by Rachel Ward
The body of a Watchet teenager was discovered on the beach at Minehead on Sunday and police are looking for clues as to what happened to her. Maddie Kaur, 16, was last seen on 17th May at the home where she lived with . . .
And on and on. Girls who drowned. Girls who look so alive in their photos. Girls who are all dead. So many faces. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get them out of my head. But why are they in Dad’s head? What’s the connection with him?
For a long, sick moment the words ‘serial killer’ hover behind my eyes. He can’t be. Not Dad. But that’s probably what every serial killer’s family thinks, isn’t it? Otherwise they’d turn them in, or leave or something. No one could live with someone knowing they were like that, could they?
I think back to him losing it with the boy with the water pistol. I’ve never seen him like that before. He just snapped and it was like something took him over – his anger, I guess. He held that boy up for ages, just held him with one arm. Do I know him? Do I actually know Dad at all?
The palms of my hands are wet. My throat’s dry and swallowing doesn’t make a difference. I scan up and down the list of articles. Hang on, let’s do this logically. A field in Gloucestershire, the beach at Minehead. None of these can have been anything to do with Dad. He was right here, wasn’t he? At least he was here at eight forty-five in the morning and again at three-thirty in the afternoon. Could he drive somewhere in between, find a victim, deal with them and drive back by the time I got in from school? Could he disappear during the night? I don’t think so.
And Sammi was with all her friends when she died.
So it can’t be anything to do with Dad. But knowing that doesn’t reassure me. There’s something bothering him. Something to do with these girls.
I wish I hadn’t started this. I wish I’d never looked.
I shut the internet and close the laptop. It’s still only half past four. I’ve got time.
Misty pads after me into the hall. She makes to come up the stairs with me. ‘No,’ I tell her, ‘get down. You know the rules.’ She backtracks and sits on the hall floor, looking up at me reproachfully.
I tiptoe upstairs, feeling like an intruder in my own house, and push open the door to Mum and Dad’s room.
I used to come in here all the time when I was little. I remember standing in the doorway and announcing to a dark room: ‘I can’t sleep.’ ‘I’ve got a tummy ache.’ ‘I had a nasty dream.’ They never told me to go away. And their bed was a place of refuge – it smelled of washing powder, of the stuff Mum used on her hair to make it shiny, and of both of them. A good smell.
I walk over to the double bed and lean over to smell Mum’s pillow. I know that this is a weird thing to do when you’re sixteen, but still . . . and there it is. Honey and almonds. Mum.
I picture her head on the pillow, and Dad next to her, and suddenly I’m aware that this is where the stuff that happens between husbands and wives, men and women, goes on. Where they had sex. Have sex?
I straighten up. I want to get out of here – I feel dirty, inside my head and all over my body. My T-shirt’s sticking to me. God, I’m gross. But I haven’t even started. I need to do what I came for.
This shouldn’t take long: it’s a small room and there’s not much in here. Either side of the bed, there are bedside cabinets, then there’s a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Each cabinet has a pile of books on it – his ’n’ hers reading. They’ve both always loved books – they passed that on to me. The cabinet itself has a shallow drawer and a little cupboard underneath. But I can’t bring myself to open a drawer. I’ve still got that three-letter word in my head, the word I want to wash away with soap and water.
I move over to the wardrobe and open the door. Mum and Dad’s clothes hang like empty skins on metal hangers. Underneath the clothes there are shoe boxes, stacked up on top of each other. A shoe box would be a good place to store other things. I take them out, one by one, and lift off the lids. No surprises here, and nothing behind the boxes at the back of the wardrobe. I replace everything and move on to the chest of drawers. I work my way down methodically, riffling through, feeling right to the back of each drawer. I try to switch off, be mechanical, but it’s difficult when the stuff you’re touching is other people’s.
