by Rachel Ward
He looks at me hard, like he’s trying to read my mind or something. Then his face changes.
‘No, Nic,’ he says. ‘You mustn’t do anything . . . silly.’
‘All those girls, Milton. What’s one more?’
‘I can’t believe you’re even saying this. You’re not thinking straight!’ He grips my shoulders and starts to shake me.
‘Stop it!’ I shout.
‘Not until you stop this nonsense! How would losing you possibly help your parents? How would it make anything better? It wouldn’t bring any of the girls back. It wouldn’t bring Christie back. Or Misty.’
‘But maybe it would stop him. If I gave myself, showed him the strength of my love for Mum and Dad . . .’
‘No! No way! I won’t let you!’
‘For Christ’s sake, Milton, you’re not my dad or something. You can’t stop me!’
‘I can. I’m a lot bigger than you!’
He wraps his arms round me now, holds me in a sort of bear hug.
‘But I’m stronger!’ I’m trying to wrestle him off me, but he’s holding firm. After a little while my body starts to shake. I’m laughing, at how silly it is to be tussling like children. And then I’m crying, because none of this is funny. I’m not a child any more. I’ve got to stand up and be counted. I don’t want to, but I know it’s what I’ve got to do. And it doesn’t matter if Milton tries to stop me or Dad does, one way or another I’ll find a way to break free, and I’ll do what I have to do.
Milton rests his chin on the top of my head and rocks me gently.
‘I won’t let you go,’ he says.
‘You can’t hold on for ever.’
But, secretly, I wish he would.
We’re quiet for a while, leaning against each other, holding on. We’re both sweaty and sticky, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is being held, feeling safe, just for a moment.
I close my eyes, and a picture of Sammi Shah comes into my head. The girl in the reservoir. I get a choking feeling gripping my throat. On your own. Water all around you. The rising panic. No one coming to help.
I don’t know if I can do it, even if it would save Mum and Dad. I don’t know if I’m brave enough. I don’t know how strong my love is.
‘Maybe I can reason with him,’ I say, hearing myself backtracking and hating myself for it. ‘I’ll find him and talk with him.’
‘Where is he?’
Milton releases me from his hug a little, so we can look at each other.
‘He’s always in water,’ I say. ‘Ours has been turned off, so I can’t just pop into the shower. The obvious place is the swimming pool.’
‘It’s closed, Nic. They made the announcement halfway through the afternoon. “Closed with immediate effect”.’
‘Not the pool, then. Umm, somewhere with water . . . it’ll have to be . . . it’ll have to be Turley Res.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’s only a bus ride away. And I know – well, I think – he’s been there before, because of . . . you know . . . that girl. I’ll wear the locket.’
‘Nic. Really. You know how dangerous it is there. You know what happened . . .’
‘I won’t go right in. Just enough to talk to him.’
‘Seriously, Nic? No.’
‘I’m going to do it, Milton.’
There must be something about the tone of my voice, because he breathes a long sigh out and then says, ‘Not on your own, you’re not. I’m coming with you.’
‘Will you?’
‘’Course. When are we going?’
‘Now. While Mum’s asleep. Before Dad gets back.’
He sighs again.
‘This is madness, but give me five minutes. So I can nip home and fetch my wallet?’
‘Okay. Outside mine in five. And Milton . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks.’
TWENTY-NINE
Milton stares at the sign tacked on to the chain-link fence next to the padlocked gate.
DANGER. DEEP WATER. NO SWIMMING. NO PADDLING. KEEP OUT. By order of the Midlands Water Co.
‘They’re trying to tell us something, Nic. Let’s go home.’
‘You didn’t think we were going in by the gate, did you?’
‘What—?’
‘Come on.’
I take hold of his hand and dive through some bushes, following the line of the fence. The undergrowth is scrubby and scratchy against my legs. Behind me, Milton keeps making funny noises, high-pitched squeaks.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘These branches. You keep pinging them into me!’
