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

publication from a UK university – is drab and uninspiring. The second, a more artfully put-together prospect, has a glossy cover and a sticker on the front that reads:

Shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award for English-language Poetry

It is a Canadian publisher, which I assume means it was written during Desra’s five-year sojourn at Lakeview College in Canada. What occurred, I wonder, to take her from the highest echelons of Canadian society to this prominent but backwater Scottish prep school?

‘You messed up, didn’t you, Desra?’ I mutter, as I trawl through the tutor’s in-tray. I freeze when I see an A5 envelope with a return address that reads Epiphany Publishing, and with a note in the bottom right-hand corner that reads copies x 1. Inside is a galley proof of McKinley’s newest anthology, Carnation. The thick, unrefined paper cover is a muted cardboard grey. There is a simple, uncompleted drawing of a carnation, and within that outline another image of two figures, male and female, their bodies entwined. I flip through the pages, still marked in red pen, to the title poem.

        Moonlight lingers on

                              the pale abandon

                                          of

                                          your

                                                            Skin.

My heart is beating so fast I have to sit down on the edge of the desk. The first line of the poem is set out exactly as Michael had done it, word for word. ‘Bitch!’

I carefully work my way through the remaining pages, when all I really want to do is tear them into shreds and hurl them into the loch. I think of Lisa, of the poor broken girl whose life was ruined by exploitation and abuse, whose future was over even before it had started. I drop the proof copy on the desk, where it lands with a soft thud. There follows a soft jangle of metal. I look down to see the keys to the top drawer of Desra’s desk gently swinging back and forth.

The first thing I spot in the drawer are pages of job descriptions from American private schools, clearly printed off from their websites. Parts of the personal specifications have been highlighted, and there are handwritten notes: use example from the teaching conference at Lakeview!. There is also an email from a school in Rhode Island inviting Desra to attend an online interview a few weeks before. Scribbled on the page are preparatory notes for her interview – make sure to mention work on the lecture series, and particularly with Cardew – and tick marks or happy faces next to her planned responses suggesting she had answered the question successfully.

‘On the move already are we, Desra?’

I riffle through the paperwork, school newsletters and staff rotas, before finding an A4 leather document folder. I gently ease it out of the drawer and unzip it. Inside, there are newspaper clippings from Desra’s time at Edgecombe Hall, including an event she hosted for National Poetry Day, and a short interview with her in the Swimming Times, where she talked about how the arts have real value in sports education. I also find a photograph from a school swimming gala at Edgecombe Hall. I am becoming increasingly impervious to shock, but the image still drains the colour from my cheeks. In the photograph are Michael and Lisa. Both are in their swimwear. In the middle stands Desra, her arms linked through theirs. I contemplate tearing the image to pieces, but taking it would give the game away, and I won’t do that yet.

I’m carefully returning the contents to the folder when I see something poking out from one of the side pockets. I slip my hand in amongst the soft calfskin and remove the final item. Another photograph. It’s of Desra with a handsome, auburn-haired boy about Michael’s age when he died. It’s clearly been taken at a swimming competition, because he’s wearing a Speedo and has a medal around his neck. It’s not at Edgecombe, though, and I don’t recognise him from the countless swimming events I attended over the years. His proudly smiling face and bare chest are dotted with freckles. She is standing next to him, a hand on his shoulder. I turn it over. On the back is written a single name. Alistair. Was Alistair another Edgecombe student taken in by Desra?

I turn the photo back over and study it closely. On the wall behind the boy is a banner. There is an image of a swimmer and above that a maple leaf. I strain to read the lettering below.

Swimming Canada – Junior Championships – Parc Olympique – Montréal

I strain further to read the date and my breathing stills, almost stops. This picture was taken three years after Michael’s death. Three years after Desra’s involvement with Lisa. God help me; was this poor boy another one of her victims?

I take my mobile from my back pocket and photograph the image front and back, as well as the one of Michael and Lisa, then return all the items to the folder before carefully putting it back in its hiding place in the drawer.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Iris.’ I turn to see the cleaner standing in the hallway outside the door. Feeling guilty, I grab the anthology from the desk, slip it back into its envelope and return it to McKinley’s in-tray. ‘I couldn’t resist a little peek,’ I say sheepishly.

‘Crap isn’t it?’ she replies, holding her hand out for the keys.

34

I spend the next few hours restless and uncertain. Confirming that Desra has plagiarised Michael’s work, and most likely has manipulated a third young person, corroborates my suspicions in the worst possible way. If this immoral woman would steal a dead boy’s poem, or abuse a young person and then write about it, then what else is she capable of? It’s a good thing she’s in Edinburgh or I would take that damn anthology, march into that damn theatre, and, in front of everyone, shove it in her pinched little face, exposing her as a liar, a thief and paedophile.

But what good would that do? I need proof, and, if