front entrance and head for the bar. The place is buzzing. I feel a flutter of panic as I make my way through the crowd but force myself to carry on. I find a seat at the bar and order a glass of wine and an omelette and chips. I take a sip and look around. The scarred wooden panelling has been removed, exposing beautiful red brickwork. Bleached pine tables with chunky leather-backed chairs take the place of standard pub furniture. Near the front, the landlord has placed a couple of settees for a more intimate seating area. A young couple, clearly hikers, are sitting opposite each other sipping from pints of Guinness and leaning over after every second sip for a kiss. The clientele seems to have moved upmarket as well; moneyed tourists, well-off landowners, and the occasional local to keep the place going in off season. Still smells the same though.

While I wait for my food, I find myself doodling on a serviette; anything to avoid having to make eye contact with the heavily fragranced man sitting next to me. I find myself drawing a circle and, within that, a very rough depiction of a mermaid, just as I had seen on Lisa’s shirt in the photograph. The barman arrives with my meal and clears a place for the sauces.

‘You a rower?’

I reluctantly look over at the man sitting next to me.

‘Pardon?’

‘A rower.’ He points to the doodle of the mermaid I have drawn on the serviette.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He frowns at me. ‘This here is the symbol of the Cadgwith Cove Gig Club,’ he says, tapping loudly on the bar. ‘My brother-in-law rows for them.’

‘Gig club?’

He shakes his head at my ignorance. ‘The Cadgwith Cove gig rowing club, ’bout ten miles from Helston.’

I can feel my heart pumping. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He gets his phone out and Googles the club. Within seconds the screen is filled with an image of a mermaid enclosed within a circle of words. It’s exactly like the one on Lisa Edwards’s shirt.

The next morning, I don’t have much of a plan except to get to Cadgwith Cove and find out as much as I can about the gig club and Lisa. I could ring the club secretary, but I wonder what on earth I would say when he or she asks why I’m looking for her: Well it’s like this, Bob. I think that Lisa may have been responsible in some way for my son’s death. So, can