by Rachel Ward
‘What? What was that?’
She tries again.
‘War . . . ter. . .’
She’s thirsty. I remember her staggering around the changing room, slugging back bottle after bottle.
‘I don’t know if I should . . .’
There’s a white plastic beaker on the cabinet next to the bed, and a jug with a lid, half-full of water.
‘Maybe just a little . . .’
I pour some water into the cup. Then I slide one hand behind her head to support it and gently bring the lip of the cup to her mouth. She grunts, which I take as encouragement. I tip the cup and water trickles in. A little spills down her chin. The grunting turns to coughing. Tiny drops spray into my face. Her body jerks.
Appalled, I put the cup down and slide my hand further behind her, trying to rub the top of her back, soothe her somehow.
Her eyes are bulging in their sockets.
‘What are you doing?’ I turn round as a nurse bustles into the room.
Suddenly the room is full of people. Alarms are going off. I’m pushed out of the way and retreat into a corner, from where I watch a team of nurses cluster around her, shout at her, shout at each other.
Christie’s mum stands in the doorway, Nirmala close behind. One of the nurses darts to the door and closes it in their faces. Then she spots me, grabs my arm and propels me towards the door. ‘You can’t stay here!’
And now I’m out of the room, the door is closed again and I’m standing looking directly into Mrs Powell’s shocked face.
‘My baby,’ she gasps. ‘What are they doing to my baby?’
I turn round. Through the criss-crossed square of glass at eye level, I can see the nurses applying a couple of large, rectangular paddles with wires coming out of them to Christie’s bare chest. I turn back, not wanting to see the jolt in her body as they deliver the electric shock.
‘They’re just . . . I’m sure it’s going to be . . .’
‘What happened?’ she says to me. She clutches both of my arms. ‘What happened just now?’
‘She woke up. She asked me for some water.’
‘She spoke to you?’
‘Yes . . . sort of. Just one word. “Water.” And she was trying to lick her lips.’
‘And you gave it to her?’
‘Um . . . yes.’
Her hands are gripping me so tightly now it hurts.
‘That’s what was killing her. Too much water. Swelling her brain. Killing her from the inside!’
The veins in her temples are standing out. Her fingers are digging in so hard, I swear she’ll break my skin in a minute.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . she’s going to be okay. They’re doing everything . . .’
The door behind me opens. A doctor stands in the doorway.
Behind her the room is quiet. Figures move around the bed silently, putting things away, covering Christie’s naked chest up.
‘Mrs Powell?’ the doctor says.
She lets go of me and I step to one side. She searches the doctor’s face and says, ‘Don’t say it. Don’t tell me.’
‘Mrs Powell, I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.’
‘No. Don’t tell me my baby’s dead. No, no, no, no, no!’ She looks wildly about her for a moment before fixing on me. ‘You’ve killed her! You!’ Angry tears spill down her face.
Nirmala and the doctor stare at me.
‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ I say as I twist away from them and start running down the corridor. This is all a mistake. I’ll wake up in a minute, in my own bed, in my own room . . . and this will be gone, just a half-remembered nightmare.
I’ll wake up. Won’t I?
SIXTEEN
‘Why didn’t you answer my texts?’
‘I didn’t get them!’
‘Nic, don’t take me for a fool. You got them.’
‘I didn’t have my phone on, okay? I’d switched it off. I needed a bit of time on my own. Christie died, Dad. I was there, right? I saw her die. I needed . . . I just wanted to . . .’
‘It’s okay, we understand, don’t we, Clarke?’ Mum’s placed herself between Dad and me in the hallway. She’s holding my hand now.
‘You can’t just run off, Nic.’ Dad’s not giving up. ‘Your mum and me have been worried out of our minds.’
‘I was only gone a couple of hours. What’s the big deal?’
‘You just said it yourself. Christie’s dead. Everything changes now.’
‘I don’t get it. What changes?’
