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

‘Why do you want to see it?’ Sitting up straight, I add, ‘It’s private. It’s Michael’s.’

Adam has gone very still. ‘I just want to help you, Kate,’ he says. ‘Help you to move on.’ He’s always talking about moving on when I know all he really wants is for me to forget – toss Michael aside like some old photograph, like the laptop hidden away in the loft and the clothes he made me pass on to the charity shop. ‘Just give me the diary. I’ll put it somewhere safe.’

From deep inside I feel the rumblings of rebellion. ‘No.’

For a few seconds there is silence: only the tick of the mantel clock and the beating of my heart. I see Adam’s left eye twitch.

‘What do you mean no?’ His voice sounds as if it’s coming from deep underground, slowly thundering its way through the dirt.

‘I mean no.’ I can see his chest rising and falling; hear anger in his every breath. For some reason it only makes me more determined. ‘You cannot see it; you cannot have it; you cannot take it.’ I think that I’ve gone completely mad. The events of the last week, including finding the rucksack and the information from Siobhan, have driven me over the edge, and my defiance reflects it. I can’t imagine what Adam is making of it all, but I have never felt so exhilarated in all my life.

‘Kate.’

‘You can’t have it.’ I’m standing now, slowly trying to edge my way towards the stairs. If necessary, I will run up and barricade myself in the bedroom. ‘It’s my son’s diary. Probably one of the last things he ever touched. I’m keeping it.’

‘Jesus Christ, Kate!’ Adam’s outburst, the ferocity of it, sends me stumbling backwards onto the chair. He’s on top of me now, his hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me. ‘Give me the diary!’ I see his eyes shift to the upstairs landing.

‘No!’ I scream and breaking free of his grip run towards the stairs. Positioning myself on the bottom step, I block his way. ‘Get out!’

‘For God’s sake, Kate,’ he yells, his face an unappealing shade of red. ‘Don’t you know that I’m only trying to help you? Trying to save you from yourself?’ I have never seen him like this before.

There is a knock at the door and a soft voice follows.

‘Katie, are you all right?’

It’s Doris. Thank God. I feel relief flood through me. I turn to Adam.

‘Get out,’ I repeat, and with every ounce of strength I possess, take a step towards him. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’

I sit at the kitchen table clutching the balled-up tissues in my tightly clenched fists. Occasionally, I release my grip to dab at my eyes or runny nose. Doris hands me a cup of tea and, finding a spare foldaway chair, sits down next to me.

‘I was just putting my recycling in the green bin when I heard yelling.’ She takes a sip of tea and I can see that her hands are shaking.

‘I’m sorry, Doris.’ I desperately want to join her in a sip of tea, but don’t think I will be able to swallow. ‘Things got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’

Doris nods and reaching across the table takes my hand. ‘Did he hurt you?’

I shake my head. In the past there have been occasional bruises where he has grabbed my wrists in frustration, but there’s no way I can tell Doris any of this – I’m embarrassed enough.

‘Oh, my love,’ she says, and as if reading my mind, adds, ‘You’ve not had an easy time of it, have you?’ We sit for a while in the kitchen’s soft neon glow, not speaking. Finally, she says, ‘What are you going to do now?’

I shrug. ‘I’m really not sure.’ I don’t realise I’ve started crying again until I see my tears softly plopping into my teacup. ‘It’s not been the same, you know … since Michael.’ Doris nods in understanding. ‘Maybe it never really was that good.’ I could confide in Doris about Michael’s diary entry describing his stepfather as threats-behind-closed-doors Adam, but that would be unfair. It’s a burden no one else should have to shoulder.

Doris pats my hand. ‘You know you always have my support, no matter what.’ I lean across and give her a hug, wishing, as I so often had done when I was younger, that she were my real mother.

13

I spend most of Friday morning in bed ignoring the barrage of phone calls and texts from Adam:

Kate, I’m sorry about last night. I got carried away. I was just so worried.

Kate, we need to talk. Last night was a mistake, I overreacted.

Kate, please come home. Let me make it up to you.

Kate, I’m concerned you’ll become unwell again. Let me help you.

There’s a long voicemail pleading for forgiveness, justifying his behaviour, saying it was just the worry of it all. Hadn’t he looked after me all these years? Didn’t I believe he had my best interests at heart? By midday, my head is spinning, my resolve weakening. With everything that’s going on, I’m not sure if I have the resilience to deal with a marriage break-up as well. It’s not just the emotional impact of separating, but the financial implications. The house, the cars, the credit cards – most are in Adam’s name. My bank account contains less than a thousand pounds; certainly not enough to start afresh. I’ve also had to take unpaid leave while Mum is in hospital – it’s not like my salary was enough to live on anyway – and I will need his financial support if I’m to continue my investigation.

The thought of being financially vulnerable strikes a deep chord. After my father left us there was little money. Though not common for Brethren women, my mother took a job as a secretary for another member – a farmer. She did accounts, admin and arranged deliveries.