The Key to Anchor Lake ✓

11 : Blaire

B L A I R E

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I can't face myself after the way I blew up at Elizabeth. I can't face her either, shame and embarrassment and regret pressing down on my shoulders alongside the grief and anxiety and sorrow that lives there anyway.

When the ache in my gut has subsided, and I've heard the click of the door to the attic that means Elizabeth will be absent for the rest of the day, I drag myself out to the garage where her bike waits for me. Without anything to distract me from the tweeting of the birds nesting in the trees along the road, I set off and let the wind fly through my hair.

Pedalling as hard as I can to get away from the house, the weight of its atmosphere a crushing burden on my shoulders, I careen down the long, winding road until my calves are burning and my lungs are screaming. With the lake right ahead of me, I power on until I reach the jetty and let the bike fall away.

I walk right to the end of the uneven wooden slats that creak with every step, until my toes poke over the edge and I could lose my balance any moment. If a gust of wind whipped across the shore, it could blow me into the water, and the something about the sense of balancing on the edge of an abyss grounds me. I rock back on my heels and take a shuddery breath, and swallow the urge to throw out my arms and yell across the lake.

My head's too full. I need to scream and cry and rip the throat out of this agony that has made itself a home inside every part of me but I don't know how to reach that stage, how to do anything but sink onto the damp wood and rest my head in my hands.

The dusky grey water laps the jetty, a quiet slap and splash with every ripple, and I try to focus on that. I spend so much of my life inside my head and at the moment it's the worst place I can be, but it takes so much work to look outside of myself and pinpoint a snapshot of reality at which to direct my attention. But there's something mesmerising about the lake, the gentle to and fro of the tideless water, pushed by the wind and the creatures beneath.

I wonder how far I am from Loch Ness. I barely know where in the country I am, let alone where the infamous lake is, but a cursory search shows me that if turn right along the shore of Anchor Lake and keep walking for thirty miles, I'll reach Loch Ness.

Maybe if I go there I'll find the monster when I look down at the surface and catch sight of my reflection.

But it's too far to walk and it's too far to cycle, so I shelve the idea and get to my feet. There's a flicker of freedom in the idea that if I need to, if I really need to, I can swing my leg over the bike and push down on the pedals and get out of this town.

There's rain in the air. There always seems to be rain in the air. The wind feels heavy, verging on tempestuous, and when the cold sinks under my skin and burrows into my bones, I wheel the bike away from the lake to the protection of the shop-lined street. I can't keep my hair out of my face, the wind picking up speed, and I feel the first spit of rain on my cheeks within a minute of turning my back on the lake.

It's about to pour. I can feel it. I can see it in the clouds, and as I'm looking up at the sea of black and grey and white above me, the heavens open. Fat droplets of rain seem to fall in slow motion, and then the rain comes crashing down. Before I get drenched, wet clothes sticking to damp skin, I find a post to tie the bike to and I duck into the warmly-lit café that calls to me from across the road.

The intoxicating scent of freshly-baked pastry overwhelms me the moment I step through the door, before I catch a whiff of brewing coffee. It's deliciously warm in here and my stomach growls at the thought of a cinnamon swirl and a latte; my eyes bulge at the creamy cakes and rich brownies and fluffy croissants that fill the cabinet.