The Shadow Year (4 page)

Kat pulls her gaze from the water and studies an old stone cottage set back from the shores of the lake: a simple construction with a solid square base, triangular roof, two square windows upstairs and two more downstairs flanking a rectangular front door. A chimney stack juts from either side of the roof and completes the symmetry of the old place, and looking at it Kat is reminded of simple childhood pictures drawn in crayon. Beyond the cottage she spies an old, misshapen barn, slumped at an alarming angle into the shoulder of the hills, and closer to the lake, stretching out from the shore, a rickety wooden jetty with an old tin boat tied by a fraying rope to a post nearest the water.

While the cottage, the barn, the jetty and boat all hint at past ownership, it is clear from the stillness of the scene around them, from the air of neglect and decay that has stolen over the remnants of the buildings, that there is no one there – and that there hasn’t been anyone there for quite some time. Ben is right, she realises: they have the lake all to themselves.

A fish flips on the glassy surface of the water, breaking the spell cast upon them. With an elated cry, Simon sets off at a run down the bank, Ben and Carla following close behind. Simon hits the jetty first. He sprints down the length of it and peels off his T-shirt. Kat watches the movement of his muscles beneath his smooth olive skin, the shift of his ribs as he raises his arms above his head and dives in a near-perfect arc into the lake. He disappears below the surface – a pattern of concentric circles spreading across the mirror the only sign of his descent – before emerging moments later five or so yards further out, shaking the water from his dark hair. He yells again in delight and then disappears once more below the surface.

Ben is next. He trips down the jetty, struggling to reach the water while simultaneously removing his shirt and shorts. Finally, when he is down to a grey pair of Y-fronts, his white barrel chest exposed to the sun, he bombs into the water with an almighty splash. Carla, a little more sedate, peels off her pinafore dress and boob tube at the water’s edge then wades through the shallows in her underwear before splashing out to where the boys are swimming. ‘It’s cold,’ she shrieks.

‘Not when you get used to it,’ calls Simon from further out, sculling through the water on his back. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘Come on,’ calls Ben, turning back to Kat and Mac still standing on the shore, ‘what are you two waiting for?’

Kat throws Mac a small smile – an unspoken apology for not trusting him to find the lake – then makes her way down the grassy bank to the water’s edge where clumps of green reeds burst up towards the sky and water boatmen skate lazily in and out of their shadows. She stands for a moment, holding the yellow cotton fabric of her skirt up around her thighs, watching the reflection of the water dancing on her bare legs.

‘Come on,’ yells Simon, and it’s the sight of him moving further away from her into the centre of the lake that does it. She shrugs off her skirt and top, throws them back onto the shingle then wades deeper into the shallows in her bikini. At first the water is warm, almost bath-like, with thick green weed that obscures the silt and stones resting on the bottom; but the deeper she goes, the cooler and clearer it gets, until it is so cold she instinctively raises her arms to shoulder height and holds the air in her lungs in a tight gasp. The water is almost up to her chest when she turns around and calls to Mac. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

He regards her from the bank, his eyes obscured by the too-long fringe of his straggly brown hair, then shakes his head. ‘Later,’ he says and crouches down on his heels in the grass.

She eyes him there in his faded black T-shirt and ripped jeans and shakes her head. Typical Mac: always wanting to watch, always holding himself back. ‘You’re crazy. You must be boiling.’ But she isn’t going to waste time arguing with him. Holding her breath, she launches herself under the water, kicking out with her legs and using her arms to propel her to where the other three swim beyond the jetty, watching as bubbles of air leave her mouth and rise to the surface in a string of iridescent pearls.

When she breaks the surface, Carla is laughing and shrieking, trying in vain to sink Ben beneath the water. Kat watches them play-fight for a moment then turns away and swims out a little further to where Simon floats serenely, his body angled like a starfish to the sun. In the bright light his olive skin appears paler against the blue-green lake. She stares at him, sees the rise and fall of his chest, his long legs, his face utterly relaxed, content. She imagines swimming to him, wrapping herself around him, pulling him close, pressing her mouth upon his cool, wet lips, their hot breath mingling, the taste of him on her tongue. She wonders how he would react if she summoned the courage to go to him then shivers at the thought.