‘You’re in danger, Nic. Real danger. You have to listen to me. You have to do what I say.’
‘Clarke, please . . .’ Mum holds her other hand up, as if that will stop him.
‘Sarita, you’ve got to back me up. You can’t ignore the evidence any more.’
‘Not in front of Nic, Clarke, please. She’s upset. We need to concentrate on her.’
‘That’s exactly what I am doing. Thinking of her.’
‘For God’s sake, you two, this isn’t about me! It’s not about you, either. It’s about Christie. My friend. My friend’s dead.’
Tears spill down my face and they’re real, but I don’t know if I’m crying for Christie or for me.
I gave her the water that killed her. However I play it in my head, wherever I go, the truth doesn’t change. It comes with me. It won’t ever go away.
I killed Christie. As good as. I’m going to have to live with that for the rest of my life.
‘Of course,’ Mum soothes. ‘You’ve had a shock.’ She puts her arms round me, hugs me close.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen,’ I blubber. ‘Why can’t everything just stay the same?’
‘Ssh!’ she says into my hair. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’
But it isn’t, is it? How can anything ever be all right again?
‘I want to lie down.’
‘Of course. You go up. Take a bit of time. Dad and I will be here if you need us.’
I start to walk up the stairs.
‘Sarita, are you just going to leave it at that?’ Dad hisses.
‘Ssh.’
‘Don’t ssh me, we need to talk. We need to tell her. Swimming’s finished. It’s over.’
I turn round.
‘You can’t take that away from me,’ I shout. ‘It’s all I’ve got left!’
‘It’s not safe. It could’ve been you in that hospital. It could’ve been you who . . .’
‘. . . died?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it wasn’t. Look!’ I fling my arms out. ‘I’m still here. And you can’t, won’t, stop me swimming.’
‘I’m your father, Nicola. I’m telling you . . .’
‘I’m sixteen. You can’t stop me – unless you get enough people signing up to your petition.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yes, what do you mean?’ Mum says.
I can’t bottle it up any longer.
‘I don’t know, Carl, you figure it out.’
‘What?’
‘You figure it out, Carl.’
‘What are you talking about? Why are you calling me that?’
‘Because it’s your name. Your real name.’
Mum gasps, then there’s silence.
Dad staggers back and leans against the wall.
‘How did you find out?’
‘This.’ I open the flap of my bag, take out the folded-up birth certificate and hold it towards them. ‘This is the truth, isn’t it? In black and white.’
Neither of them says anything. They look at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.
‘I’m not Nicola Anson, I’m Nicola Adams. And you’re not Clarke, you’re Carl. And you’re Neisha.’
‘That’s who we were, Nic, but not any more,’ Mum says eventually. She seems calm now that the dam has burst, whereas Dad is collapsing – curled forward, face obscured, hands squeezing his scalp.
‘What happened to tel
ling the truth, Mum?’ I say. ‘Were you ever going to tell me? And why change your names anyway? What the actual fuck is going on?’
And now Dad explodes. He jumps across the hall and puts one foot on the stairs, shouting, ‘Don’t you dare use that language in this house! Don’t you dare!’
‘Why shouldn’t I? I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t know who you are or who I am! You’re always whispering together when you don’t think I can hear. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, because neither of you will fucking tell me!’
In two leaps, he’s caught up with me on the stairs.
Mum’s screaming and pulling at his legs.
‘Clarke! Stop it! Calm down!’
And he’s grabbed my arms and his face is in my face.
‘Everything, everything I do is to protect you. It always has been.’
‘Moving? Changing our names? Taking me everywhere? Watching me morning, noon and night?’
‘Yes, yes! All of that.’
‘You can’t protect me from life. Shit happens! It just does. I’m suffocating, Dad. You’re suffocating me.’ I try to escape his grip but he’s holding on tight. ‘You’re hurting me,’ I grunt. ‘Let go!’
