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

will empty my glass, tip back my head and laugh. I won’t stop laughing until the dark blot that is Desra McKinley is nothing more than a tiny black spot on the carpet that can be swept away and forgotten.

My crimson smile twists itself into a grimace of doubt. For that fantasy to come true, I should have gone to the police yesterday immediately after my meeting with Alistair. What’s stopping me? Why haven’t I been more determined?

I was never one for confrontation, never brave enough to make a scene. That was Grace’s gift. I gained my ground in more surreptitious ways. When I was nine, I was bullied by a classmate. The name-calling, pinching and general torment went on for weeks. I bore it bravely, stoically, until one day, fed up with the abuse, I waited until I was alone on the stairwell with my tormentor. When no one was looking, I threw myself down the steps, claiming to have been pushed. Terrified of the bad publicity that would come with an accusation of religious intolerance, the bully was expelled. I didn’t mind the fractured wrist. It was worth it.

Now though, sitting on the bed, the brown envelopes beside me, I wonder again if there really is enough evidence to convict that vile woman.

‘Sorry, Alistair,’ I whisper, knowing full well that once all is revealed, he will be forced to speak to the police.

I politely decline the invitation from Marie-Claire and Julia to join them for a drink before the event. When Caleb knocks and enters at half-past six, I have been sitting on the bed staring at the wall for nearly half an hour.

‘Kate?’

He looks handsome in his pale linen suit and tie. His fair hair is slicked back and his tanned skin glowing. He sits down on the bed beside me. ‘Kate, what’s wrong?’ The concern in his voice is poignant.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Don’t want to go to the lecture?’ he asks.

I turn to him and counterfeit my brightest smile. ‘Of course I do. I wouldn’t miss this evening for the world.’

40

A sizeable crowd has already gathered outside the Ishutin Building. Inside, in a corner near the bar, a table and two chairs have been set up. Piles of Findlay Cardew’s most recent poetry collection are stacked on the table, and next to that, a smaller pile of McKinley’s Canadian anthology, along with a poster advertising Carnation: to be released by Epiphany Press in the autumn.

‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Caleb. He places his arm around my waist and gently leads me to where Becky is stationed.

‘Mrs Hardy,’ she says, holding out her tray. Caleb takes two glasses and hands one to me. I down it almost immediately. I watch as Becky scans the room, eyes finally settling on the handsome young man in a tartan waistcoat who is also distributing drinks to the crowd. Turner.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask. There is a slightly wild look on her face and her unfocused expression suggests that she has been sampling the merchandise. She opens her mouth to reply when a sudden hush descends upon the room. From outside, the slow wail of a bagpipe commences, the sound growing louder as the piper mounts the steps and emerges into the foyer. Cardew, clad in full Highland dress, enters, accompanied by Desra McKinley. She’s wearing what can only be described as a silk tango dress. As she strides confidently into the room, the pipe music stops, replaced by applause and hoots of appreciation. Smiling in delight, Desra does a dramatic swirl, finishing with a kick that exposes the dress’s blood-red satin lining. With its strapless back and dramatic side slit, the outfit accentuates every curve of the lecturer’s petite frame. She has clearly spent a lot of effort with her hair, slicking it back into shiny curls, and her makeup is flawless.

‘She looks stunning.’

I turn to see Julia’s normally critical disposition replaced by one of open admiration.

‘Down girl,’ chuckles Marie-Claire.

‘She looks so different,’ says Caleb, and I can tell that even he is entranced. Turner steps forward with his tray, offering drinks to both poets. McKinley takes a small sip, and then, placing a hand on Turner’s arm, leans forward and whispers into his ear. There is a clink of crystal, and I turn to see Becky desperately attempting to steady her tray.

‘Careful!’ cries the catering manager, who stops to give her a talking to. The music recommences as the piper leads Cardew and McKinley into the auditorium, followed closely behind by the headmaster, the Very Reverend Simpson, and the eleven members of the Board of Governors.

Once everyone is seated, the headmaster takes the stage.

‘Good evening everyone,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the final event in the highly successful summer lecture series hosted at Lennoxton Academy.’ He goes on to explain the history of the school and their decision to host the series, ending his introduction with the words, ‘But I can’t take the credit for the conception and, indeed, delivery of what I hope will be an annual event.’ He indicates to where Desra is seated. ‘It’s all down to Dr Desra McKinley, a sports performance expert who has coached a number of Olympic hopefuls, and as if that isn’t enough, is also an internationally recognised poet. Dr McKinley has worked tirelessly to make this series a success. Therefore, and without further ado,’ he continues, ‘I would like to ask Dr McKinley to introduce our guest speaker, Professor Findlay Cardew.’

A wave of applause floods the theatre and both McKinley and Cardew stand and make their way to the two leather chairs that sit centre stage.

The lecture and subsequent Q&A session seem to go on for hours. All I can think about is the bag under my seat with the thirteen brown envelopes. Three rows ahead of me sits the headmaster and eleven governors, all dressed in their academic robes.

The Q&A finally finishes – now is the moment to hand them the evidence. ‘There’s something inside that is of the