Simon’s dark eyes snap open. He turns and stares at her and Kat blushes and wonders if he can tell what she’s been thinking. ‘He won’t come in,’ she says, not quite meeting his eye but nodding her head in Mac’s direction. ‘God knows why.’ Simon stays silent, floating. ‘I mean, we drive all this way and he just wants to sit there?’

The silence deepens until Simon flips onto his front and takes a couple of smooth strokes through the water so that he is right there in front of her, his skin shining wet, his chin dipping just below the surface, his full lips curving into a smile. He is so close she can see the tiny beads of water hanging on his long lashes and flecks of green the same colour as the lake shining in his eyes. He looks at her in that way he has, as if he is looking right inside her, gazing at her innermost secrets and Kat, feeling the quickening of her heart, tries to breathe. The moment stretches until, at last, he asks, ‘Are you happy, Kat?’

She swallows and fights to hold his gaze. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I think so.’ She wonders if it’s the right answer then takes a breath. ‘I mean, I am right now, at this very moment’ – the heat rises on her cheeks – ‘if that’s what you mean?’

Silence hangs between them. Kat holds her breath.
Kiss me
. The thought is so loud in her head she wonders if he has heard.

But he doesn’t kiss her. Instead, he smiles again, his teeth flashing white in the sunlight and then he closes his eyes and leans back into the water, leaving Kat to hover there, her feet paddling up and down and her hands making little swirling movements just to keep herself in one place. She’s been doing this for three years now, she thinks, treading water, trying to stay in one place – trying to stay at his side.

The first time she ever saw Simon Everard he’d been standing in a rowing boat in the middle of the lake on the university campus shouting through a requisitioned traffic cone, demanding action about the increased prices at the student refectory. Kat, watching him through narrowed eyes, had noted his faded Che Guevara T-shirt and his shoulder-length dark hair and put him down as just another wannabe revolutionary. There were plenty of them around. But the scene had provided a distraction and so she’d sat on the bank with a growing group of students and watched in amazement as one by one a steady stream of willing bodies had thrown themselves like lemmings into the water to take up the protest alongside him, while the university’s security staff looked helplessly on.

‘He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?’ a girl with long, glossy hair and the shortest shorts Kat had ever seen had sighed from the grassy slope beside her and Kat, turning back to assess the student again, had noted his broad shoulders and the lean muscles just visible beneath the fabric of his T-shirt, his striking face with its high cheekbones and strong jaw, his flashing dark eyes. Yes, he was definitely a bit of all right.

From that day on she’d noticed him everywhere. He was one of those people who commanded attention by his very presence, not just his good looks but by the confidence he exuded. It was as if just by walking into a room, or strolling through the student bar, he shifted the air around him in such a way as to turn heads. She’d watched him from a distance, always the centre of attention, surrounded by friends and admirers, but had never drawn close; guys like Simon didn’t talk to girls like her; that much she knew.

Then, late one night, he was there, slumped in the corridor of her halls of residence, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a lopsided grin. She’d shifted the bag of library books on her shoulder and thrown him a sideways glance as she put her key in the door. He was obviously drunk as all hell.

She could have shut the door and left him but a guilty pang stopped her and at the very last moment she’d poked her head back into the corridor and asked, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Oh sure,’ he’d replied airily. ‘Just steeling myself for the walk across campus.’

‘Dressed like that?’

‘Seems so.’

It was then that she’d heard the sound of weeping drifting from behind the closed door opposite. ‘Amy?’ she’d asked, eyeing him carefully.

‘Amy,’ he confirmed.

‘Is
she
OK?’

He’d nodded. ‘She’s fine.’ Then, seeming to feel the need to explain further, ‘We appear to have wildly differing views on how
exclusive
our dating arrangement was.’

‘Oh.’ For some reason she’d found herself blushing. ‘I see.’

‘My clothes are in there,’ he’d said, jerking his head at Amy’s door, ‘but as she doesn’t seem to be in a forgiving mood tonight, I guess I’m walking home like this.’ He’d grinned again.

Kat barely knew Amy, a tall, willowy girl with drawers of designer clothes and a gaggle of look-alike friends. Kat had introduced herself on their very first day in halls, but since then Amy had barely given Kat a second glance. She knew she wasn’t Amy’s type, but she could see how this guy would be.

