The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

childhood teddies. It takes a few seconds for the screen to come to life, and then the flat nothingness is slowly consumed by a catalogue of small icons and images. Folders entitled Coursework, Music, CCleaner and File Manager emerge from the smoky blankness. There is a shortcut to Facebook, and at some point, Michael must have downloaded the Jack Wills summer catalogue. I move the cursor to the left side of the screen, to a small icon of an eagle in flight.

There are a few emails dated just before Michael’s death. One is from his best friend Joe, telling Michael about his upcoming holiday to Ibiza, and another is from someone I don’t recognise with the subject heading ‘Mental Strength in Sports’. I scroll down further, finding nothing of interest. I check his deleted items and then methodically begin going through his archive folder, which contains dozens of emails, including notices about training days, swimming competitions and tips from fellow swimmers including how to jack up those lame timings bro! I’m about to give up when I spot an email from someone called Lisachick. Who the hell is Lisachick?

Re: last night

Lisachick@gmail.com

Sent: Wed 27/05/2015

To: Michael Penrose

_________________________________________________

I SAW YOU AGAIN LAST NIGHT!

WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!

I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!!

The email was sent just before Michael’s death. I feel my head spinning. Was Lisachick Diving Fish? Had Michael been cheating on her? It seems to me that the more I discover, the less I know. What about the police? They had examined the laptop. Didn’t they find a hysterical email from someone wishing my son dead days before his actual death suspicious? Had they even bothered to question this Lisachick person? Why haven’t I heard about this before?

An entirely new line of investigation has opened up. For the first time in days I feel strong, determined, clear-headed. Something about having a focus – a mission – seems to have settled my nerves. I search through the Facebook alumni page from Michael’s year to see if I can find any record of a Lisachick.

After a frustrating hour, I concede defeat. Who is this woman? And what is her connection to Michael? There’s no doubt in my mind now that what happened to Michael at the lake that night wasn’t an accident – it wasn’t suicide, but something else; something I’m not ready to name yet. All I have to do now is prove it.

After a glass of Merlot, I feel able to tackle the book of condolence. The black leather smells nothing like the warm, buttery scent of Michael’s diary. Maybe it’s the silica gel pack, but it has an oddly toxic quality; like burning rubber. I race through the list of names, read them out loud, hoping for some definitive recognition: Thomas Davies. Astrid Strom. Sarah Thomas. Daniel Stacy. There is no record of anyone named Lisa, but on the final page, three quarters of the way down, I spot something just as important. Written in elegant looping handwriting is the name Siobhan Norris. Shivie, the Frisbee-playing student who Michael met on his first day at Edgecombe Hall. I can still recall the girl’s soft cheek against mine as she offered me her condolences at the funeral. Now that I know her surname, I’ll be able to find her.

I’m amazed by how much I can find out about Siobhan Norris on Instagram. I learn that the twenty-one-year-old has recently secured a job in the Human Resources department at Edgecombe Hall (she posted a photo of her contract!), bought her first car (a white Fiat 500), and is saving up for a trip to Australia (lots of images of beaches). I contemplate messaging her, but suspect that like a lot of Michael’s old classmates, she has moved on. The intrusion of an obsessed, grief-stricken, mentally unstable mother – because that is how I’m beginning to think people see me – won’t be the best approach. It could take days, even weeks, before Siobhan replies; if ever.

I check my watch. It’s too late to travel. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

I meet Grace the following morning, as promised, for another depressing visit to the hospital. Our silent mother mostly sleeps.

‘Is it just me,’ says Grace during lunch, ‘or does she seem to be getting worse?’

‘I had a word with the ward sister,’ I reply, picking at my baguette. The pale, plastic-looking chicken and wilted rocket is made even more unappealing by the café’s bright lighting. ‘It’s not so much that she’s getting worse, as that she’s not getting better.’ I push the sandwich aside. ‘With these kinds of strokes, any improvement will generally be seen within the first few weeks; the return of motor functions, speech.’ Grace nods in understanding. ‘After that, well …’

‘It’s off to the care home?’

‘It looks that way, but you never know.’

‘I wish she’d died.’

‘Grace!’

‘Tell me you don’t wish it too.’

I look up at my sister and just as quickly look away. ‘I just wish sometimes that things had been different.’

Grace reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘I love you, Kat.’ And, then glancing at her phone, she exclaims, ‘Bloody hell, look at the time!’

‘I’d better go too,’ I say, and without thinking, I add, ‘I need to get to Falmouth before five.’

‘Falmouth?’ Grace’s eyes narrow. ‘Why Falmouth?’

My mind whizzes, but I have grown so accustomed to lying that I don’t even blink.

‘Just some fundraising stuff for Michael’s scholarship,’ I say, dismissively. ‘I’m not sure if it will amount to anything, but it’s worth checking out.’

‘As long as it’s not too much for you,’ Grace says in a motherly tone. ‘I mean with Mum, Adam, the house and that bloody cat.’

‘Of course not,’ I reply brightly. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

I time it carefully, checking the estimated travel time to ensure I arrive just before office closing time. I drive on automatic, the countryside flashing past me like a fast-forwarded film. I stare straight ahead and focus on one place, one outcome.

The Edgecombe Hall estate just outside