Water Born

by Rachel Ward

  ‘You heard her. It was the rope. She should know. She was nearest.’

  ‘Dad, it’s okay.’

  He’s got his hand on my shoulder, gripping hard, the sweat from his palm soaking through. ‘You need to think about the health and safety here.’ He shoves an accusing finger towards Steve’s face. ‘First Christie and now this! What sort of place are you running? How can I be sure my girl is safe?’

  ‘Dad, for goodness’ sake, calm down.’

  ‘Now, just one minute,’ says Steve. ‘We take health and safety very seriously here. There’s no suggestion that Christie’s illness had anything to do with—’

  ‘That’s two now. Two carted off from here in an ambulance. Do you think that’s safe? ’Cause I don’t.’

  They’re all on their feet now, shouting across the table. I slip out from under Dad’s grip and make for the door. I pause outside, leaning against the wall and listen to them. Eight o’clock in the morning and I’m drenched with sweat. I need a drink. I need to cool off.

  I could leave now, but even this early it would be like stepping into an oven. Even though I’m scared, the thought of that rectangle of water is too strong. A relatively cool body of water. My body immersed in it.

  I walk along to the changing room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Half an hour before the team is due to meet. So twenty minutes to swim, to switch off and stretch and cool down. No Harry on the lifeguard’s perch. No Christie in the pool. But Rob will be in there. Do I really want to do this?

  I look at the water. There are some early morning swimmers making the water a little choppy. A couple of lanes are roped off and empty. A board on the side says, Closed for training. Whether it was meant to be for the swimming team or lifeguard training, there’s nobody there now, and it’s got to be better than dodging the flying elbows in the public ‘fast lane’.

  I sit on the edge and ease myself in.

  No body under the water. No voice.

  Perhaps he’ll leave me alone now. I can have the meditative swim I really need. Just me and the water.

  I launch in, savouring the split second when I give myself to the water, trusting it to meet me, support me, hold me. And it does. It takes me in and I stretch and move forward.

  And he’s here.

  I can’t see him, but I can feel him.

  Rob.

  He’s close. Too close.

  Feels good, doesn’t it?

  What?

  Winning. Christie and that boy. Dealt with. Out of the way. Punished.

  I didn’t mean them to . . . I didn’t want . . .

  Yes you did. You know you did.

  No! Not like that.

  But you made it happen, Nicola.

  He’s right, isn’t he? I gave Christie the water. I pushed Harry.

  We did it together. You and me. We’re a team.

  I want it to stop.

  Soon. Two to go, remember?

  Mum and Dad. I gave him their names when I was mad at them.

  I didn’t mean it. I was just cross, confused. I don’t want to hurt them.

  Don’t you? They lied to you, Nicola. They want to control you.

  They’re just trying to protect me. I don’t want them hurt.

  You don’t know them.

  Of course I do. I live with them. They’ve looked after me for sixteen years, loved me.

  Sixteen years of lies. Running from the truth.

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you’re here, what you want. I’m going to get out now. I can’t handle this any more. I want it all to stop.

  I’m nearly at the far end of the pool. I kick harder, reach for the side.

  It wasn’t an accident. It was murder.

  Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more. They’re my mum and dad. I love them.

  Bring them back to me in the water. We’ve got unfinished business.

  I grab the edge of the pool and lift my head out of the water. I’m breathing hard. Around me, everyone else is having a normal Sunday swim. They have no idea of the nightmare that’s playing out next to them. As I look at them ploughing up and down, at the mums and dads with their toddlers in the shallow end, I find it hard to believe this is real.

  Am I having a breakdown? Is this just in my head? It must be. Rob died seventeen years ago. How can he be here?

  Still holding the side, I dip my head under.

  His voice is so close, it feels like he’s inside me.

  You owe me, Nicola. Bring them back to me, or there’ll be more blood on your hands.