‘Well,’ Kat had said, deciding to extricate herself from the situation as quickly as possible, ‘good luck . . . and good night.’ She’d stepped back into her room and closed the door behind her with a gentle click then leaned against it, listening for the sound of his departure. His knock, when it came, vibrated like a drumbeat at her back.

‘Listen,’ he’d called through the door, making her jump out of her skin, ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow a T-shirt or something?’

She stood breathless on the other side of the door, silent and still.

‘Anything, really . . . I’m not fussy. You see, I feel like a bit of an idiot.’

Still, she hadn’t moved a muscle.

‘I can return it to you . . . tomorrow,’ he’d gone on.

Slowly, she’d turned and placed a hand on the doorknob.

‘Please?’

With a sigh she’d opened the door. ‘I doubt I have anything that will fit you,’ she’d said, eyeing his smooth, broad shoulders.

‘Well, could I come in for a moment at least?’ He ran his hands over his bare chest, shivering just a little. ‘It’s draughty out here.’

Reluctantly she took a step back, holding the door open for him. He was the first man she’d invited into her room in halls and she resented the way he made her feel uncomfortable in her own space, the way he took in her few belongings with an unabashed, sweeping gaze. ‘James Dean . . . Jim Morrison . . . Jimi Hendrix,’ he’d said, commenting on her posters, ‘You like a tragic hero, huh? Live fast . . . die young?’

She hadn’t replied, but begun instead to search through a pile of clothes for something suitable he could wear. ‘I’m not sure what I’ve got that’s clean . . .’ she’d murmured.

‘Nice teapot,’ he’d added, moving across to her sink and fiddling with the lid of the flowery number standing beside her tiny sink. ‘Very fancy.’

She’d thrown him an irritated glance. ‘Do you want my help or not?’

‘Sorry.’ He took a step backwards.

Her pink cheesecloth shirt had been the only thing that looked like it might fit. She’d turned and held it out to him. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’

‘Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.’ He’d pulled it on hastily, doing up the buttons slightly wrong, then checking his reflection in her mirror. ‘It suits me. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. You’re room 32—’

‘324.’

‘324. Right. I won’t forget.’

Judging by how drunk he seemed, she’d seriously doubted he’d remember.

‘I’m Simon, by the way,’ he’d added, making for the door. She’d watched him go, a strange churning sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘Thanks,’ he called over his shoulder, swaying away down the corridor. ‘I owe you.’

She hadn’t expected to see him or the shirt again but the following afternoon he was back as promised, still green with hangover, but true to his word. ‘Just a little thank you,’ he’d said, handing Kat her shirt, wrapped now around a bottle of wine. Kat had stared at the gift – she’d never drunk red wine before, she was more of a cider girl – then thanked him for the gesture and taken it from his outstretched hands. ‘As I’m here, I don’t suppose you’d make me a cup of tea?’ he’d asked with a cheeky grin. ‘In that fancy pot of yours?’

She’d eyed him for a moment.

‘Or we could open this? A little hair of the dog . . . while I wait for Amy . . .’

Cheeky bastard, she’d thought; she could see he was used to getting whatever he wanted. ‘Come on then,’ she’d said. ‘You’d better come in.’

It was an unlikely friendship, but over the space of a year, they’d grown close, eating lunch together in the canteen, drinking in the student bar, and bickering about music and politics over endless cups of tea as they perched side-by-side on the bed in her poky room. Even she was unprepared, however, when he’d asked her over a pint of cider in the union bar if she’d move into a house with him and some of his friends at the end of the first year. She’d stared into his dark eyes and felt her heart flutter alarmingly, like a caged bird.

‘Great,’ he’d said, smiling across at her. ‘It’s a four-bedroom place. My old schoolfriend Ben – we boarded together – he’s going to share the largest room with his girlfriend Carla. She’s fun, you’ll like her.’ She’d nodded, trying to stop an inane grin from spreading across her face. ‘I’ll take the room next to theirs . . .’ he’d continued, ‘and you can have the attic room?’ She’d nodded again. ‘Which just leaves the box room. We’ll give that one to Mac.’