Caleb walks out of the water and sits on the sand. A cool breeze blows in from the loch and I find myself sitting down beside him.
‘Have you always been afraid of the water?’
‘No. Just the last few years.’
‘Something happened?’
I nod and look away. ‘My son, Michael.’ The words cling in my throat. ‘Six years ago.’
Caleb takes my hand in his. We hear splashing and I look up to see the water silver and frothing.
‘A shoal of stickleback,’ Caleb explains, seeing the confusion on my face. ‘Trying to escape from predators. Pike I reckon, maybe carp. The fish tend to come up to the surface like that in a panic before diving down again.’
Diving Fish.
‘We’d better get back,’ I say, removing my hand from his. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
We arrive to hear Desra addressing the group.
‘An important part of this course is ensuring that you have the time to write,’ she says, ‘so I’m wrapping things up early today.’ She reaches into her bag and puts on a slick of lip gloss. ‘Final drafts for your readings are due in tomorrow lunchtime at the latest. I would suggest you spend the rest of the afternoon working on that, and maybe even arrange a group critique session. I’ll have a clinic this evening in the boathouse for anyone who wants feedback, but for now,’ she says, her cheeks creasing in a self-satisfied smile, ‘I’m off to meet with Professor Cardew.’ With a final smack of her lips, she leaves.
The rest of us disperse slowly. I make my way out of the building, watching as Desra climbs into the passenger seat of the school transport, a shiny Mercedes people carrier driven by Turner.
Julia, Marie-Claire and I exchange looks and then glance towards Becky, who waves determinedly as the car drives away. The schoolgirl looks momentarily troubled, and then, almost as quickly, her expression returns to one of cheery professionalism.
‘Just a reminder, everyone,’ she calls. ‘Picnic lunch by the loch. If you’ll all follow me …’
‘Is Turner old enough to drive?’ Julia asks.
Becky turns. ‘Of course,’ she replies brightly. ‘He’s nearly eighteen.’
‘What I really meant was safe to drive,’ says Julia under her breath, ‘with her in the car.’
I’m not sure if Becky has heard, but her demeanour seems to change. She stands straighter, flicks back her ponytail, and marches onwards with a firm ‘Come along now everyone.’
‘I’ll join you a little later,’ I say to Julia and Marie-Claire. ‘I have to phone my sister.’
I wait until the others have made their way towards the loch before taking the cobbled path towards the quadrangle. The Rep, I have discovered, has a rear entrance facing the woods that is not overseen. I enter the generic passcode and the door opens with a soft click. Once inside, I make my way along the narrow corridor. The offices are interspersed with study areas, labs and small classrooms arranged in subject order. I pass an office with a skeleton on a stand and a large fish tank, then find myself glancing into the map-lined office of the head of Geography, before finally reaching the PE department. There is a teaching room plastered with posters of sports stars urging viewers to Just do it! Beyond that is a dark wooden door with a brass plaque that reads:
Dr Desra McKinley PhD, Head of Sports Performance
The door is locked.
I’m just wondering what to do next when I hear the hum of a hoover. Making my way down the corridor, I find the cleaner doing her rounds. A plastic badge on her lapel reads ‘IRIS’. She gives me a friendly nod.
‘I’m normally long gone by this time,’ she grumbles. ‘But there was a governors’ meeting this morning.’ She shakes her head. ‘Who’d have thought they could make such a mess with a few shortbread rounds and a couple of flasks of tea?’
Struggling to decipher her thick Highland brogue, I nod in sympathy. I reach into my shoulder bag and remove a small book of poetry I brought from home.
‘I’m sorry to bother you when you’re so busy, Iris,’ I bend down to retrieve a sweet wrapper that has fallen from the wastepaper basket she is emptying, ‘but I promised Dr McKinley I would return this book I borrowed to her office before the end of the day.’
Iris gives me a sharp look. ‘You don’t want that hen cross with you,’ she mutters, and, sighing, glances up at the clock on the wall.
‘If it’s any help I’ll do it myself. I mean I can see how busy you are,’ I say. ‘I’ll just be a second.’
Iris deliberates for a moment before unclipping the large keyring from her belt. ‘It’s the one with the square top,’ she says, handing me her keys. ‘Just bring them back when you’re done. No need to lock up as I’ll be along soon.’
I give my thanks and hurry along the corridor to Desra’s office. The key slips into the lock without hesitation, and the door opens smoothly and silently. The room is long and narrow, with a built-in desk and shelving unit along the right wall and free-standing bookshelves along the left. At the far end is a narrow window permitting a thin shaft of sunlight. Below the window is a small two-seater settee: the only place for students to sit. I wonder if Desra eschewed the sturdy desk chair in favour of more pleasurable contact with her students on the settee.
I give myself an inward shake. There isn’t time for this. Iris will be expecting her keys back any minute now. I glance around the office trying to take everything in. On the desk sits an Apple Mac, a small printer and a desk tidy with pens, paperclips, and push pins. To the left of the computer is a large leather day-by-day diary opened to today’s date. On the shelf above are two handcrafted mahogany bookstands, both displaying thin volumes of poetry. The first – an in-house
