My brain flares with sudden recall. I remove Michael’s diary from my suitcase, flipping the pages to one of his early, unfinished works.
Black in a coloured space
Darkness, eternal, unending
Darkness, eternal night
Soaks into my already wet heavy saturated skin
Soaks out of my saturated skin
puddles beneath spreading misery
A spectre across the sky.
Drowning light,
submerging shadow
engulfing/gorging on colour?? Murderer of light? Am I the murderer of light?
I begin to write.
The darkness is everywhere, shadows merging into shadows. It spreads across the room, out of the door into the fields, into the water and across the sky, drowning light, murdering calm, engulfing the colour all around me. It is a huge, hungry monster gorging itself on colour and light, never satisfied, always hungry.
The sound of a screeching gull catches my attention, and the moment is lost. I stare at the words in front of me. Part Michael’s, part my own, they seem to have transformed into something different, something new. I feel at once sad and elated. Michael is with me in ways I never could have imagined.
Just before seven, I decide to wander down to the loch. The old boathouse, now a comfortable meeting space, is decorated with brightly coloured bunting. Nearby, a rustic wooden jetty stretches twenty metres into the water. I wander along it over the loch, breathing in the beauty that surrounds me.
The sound of cheerful voices brings my attention back to the boathouse. As much as I want to be alone, I know that mixing in is integral to my plan to go unnoticed and gain Desra’s trust. I exhale deeply and make my way back along the jetty towards civilisation. It’s a warm evening and the doors are wide open. Inside is a study space with tables and, closer to the front, a communal meeting area with settees and cushioned benches laid out in a wide U shape, facing the loch. On the grass, a long table has been set up, covered by a large awning and with softly glowing chimineas at each end. A procession of citronella candles stand guard around the dining area in a futile attempt to keep the midges at bay. Nearby, the chef is busy stoking the barbecue and next to him a table is laden with salads, cold meats, and bread of every description. The smell of burning charcoal fills the air. I find a quiet spot, open my notebook and stare at the large, blank space in front of me.
‘I looked for you in the common room.’ Sally takes a seat beside me on the wooden bench.
‘I was struggling a bit, you know, feeling tired and—’
‘I wrote loads,’ she says, displaying three pages of work, most of which look suspiciously like completed poems. ‘Desra’s just so inspirational, isn’t she?’
I reply with a polite smile and then give a huge sigh of relief when I see Marie-Claire and Julia approaching.
‘We weren’t sure if you preferred red or white,’ says Julia, handing me a glass.
‘Wet is all that is required,’ I reply, taking a long, grateful sip.
We fill our plates with salad, homemade bread, and choose from a platter of grilled fish, chicken, and beef, before joining the rest of the group at the long table. There are a few snippets of conversation, praising the food, the fine weather, but mostly we eat. Becky, Malcolm, and another Student Ambassador, Nikki, a local beauty who is attending Lennoxton on a golfing scholarship, are on hand to ensure everything runs smoothly. Turner, we are told, has been given the night off to go to dinner with a visiting aunt.
Finally, when we have had our fill of freshly made cranachan and the meal is over, we make our way into the boathouse. To the left of the seating area a fire blazes in the open hearth. Any remaining bottles of wine and beer have been placed in a large plastic tub filled with ice. A smiling, red-cheeked Malcolm greets us.
‘Hello again,’ he says, taking a sip from a bottle of cider at his side. ‘I hope you have all had a pleasant first day at Lennoxton Summer School.’ There are general hums of approval. ‘Normally your tutor would lead an informal get-to-know-you session, but unfortunately Dr McKinley is in Edinburgh this evening at a poetry reading.’
‘How nice for her,’ mutters Julia. I turn to her in surprise. ‘Well come on,’ she whispers. ‘She’s being paid for this isn’t she? The least she could do is be here on the first night.’
I nod in agreement but say nothing. Evidently, I am not the only person who feels distinctly underwhelmed by Dr Desra McKinley.
‘While our lovely Becky did volunteer to facilitate the session,’ Malcolm gives an impish grin, ‘I suggested to her that you are all quite capable of doing so on your own. If agreeable, I would like to suggest that you spend the next hour or so introducing yourselves, enjoying another glass or two of wine, and helping yourselves to coffee and tea.’ He indicates towards a small kitchen area at the back of the boathouse. ‘Becky, Nikki and I will be in the room just next door preparing for tomorrow’s outdoor session. Even though the path from here to the boarding house is well lit, I would ask that none of you venture back on your own, at least until you’re more familiar with the grounds. As you can see we are close to the loch and I wouldn’t want any of you to lose your bearings and possibly end up going for a moonlight dip.’ There are a few giggles; someone, possibly Sally, yells out something about skinny dipping which Malcolm ignores. ‘We’ll be back at ten to escort you to your rooms, but should any of you wish to return earlier, please just pop your head in next door and we’ll be happy to take you back whenever you wish. Relax, get to know each other and I