  I pull myself up, break the surface, put both hands on the edge and lever myself out of the water. Once on my feet, I shake my head, then smooth the water off my arms and legs with my hands. I wish I could scrape his voice out of my ears, erase the sight of him from my memory.

  I walk back to the changing room. The team meeting is due to take place in the café by reception in a few minutes time. No time to shower again, and I wouldn’t anyway, not after last time. I get changed quickly, put my stuff in my bag and go to find the others.

  I’m the last to arrive. They’re sitting round a couple of tables that have been pulled together. Clive’s standing nearby. I can’t see Dad.

  When he spots me, Clive takes me aside. ‘Your dad’s outside. We had to ask him to leave. He got very . . . aggressive.’

  My ears are still ringing from Rob’s threats. And I suddenly wonder: does Dad take after Rob, or is Rob like Dad? Two brothers with a temper, an intimidating edge. Must run in the family.

  ‘God. I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘He’s been on edge recently.’

  ‘Well, he’s banned now. Sorry, Nic. We have to take the safety of the staff and other customers seriously.’

  ‘Of course. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, though, he’s just . . . it’s okay. I understand.’

  We join the others. There isn’t an empty space. No one shuffles up to make room for me. I take a chair and set it outside the group.

  ‘Come on, girls, shuffle up so Nic can come in.’

  Glances are exchanged round the table. There’s a long, long pause until finally one of them moves sideways, creating a not-quite-big-enough gap. I move my chair forward, but I’m still not part of the circle.

  ‘Okay,’ Clive says, ‘thank you all for coming. I know this is a very difficult time but I wanted us to get together to remember Christie, share our memories of her, share our feelings – maybe have a swim together. I know it’s not easy, but I also know that this team meant the world to her and she’d want us to stick together, support each other, work together to get through this. Does anyone want to say something?’

  A couple of the girls are crying. No one wants to talk.

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll start things off. For me, Christie was one of those girls a coach like me dreams of finding. She had a gift, a natural ability, but she was also prepared to put the work in – and, more than that, she was devoted to her team. I feel blessed to have known her. I can’t believe that she’s gone . . .’ His voice breaks. His eyes are red-rimmed and he turns his head away, embarrassed at his show of emotion.

  Pretty much everyone is crying now. I can feel a lump in my throat, tears pricking behind my eyes, but I can’t let them out.

  ‘I know I’m the newest one on the team,’ I say, ‘but I just wanted to say—’

  ‘Don’t, Nic,’ Nirmala cuts in.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  They’re all looking at me now.

  ‘Don’t say anything. You shouldn’t even be here, should you?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m part of this team, I was Christie’s fr—’

  ‘Don’t say you were her friend. You weren’t her friend. You should never have given her that water—’

  ‘Now, Nirmala, let’s calm things down, okay?’ Clive says, but the others are nodding and muttering in agreement.

  ‘And what was that with Harry yesterday? He’d just lost his girlfriend and you pushed him. What the hell was that about?�
��

  ‘I can explain. I—’

  ‘Don’t bother. We don’t want to hear it. You’re not wanted here. Christie wouldn’t want you here.’

  I look round the group, trying to catch someone’s eye, find an ally. No one will look at me. Clive holds both hands out, palms up, and shakes his head.

  I scrape back my chair and stumble out of the café, on through the exit door and on to the concrete walkway, my vision made blurry by the tears that have finally burst through.

  Dad’s waiting outside. ‘What happened? Where were you?’

  I sniff hard, try to take a breath.

  ‘I had a quick swim, then I went to the team meeting.’

  He looks at his watch.

  ‘The others are going swimming,’ I say, ‘but I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon I’ve had enough of this place, too. Let’s go home.’

  He offers me a tissue and we walk along together.

  ‘They think I did it, Dad.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Killed Christie. Put Harry in hospital. The other girls think I did both those things.’