‘I can’t let go. I can’t let you out of my sight. It’s close now. The danger. It’s getting closer.’
‘What danger?’
‘The thing that killed Christie.’
‘Water?’
‘Water.’
‘Dad, that just sounds insane.’
Mum’s on the stairs now, the three of us squashed together in this narrow space. She puts a hand on Dad’s arm.
‘Let go, now, Clarke. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?’
Again, it’s like he’s waking up.
‘Hurt her . . .? Hurt Nic . . .? No. No, never.’
He moves his hands away from me and I retreat up to the top of the stairs.
‘What are we really running from, Dad? What’s really going on?’
Looking down at him, wild-eyed and sweating, I wonder if I’ve known the answer all along. The threat – the thing that I’ve got to be protected from at all costs – maybe it’s here in our house. Maybe it lives within Dad . . . an obsession, some sort of madness.
I leave my question hanging in the hot, stale air of the hallway, and retreat to my room.
SEVENTEEN
‘I brought you some food, a little bit of salad.’ Mum’s voice, right outside my door.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I’d leave it on the floor here, but I don’t trust Misty not to have a go at it.’
Sigh.
‘Okay, just bring it in.’
She comes into the room, carrying a tray. ‘I’ll put it on your desk, shall I? I know you probably won’t feel like it, but it’s here if you do. You should at least drink something. It’s lemonade, not . . .’
‘ . . . not water?’
She nods. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘What for?’
‘Just now. Your dad losing it. Not telling you the truth earlier.’
Without Dad here, the heat’s gone out of the argument. Mum’s apology reaches out to me and I can’t be angry with her.
‘Sit down, Mum.’
She sits on the end of the bed. My phone pings. It’s been going crazy with people reacting to the news about Christie.
‘You’ve got a text,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You can look at it, I don’t mind.’
‘No, it’s okay. There’s loads of them.’ I click the phone into silent mode and put it down.
‘About Christie?’
‘Yeah. No one can believe it.’
‘I’m so sorry. It’s very rare for someone to die of water intoxication. She was very unlucky.’
‘Water what?’
‘Water intoxication. That’s what she had. We haven’t had a case at the hospital as long as I’ve worked there. It’s very unusual.’
‘Her mum said that her brain had swollen.’
‘Yes, when you drink too much it can affect your internal organs. Sometimes you can’t recover.’
But she’d woken up. She was getting better.
I can’t deal with this on my own. I’ve got to tell someone.
‘I did it, Mum. I killed her.’
She looks up sharply, searches my eyes. ‘What?’
‘She woke up at the end, when I was visiting, and she asked for some water and I gave her a sip.’
‘A sip wouldn’t have killed her, baby girl. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘No, you don’t understand. She choked on it. She choked to death.’
She closes her eyes for a moment, then leans forward and takes my hands in hers.
‘It was an accident, then, Nic. You didn’t kill her.’
‘I shouldn’t have given her anything. Why didn’t I wait for the nurses?’
‘Ideally you shouldn’t, but you said she asked for it . . .’
‘She did. Her lips were so dry. I thought I was helping . . .’
She shuffles up the bed towards me and holds me again, stroking my hair. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Ssh . . .’
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘About Christie?’
‘About everything. Christie. Dad and that boy with the water pistol. Swimming. Us. Everything.’
‘Ssh. You can’t worry about everything all at once. It’ll be okay.’
‘Dad’s not okay.’
‘No. But he heard today that the boy’s family isn’t pressing charges. The police just gave him an official warning. It’ll be on his record for a while, but that’s all.’
‘What’s going on, Mum?’
‘It’s his OCD thing. It’s got out of control. I’ll make him get help, see a doctor. You don’t need to worry about it, that’s my job.’ She sits back a little. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock. Just get through today, and then tomorrow, and the next day. Take it gently. It’ll be all right . . . what’s that?’
She’s looking at the silver chain round my neck. I put my hand to my chest, covering the lump under my T-shirt.
