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

‘Yes.’

‘We’re terrified,’ says the other. By the open, welcoming looks on their faces it is clear they are inviting me to accompany them. I consider their offer with caution. It would be nice to have the time to prepare myself for my first meeting with Desra McKinley, but then again, what better way to appear inconspicuous than to arrive in a group?

‘I’m Marie-Claire.’ The woman closest to me holds out her hand.

‘And I’m Julia,’ says the other.

Both women are in their late twenties. Marie-Claire is tall and whippet thin, with tidy dreadlocks and the most luminescent brown skin that I have ever seen. Her soft French accent hints at someone who’s lived in the UK for several years. Julia, on the other hand, is short and round with striking blue eyes, a mass of blonde curls, and a face that seems made for smiling. Her accent is pure Yorkshire.

‘I’m Kate,’ I say, returning their handshakes. ‘I’m pretty nervous too.’ I grab my suitcase from the boot and follow the two women towards the main entrance of the Rep where a small group of people are already waiting. I scan their faces, looking for Desra.

‘Welcome,’ says the receptionist, ushering us into the entrance area. ‘If you would be kind enough to sign in,’ – her voice echoes amongst the high stone arches – ‘it would be most appreciated. You can leave your bags in the cloakroom just to your left for now, and then proceed to the meeting room on your right where tea will be served.’ As if by magic, two attractive, healthy-looking teenagers appear beside her. ‘Some of our students stay on campus over the summer months to continue their elite sports training. Nearly twenty of our alumni have made it onto Olympic teams,’ she adds proudly. ‘They also are often kind enough to help with other events that fund our sports scholarships.’ She turns to the two young people standing beside her. ‘Becky and Turner here are both hugely talented athletes who have their eyes on the next Olympics. They are also kind enough to be acting as Student Ambassadors over the next week, helping our regular staff with any issues or queries you may have during your stay.’

The guests form an orderly queue, sign the register as instructed, and dutifully follow their guides to the meeting room.

‘Good afternoon everyone,’ says Becky, whose accent is definitely more East Coast American than Scottish. ‘My name is Becky Wilson, and I’m a Student Ambassador here at Lennoxton.’ She points to the young man standing next to her, who has the healthy good looks of someone from privilege. ‘This is Turner. We’re here to ensure your stay at Lennoxton is a pleasant one and that everything runs smoothly for the next five days.’ Perfect, I think. Perfect teeth, perfect face, perfect life. Then I feel guilty for being so ungenerous. ‘I’m about to take you into the Headmaster’s outer meeting room, which at Lennoxton is affectionately known as the Crucible. As many of you may know, a crucible can be defined as a situation of severe trial.’ Becky gives the group a glowing smile. ‘Any Lennoxton pupil invited to meet with the headmaster or deputy headmaster in this room would be familiar with that experience.’ There are a few polite chuckles from the group.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Becky leads us inside. The room is rather less imposing than suggested; a large, Georgian style sitting room with a stone fireplace and high-backed chairs covered in tartan material. In the far corner a large table is set out with coffee and tea urns, as well as plates of scones, cakes, and shortbread.

‘Your first task,’ says Becky brightly, ‘is to help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee and a snack and relax.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I believe we are expecting a few more arrivals any minute now. As soon as they get here, we will take you all on a tour of the facilities before allocating you your rooms.’ She gives the group another glowing smile. ‘Are there any questions?’

For some reason I am beginning to find her rather annoying.

I sip my Lapsang Souchong and make small talk with the other students. It’s oddly disconcerting how normal this all feels, as if I was just attending a short break for indulged, artsy folk, instead of a determined investigation into my son’s death. I note that my fellow students range in age from late twenties to early sixties, and that by the make of their clothes, shoes, and luggage, are all solidly upper middle class. Even Marie-Claire and Julia, the two more studenty members of the group, still sport expensive waterproofs. As I drift in and out of polite conversation, I can’t help but wonder how I will manage the next five days. It was in secondary school over twenty years ago that I made my first and only attempt at writing poetry. That experience had been an unsuccessful and embarrassing one. The small group presently ensconced within the nineteenth-century walls of Lennoxton Academy appear to be committed, experienced – some are even published – and determined. I can only attribute one of those qualities to myself, and that has nothing to do with poetry.

There is a gentle knock and then the cathedral arch door is pushed open.

‘Ah,’ says Becky. ‘That must be our final two.’

A small, bird-like woman steps forward and smiles. She has bright pink hair and is wearing what can only be described as a tie-dye patchwork-type dress.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ she says in bright Geordie. ‘Accident on the B846.’

‘No problem,’ replies Becky politely, adding a tick to the sheet of paper on her clipboard. ‘Please help yourself to a drink and something to eat.’ The bird woman nods and makes her way towards the refreshment table. She is followed close behind by our final member. He is so tall he ducks to avoid hitting