In a moment of unconscious compassion – I’m a mother too after all – I lay my hand on his. ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you, Alistair.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ He pulls his hand away so fiercely that I nearly lose my balance and topple backwards. He grabs my wrist to steady me, and the simple act of kindness, of care, seems to drain him of all anger. He begins to cry. My heart breaks. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave it all alone?’
‘Leave it all alone?’ I take a few steps to the window. On the bedside table is a tidy arc of framed photographs. I lean forward to study them more closely. ‘I only found out a few months ago myself, about Michael and Desra.’ There is an image of Alistair as a youngster with his parents, and someone who I assume is an older sister; pale like her brother and with the same bright auburn hair.
‘Your sister?’ I ask, pointing to the photograph. He gives a curt nod. ‘They must be proud of you winning a scholarship and coming all this way to study.’
‘My sister thinks it’s cool that I’m studying at the same uni Prince William did, but my parents …’ he trails off and looks as if he’s going to cry again.
‘They didn’t want you to come?’
He doesn’t reply but the look on his face says it all. I wonder if they had any inkling that their son was coming to study in Scotland so he could be near Desra. Once again I am reminded of the enduring damage that woman has left in her wake. I return my attention to the photos, to the flame-haired sister, now grown up, married, and standing with her husband in front of a baptismal font holding a baby dressed in a cream gown with pale blue piping.
‘Your nephew?’ Alistair nods. I place my hand on the bedframe for support. ‘I want you to come with me to the St Andrews police station. To report Desra McKinley for the historic grooming and sexual exploitation of minors.’ The time to play it safe has long since passed. I return my gaze to the image of the sleeping baby at the font, run my fingertips across the ornate frame. ‘Would you want him to have to go through something like that?’
Alistair’s complexion turns crimson.
‘How fucking dare you!’ he roars. I find myself cowering against the wall. ‘You come here, out of nowhere, to emotionally blackmail me!’ He’s in front of me, his large frame looming. ‘I’m doing a work placement next summer with a top firm in Japan. How do you think it would look if I’m involved in some sort of sex scandal? How do you think it would affect my career?’
My mouth drops open. ‘Your career? Innocent people have died, more are at risk, and all you can think about is your career?’
Alistair steps back as if struck. Stumbling towards the desk he grabs the bottle of Jack Daniels from the gift bag, then two shot glasses from the shelf above. He cracks open the bottle and pours two shots. He downs one and places the other on the desk. ‘Drink it,’ he snarls, ‘and then get out.’
36
It is dusk by the time I reach the stag-framed gates of Lennoxton. I have spent most of the afternoon sitting in an anonymous car park, overlooking an anonymous beach, sipping endless cups of lukewarm coffee. With no Alistair, there is no concrete proof. With no concrete proof, there is no conviction. With no conviction, there is Desra with a publishing deal, a possible teaching post at a prestigious private school in Rhode Island, and a catalogue of discarded innocents behind her with no avenue to justice or recompense. Michael is just dust – collateral in Desra’s relentless rise to glory. The truth is like a dart in my vein, spreading poison to every tributary, accruing in my heart.
I fake my way through dinner, but I can only manage the final night’s celebrations with wine, wine, and more wine. As the group moves outside for a singsong by the bonfire, I escape to my room. The dormitory is silent and unpeopled. I sneak into Julia and Marie-Claire’s room and slip the bottle of vodka from the desk drawer where I know Julia keeps it. In a moment of despair and disgrace, I search through the lining of my bag for a blue pill. With a gasp of relief I find one, nestled in amongst old shopping receipts and a lost stamp. I gulp it down with a slug of vodka and retreat under the bedcovers. Later, when I hear a knock on my door and Marie-Claire’s worried voice, I turn my face to the wall.
I sleep badly, dreaming I am walking hand in hand along a forest path with Michael. Water oozes from his every pore, trickles down his body and pools at his feet. He opens his mouth to speak but something blocks his breath. I reach into his mouth, past his blackened tongue and deep into his throat. I feel something thin and slimy. It squirms beneath my fingertips. I pull it free and fling it to the ground. An eel. Its greasy body swivels and squirms as it wraps itself around my feet. Grabbing a large stone, I pound it against the creature’s head, smashing its tiny bulb-like eyes into oblivion. Slowly the creature transforms into something different; something human. When I look closer, I see Desra McKinley’s ruined face on the ground in front of me.
I wake bathed in sweat, with a terrifying sense of the walls closing in. Throwing on my clothes, I race from the dormitory and into the night.
Moonlight has transformed the loch into an undulating silvery blanket. A breeze blows in from the east, drying the perspiration that dots my forehead. Open water had once been my salvation: a place where I
