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

the warmth of two bodies taking up positions on either side of me.

‘Mon dieu,’ whispers Marie-Claire.

‘This is karma in a very big way,’ adds Julia.

It takes at least a half hour before the headmaster can calm Becky down. By that time she has already made a call to her father, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and her corporate lawyer mother in Upstate New York. Desra, meanwhile, has been ordered to the headmaster’s office – ‘The Crucible’ – where the Board of Governors is waiting.

‘And where the offence is,’ I whisper, watching as Desra, accompanied by a stern-looking Simpson, leaves the foyer, ‘let the great axe fall.’

41

High drama dissolves into banality as broken glass is swept up, explanations are attempted, and the one hundred and fifty guests creep away, as if they in some way were responsible for the discomfiture of the evening.

The summer school students stunned and adrenaline-filled, escape to the boathouse with pilfered bottles of booze, where we drunkenly dissect the events of the evening.

‘You don’t believe she did it, do you?’ asks Sally, her eyes pink.

‘It’s probably best not to comment until it’s looked into properly,’ replies Dave, with his usual compassion.

‘Where are Marvin and Roz?’ asks Caleb, passing a large bag of crisps to the group.

‘Packing,’ Sally replies, blowing her nose. ‘They said they’ll not stay another moment more in this den of iniquity.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ says a subdued Julia. ‘The broken glass, that poor boy toppling over the table, and the j’accuse drama of it all.’ She drains her tumbler. ‘If it wasn’t so tragic it could almost be funny.’

‘So, you do think she did it?’ says Sally, no longer bothering to hold back her tears.

‘Yes,’ Julia replies, and glancing my way adds, ‘and worse.’

I remain silent. I know the full extent of Desra McKinley’s wickedness, and I can only hope that at this very moment the Scottish police are escorting her to a holding cell.

The group break up a few minutes later, retiring to their rooms and their own uncomfortable thoughts about the evening.

‘Do you want to be alone?’ asks Caleb when we stop at my door.

‘No,’ I reply, and taking his hand I lead him inside.

In the pandemonium that followed Becky’s dramatic accusation, I forgot to distribute the envelopes. By the time I remembered, Desra was already in her meeting with the headmaster and the Board of Governors, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging prominently on the office door and Mrs Roe standing guard nearby.

I wait until Caleb is gently snoring before getting dressed and tiptoeing out of the room. A full moon illuminates the path and I find myself glad to be alone.

I enter the keycode for the reception area and ring the bell for the night porter.

‘It’s important that the headmaster and the Board of Governors receive these first thing tomorrow.’ The porter, a gentle middle-aged man named Paulo, nods an acknowledgement. ‘It’s to do with what happened this evening.’

Tomorrow morning, I will speak to the headmaster in person, then travel to the nearest police station and to the Perth Courier, where I will drop off an additional brown envelope each.

‘Evidence,’ I whisper, as I follow the path to the boathouse, ‘of that woman’s deeper crimes.’

I stroll along the jetty, the small solar lights casting a soft glow on the weatherworn timber. Now that the awful truth about Desra McKinley has been revealed, I will ensure all the evidence is presented appropriately and clearly, then go home, wherever that may be. Maybe back to Cornwall, maybe not. I hear the soft tip-tap of high heels on wood. I turn. Desra McKinley is standing just a few feet away.

‘Kate bloody Hardy.’ She sways slightly, and I think she may topple into the water.

‘Desra.’

She stumbles forward and now I can see that she has a whisky glass in her hand.

‘So, I couldn’t figure it out really,’ she says, her words garbled. ‘This persistent feeling that we had met.’ The clouds above shift, and slivers of moonlight ignite the loch. I can see that her dress is torn. Her hair is dishevelled and there are large streaks of mascara on her cheeks. I think of Jane Eyre’s woman in the attic. She gives a deep chuckle, drains her glass and then, cocking her arm, throws it far into the lake.

‘I should go.’

‘No, no, no,’ says Desra, moving closer. ‘Why would you want to leave? I expect you’ve been waiting for this moment for years.’

‘Let me by.’

‘So, the thing is,’ she continues. ‘I was happy to accept the fact that you were from Devon was just an unpleasant coincidence.’ I find myself slowly backing away towards the end of the jetty. ‘But that poem – and your reference to Diving Fish.’ She closes her eyes and raises her face to the night sky. ‘Moonlight lingers on the pale abandon of your skin.’ I feel my knees weaken. ‘He read that to me you know.’ Desra is smiling: a wide, demented grin that exposes two prominent incisors. ‘After the first time we fucked, he read that to me.’

‘Michael,’ I whisper. ‘His name was Michael.’

‘Michael.’ The way she says it makes it sound dirty.

‘Why did you do it?’

At last I have said the words that have polluted my mind for so long.

She feigns an innocent look. ‘Do what?’

‘Let him go into the water that night. You knew he was drunk. Why did you let him go swimming on his own?’

She gives an indifferent shrug, and not for the first time I understand what it feels like to genuinely want to kill someone.

‘I had to be somewhere.’ She laughs, an eerie high-pitched cackle that shatters the midnight calm. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kate,’ she says, and hands on hips in a universal gesture of defiance, adds, ‘I wasn’t his fucking mother.’

I have been right all along. My darling, trusting boy was betrayed in the most horrendous and evil way imaginable.

‘And the travel sickness pills?’

‘What about them?’

‘You gave him some the night he