‘Sorry!’
I let go of his hand so that I can hold the low branches back for him, and we tread more slowly until we reach a spot that looks promising. There’s a sturdy fencepost, and the top of the wire next to it has been pulled down a little where others have climbed over.
‘This looks good. Can you give me a leg up?’
‘Nic—’
‘Come on, Milton, this is obviously where everyone gets in.’ I’m sounding a lot braver than I feel, but I feel like I’ve got to, since Milton’s feet are cold enough for both of us.
‘Okay.’ He cups his hands near the fencepost and I step up and give a little spring, trusting my weight to him and reaching for the top of the post. He grunts. I feel my foot sinking a little, and then he recovers himself and boosts me up.
‘Have you got it? Are you there?’
My other foot finds a toehold where one of the metal links has broken. I transfer some of my weight on to it and, when it holds, brace myself and then push from that foot. I haul with both arms and suddenly I’m up, teetering perilously on the top of the post.
‘God, now what?’ I say. But there’s nothing else to do but jump. I land heavily, grazing my knees, then stand up and brush away the worst of the dust and grit with my hands.
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ I say through the fence to Milton. ‘You next.’
He puffs out his cheeks.
‘Unless you want to just wait here. I won’t be long . . .’
He must have caught the uncertainty in my voice, because without saying anything, he breathes heavily a couple of times, then launches himself at the fence. It’s not pretty, but less than ten seconds later he’s standing next to me in a cloud of dust. We both turn to look at the reservoir.
It’s a huge flat expanse of water, obviously smaller than it usually is, because it’s bounded by a wide, gently sloping orange-yellow ‘beach’. Beyond that there’s a scrubby strip of dried-up grass most of the way round, with a concrete bank at one end.
A heat haze is shimmering above the water. There’s no noise apart from the background murmur of traffic. It’s a peaceful place. Hard to imagine that this is where Sammi died.
‘Right.’ I quickly strip down to my swimming costume, handing my clothes to Milton to hold. He looks at me, blinking rapidly, pressing his dry lips together.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I can’t swim,’ he says.
‘I’m not expecting you to come in with me.’
‘No, I know, it’s just that . . . if you needed me . . . if something went wrong . . . I’m not sure I’d be much use.’
‘You’ve got your phone, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’re sorted, then. If anything happens, ring for help. Not that anything will happen. Everything’s going to be fine.’ I try to keep my tone matter-of-fact, businesslike. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
I march away from him, across the dry grass, and then slow down as I reach the gravelly beach.
‘Nic!’ Milton shouts.
I look over my shoulder.
‘You need this, don’t you?’
The locket dangles from his hand, catching the light as it turns. I retrace my steps, and he puts the chain round my neck and does up the clasp.
I set off again. I keep my pace steady this time, not allowing any hesitation, even when I reach t
he water. I wade into the warm shallows, watching and listening all the time. Further in, the water creeps up my legs, over my bum, up to my middle. I turn round. Milton’s come forward so he’s at the water’s edge.
‘Anything?’ he shouts to me.
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s far enough. He’s obviously not here. Let’s go home now.’
The water is crystal clear. The only movement on the surface caused by me.
‘No, not yet.’
Where are you, Rob? Maybe it’s because Milton’s here. Rob always disappeared in the pool when there were other people about. But I could still hear him, sense him. I’ve got nothing now. No hint of his presence. No whispers in my ear. I’m going to have to go deeper. I wade a little further until the water is up to my armpits.
‘Nic! Really, come back now.’
I ignore Milton, take a breath and bob down where I stand, so that the water closes over me. I forgot to bring my goggles, but I don’t need them. I keep my eyes open and look around. The underwater landscape is featureless. Gravelly silt beneath my feet, stretching as far as I can see in all directions. Clear water above. Sun breaking through the surface, illuminating what’s below. The blocked-up, blocked-in noise of water in my ears. That sense of pressure.