At the back of Dad’s T-shirt drawer, my fingers find something different. I draw it out – a roll of notes, kept tightly together with an elastic band. I pick it off and count the notes. A hundred and seventy pounds. Money scrimped and saved by a man who hasn’t had regular work for years. I roll it up and fasten it again, and put it back where I found it.
There’s nothing unusual in the other drawers: T-shirts and jumpers, jeans and leggings, belts and pyjamas and vests.
So, the bedside cabinets.
I’m looking for clues about Dad, so I guess I start with his. I slowly pull out the top drawer. There are hankies and coins and a box of earplugs and a packet of condoms. Oh God. I don’t want to do this any more.
I start scrabbling through. Let’s get this over with. The other drawers are no more use. Socks and pants crammed in, that’s all. I push the drawers back in and walk round to Mum’s side of the bed.
My phone pings and I jump. The noise is too loud in the hush of this room. I check the screen: a new text message. I can’t look right now. I switch it off and put it back in my pocket.
I pull the top drawer out until it’s nearly at the end of its runner. Inside is neat and tidy. A collection of little boxes, some open, others with lids, make-up, earrings, and rings, ribbons and buttons. It’s actually beautiful, like a miniature world, or a doll’s house. I don’t need to take things out. It’s all one layer, neatly on display. I open any closed lids, allow myself to get a little lost admiring the contents, remembering the sparkle of a pendant against one of Mum’s floaty tops, or the way a set of earrings catches the light.
I’m ready to move on to the little cupboard underneath when something catches my eye. Right at the back, there’s something poking out above the side of a button box. I move the box a fraction and draw out an envelope.
It’s an ordinary-looking kind of envelope; brown and small. There are three handwritten words on the front, and a date and some initials: Found with Nicola. 22/1/17. K. A. The writing is crude – hardly joined up, almost printing.
I turn it over. The flap has been opened and taped shut again. There’s a lump inside, the paper bulging at the bottom. I run my fingers over it, then hold it between my palms, testing the weight of it. I hold the envelope up to the window, but the paper’s too thick to let any light through, give me any clues.
22/1/17. I would have been nearly two and a half. And this, whatever it is, was found with me. I was found somewhere. Where was I?
Something in my brain flips. If I was found, does that mean I’m adopted? Is this for real? A secret they’ve both kept from me?
My legs buckle underneath me. I sit on the floor as the room around me fades, blurs, falls away. All I can see is the envelope in my hands. It’s the only thing in focus.
A little brown envelope.
Found with Nicola.
I can’t stop now, can I? I mean, it can’t get any worse.
I poke the end of my finger into the gap at one end of the flap, and work away at the tape, trying to tease it open in a way that I’ll be able to stick back again. The envelope starts to tear and I give up trying to hide my handiwork. At the back of my mind I know that, one way or another, this isn’t going back in the drawer.
I rip a little hole and peer inside. There’s something metal inside. I hold my right hand flat, palm upwards, and tip the envelope. A round, smooth thing spills out: a pendant, followed by a chain. The pendant slips out of my hand, but the chain catches on my fingers, and then it’s caught, suspended, swinging to and fro in a shaft of bright sunlight from the window.
And I get the weirdest feeling. The room’s not here at all any more. The floor gives way. And I’m falling, sinking, the breath shocked out of me
by the cold. I drift down to a place sucked clean of colour and light. And someone says, ‘Got you,’ like this is a game, but it’s not another little girl or boy. It’s a deeper voice and I don’t like it. I’ve hit the bottom now and I crumple and grab blindly and my hand finds something, a cold, cold pebble. No, colder than a stone. And my fingers close round it and get tangled in its tail . . .
Sweat trickles down my face and drips on to my hand. At the same time I hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. I scramble on to my feet, push Mum’s drawer in, have a quick look round the room to check for any signs of intrusion and beat a hasty retreat. I’ve got the envelope in my left hand and the pendant still dangling from my right.