  He stops walking and I mirror him. He holds my arms, just below the shoulders. His palms are clammy on my bare skin. Beside us, traffic passes close by, adding hot fumes to the thick, warm air.

  ‘They were accidents, Nic. Accidents happen.’

  ‘Like all those girls?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ones on the news. The ones who died in water. Do you think they were just accidents?’

  ‘Your mum does. But I’m not sure. Actually, I don’t think they were accidents at all. I think there’s a pattern.’

  So do I. Christie. Harry. All those girls. I know what Rob’s capable of. Maybe he did it himself . . . or maybe he had help from someone like me.

  ‘But what you’re talking about – Christie and Harry – that’s different. You mustn’t beat yourself up about them.’

  ‘I feel . . . responsible.’

  ‘No. No, it’s not your fault. Okay, it was silly to push Harry, but you didn’t mean him any harm. And you were trying to help Christie, do what she asked you . . .’

  ‘The girls hate me.’

  He ruffles my hair. ‘They’re all in shock, grieving. They’ll come round. Just give them time.’

  ‘Do you ever get over stuff like this? Can you?’

  ‘Yes, love. It feels like things will never get better, but they do.’

  ‘You’d know, I suppose.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I know about your brother, Dad. I know you had a brother who died.’

  He puffs his cheeks out, then exhales all the air he has in him. He leans forward and props himself up, bracing his hands on his thighs.

  ‘You must miss him. Why don’t you ever talk about him?’

  Dad still can’t talk. I put my hand on his back. The sweat from his back soaks through his T-shirt, making a hand print where I’ve touched him.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Seventeen years.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And it still knocks the breath out of you. So maybe it’s not so easy to get over things.’

  He looks up at me.

  ‘I’ve tried to forget him, Nic. That’s all I want to do. Forget him and move on.’

  ‘Why? He was your brother.’

  ‘He . . . I . . . we did things . . . things I’m not proud of. He was . . . a dangerous person.’

  Sixteen years of lies.

  I shiver.

  ‘What happened to him? I’ve seen some articles online. Are they right? Was it an accident?’

  ‘Yeah. An accident. We were messing around, and then the weather turned and your mum and I got out of the lake . . . and Rob didn’t.’

  Messing around. That’s what I told everyone I was doing with Harry. A story for public consumption – a lie.

  Is this what this is? Is my dad spinning the story of the past so it suits him better?

  It wasn’t an accident. It was murder.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The bus is achingly slow as it winds its way through the suburban shopping streets. At last we reach our stop. Mum, Dad and I hurry through the pedestrian entrance, past the large iron gates and down the long sweeping drive, walking as fast as we can in our Sunday best. Dad’s in his interview suit, Mum and I in black dresses. I’ve borrowed a pair of shoes from Mum – black patent court shoes that are pinching my feet. They clip-clop like horses’ hooves on the tarmac. I wish I could take them off.

  The other mourners are gathered outside the chapel, waiting for their turn to go in. Through a shabby trellis, with a dried-up rose clinging to its fretwork, I can see the guests from the previous ceremony filing out of the back door, pausing to read the cards on a row of wreaths laid flat on the floor.

  Nirmala, Shannon and the others from the team are standing in a group. Jake’s there, too. They’re held together with arms linked or draped across shoulders. Tight.

  One of the girls clocks me as I approach. I can read her lips. ‘She’s here,’ she says to the others. Some turn round and stare. Nirmala and Shannon keep their eyes firmly on the ground, still giving me the cold shoulder. I’m not going to let them.

  I break away from Mum and Dad and try to join the group. ‘Hi,’ I say.

  Nobody answers.

  Perhaps they didn’t hear.

  ‘Hi,’ I try again.

  Nirmala tears her eyes away from the ground, but can’t bear to meet mine. She looks past me, to where my parents are standing. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes unnaturally bright.

  ‘Don’t start, Nic,’ she says. ‘Don’t talk to us.’

