‘She was definitely making the moves,’ says Julia, topping up my glass of wine.
The three of us are sitting on the jetty, watching the crimson embers of the bonfire flicker and pop.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,’ says Marie-Claire with little conviction.
‘Oh, come on,’ snaps Julia. ‘She’s been making the moves on every good-looking piece of flesh, male or female, since the moment we got here.’
I feel that deep wrench in my gut but force myself to remain calm. ‘Did you not see the way she consoled Caleb after this morning’s session?’ continues Julia. ‘Interesting, too, how it was after she trashed his work?’ Julia’s face is pinched in disgust. ‘Honestly, she was all over him. And the way she fawns over that Turner boy.’
I want to reply, but my throat is tight. ‘I thought she only fancied blokes,’ continues Julia, and, turning to me, adds, ‘but after that play she made for you? Well now I’m not so sure.’
My mind is reeling. How had I not seen it before? Her ‘consoling’ Caleb, her ‘fawning over’ Turner?
‘She’s drunk,’ I reply, finally finding words. ‘We all are.’ I ignore Julia’s questioning look. If sucking up to McKinley means I can find out more about her and what she knows about that night, then so be it.
As if reading my mind, Julia says, ‘You just be careful. I get the impression that Desra doesn’t do anything without a reason, and a self-serving one at that.’
The clanging of the ship’s bell alerts us all to the end of the evening. We all head back to the boathouse for our final instructions.
‘Thank you all for a wonderful evening,’ says Desra. ‘It was a great opportunity to get to know you all a bit better.’
‘Which should have happened on day one,’ Julia grumbles next to me.
‘Now before you all head off, I’ve got an announcement – and a special surprise for you.’ The room quiets to a hush. ‘As you know, I met with my agent today and I’m pleased to confirm that my collection of poems will be published in both the UK and North America by Epiphany Press in the new year.’ A few members of the group began to offer their congratulations, but Desra raises a hand. ‘But the surprise I mentioned is to do with you, not me.’ She is so puffed up I’m surprised she doesn’t float away. ‘As you’re all aware, I’ve been a key player in the planning of the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series, the final event of which will take place this Friday. Poets, scholars, and poetry enthusiasts from all over the United Kingdom and Europe will be attending, and I’m delighted to say that I’ve arranged for the guest lecturer Professor Findlay Cardew to host a special poetry masterclass on Friday morning. As part of this masterclass you will also be reading your work to Professor Cardew for feedback.’ The group’s earlier excitement has now dimmed to a mixture of terror and awe. ‘Because of time limitations it will need to be a short piece of three to five minutes. Professor Cardew will then take a few minutes to give individual feedback.’ She presses both hands together as if in prayer. ‘This is an extraordinary opportunity to work with one of the best poets of a generation.’ Gazing around the room with a laughable attempt at gravitas, she adds, ‘Don’t waste it.’ There is a smattering of applause and a few whoops of excitement. ‘Now get to bed everyone. I’m sure tomorrow’s going to be another exciting day.’
‘Desra!’ Sally calls, her cheeks pink with excitement. ‘What’s it going to be called? Your collection of poems, what’s it going to be called?’
Desra gives the group a triumphant smile. ‘As it’s a collection focusing on innocence and experience via the natural world, I’ve decided to title the anthology after the central poem.’ She pauses to ensure that all eyes are on her. ‘It’s entitled Carnation.’
It’s as if all my senses, all my motor functions are slowly shutting down. My heart slows to a hibernation state. My brain, at first fired with supposition, now seems sluggish, unable to reason.
‘Carnation’ is the title of Michael’s poem. The one in his diary.
‘It also touches on themes of sexual obsession and forbidden love,’ Desra continues cheerfully.
I watch, frozen, as the tutor makes her way through the small throng, accepting congratulations and commendations with a false modesty that is sickening. As she grows closer, I find myself wanting to shove her back into the darkness where she belongs. Suddenly she is standing next to me.
‘Congratulations,’ I whisper. I force a smile, but in truth I feel shaky; sick. Desra squeezes my arm, smiles, and moves on. I take a deep breath and force back the bile. Everything is upended.
At least I know for certain now that Desra McKinley is Diving Fish.
33
I spend a sleepless night brooding over Desra’s announcements, of her publishing deal, her anthology, and her wonderful, wonderful life. How is it that her anthology, Carnation, has the same title as Michael’s poem? I glance to where Michael’s diary lies open on the bed next to me, to his own ‘Carnation’.
Moonlight lingers on
the pale abandon
of
your
skin.
I go through all the diary entries again and again to try and find some hint, some clue as to what this all means. There is only one answer. Desra McKinley stole Michael’s poetry, his innocence, and his life. I feel sick, but more than that I feel driven. Driven for truth, driven for justice, and driven for revenge.
I review Desra’s behaviour over the last few days: the toying with Caleb, her suggestiveness with me last night, and of course that bombshell from Julia about her flirting with the young Student Ambassador, Turner. Resentment burns in me like poison, sullying even the tiniest flavour of hope. Forcing