In my room, I stuff the envelope between my mattress and the wooden slats of the bed. Without really thinking I open the clasp of the necklace, reach behind me and put it on. I look in the mirror. My T-shirt has quite a high round neck. I pull it out in front a little and drop the pendant inside, then press the chain down towards my shoulders a little, tucking it away from view.
Found with Nicola. It’s mine, right? So it’s fine to wear it. It can be my secret.
Dad doesn’t shout out a hello when he comes through the front door, the way he usually does. I hear the door opening and closing, the scrabble of the dog’s claws on the tiles and Dad’s footsteps going into the kitchen. I go downstairs to find him.
He’s got his back to me. His jacket is on the back of a chair and he’s tugging at his neck, wrenching the tie off.
‘How did you get on?’ I say.
He turns round and I don’t need to see the shake of his head to know. His disappointment is written in his eyes.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘Two hundred and fifty of us for three jobs.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m starting to think I’ll never work again.’
Standing there with his shirt sticking to his ribs, he looks defeated. The word ‘adopted’ doesn’t mean anything any more, even if it’s true. He’s my dad, and I love him. I walk over to him and put my arms round his waist.
‘You can be my manager when I’m rich and famous. You can carry my gold medals in a box when I do personal appearances.’
He gives me a little squeeze.
‘Ha, that’s right. We’ve got that, haven’t we, Princess? We’ve got your swimming. Gonna get you to the Olympics, aren’t we?’
I rest my head on his shoulder, and I think of all the times he’s taken me to practice, the hours he’s spent watching me. The last couple of swims have been dire, but I know I can do better. I’ve got to, haven’t I? I’ve got to do it for Mum and Dad, especially Dad. What else has he got?
Underneath my T-shirt, the locket is pressed into my skin. It’s uncomfortable, but I like it. My secret. Mine.
FIVE
As soon as I’m in the pool, my nerves take over. What if this session is as bad as last time? What if I’m just no good?
‘Nicola, are you with us today?’ Clive says.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m pushing you all today because the trials are next. Who swims in the regionals, who doesn’t. Crunch time. You need to focus. Listen to yourself – your body, your mind. Only you can pull this all together. I’m getting worried about you, Nicola. Don’t lose it now.’
Some of the others are looking at me, others deliberately looking away. I messed up last time, and now this. I almost feel like walking out again.
‘Four hundred metres freestyle. Think about form. Think about your position in the water. Ready, girls? On to the blocks. Let’s do it!’
Waiting for the whistle, I adjust my goggles. Harry isn’t on duty today. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time. I take a deep breath and then remember the necklace. I’m still wearing it, tucked inside my costume. I put my hand over the lump, and there’s something comforting about it, knowing it’s there.
As the whistle sounds I breathe in strongly. Then I tuck my head down, stretch out my arms and dive. I angle through the water, long and lean, using my legs as a tail fin. I start to head upwards.
Stay down.
A voice in my head, deep and loud, sending a disturbing spasm down my spine.
Keep under.
Obediently, I force myself to skim under the surface, flexing my stomach muscles to propel my whole body. My lungs feel the strain. By the time I break the surface, the need to breathe is intense. I turn my head, suck the air in greedily and press on.
Reach further. Reach.
It’s not my voice, not the one I was trying to use to coach myself, and failing with. It’s a man’s voice, or a boy’s. Illogically, I check both sides for the orange torso. It’s not there. I try to put it out of my mind.
My arms are tense. I throw them forward in turn, scooping the water.
Relax and reach.
Relax. That feels all wrong. Swimming is about force and power, your body propelling water past and away. Relax. I send the word to my shoulders and on through my elbows to my fingertips, and it feels like my arms are getting longer. There’s more power there. It’s easier. I’m not fighting the water any more.
Trust the water.
It’s not a race, but, of course, it is. When I turn to breathe next time, I check my position. I’m not trailing at the back this time – I’m well up there with the others. I’m heading for the turn. I tumble forward, twist in the water and kick off again.
Stay under.
