by Rachel Ward
‘I need a drink,’ I say. ‘I’ve got some water in my bag.’
Milton gets the bottle out for me and I take a swig. It’s not cool any more, but it’s better than nothing. I chug some more and I hear the boy’s voice. The boy from the pool. They lied to you. And it’s true. My whole life is based on a lie.
‘What a mess,’ I say.
Milton pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His other hand is still on my back.
‘It seems like a mess now, but it’ll be okay.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Your mum and dad are good people. That hasn’t changed.’
‘You mean the man and woman who’ve been calling themselves my mum and dad.’
‘They are, though, aren’t they? In every way that matters.’
I shake my head, in disbelief, in disgust.
‘You know what my mum said to me, Milton? She said, “Telling the truth is always best.” How could she? When she was living such a big fat lie?’
His hand is still there. Sweat from his palm has oozed into my blouse. I can feel it sticking to my back. I shift a little to try and move my skin away from him.
‘It might not be a lie. It might be something else. There are all sorts of reasons for people to change their names. Sometimes they get help to do it, official help.’
‘What? Like witness protection or something? Jesus—’
‘Could be. I don’t know. Have you ever actually asked them about your name?’
‘No. Why would I? I didn’t know anything was up until now.’
‘So they haven’t actually lied to you. Maybe they’re protecting you, or themselves. We don’t know the story behind all this.’ He blinks as a little trickle of sweat makes its way from his forehead down the side of his face.
‘Why are you defending them? I don’t get it!’
‘I’m not, I’m—’
‘You can take your hand away now, Milton, okay?’
I stand up, shaking him off.
He holds both hands out, palms upwards in a gesture of defence.
‘Nicola, I’m just trying to help. That’s all.’
The wind goes out of my sails.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but this is really freaky. This whole day has been . . .’
‘It’s crazy. I get it, Nicola.’
‘Milton, please call me Nic. You’re the only person in the world who calls me Nicola.’
He blinks hard and I realise I’ve hurt him again. ‘Okay, Nic. Okay.’ He gets up from the wall. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘I guess I’ll go in. It’ll look weird if I don’t.’
‘You could come to mine.’
‘Nah, it’s late. I’ll just go to bed.’
‘Or you could look for your birth certificate. That might be the key.’
‘Okay.’
I still don’t like the idea of going home, but at least I’ve got a mission now.
THIRTEEN
Mum and Dad are both hovering outside the kitchen, but I can’t deal with them right now. I go straight upstairs, close my bedroom door behind me and flop down on my bed.
I won’t be able to look for my birth certificate until they’re both out. God knows when that will next be. So maybe . . . maybe I just ask them for it, straight out. There must be all sorts of good reasons why I might need it. Passport? Driving licence?
I can’t believe they’ve kept so many secrets from me. I don’t even know who I am any more. It’s all very well Milton saying that it doesn’t change anything, but what does he know?
And what about my secret? The boy at the pool.
I’m almost too scared to think about him, but I can’t stop the sight of him appearing in my mind’s eye. I can’t help hearing his voice.
Trust the water. Trust me.
He’s not real. He can’t be. Just something I’m imagining. A really vivid daydream. I’ve always had a strong imagination. I had an imaginary friend for months when I was really little: Maudie, a girl exactly two months older than me, with long blonde hair tied in two plaits, and freckles across her nose and a laugh that sounded like she was crying. I’d make Mum set an extra place for her at teatime.
Maybe this is the same thing. I need a friend right now, and here he is. The boy of my dreams. But why has my mind covered him in cuts and bruises?
My phone pings. New message.
Hey Nic, wanna play? ;-)
It’s Harry. Just his name makes my stomach give a little flip, like it always does when I see him or catch him looking at me.
I sit staring at the screen.
He likes me. He must do. Imagine if he was my actual boyfriend. Holding hands for the first time, first kiss, first . . .