It may be featureless, but it’s beautiful too. I’ve got the urge to swim. I lean forward, kick my feet up and gently move through the water. My body uses all the moves it’s learnt from years of training, but everything feels different here. The resistance of the water against my limbs, the sense of weight and weightlessness and space. Still keeping under, I weave around, my hair splaying out around my face. I’ve lost track of time. I’ve forgotten why I came here. I’ve forgotten the trauma and loss. I’m caught up in the moment, the ecstasy of swimming free.
When I surface and look around, I’m a long way from Milton. I can’t see his features any more, but I can see that he’s waded out into the water, up to his waist. Even at this distance I can sense his panic.
‘Nic!’ he hollers. ‘Nic! Over here!’
He’s a big lad, standing solidly in the water, but I remember the look on his face when he told me he couldn’t swim, and now, seeing him surrounded by water, he looks desperately vulnerable.
What if Rob’s here, after all? What if he’s heading for Milton, not me?
No, no. Not Milton. I can’t bear it.
‘Get out of the water! Get out, Milton!’
I start swimming towards him as fast as I can. He isn’t moving. God, why isn’t he moving?
I reach him and stand up, smoothing my hair back from my face.
‘Milton, what are you doing in here? For God’s sake, get out!’
He seems to wobble where he stands, windmilling his arms to get his balance. He’s going to go in. I put my arm round his waist, try to steady him. He’s breathing hard, puffing and panting through pursed lips.
‘Milton, it’s all right. We’re going to walk back now.’
We turn in the water and slowly wade back to the shore. He sits on the beach, trying to get his breath back.
‘What on earth were you doing? You told me you couldn’t swim!’
‘You were gone for ages. I thought . . . I thought that . . . oh, God. I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t come any further. I thought I was going to slip and the water was too deep and . . .’
I put my wet hand on his arm.
‘I was just swimming. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m really sorry.’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s okay. Did you see him?’ he asks.
‘No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Did you? Is that why you were losing your footing?’
He wipes his face with his hand.
‘No. I just panicked, that’s all. I’ve never been good round water.’
‘Jesus, Milton.’
I brought a little towel with me, but I don’t need it in the heat. I just squeeze my hands along my arms and legs to get most of the water off, and the rest dries in a minute or two. I hand the towel to Milton and he dries his arms and legs. Then he gets to his feet and we stand looking at the water.
‘If he’s not here, where is he?’ I say.
Milton shrugs.
‘I dunno. Let’s get out of here before someone sees us. Are you putting these back on?’ He picks up my clothes and holds them out to me. I slip my T-shirt and shorts over my half-dry costume and we walk back to the fence. Milton helps me over, and then takes a couple of attempts to get over himself.
We trail back to the bus stop. The timetable shows we’ve just missed the bus. There isn’t another one for nearly an hour, so we start walking. Heat radiates up from the pavement and the cool flush from the reservoir water is soon forgotten by my sweaty skin. My legs feel achy and tired. It’s going to be a long walk home.
‘Milton?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Rob told me before that we were playing a game. Hide-and-seek.’
‘O-kay.’
‘So I think he’s hiding somewhere, and I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to use all the clues he’s given me. And I’ve got to take Mum and Dad to him.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to.’
‘I don’t. I’m not going to. But I will find him.’
‘Where else can you look? Like you said, we’re running out of water round here.’
‘I don’t know. I need to think about everything he’s ever said to me, everything that’s happened over the past week.’
‘Maybe he’s just gone, Nic. It’s worth just waiting, see if this might just be over. The water supply is pretty much drying up around here. Maybe he’s gone with it.’
‘I wish that was true. But Misty died today. He was there today, Milton. In my house. Killing my best friend. No offence.’
‘None taken. I still think you should wait a while, though. Think it through some more. You’ve had a rough day, a rough couple of weeks. Don’t rush into anything.’
