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

My heart is racing, my armpits damp. Resting my back against the side of the wardrobe, I lift the diary to my face and take in the rich smell of it; press my lips against the soft, cool leather.

‘Now, my darling boy,’ I whisper. ‘Tell me what really happened that night.’

5

15 September 2014 – Exmouth to Edgecombe

I stare out of the car window, letting Mum’s voice float around me. For some crazy reason she’s telling me about basking sharks, how even as late as September they can be seen off the coast. She’s talking too much, worried about my going to some posh prep school in deepest, darkest Cornwall, but there you go. A so-so swimmer with an arsehole for a stepfather – what better way to get rid of me than to arrange a scholarship? I mean I’m good, but Edgecombe good? I still wonder if my dear old stepfather pulled a few strings; made a few phone calls to one of his old boys to get me out of the house; out of his way. What an arsehole!

I let Mum’s voice fade, and instead focus on the hum of the motorway. It’s only when we cross over the bridge into Cornwall that I sort of come back to life. Mum opens the window a crack, letting the breeze drift in. Maybe it’s the sea air, or crossing into Cornwall, but suddenly she looks happy.

I feel as if history is forcing its way back into me, as if Michael is beside me now, his shoulder against mine.

My mobile goes off; a deep, bass rhythm thumping its way through the silence.

‘Hi, darling.’ I force myself to sound chirpy. ‘Yes, home safe and sound. Just sorting out a few things for Mum.’ I press my blazing cheek against the cool leather of the diary. ‘I stopped for a bit of shopping – you know, nothing in the house as usual.’ The moment where I could and should tell Adam about the diary passes, and suddenly I am spiralling towards deceit. ‘I’m just about to have something to eat. Can I ring you back a little later?’

It’s surprising how easy it is to make something up. All I really want is to get back to the diary.

15 September 2014 – Cornwall

Mum glances over at me, knows I have a question. We’ve always been pretty close. Sometimes I think we can read each other’s minds. Then Adam came along, fucking threats-behind-closed-doors Adam. Even though I’m a bit nervous about starting at a new school, leaving Adam behind will be one big plus! Only a mile to the turnoff so I’d better act quick, I take a breath and ask Mum if we can stop and see Gran on the way. The car jostles. I’m not sure if it’s a gust of wind or my asking. She goes on about it being a bit late to stop and all, not wanting me to be late for the welcome barbecue at Edgecombe. It’s a barbecue for fuck’s sake! There’s the silent tick of her deliberation; she’s playing the game, but I know she’ll give in. When I tell her I’ve already spoken to Gran about stopping, her head snaps to the left to look at me. I see her lips thin in that way that says she’s really pissed. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t feel bad either. Whatever issues Mum has with Gran, they’re not mine.

The room feels hot, suffocating; I can’t breathe. I stumble downstairs and somehow manage to pull on my shoes.

When the panic finally clears, I find myself standing by the river watching the sun being absorbed by the water like smoke into a vacuum. I walk for a long time, comforted by the steady huff of my breathing, the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Time seems to still, my worries ebb. I return home, pour myself another glass of wine and go upstairs to telephone Adam. He answers after the first ring.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ He sounds furious. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’ve left about six voicemails.’

‘I just went for a walk. I was—’

‘A walk, at this time of night?’

‘Honey, it’s still light.’

‘What if you fell over, hurt yourself?’

‘It was the river path. There were loads of people.’

I hear his deep exhalation and his voice softens. ‘Have you heard any more from Grace?’

‘She’s coming down on Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday. Why not tomorrow?’

‘Simon’s away and there’s school cover to think about.’

‘How long is she staying for?’

‘A couple of nights.’

‘A couple of nights!’

A can feel my chest tightening. This is not how I want it. ‘She needs to get back, Adam. Ellie’s got GCSEs and she’s struggling—’

‘Can’t Simon deal with it?’

‘Grace seemed pretty stressed. I’m not sure how good things are at home.’

‘Things are pretty bad here, too.’

‘Adam, I can handle it – and Ellie needs her mother.’

‘Will she be coming back,’ Adam’s voice is thick with censure, ‘to take some of the weight off your shoulders?’ His relentless line of questioning is making me anxious. I don’t want to talk about Grace, Ellie or my mother. I want to talk about the colour of the evening sky as I wandered along the river path; the splash of trout; otter tracks in the mud.

There is a pause, and his voice deepens. ‘Where are you sleeping?’

‘In the spare room.’

‘Michael’s old bedroom?’

‘It’s a guest bedroom, Adam.’ I take a large sip of wine, debating what to say next, and then, before I can stop myself – ‘There’s really nothing to worry about. It’s just used for storage now.’ I briefly consider confessing, telling him about the diary, but things have gone too far. I have descended into darkness.

‘Well I’m glad you’re handling everything so well.’

I give a rueful smile, slip the diary out from under my pillow where I hid it, and, without thinking, utter a phrase my mother was renowned for. ‘Well, needs must.’

And I lift the wine glass to my lips.

6

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