I start to tap out my reply: Okay. Lets meet up—
Then I stop. Dad wouldn’t be happy about me going out this late. But we don’t need to meet, do we?
I delete the message and try again.
Can’t get out right now.
Send.
I cradle the phone, waiting for his reply. It doesn’t take long for one to come back.
S ok. We can play here.
?
There’s another pause, then, ping.
It’s getting hot in here.
What does that mean? A minute later, ping.
Two words . . . and a photo.
A photo of Harry with his shirt off.
You next.
I can’t help looking at the screen. He looks flippin’ amazing and it’s just for me.
For a moment another image comes into my head. Another topless boy – the boy in the pool.
The phone pinging again interrupts my daydream.
I’ve shown you mine . . .
Of course, he wants me to send a photo back. That’s how it works.
I don’t have to take everything off, right? I look down at my body. I’m wearing a T-shirt, which hasn’t got much scope. I mean, it’s either on or off. I fling the phone on to the bed and jump up. I flip the hangers along the rail in my wardrobe until I find a thin shirt. Just a few buttons undone – no harm in that, right? I’m just playing along.
I strip my T-shirt off, drop it on the floor, and look in the mirror. I haven’t got much up top, but I’m wearing quite a nice bra today, which gives me a bit of shape. White with a pink ribbon threaded through the top. The necklace hangs down between my breasts.
I strike a couple of poses. Will Harry like me like this? Or this? There’s nothing really bad about it, is there? I mean it’s just like a bikini. So maybe I don’t need the shirt . . .
I pick up my phone and take a few selfies, but they’re too close up. You can’t see enough. So I flip the screen and take a shot into the mirror. I check the picture. My face is disgusting. My body looks good, though. I delete it and try another. Yes, that’s better. He’ll like this one. He’ll really like it.
I’m melting.
Attach object.
Send.
And wait. What’s next, Harry?
My mouth’s dry. I’m caught up in the game, but right now I’m not sure what game it is I’m playing, or where it’s going to stop.
It’s too hot to sleep. The windows are open but there isn’t a breath of air. My top sheet is a screwed-up bundle on the floor. The sheet below me is damp where my body makes contact.
My head’s full of pictures, words, feelings. It’s like a tornado in there, churning restlessly, throwing out thoughts at random. Harry’s bare skin. Dad holding that little lad up by the scruff of his neck as the damp patch on his shorts spread out. Mum: ‘Tell the truth.’ A screen full of names, dates, a map of locations. Drowned girls.
And a face, a voice. A boy who can breathe and talk underwater. A boy who knows my name.
Sweat trickles down the side of my face.
If I go to sleep who’ll be in my dreams? Harry? The other boy? Or girls . . . desperate, panicking, drowning?
I sit up. I can’t sleep, don’t even want to.
So maybe this is the moment to try and find the answer to some other questions. Time to look for my birth certificate. Mum and Dad are both asleep, or at least safely behind their closed bedroom door. I could look downstairs if I was really quiet.
I pad across the room and ease my door open. The house is dark, but I’ve known it for thirteen years. I don’t need light to get myself along the landing and down the stairs. The step next to the bottom always creaks, so I step over that and I’m safely in the hall.
Misty pads out of the kitchen. I can hear her claws clicking on the parquet floor and see her dark shape looming towards me.
‘Ssh!’
I grab her collar, feel my way into the lounge and close the door softly behind us, then I click the light on. It’ll be fine like this as long as we don’t make a noise. Misty, somehow sensing that we’re on a secret mission and that I won’t be able to shout at her, hops quietly – and illegally – on to the sofa and settles down. I wag my finger at her, but leave her be.
There’s a small desk in the corner with shelves above. The desk has three drawers. I know the top one’s got stationery in it – pens, envelopes, that sort of thing. Even so, I have a quick rummage through. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.
The second drawer has a jumbled collection of takeaway menus, maps and tickets. I go through them carefully, but again there’s nothing.
