by Rachel Ward
‘That’s better. Is it really Nicola?’ She looks me up and down. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were this high.’ She holds her hand out level with her shoulder. ‘Now look at you! All grown up!’ Her face breaks into a wide grin, exposing a mouthful of bright, white teeth. I’m pretty sure they’re not hers, at least not the ones she was born with. ‘Ah, it’s lovely to see you. How’s your mum and dad?’ she says.
‘They’re . . . okay,’ I say. ‘Mum’s still working at the hospital. Dad’s looking for work at the moment. How are you?’
‘Mmph, you can see. I’m fine. I’ve got my TV and my Milton. He’s such a good boy. He looks after me.’
Milton’s shuffling his feet now. I’m pretty sure he wants to get out of here, but his mum’s just getting into her stride.
‘Ha, I can’t get over what a beautiful young woman you are! You were always a pretty girl. My Milton, his eyes went like saucers the first time he saw you. You were moving in with your grandpa. What were you? Three? Four? My Milton had the hots for you, and I couldn’t blame him! Sarita and I, we used to say you two would get married!’
She starts laughing and the chair quakes beneath her. She rocks backwards and forwards, slapping her thighs. The frame creaks under the strain. It’s kind of infectious – I really want to laugh too, but when I sneak a peek at Milton, there’s sweat beading on his forehead and he’s grinding his toe into the carpet. He’s mortified.
‘So . . .’ I say, ‘shall we . . .?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, we’re just going to do some studying. Okay, Mum?’
The laughter’s subsiding a bit, but she’s not capable of speech yet. She nods and waves at us and before we’re even out of the door, the telly’s on again.
I follow Milton upstairs. The stifling darkness continues up here. I’m wondering if this is a mistake. He goes into his room and puts the light on.
‘Excuse the . . . I wasn’t, um, expecting company.’
I don’t know what he’s apologising for. Unlike the lounge, his room is pristine. His bed is made. There’s nothing on the floor. His desk has no clutter at all, just his laptop and a desk tidy with some pens, pencils and a pair of scissors sticking out. There are posters on the walls, really cool vintage ones advertising 1960s and 70s sci-fi films. His bookshelves are things of beauty: books neatly shelved by colour, creating a rainbow along the rows.
He sees me looking and smiles sheepishly.
‘I’m trying it out, the colour thing. Completely illogical, you know, can’t find anything when you want it . . .’
‘It’s lovely. I’m going to do mine like that.’
His grin gets broader. I hate to kill the moment.
‘Milton, those links you sent. The guy posting – it’s my dad.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘They all come from your IP address. Didn’t think it would be you or your mum.’
‘He’s been going on about this for months. He’s obsessed.’
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘He’s just been focusing on news stories about drownings. He’s paranoid about our drinking water – he lost it when the water from our taps ran brown. And he . . . he lost it again when someone shot at us with a water pistol. The police got involved. We’re still waiting to see what’s going to happen about that.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘I found that table he posted by accident. He’d left his laptop open and there it was. He doesn’t know I know about that. He’s been acting so weird . . . it feels like he’s right on the edge.’
‘That’s what it reads like too.’
‘Mum says he’s got some sort of OCD, but that doesn’t actually explain anything. I don’t understand what’s going on.’
It’s such a relief to talk to someone about it. I end up telling him more. More than I thought I’d tell anyone.
‘Did you look at all the links?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you google any more?’
‘No, I thought you’d sent me everything. Is there something else?’
He looks at me long and hard, but doesn’t say anything.
‘Milton, there’s more, isn’t there? What is it?’
He puffs out his cheeks, blows out a long breath and says, ‘Come and look at this.’
He indicates for me to sit on the computer chair while he kneels on the floor next to me and calls up his bookmarks. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘He’s the one behind this.’
Onscreen is an online petition: Close all pools now. Implement emergency water-saving measures.
I read the full text. It’s calling for a range of water bans to be brought in, but the main focus is closing public and private swimming pools.
‘Why do you think my dad’s behind this? The name of the sponsor is nothing like his.’
‘Same IP address again. It’s got to be your dad.’
‘When was it posted?’
‘Couple of days ago.’
‘Shit, Milton, I don’t understand. I really don’t. He never wanted me to swim, but now all of a sudden he’s my biggest supporter, at least to my face. He plots my training with Clive, he plans my diet . . .’
‘. . . and yet he wants you to stop and he’s doing everything he can to make it happen.’
‘Why? Why would he do that? Why would he try to ban the thing that I love, the thing that could mean a future for the whole family?’
‘He’s scared, Nicola.’
‘But why? This sort of thing – a phobia like this – doesn’t come out of nowhere. There’s got to be something, some reason why he’s like this. I can’t think of anything in the past year or so.’
‘Maybe it’s further back. A lot further. The rubber-ducky scene.’
‘What?’
‘I was reading a book on scriptwriting. It called it the rubber-ducky scene. When someone in a film or play remembers a traumatic moment in the past that made them the way they are.’
‘This isn’t a story, Milton. It’s not a game.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
‘Why were you reading a book on scriptwriting anyway?’