Again, I force myself to keep below the surface longer than I normally would. Once up, I breathe to the left. We’re all pretty much level, with Christie, two lanes down from me, a couple of metres in front.
Relax. Trust the water.
This must be what Clive was talking about when he said, ‘Talk to yourself in the water. Be your own coach.’ I’ve found the coach inside me. I’ve found my voice. Maybe it had to sound different in order for me to take it seriously.
Trust the water. Trust me.
Everything’s easier. I’m working hard, but it’s taking less effort. My arms and legs are fluid. I’m enjoying this.
At the next turn, I’m almost level with Christie.
Reach further.
I power up and down the pool. I’ve found a rhythm now. Breathing every five strokes, checking alternately right and left. Part way through the sixth length I nudge in front and it brings a surge of adrenaline. I’ve got clear water ahead of me now. It’s mine. The pool’s mine.
Sixteen lengths in and I’m not tiring at all. I feel like I could swim like this for ever. I keep stretching, reaching, kicking until my fingers crunch into the wall. I surface and look across the pool, left and right. Christie’s there too and I’m not sure if I’ve touched ahead of her or not. The others are a second or two behind.
Clive’s looking at his stopwatch. I check up to Dad, sitting in the gallery. He’s beaming, giving me a big thumbs-up.
Clive squats down and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ he says.
I’m still breathing hard, my chest taking in deep lungfuls of chlorine-rich air.
‘So what was different?’ he says.
‘I listened. I listened to myself.’
‘Yesss! I knew you could do it.’
He holds his hand up, inviting a high five. My hand meets his and I allow myself a smile, but it freezes on my face when I see the looks the other girls are sending me. I don’t want them to spoil this. I don’t want to give them that power. I duck under the surface and look along the length of the pool.
We did it.
Just for a moment, the maleness of the voice disturbs me again. I scan the turquoise space, looking for a flash of orange. The featureless face. The half-body. Is it him? Stupid as it seems, part of me thinks that it could be.
But there’s nothing here. Apart from the line of swimmers strung along the deep end, there’s only water. Of course the voice hasn’t come from a plastic dummy. It was in my head, my subconscious, or whatever. The part of me that w
ants to be the best.
I bob up again. Clive’s issuing the next set of drills. Backstroke now.
I hold on to the edge and bring my feet up close to my hands. I wait for the word, and, on command, I fling my arms over my head and propel myself backwards, arching down into the water, fishtailing with my legs and feet.
Stay down. Keep under.
The voice again.
Backstroke isn’t my strongest event, but I’m starting to believe that I can do this. I can swim harder, longer, faster.
I can win.
SIX
‘Were either of you going to tell me?’
We’re all in the lounge. Mum’s been to fetch Dad back from the police station where he was taken for questioning about the water pistol ‘incident’. She got a call from him at work and raced home to pick up the car and then him.
‘Well? Were either of you going to mention that you’d gone mental and attacked a boy in the street? Is there anything else you’re not telling me? Has either of you robbed a bank recently or smashed up a shop?’
The boiling core that Mum has obviously been keeping zipped in for the last hour or so has erupted. Misty slinks out of the room, body low to the ground, tail between her legs. Dad and I look at the floor, at our hands, out of the window – anywhere but at each other or Mum. I feel guilty, but I’m getting pretty angry too. I don’t get why she’s making this as much as my fault as Dad’s. It’s so unfair.
‘I would’ve . . . it just didn’t come up,’ says Dad.
‘Come up? You grabbed a little boy in the street! What were you thinking? What’s going on with you, Clarke? You’re thirty-two. When are you going to grow up?’
‘They fired into our car. They fired at Nic. They got me right in the face. The water was in my face . . .’
‘They were kids.’
‘They got me right in my eyes. It was the water . . .’
‘The water . . . God, Clarke, you’ve got to get a grip! This is getting silly now.’
‘What about the water?’ I say.
They both turn and look at me like they’d forgotten I was there.