The third drawer is deeper. It’s filled to the brim with documents of all sorts. I gather them all up and dump them on to the sofa between Misty and me. There are brown envelopes with all sorts of insurance papers, stuff about the car, tax forms. Some are labelled on the outside in Mum or Dad’s handwriting. Others are blank. I go through them all, looking for clues. Some of the papers have Grandad’s name on them: Anil Gupta. But I know about him, and I know Mum was a Gupta before she and Dad got married.
It doesn’t take long to find the first piece in the puzzle.
There’s an exam certificate, dated August 2015. A-levels. Three As and a B. And the name at the top: Neisha Manjula Gupta.
Neisha. The name Dad used when they were arguing in the kitchen. My mum’s real name.
There’s nothing similar for Dad. No GCSEs, no A-levels. No diplomas. And yet he’s the real reader in the family. I bet you he’s read every one of the books on the shelves in this room. He’s the one who read me my bedtime story every night when I was little. He took me to the library every week. He’s a bright guy, so what went wrong at school?
I carry on looking through, and then I notice Misty nibbling the corner of an envelope.
‘No!’ I hiss. ‘Bad dog!’
I pinch her nose and extract the envelope from between her front teeth. There’s a thick piece of paper inside. I draw it out and study it.
Certified Copy of an Entry Pursuant to the Births and Deaths
Registration Act 1953.
Date and place of birth: Twenty Second April 2014, Princess Anne Wing, Royal United Hospital, Bath.
Name and surname: Nicola Manjula Adams
Sex: Female
Name and surname, Father: Carl Adams
Place of Birth: Kingsleigh, Somerset
Occupation: Labourer
Name and surname, Mother: Neisha Manjula Gupta
Place of Birth: Birmingham
Occupation: Student
And so on, down to:
Date of Registration: Third May 2014
So this is me. I’m Nicola Adams. And I think it means that my parents are actually my parents. Neisha Gupta is likely to be Anil’s daughter, right? So she’s my mum, the mum I’ve always known. And is Clarke Anson really Carl Adams? It’s looking pretty likely.
Not adopted, then. That’s a good thing, right?
It is a good thing – it’s one element of uncertainty out of the way – but there’s another one in its place. What’s with all the name-changing? Why would anyone do that?
It’s a little cooler down here. I put the papers back in the drawer, but keep my birth certificate out. I sit staring at it for a while. Misty has shifted round and is resting her head on her paws. Her breathing is turning into a gentle snore. I tuck my legs up, hitching them round the curve of Misty’s back, and rest my head on the arm of the sofa.
And that’s where Mum and Dad find us in the morning.
Through cotton-wool clouds of sleep I hear their footsteps on the stairs. I open my eyes. It takes me a minute to work out where I am. The light is still on above me, and there’s a piece of paper on the floor next to me. Not just any piece of paper. I snatch it up and stuff it under my T-shirt, with the end tucked into the top of my knickers. I cross my arms and Misty hops off the sofa, as the door opens and Mum comes in. Neisha.
‘Nic? She’s in here, Clarke. What are you doing down here, and why’s the dog here? What was she doing on the sofa?’
‘I . . . I couldn’t sleep. It was a bit cooler down here. I must have fallen asleep.’
‘You’ll be late for training if you’re not careful.’
Training. Right.
I swing my legs on to the floor and, keeping my arms crossed, scuttle out of the room and up the stairs. I put the certificate in my school bag. I’ll find Milton after school, chew it over with him.
FOURTEEN
Have you seen this? It’s all over the internet.
The message from Milton flashes up on my phone when I switch on as I’m coming out of school.
I click on the link and stare at the screen. It’s a thread on some sort of forum. I try to take in the words.