‘I was just . . . you know . . . it’s something I’m working on.’
‘What?’
‘I’m writing a film. Sci-fi.’
‘I thought you were into computers and stuff.’
‘Yeah, that too.’
‘Are you some sort of freakin’ genius, Milton? Should I be getting your autograph now before you’re too famous to talk to me?’
‘Yeah, that’d be a good idea. Cos when I make it, there’s no way I’ll have time in my life for little people like you.’
He says this without a hint of a smile. He’s so serious that I don’t know whether to believe him or not, and then he cracks up. He’s so dry, it’s unreal.
‘Well, I can’t remember anything in my childhood that would make him feel like this. So maybe it was before I was born.’
‘Do you remember where you lived before you moved?’
I think for a moment, trying to dig back. Suddenly I’m aware of the necklace inside my T-shirt. Even though I’ve worn it continuously for days against my hot skin, the metal is cold. Always cold. And, again, there’s that feeling that I had when I found it in the envelope . . .
Falling, sinking, the breath shocked out of me by the cold. Drifting down to a place sucked clean of colour and light. And a voice in my ear. ‘Got you.’
I should tell Milton. I should tell him about the necklace, but I can’t, not yet.
‘I don’t remember – Mum and Dad never talk about it – but I’ve got this . . .’
I dig in my school bag and bring out the folded certificate.
‘Brilliant, Watson!’
‘No, not Watson, Adams. My real name’s Nicola Adams. Look.’
I unfold it and smooth it out on Milton’s desk.
‘Neisha Gupta. Carl Adams. Nicola Adams. Kingsleigh. I can search for all those things. This is gold
dust, Nic.’
‘I think it means I’m not adopted, too.’
He lifts his hand to high-five me. I lift mine in response, but half-heartedly.
‘What was that?’ Milton says. ‘That was like high-fiving a wet fish. This is a good thing – your mum and dad are your mum and dad.’
‘I know. But who are they really? And why’s my dad such a nutter?’
‘I’m telling you, Nic, he’s scared about something. If we find out what’s wrong, it’ll help. I swear it will. Shall we do it now?’
I look at the bottom of the computer screen. 17:35.
‘I should get back.’
‘Really?’
I shrug.
‘I’m meant to be helping get tea today.’
‘Well, I reckon I might pull an all-nighter looking at this stuff. No school tomorrow.’
‘Message me if you find anything. I’ll be at home, but I probably won’t be able to sleep. Too hot. Too much to think about.’
‘Okay.’
I pick the certificate up from the desk.
‘Can I take a photo of that?’ Milton asks.
‘Sure.’
‘Cool.’ He snaps it with his phone, then hands it back to me.
‘Thanks, Milton.’
‘I’ll show you out.’
‘You don’t need to – it’s, like, down the stairs and out the door. I think I can manage that.’
‘Okay, I’ll just get started . . .’
He eases on to his computer chair and starts typing, his face lit up by the glow from the screen.
‘Bye then,’ I say. But his senses are locked in on the task in hand – he’s lost to the outside world.
As I walk back home, a text comes through from Harry.
I want more.
Not now. I haven’t sent him anything since the photo with my top off. I ignore him, but another message pings in.
What you wearing right now? Take it off.
I can’t help smiling at the thought of peeling off my clothes in the street. And I can’t help a little thrill of pleasure running up and down my spine at the thought of him sitting somewhere, looking at his phone, waiting. Waiting for me.
FIFTEEN
Hospitals freak a lot of people out, but to me the local General Hospital is just where my mum works. She’s been a midwife for as long as I can remember. The antiseptic smell doesn’t bother me, or the long, white corridors. But I’m nervous as I walk towards the Intensive Care Unit.
I feel like an imposter. We’re not close, Christie and me. She doesn’t even like me, but when some of the other girls said they were going to visit after school I felt that I’d be seen as a total ice bitch if I didn’t come too.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ I say to Nirmala.
‘It’s okay. We’ll just talk to her, that’s all. We won’t stay long.’
‘Okay.’
There’s so much stuff in Christie’s room – monitors and wires and tubes, flowers and cards – that at first it’s difficult to see the person in the middle of it all. When my eyes do settle on her, she looks like a doll, a waxwork. Her mum’s sitting next to her, holding her hand. She looks up when she hears us enter the room.
‘Oh, hello girls,’ she says. There are black circles under her eyes.
‘Hello, Mrs Powell. Would you like a little break? A cup of tea or something? Nic and I will sit with Christie.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know.’ She looks from us to Christie and back again.
‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need a rest, then. Something to eat and drink. There’s a café near the entrance. Go on, Mrs Powell. Christie will be fine.’
‘OK, then.’ She stands up, leans over and kisses Christie’s forehead. ‘I won’t be long, sweetheart,’ she says. She gives us a weak little smile as she leaves the room. ‘Come and fetch me if anything . . . if . . . you know . . .’
‘Of course.’
I stand at the foot of the bed while Nirmala sits in the chair and takes Christie’s hand, the one her mum was holding. ‘Hey, Christie,’ she says. ‘It’s me. Nirmala. And Nic’s here, too.’ She looks up at me and nods.
