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

sits the green file folder I started six years ago, a few weeks after Michael’s death. It contains police and coroner’s reports, photos, emails, handwritten notes and action plans, letters, newspaper clippings, research, spreadsheets, and even the weather forecast the night that Michael died. Was all this for nothing? The summer school ends tonight after Cardew’s lecture and I have nothing more concrete than I started with. I stare at my pale reflection in the mirror, slowly raise my fist, and begin pounding it against my head.

‘Idiot,’ I mutter, ‘loser,’ and from somewhere deep inside comes the word ‘sinner’.

I think of my brief sprint of activism while at university – I joined a protest group for human rights in Darfur, and followed the Italian human rights group ‘Non c’è Pace Senza Giustizia’ – No Peace Without Justice. I could never have imagined how deeply it would resonate with me fifteen years later.

I grab Michael’s diary and make my way to Desra McKinley’s office.

The door is open, and I find her sitting at her desk flipping through the proof copy of Carnation.

‘Kate,’ she says brightly, ‘how are you?’ I pause, uncertain how to step beyond that tainted threshold. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to speak to you.’

‘Of course.’ She moves towards the two-seater settee at the back of the room and sits down. ‘Come,’ she says, patting the cushion beside her, ‘sit.’

The diary is soft and sweaty in my hand. I step towards her.

‘Desra!’ I hear a voice behind me. I turn to see a middle-aged man, bearded, dishevelled, and carrying what looks like a ream of loose-leaf paper in his arms. ‘I’m having a bloody awful time with my notes.’

She gives a soft, girlish, giggle; nothing like the woman who has been teaching us for the last four days. ‘Oh Findlay, you are a sight.’ I feel as if I’ve stepped into an Alan Ayckbourn farce. ‘Kate,’ she says. ‘May I introduce you to Professor Findlay Cardew.’

I attempt a pleasant smile, but Professor Cardew is clearly not interested.

‘I can’t decide which is the best couplet,’ he says, stepping past me.

‘No need to worry,’ Desra purrs. ‘I’m sure they’re all wonderful.’

I dig my fingernails into the soft leather of the diary. There is a brief, intimate moment as she moves close to straighten his tie.

‘Professor Cardew?’ I turn to see the receptionist, Mrs Roe, standing in the doorway. ‘The reporter from the Perth Courier is here.’

If it’s possible for Cardew to look any more flustered, he does. ‘You must come, Desi,’ he pleads. ‘I need you.’

‘Sorry, Kate. Duty calls. Can this wait?’ Desra says, with a nonchalant air that tells me she doesn’t really care whether I say yes or no.

And before I can say another word, they are striding past me and out of the room.

Mrs Roe clears her throat. ‘I really must lock up,’ she says, indicating for me to leave. As I make my way down the hall, I see Turner approaching.

‘Everything all right?’

He gives that 100-watt smile. ‘Of course Mrs Hardy, I was just hoping to talk to Desra.’

I’m slightly surprised by his casual use of the teacher’s first name, but this is summer school after all, not term time, and maybe Lennoxton has a more casual approach to teacher-student relationships. I hope not.

‘She’s gone off somewhere with Professor Cardew.’ I study him closely. Gone is the bum fluff of a beard he was trying to grow, replaced by a cleanshaven face. He smells of aftershave and expensive cologne. I’m suddenly struck by the fact Michael requested a bottle of expensive eau de toilette for his fifteenth birthday, and try to push away the image of my son splashing Paco Rabanne on his smooth cheeks before meeting her.

I walk in silence to the Ishutin Building, my desperate mood clinging to me like a Highland mist. Why didn’t I stop them? Just a minute, Desra. Professor Cardew, I’d like to speak to Dr McKinley in private please. And why didn’t I ask Turner? Are you having a relationship with Dr McKinley? Did you know that even though you are over the age of consent for sexual activity, in the eyes of the law you are still considered vulnerable to sexual abuse and exploitation, and it’s my duty to report it?

Nothing. I did nothing. Self-loathing rages through me. I failed. I let Turner down, just like I let Michael down. My courage has evaporated and all that’s left is a deep, festering anger.

I make my way down the stairs and into the darkened theatre where my classmates are waiting. I take a seat in the far corner, in the shadows. My mind is scattered, unsettled. I need to regain my self-control. There’s the sound of a far door being opened, and then footsteps. Everyone turns to see Desra and Professor Cardew take their places on the stage. I feel my lips curl back in disgust.

‘Before we start,’ begins McKinley, ‘I want to introduce our guest of honour today: Professor Findlay Cardew.’ She turns and gazes reverently at the gentleman beside her. ‘Many of you know him as an esteemed Scottish poet and recipient of the Saltire Poetry Book Prize, but he is also delivering the final lecture in Lennoxton’s prestigious summer lecture series this evening, in this very auditorium.’

‘Whoopee!’ mutters Julia from behind me, which is followed almost immediately by a swift ‘Hush!’ from Marie-Claire.

For the next hour, Cardew regales us with anecdotes about his life as a ‘distinguished’ poet, after-dinner speaker and minor celebrity.

‘Shall we begin our feedback session?’ Desra eventually asks, interrupting Cardew’s account of his liaison with a Croatian glamour model.

The first reading is from Marvin and Roz: a touching piece about how their pets became a substitute for their much-yearned-for children. Caleb’s contribution is an extraordinary and highly structured piece about salvation. Sally follows with a hilarious poem about middle-aged libido; and, finally, it’s my turn.

I swallow hard and step onto the stage. I clear my throat and try to say the first