The thread’s been started by someone called kingsleighlad, who posts: Too many deaths by drowning in 2030 to be accidental. There’s evil out there. Evil in the water. Stay away from ponds, pools, tanks, lakes. Stay safe. Keep your daughters where you can see them. Don’t let them be next. #evilinthewater
There are thirty or more replies. Some arguing about the pleasures of wild swimming and linking to swimming sites, others picking up on the paranoid vibe:
Water’s gonna get you.
only swim with friends in broad daylight
I never drink water, dude. Beer’s much safer.
Kingsleighlad pops up again, responding to some of the comments and adding a link.
Don’t believe me? Check this out.
I click on it and it’s a chart listing names, dates, deaths. A chart called Drowning Girls.
Dad. It’s got to be.
I go through the other links Milton’s sent. They’re all the same sort of thing. Warnings posted up in as many places as Dad could find.
I message Milton back.
Can I come over?
Yeah, course. Right now?
I’ll call in at home first. Twenty mins.
I check in. Dad’s in the kitchen, pouring his madness into the internet. He closes his laptop as he hears me approaching along the hall, and looks over his shoulder.
‘All right, Princess?’ The casual tone rings so false now, it’s laughable. How can I be all right, with a dad who’s hidden his identity from me for years, whose every waking minute is taken up with a weird obsession that he’s now sharing with the world . . .
‘Yeah, I’m just going out, Dad.’
‘Out?’ He looks at his watch.
‘There’s no training tonight, remember? I’m only popping down the road. To Milton’s.’
‘Look, if he’s bothering you, I can have a word.’
‘He isn’t. I asked to go and see him. It’s a homework thing. He did the same topic last year.’
‘Oh. Okay. Have you got your phone?’
‘It’s two doors down, Dad, but, yes, I’ve got my phone.’
I’m halfway down the hall when he calls out, ‘And don’t drink the water there, okay? Have you got your bottle?’
‘Got it!’ I shout back and I’m out of the door before he can check anything else. Clean underwear? Hanky? Some emergency money?
It’s still blisteringly hot outside.
I ri
ng the doorbell at number 12. After a brief pause, Milton opens up and invites me in. The house is dark and stifling. I can hardly make out where to tread as my eyes try to adjust to the difference. All the curtains are drawn, cutting out most of the daylight, but there’s a blue-white glow of a TV coming from the front room doorway.
‘Mum’s in there,’ Milton says. ‘Do you wanna say hello?’
‘Sure.’
He leads me into the room. It’s the same size as ours – all the houses are the same in this part of the road – but it seems much smaller. There’s too much furniture squashed in, piles of newspapers and magazines on the floor. On a side table an electric fan turns one way and then the other. The place smells stale, like old kippers. The TV is an antique, a box rather than a flatscreen – must be at least thirty years old. It sits on a stand on the opposite side of the room. There’s some sort of drama on: two guys hustling each other down a rubbish-strewn alleyway.
‘Mum, Nicola’s here. From two doors down.’
His mother is sitting with her back to the door. From where I’m standing I can’t see her face. A hand lifts up and points the remote at the screen, freezing the action at the moment the victim is reeling back from the first punch, blood running from his nose. The hand waves the remote backwards and forwards, gesturing for us to come further into the room.
‘Come in, come in,’ a voice says. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
I walk into the middle of the room and turn round. In the gloom, I’m not sure what’s armchair and what’s Mrs Adeyemi.
‘Put the lamp on, Milton, I can’t see nothing,’ she says.
He switches on a standard lamp that sticks up from behind the back of a sofa, and now I see her, Milton’s mum. When I was really little, she often used to visit. I remember her and Mum sitting at our kitchen table, cups of tea cradled in their hands. I haven’t seen her for years. When did she stop coming round?
She was always a big woman, tall and sturdy like Milton, but in this room she seems enormous. She fills the whole of the chair. Her legs are planted firmly on the floor, furry slippers on her feet even in this heat. Her arms rest either side of her, obscuring the arms of the chair. There’s a crocheted cushion behind her head.