Water Born

by Rachel Ward

  Iris Hemmings, died 25th June, 2013, aged 76.

  Lower down another name has been added.

  And Harry Hemmings . . . Reunited at last.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Who are they – were they?’

  ‘Have you got the necklace?’

  ‘Yeah, you already asked that before we set off, remember? Look. Here it is.’

  I haven’t been able to wear it – it just seems wrong. I’ve been keeping it in my pocket. I’ve taken it out from time to time, opened it up and looked at the photo. Mum and Rob. Together. My mum and dad. The words jar in my head. They sound wrong, like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Is it true? Was it just something Mum said to try and save me?

  I take the locket out of my pocket now.

  ‘This is where it belongs,’ Dad says. ‘It was Iris’s first. I think she should have it back.’

  ‘I still don’t get it. Did she give it to Mum?’

  He sighs, then presses his lips together.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ There’s a bench nearby, lodged comfortably under the umbrella-spoke branches of a tree. We walk over and sit side by side, looking back towards the grave.

  ‘Iris Hemmings was a good person, a kind person. When I was at school I did some work for her and her husband, Harry – a bit of gardening, painting, that sort of thing. They were a smashing couple. She’d make me lemon squash and sponge cake. He let me borrow some of his books. He gave me a copy of one I needed for school.’

  ‘That’s lovely. Bit like grandparents.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it, Nic. That’s just how it was.’

  ‘So?’

  He sighs again, then starts talking, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, his voice soft and low.

  ‘We broke into their house. Me and Rob. I thought it was empty. It wasn’t. Iris was home on her own. Well, her and her dog. Rob . . . Rob kicked the dog. Killed it. Then he took the necklace from round Iris’s neck, even though she begged him not to. We were in the backyard when she found the dog on the kitchen floor. She collapsed and we just . . . we just left her.’

  I can’t think of anything to say. Dad’s closed his eyes. His lips are still moving, but he’s not making any sound.

  ‘Dad?’

  He opens his eyes, but is careful to avoid mine.

  ‘She died. That night. Everyone thought it was just the shock of her finding the dog. No one knew about me and Rob, except Harry. He knew the necklace was missing, knew someone had been in there. He tried to tell people, but they didn’t listen to him. We killed her, Nic. As good as. Rob gave the locket to Neisha a week or so later.’

  ‘But they found it with me when I fell in the lake when I was little. That’s what Kerry said. That’s what it said on the envelope.’

  ‘Your mum was wearing it the day Rob died. It must have come off.’ He falters, then runs both hands over his scalp, like he’s trying to squeeze the thoughts out. ‘God, I can’t lie to you any more. He took it back from her, ripped it off her neck in the lake. He had it – he must have dropped it when he . . . when he drowned.’

  ‘They were fighting?’

  ‘No. He was hurting her. He attacked her. So I jumped in, tried to stop him.’

  He’s telling me the truth now, so I don’t see that I have a choice. I’ve got to do the same.

  ‘He told me it was murder.’

  Dad sits up and turns to face me.

  ‘That’s not right, Nic. It was an accident. We were fighting, but he was okay. His feet got caught in some weed, that’s what killed him.’

  ‘He never believed that. He was out for revenge. I didn’t know . . . when I saw him the first few times, he helped me. I thought he was . . . I thought he was my friend.’

  His face becomes slack, as my words sink in.

  ‘All that time I was trying to protect you, keep you safe. He was there.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know he was my . . . never suspected he was my . . .’ Dad? Uncle? ‘Not until Milton and I did a bit of digging. I found my birth certificate with the different names, and Milton found all your forum posts and the article about him – Rob – drowning. It was like different pieces of a jigsaw. I’m still not sure how they all fit together.’

  ‘He could have taken you at any time . . .’

  ‘But he didn’t. Like I said, he was my friend . . .’

  ‘. . . while he was killing all those other girls.’

  ‘I know. You were right. All those girls. It was him.’

  The horror of it is still raw. Rob. The serial killer. My friend. My uncle. My dad?

  ‘It feels like my fault.’

  ‘No, Nic. None of this, none of it, is your fault. That’s what they do – bullies, abusers, torturers – they make you think that you’re to blame, that you made it happen. That’s just wrong.’

  ‘Is it over? Will it ever be over?’

  ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘No. Not since that day . . . This’ll sound stupid, but I think maybe Mum sorted him out. The last time I saw her, underwater, she had such . . . strength. God, Dad, I miss her. I wish I could see her again.’

  ‘She’s still with you. And me. Always will be. We loved her and she loved us. That doesn’t just go away.’

  I wish it was true. I wish things didn’t just stop when someone dies. But all I’ve got now, filling every waking moment, is her absence. The space she used to occupy. The silence where her voice should be. The utter loneliness of knowing that I’ll never feel her arms round me again.

  ‘So, the locket,’ Dad says. ‘Should we leave it here? Give it back to Iris?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like that.’

  We link arms again and walk back to the grave.

  ‘How do we—? I mean, if we just leave it, someone will take it, won’t they?’

  ‘I’ve come prepared.’ He digs into his rucksack and brings out a little garden trowel.

  ‘Blimey, Dad, you weren’t kidding, were you?’

  ‘And these, too.’ He fishes out a paper bag, full of big, round, crispy-looking brown things.

  ‘Onions? What the—?’

  ‘Not onions, you dafty, bulbs. Daffodils. They’ll come through in the spring.’

  We kneel down either side of the rectangle of grass. Dad digs a sort of trench across it, not far from the headstone. I place the locket on the bare soil in the middle. Then I pick it up again.

  ‘It’s still got a picture in. I don’t think it’s right.’

  I turn away a little from Dad, and prise the locket open with my thumbnail, then I pull the inner frame out and pick out the photo. I don’t know what to do with it next, so stuff the tiny scrap of paper in my pocket.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Dad says. ‘I know, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  I snap the locket shut.

  ‘I know about that picture. I know that Rob was your father.’

  My turn to go slack-jawed.

  ‘Seriously? Like, how long have you known?’

  ‘Always. Since your mum told me she was pregnant.’

  ‘You knew.’

  ‘It didn’t change anything. Not for me. I loved her. I knew I would love her child. And I did. Do. Always will.’

  He’s not smiling. He hasn’t smiled since ‘it’ happened. His face is so serious, so tender, that I just want to hug him. But there’s half a metre of human remains between us. It doesn’t feel right. There’ll be time for that later.

  ‘It doesn’t change anything for me either. You’re my dad. You always will be.’

  He doesn’t smile, but there’s a suggestion of one, a reminder of what his face looks like when he does smile.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘do you want to do the honours?’

  I nod.

  I put the locket back in the bottom of the trench and line the bulbs up from one side to the other.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

 
; Dad covers everything up with loose soil until all I can see is a patch of fresh earth in a sea of grass. I sit back on my heels and admire our work.

  ‘I’d like somewhere like this for Mum,’ I say. Her body was recovered from the sinkhole by divers the day after she drowned.

  ‘Yes, not here, though. Somewhere back home, so it’s easy to visit her. They should release her body soon, then I’ll sort it out. Maybe she could have Misty’s ashes with her too.’

  ‘Yeah, she’d like that. I’ll help you, Dad. Help you sort it all out. Make sure we do it properly.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  ‘I love you, Dad.’

  ‘I know. I love you, too.’

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  I stand with my toes curled over the edge of the block. The noise around me is almost deafening. The voice on the tannoy system announces each of us in turn and the crowd claps, shouts and whistles its approval – all of it echoing off the walls and ceiling, distorting and blurring at the edges.

  I’m in lane five. When my name is read out, I look up to the stand.

  Dad’s there. He’s got his camera at the ready to take pictures, but he’s not looking at me through a lens right now. He’s on his feet cheering and waving. Milton’s mum is next to him. She’s sitting down but she’s got both hands in the air, like a worshipper in a revivalist church. She and Milton have been coming to all my competitions. They do a proper job – bring cushions to make the plastic seats more bearable and a big cool-bag full of sandwiches, drinks and snacks. Mrs Adeyemi wasn’t there the day we got home from Kingsleigh, but she’d been in our house and stocked up our fridge. Mum had called round to hers to leave her a key before she and Dad chased after me.

  ‘She said it was just in case, but why after all this time? When she left she hugged me, like she was saying goodbye. When I heard the news I knew that she’d been trying to tell me something. And I knew I couldn’t sit on my big behind in that chair any longer. She was counting on me.’