  ‘Nirmala, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I gave her a tiny sip, because she asked me to.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here. You’ve got a nerve.’

  ‘I keep telling you, I never meant to hurt her. She was my friend—’

  ‘You weren’t her friend and you’re not ours. We don’t want you here.’

  A long black vehicle is coming down the drive towards us.

  ‘You might not like it, but I’m part of the team, you can’t push me out.’

  ‘You did that yourself, you slag, when you sent that picture to Christie’s boyfriend.’

  It feels like the ground’s falling away beneath my feet. They’ve seen it – the photo on Harry’s phone.

  ‘He’s sent it to you? He’s better?’

  ‘Well, he’s conscious, anyway. I saw him in hospital yesterday,’ Jake says. ‘He gave me his phone, asked me to look after it.’

  ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ I splutter. ‘I didn’t know he was seeing Christie. I didn’t—’

  ‘Just stop it, Nic. Stop right there. Have you no respect? She’s here,’ Nirmala says.

  The hearse draws to a halt opposite the entrance to the chapel. The other mourners are filing in. The girls follow, arms around each other, and I’m left standing, looking at the coffin sitting in a sea of tributes in the back of the hearse, like a trophy in a glass display case.

  Mum touches my elbow.

  ‘We’d better go in. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, numbly, and I let her and Dad gently guide me in through the chapel doors and into a pew at the back.

  The service passes in a blur. Pretty much everyone is crying. The order of service says it’s meant to be a celebration of her life, but grief has won the day. Shock, hurt and disbelief at a life cut so tragically short.

  I want to be like the others. I want to cry for Christie, share the grief with them. But my eyes stay obstinately dry. And while half of me is listening to the vicar, the readings, the poems, the prayers, the other half is churning with resentment and shame.

  All the girls know. Soon everyone in this chapel will know. My mum. My dad. The whole city will know. I’m the girl who sexted Christie’s boyfriend. I’m the slag who betrayed her.

  Slag. Bitch. Whore.

  There’s no poin
t denying it. After all, I did send the pictures. I can try saying that I didn’t know Christie and Harry were seeing each other, but I don’t think anyone’s in the mood to listen. I’m guilty in their eyes. I’m beneath contempt.

  Towards the end of the service there’s a bit of commotion in the pew occupied by the swimming team. Shannon, overcome with emotion, sits down heavily during the last hymn. She curls forward in her seat while the girls either side rub her back and fan her.

  And now the final act. The vicar intones as curtains slides around the coffin. This is the end.

  There’s a shout as Shannon slips on to the floor. Her parents rush forward. Another girl sinks to her knees.

  I think of Milton’s verdict of the girls in school. Mass hysteria. Perhaps this is another case of it. I don’t feel faint or queasy this time, but Mum squeezes my hand.

  ‘You okay?’ she whispers.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I expect it’s just a bit much for them. I’m going to help. You stay with Dad.’

  She bustles forward and is soon lost in the throng. The whole thing’s descending into chaos. At least I can escape before everyone’s remembered about me and my crimes.

  ‘Dad, can we wait outside?’

  He nods. We’re meant to file out of the other door, but we’d have to pick our way through the knot of people at the front, so instead we just leave by the entrance. There’s another huddle of mourners waiting for the next funeral on the conveyor belt. We make our way through them and walk around the side of the chapel to the back garden to wait for Mum.

  But she doesn’t come out. Hardly anyone does. The conveyor belt has jammed. An older couple, maybe Christie’s grandparents, emerge and stand in the shade. Dad wanders up to them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  ‘They’re going down like ninepins in there,’ the old chap says. ‘There’s something wrong with the girls.’

  By now I can hear the wail of an ambulance floating through the clammy air, see a flashing light speeding along the top road, the other side of the cemetery wall. It turns into the site and heads down the drive. It’s followed by two more.

  ‘God, Dad, what’s happening?’

  I start to run towards the door, but he grabs me. ‘Don’t go in there.’