‘Just a necklace.’
‘You don’t wear jewellery, not every day. What is it?’
I keep my hand in place. If she sees it, she’ll know I’ve been going through her things.
‘Nothing special.’
But I’m colouring up.
‘It is special, isn’t it? Has someone given it to you? Are you seeing someone?’
‘No!’ I try to laugh it off, but it sounds so fake that it has the opposite effect. Her eyes widen with delight. Her mouth forms an O. She leans towards me.
‘You’ve got a boyfriend! Why didn’t you tell me?’
Maybe this is my Get Out of Jail card.
‘I just . . . it’s just early days, you know.’
‘Who is it?’
God, who is it? Quick, Nic, think quickly. Mum’s staring, shiny-eyed, waiting.
‘You don’t know him.’
‘Okay, so what’s his name? Where did you meet him?’
So many questions.
‘He’s just a boy, Mum, okay? I don’t want to give you all the juicy details in case it’s nothing.’
‘Just his name, then.’ She’s relentless, and it strikes me that she’s been waiting for this moment for a while, like she sees it as a mother-daughter rite-of-passage thing. I get a little twinge of guilt that this longed-for day is nothing but fiction.
‘His name . . .’ I say. My mind is grappling for a name. Something. Anything. I’ve got a big, blank space in my head where my quick-wittedness should be right now, coming up with something plausible.
‘It’s . . . it’s Milton.’
The word is out before I’ve got a chance to stop it. I clap my hand to my mouth, covering the lower half of my face, but it’s too late. The stable door is wide open, the imaginary horse has bolted and is kicking up a dust trail in my face.
Mum’s face is frozen, the
n a little frown appears.
‘Milton?’ she says. ‘You mean the same as Milton two-doors-down?’
‘Yes . . . the same.’ In for a penny. ‘Same name. Same person.’ I screw up my face, waiting for her reaction.
‘Milton?’ she says again, and now her hand has gone up to her mouth, but a smile is escaping round the edges.
At the same moment, my phone pings again. We both look at it. Mum’s smile gets even wider.
‘Look, it’s a secret, okay? And we’ve only just started, so don’t say anything, okay? Not to Dad, or anyone.’
Behind her hand she nods.
‘You can stop smiling now, it’s not a big deal.’
She lowers her hand and tries to pull a straight face. ‘Nic,’ she says. ‘Do you want to talk about anything?’
I look at her, then I get what she means: ‘anything’ equals ‘sex’.
‘No! No. Shuttup. Ewww. We’ve only just started seeing each other . . .’
‘Does he know about Christie?’
‘I dunno. I haven’t told him yet . . .’
‘Might be easier to talk to him. It might help.’
‘Okay. Secret, remember?’
‘I won’t tell,’ she says. ‘Promise.’ Then she leans across the gap between us and kisses my forehead, before getting up and leaving the room.
I lean back against my pillows. God, what a mess. Everything’s a mess. But Mum’s right – I can’t sort it all out by sitting here worrying. I close my eyes, but all I can see is Christie’s face. The panic in her eyes as she started to choke. Oh, God.
Sweat’s dripping down my front, soaking my T-shirt. The air in the room is cloyingly hot. I walk over to the window to see if I can wedge it open a bit further. As I push the handle, my legs press against the radiator and I gasp. It’s on, red hot against my bare skin. No wonder this room feels like a furnace.
I crouch down and turn the valve round until it’s completely closed. What the hell’s the heating doing on anyway?
On the bed, my phone vibrates. I pick it up and scroll through the messages. There are so many, I don’t know where to start. Most were sent within the last hour or so, as people heard about Christie. I scroll back through them all, to the one from Harry that came through when I was at the hospital.
Surprise, surprise, he hasn’t sent anything since. He must know by now. What’s he feeling? The lying, cheating snake. I can’t think about him now without feeling sick. What did I ever see in him?