  Milton’s the other side of his mum. He’s taken over from Dad as my statistician. He’ll have today’s time and placing on his database before I’ve even got changed. But he won’t give me a bollocking if it all goes wrong. Neither will Dad.

  ‘Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I’m proud of you,’ Dad says. ‘And I know Mum is, too.’

  Mum. She should be there, sitting next to Dad. Don’t think about it. Don’t lose it now.

  I give everyone a quick wave and then try to blank it all out. I use my rituals to calm my nerves and focus: check my hair is tucked into my hat, adjust my goggles, look ahead at the turquoise rectangle of water.

  The starting judge tells us to get ready. The hubbub starts to die down.

  I take a couple of long, smooth breaths.

  I can do this. I know I can.

  I’m going to do it for Dad, and Milton and his mum, who’ve stood by me, got me through the last few months.

  And I’m going to do it for Mum.

  ‘Ready.’

  I wait for the electronic tone, desperate not to go too quickly. And then it’s there, and I sense the others starting to move, and I spring away from the block. All I’ve got in my mind now is the shape of a perfect dive. I cut through the water and start flexing my stomach muscles, dolphining down and along as far as I can, my ears full of the sound of rushing water.

  I make the surface, turn to the side, breathe in and roll back again, reaching forward, kicking hard. I find my rhythm quickly and settle into it. I don’t try to check where the others are. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to swim my best, and this is going to be the best swim of my life.

  I’m on the last lap when I hear a voice.

  I’m with you, Nic. I’m here, my beautiful girl.

  I look left and right, trying to see where it’s coming from.

  Keep going. Don’t stop now.

  I stretch a little further, kick a little harder. The water buoys me up, gives me strength. I feel part of it. We’re one and the same.

  The change in tiles marks five metres from home. I want to take a breath, but I don’t want to lose any time. I push on, sprinting faster, pushing myself, reaching forward and slamming my fingers into the wall. Still underwater, I look around at the thrashing arms and legs, but I can’t see what I’m looking for.

  Where are you?

  Ssh, Mum says. I’m here, Nic. I’m right beside you. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank:

  Barry, Imogen, Elinor, Rachel and everyone else at my amazing publisher, Chicken House.

  My foreign publishers and translators, especially dear Anja, Uwe-Michael, Dorothy and Laszlo.

  The booksellers, librarians, English teachers and bloggers who champion my books. I owe you so much.

  And lastly, but especially dear to me, my readers, particularly the ones who write, email or tweet and tell me what they think. You’ll never know how much your messages have meant to me.

  ALSO BY RACHEL WARD

  NUMBERS

  Rachel Ward

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  Life is hard, until she meets a boy called Spider. Suddenly her world seems brighter.

  But on a trip to London, Jem foresees a chain of events that will shatter their lives for ever …

  . . . intelligent and life-affirming.

  PHILIP ARDAGH, GUARDIAN

  . . . utterly compelling.

  SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-905294-93-0, £6.99

  ebook, ISBN 978-1-908435-02-6, £6.99

  ALSO AVAILABLE:

  NUMBERS 2: THE CHAOS

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-906427-30-6, £6.99

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  NUMBERS 3: INFINITY

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  Find out more about Chicken House books and authors. Visit our website: www.doublecluck.com

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  Take it, and you have one amazing week to live. It’s the ultimate high. At the ultimate price.

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  With his father dead, Martyn has a choice. Tell the police what happened – and be suspected of murder. Or get rid of the body and get on with the rest of his life.

  Simple, right? Not quite. One story leads to another. Secrets and lies become darker and crazier. And Martyn is faced with twists and turns that leave him reeling.

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  . . . will keep you gripped.

  OBSERVER

  In a word, genius!

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  . . . a cult novel.

  INDEPENDENT

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-910002-00-1, £7.99

  ebook, ISBN 978-1-908435-71-2, £7.99

  Find out more about Chicken House books and authors. Visit our websit
e: www.doublecluck.com

  Published by Scholastic Australia

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  SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First edition published by The Chicken House in 2014.

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2014.

  E-PUB/MOBI eISBN: 978-1-925064-48-3

  Text copyright © Rachel Ward, 2014.

  Cover and interior design by Steve Wells.

  Cover photograph © Yolande de Kort/Trevillion Images

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.