‘Where are you, you bitch!’
Desra rubs her injured eyes, and then begins swimming blindly towards me. ‘When I find you, I am going to kill you!’ Desra’s fury has imbued her with a renewed energy and she is moving fast. Her vision will clear any second. ‘I know you’re there, Kate. If you think for one minute you can get away from me …’
In the moonlight Desra is a pewter Medusa, her wet hair curling around her forehead like snakes. Her dark eyes narrow and then focus. She spots me and smiles.
‘There you are,’ she growls, and begins swimming towards me. I am freezing, tired, and running out of strength. I must make it to the jetty before Desra. I turn and begin swimming, forcing my sluggish arms into action, pressing my legs to kick. The jetty is just an arms-length away when I hear a strange sound behind me. I turn to see Desra, her eyes wide with terror.
‘Something’s got me, something’s got me!’ Long ribbons of seaweed have twisted their way around her arms and neck and seem to be pulling her down into the depths. I’ve made it to the jetty and I’m desperately clinging to one of the slippery pillars. ‘Help me, Kate! Help me!’
She is only a few metres away. I could swim out, extend my arm, and pull her to safety. I could swim to shore and grab the life ring from the emergency station. I could use the emergency telephone and call for help. I do none of these. Instead I watch silently as Susan O’Neill kicks and splashes; as her tortured, terrified cries are caught by the night breeze and blown southward. I don’t move. Don’t even blink. Finally, as if pulled under by some unseen force, and with a final, strangled scream of terror, Desra slips into the deep, black water.
With agonising effort, I swim the few metres to the shore and drag myself onto the bank. My legs are cramped, and my left hand is tightly fisted. Something is pressing against my palm. During my attempts to free myself from Desra’s grip, I must have inadvertently grabbed something.
I force my fingers open. Nestled in the palm of my hand is a sterling silver necklace with a small blue sea-glass pendant of a fish on the end. The one Michael bought for Susan from the charity shop all those years before.
Moonlight bathes the shore in a ghostly iridescence. The wind howls its mournful cry. Warm tears stream down my freezing cheeks. Tomorrow there will be questions to answer, more lies to tell, but there’s only one thing left to say.
‘Rest in peace, Michael.’
Epilogue
I wake to the sound of gulls, their high-pitched screams piercing the morning calm. I shiver, pull on my dressing gown, and go downstairs to make some tea. While I wait for the kettle to boil, I wander into the front room and open the curtains. Outside the River Tamar flows onwards, unmoved by human loss or misery, unfeeling in its endless journey to the sea. Tam is basking in a sunny spot on the garden wall. Next to him stands a large estate agent’s sign. My mother’s house has been sold, its contents divided or given to charity. All that’s left is for me to collect my few remaining things and move on. I hear a soft tapping, and, recognising a familiar silhouette through the frosted glass, I smile and open the door.
‘Doris, come in.’
The elderly woman shakes her head. ‘No, my love, I’ll only get all weepy again. I know we said our goodbyes yesterday, but amongst all the hugs and tears I forgot to give you this.’ She hands me a large, padded envelope. The postmark is from Scotland. ‘Were you expecting it?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I wasn’t.’
I give Doris one final hug, then wait for her to leave before I tear open the package. Could it be Julia and Marie-Claire’s wedding photos? It is, in fact, a book. I turn it over and am stunned to read the title. Carnation.
There is a short note from Julia sending best wishes and saying that following Desra McKinley’s tragic death, Epiphany Press decided to publish the anthology posthumously, but it has only achieved mediocre sales.
After all, writes Julia, it was a tragedy, her drowning accidentally like that, wasn’t it? It’s a shame the Scottish police decided not to investigate Becky’s claim any further, but I suppose with the alleged perpetrator dead and the victim back in America, not much they could do, eh?
Did you know that the Headmaster resigned? Marie-Claire suggested I apply for his post. Can you imagine!
There is another paragraph about the couple’s honeymoon in Bali, and a final few sentences.
I always wondered why you didn’t go to the police with your niece’s story, but I suppose, like you said, she just wanted to put it all behind her. Move on, so to speak.
I can’t resist flipping to the original title poem; the poem which Desra has so blatantly plagiarised from Michael. It is just as I had first read it in Michael’s diary, word for word. I spot something at the bottom of the page, a notation of some sort, and squint to read the small print.
‘Diving Fish’ first written 2013 for The Arts