‘Oh, um, hi Christie,’ I say.
Then there’s silence, apart from the electronic hum of the various machines in the room.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Nirmala hisses at me.
‘Umm, just tell her what you’ve been up to, what’s happening at school . . .’
We’re both whispering, and the absurdity of it and the awkwardness make me want to giggle. I can feel it forming inside me. Nothing about this is funny – poor Christie lying there, lost to the world – but that just makes it worse.
A snigger bursts out of my clenched mouth along with a spray of saliva.
Nirmala looks shocked, then suddenly she’s giggling too. She flaps her hands in front of her face for a few seconds, then covers her mouth and turns away from me, but her body is shaking.
‘Stop it!’ Her words are high-pitched, almost squeaky.
‘I can’t!’ My squeaks match hers.
I hold on to the metal bed frame, scared I’m going to pee myself. I cross my legs hard, and bend at the knees a little to try and stop the flow, but I just can’t stop laughing. We’re both helpless for a long minute or two.
Eventually the giggles die down. I’ve got tears in my eyes, and Nirmala’s the same. We both dab at our faces with tissues and take some deep breaths.
‘That was awful,’ she hisses at me.
‘Don’t,’ I say out loud. ‘Don’t whisper any more. That’s what started it.’
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Right. I’m okay now. Just don’t look at me for a while, okay?’
‘Okay.’
She starts to talk to Christie – about school, about the weather, about training. After the first few hesitant sentences, she’s chatting away quite naturally – a one-sided gossip. I examine the cards and flowers clustered on her bedside cabinet. The cards are from Auntie this and Uncle that, the usual family and friends. I pick up one from near the front. It’s got a picture of a teddy bear on the front, holding a red heart. Inside it says, To the best girlfriend ever, Get Well Soon, with all my love, Harry xxxxxxxxx
The best girlfriend ever?
I turn around. Nirmala’s still chatting away.
‘ . . . really thinks he fancies her, but I heard he was doing it for a bet . . .’
‘Nirmala—?’
‘What?’
‘This card . . .’
‘What about it?’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘No. I don’t know. Why?’
I hand it over. She looks at the front and reads the inside.
‘Ah, that’s sweet,’ she says and hands it back to me.
‘Is he—? I mean, are they—?’
She smiles.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘It’s meant to be a secret, but everyone knows. They’ve been going out for nearly a month now.’
I guess my jaw must have dropped, because she looks at me and frowns.
‘What?’
I shut my mouth and try to get myself together.
‘Nothing. I just . . . I just didn’t know.’
‘He’s really into her, it’s so sweet. He’s been in pieces since she’s been here.’
‘Yeah. Right. Poor Harry.’
I want more. What are you wearing right now? Take it off.
I can feel myself going hot all over.
‘Nic? You all right?’
‘Yeah, just feel a bit . . .’
‘Look, you sit down here for a minute. It’s your turn anyway. Talk to Christie.’
I walk round to the other side of the bed and sit down.
The white sheet rises and falls gently as Christie breathes in and out. Her face is completely still, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. I think of her hot and sweaty and gasping for water in the changing rooms. I think of her hot and sweaty with Harry . . . but i
t’s not just sex with them, is it? They’re going out. They’re ‘sweet’ together.
He loves her, not me.
I’m just a bit on the side. Someone to be used. A nobody.
My phone pings. I glance down. Harry: Wot you doing now, sexy?
Oh my God. I feel so dirty, used. I put my phone away.
‘It was you all the time. Of course it was,’ I say to her, under my breath.
Nirmala looks at me, frowning.
‘What did you say?’
I ignore her and study Christie’s face, trying to see what she has and I don’t. What it is that makes her the sort of girl boys fall in love with, and me the sort they want to mess about.
And as I stare at her . . . there’s a flicker, a hint of movement at the corner of one of her eyes.
‘Nirmala! Did you see that? Look! She’s waking up!’
We huddle closer.
‘I can’t see anything. I can’t . . . oh my God!’
Christie’s eyelids flutter. Open, shut, open again.
‘Christie!’ Nirmala squeaks. ‘Oh my God, Christie!’
She grabs her hand and squeezes it. Christie’s eyes are darting left and right. She seems to have difficulty focusing. Then she sees me. Our eyes meet and I feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘Oh my God, this is amazing!’ Nirmala shouts. ‘I’ll go and fetch her mum!’ She sprints out of the room, and we’re alone together. Me and the girl I betrayed. But she doesn’t know, does she? Nobody knows.
But still she stares at me, and I feel sweat pricking at my scalp.
Her sore, cracked lips move apart a little.
The tip of her tongue comes out, moves left and right over her lips.
The tendons in her neck stand out as she tries to strain her head forward.
I put my hand on her forehead, the way my mum used to do when I was ill.
‘Steady, Christie. It’s all right. Your mum will be here soon. The nurses . . .’ I don’t know if it’s me or her I’m trying to reassure.
Her lips move together again. She purses them and makes a croaking noise. She’s trying to speak.
I move my head closer, tip my ear near to her mouth.
‘Waaw,’ she whispers.