‘Maybe.’
Milton stops walking. I plod further on, worried that if I stop I’ll never start again. The heat and the stress are really taking their toll now. Instead, I turn round and walk slowly backwards, facing him.
‘Promise me you won’t do anything on your own,’ Milton says. ‘I’m your wing man, remember? Cross your heart or something. Show me you mean it.’
‘I promise,’ I say, feebly tracing a cross in the air in front of me, and Milton catches me up and takes my hand in his.
But as I lie in bed later, too hot to sleep, I’m unbearably aware of the dark patch on the carpet next to my bed where Mum has cleaned and cleaned again. I’ll never be able to sleep in this room unless I get rid of the evil that killed Misty. I’ll never be truly safe, and neither will Mum or Dad. I’ll be haunted in the same way that they have been – always vigilant, always fearful of him coming back. And I don’t think he’s finished with us. Not yet.
So where is he? What has he been trying to tell me?
Bring them back to me.
I thought he meant bring Mum and Dad into the water, but maybe it’s something else. Where did this all start? Where could they be brought ‘back’ to?
Kingsleigh. Of course.
Years ago, even before I was born, it all started with Mum, Dad and his brother, Rob. The lake in the park.
I open my laptop and scroll back to Milton’s message with all the links to the reports and start working my way through. And near the end of one article, there’s this:
Kerry Adams, 34, Robert’s mother, was too distraught to comment at the time this went to press.
Kerry Adams.
K.A.
I’ve seen those initials somewhere before.
I slip off the bed and fish the envelope containing the locket out of my shorts pocket. It’s a bit battered now from being carried about, but the writing is still clear, and I study it now.
Found with Nicola. 22/1/17. K. A.
Kerry Adams. Rob and Dad’s mum – my grandma. Someone else my dad has never talked
about. His own mother . . . someone I don’t remember ever meeting. I don’t even know if she’s alive.
I do the sums on my fingers. She should be fifty-one now, no age at all for a granny.
I try googling her name. Not many hits, a couple of lines in the Kingsleigh local press: two appearances at magistrates’ court. Name, address, offence. One for shoplifting. One just last month for being drunk in a public place. So she’s still there.
I think of Grandpa – his orderly life, the careful, almost fussy way he kept his house and garden, his regimented daily routine. Kerry sounds like a different sort of person altogether. Is that why Dad kept me away from her?
Whatever the reason, she was in Kingsleigh seventeen years ago when she lost a son. She was there in 2017, too. She ‘found’ me – and, with me, the locket that brought Rob into my life.
Everything’s pointing the same way. So now I know what I’ve got to do next. And it’s something I’ve got to do on my own.
I can’t tell Mum and Dad, because if I take them to him then I’m certain in my bones that they are in mortal danger. And I can’t take Milton, because this afternoon’s escapade at the reservoir showed me how vulnerable he is around water. I can’t lose him. I can’t lose any of them.
This is my mess, and I’ve got to follow my hunch and go to Kingsleigh before anyone else gets hurt.
THIRTY
I creep downstairs in the soft light of dawn, surprised not to see Misty at the bottom of the stairs, looking up expectantly, lead held in her soft mouth. Then I remember. She’ll never be there again.
Choking back tears, I open the front door, slip out and close it behind me as quietly as I can. The first coach to Bristol is in twenty minutes. I should make it if I run.
I’ve only got a couple of minutes to get my ticket from the booth and find the bus. There are two women in front of me in the queue, both sixty-something with oversized suitcases. I stand behind them, gasping, chest heaving, wiping my face with my T-shirt while they discuss which type of ticket will suit them best. Eventually they settle on a couple of open return tickets, and only then does one of the old biddies get her purse out and start to look for a card to pay with. Then she takes an age putting the card back in her purse, the purse back in her bag, and her bag back across her body, before they finally start trundling their cases out of the way.