Submersion

  What else was different in your time? I asked him, several times.

  You don’t wanna know, was the reply he generally gave, which was frustrating, because it was quite the opposite of that: I wanted to know a lot more.

  But then I overheard Mother scolding him in private.

  I don’t want you talking to him about those times, filling his little head with your nasty tales. He doesn’t need to know.

  So, I stopped asking the questions. Maybe one day, when I was a little older, I could ask again and get the answers I craved for.

  In any case, I had only ever been to one school and that was how it was going to stay. You started at St Patrick’s when you were five and stayed there until you were at least sixteen. We had been put in classes according to our ages, and there were two classes per age group, making up twenty-four classes altogether, plus two extra classes for those older children that stayed on until they were eighteen. Not everyone had to stay on; some left to get jobs and some simply left. But, all that had changed whilst I had been away from school, recovering. When I returned, we were in different classes, with a mix of ages.

  I heard the adults discussing it one night at Aunt Agnes’, after Mother received a letter from the authorities. They thought I was in bed, asleep, but I had silently crept down the stairs. I was out of sight, but could just see Tristan, holding the letter in one hand.

  ‘They’ve been testing them all,’ I heard Aunt Agnes say. ‘I complained and, well, look where that got me.’ After that comment, there was silence for a bit. I kept listening, wondering if my aunt might cry, but nothing broke the quiet until Tristan spoke.

  ‘Looks as if they might be sorting them according to ability, putting the bright ones together.’

  ‘And what about Billy?’ Great-Aunt Penny. ‘What does it say about him?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Mother confirmed, her voice thin, tired. ‘It doesn’t give any specific indication about him.’

  I wondered if this letter and whatever it did or didn’t indicate had fueled Mother’s reluctance to let me go back to school, further prolonging my return.

  On that first day back, I discovered that changes had occurred and I was now in the class of one Miss Cracker - a tall, frizzy-haired middle-aged lady who had the look of a toothbrush topped with wire-wool about her. She was just out of one of Tristan’s dark tales of the past. With her bad breath, frothing at the mouth and the unexpected buttons of phlegm she spat across the room whenever she spoke, she was ludicrous enough to be entertaining, but also a little sinister. It made you wonder why someone thought she’d be a good person for children to spend all day with.

  In my new class, there were a few children from my previous one, including the aforementioned Davy Parker. There were also two girls I recognised from the first year, although I didn’t know their names. Apart from that, all the other children in the class were older. At least half were fifteen and sixteen year-olds. I recognised the three girls that were reportedly waiting with Elinor at her speedboat point, the day she went missing. They sat together in a row at the very back of the room. I made a mental note to get to know them, to find out what they remembered.

  That first day, Tilly Harrison was also in Miss Cracker’s class. By the end of the week, however, she would have been moved down.

  ‘You children here,’ Miss Cracker spittled, pummeling the air and anyone in the front two rows with tiny bombs of mucus. (Again, I imagined what Tristan would make of our skinny, spitting teacher.) ‘You children here have been especially selected for my class. You all came out top in the tests we did. Yes, you have all been identified as our most academic children. So, expectations are high, children. You are expected to achieve in my class and nothing less!’ That last exclamation was accompanied by sudden bullet of sputum that landed on Davy Parker’s notebook. In our previous class together, this would have been followed by an ‘Urgh, Miss!’ and general laughter from the rest of the class. But Davy said nothing. There was just something about the spitting Miss Cracker that made us all take her very seriously indeed.

  During break, Tilly Harrison sought me out again, catching me by my locker.

  ‘I know you lied earlier,’ she told me, matter of fact. ‘My Uncle Monty knows you found a dog.’

  I shrugged; I’d been advised by people to keep silent on the matter, including Tristan whom I trusted more than anyone. So, I wasn’t going to commit to this fact if I could help it.

  ‘We can hang out if you like,’ Tilly added, and I wondered if this was less about the dog and more about the simple rules of friendship.

  Before I could respond or even nod, the bell rang like a harsh alarm, signaling the end of our break and we made our way back urgently to Miss Cracker’s class.

  When I excitedly broke the news to Mother that I was in the very top class, I didn’t get the response I expected at all. I thought she would be proud, excited and full of questions, but her reaction was quite the opposite.

  ‘Go to your room,’ she told me. Not like I’d done something wrong, but like someone had died, like I needed to give her respectful space.

  I did as I was told, cutting through her bedroom and up the attic stairs to mine and she did something she very rarely did: she locked me in. I didn’t protest, but I felt uneasy. Her reaction was out of kilter with what I knew and saw; her behaviour unnervingly paranoid.

  Later, I heard her on the phone in her bedroom, whispering to someone so I couldn’t hear. Later still, male voices filled the house. Voices that rose and fell, falling at the hushed, urgent request of my mother. I tried to listen in but they were in the living area, two flights of stairs away from me. I tried my door several times, just in case I had missed it being unlocked, but it was still secure. There was no way I would be able to sneak out and peer at whoever was visiting.

  The ebb and flow of male voices continued for a good hour, before dissipating and then I only heard two voices, both that I recognised. One was Mother’s, the other Monty Harrison’s, her employer. For the most, their speech was still so quiet I couldn’t make out a word they exchanged. But when Mother became passionate about something, her voice rose dramatically and it was clear she was pleading with him.

  ‘Anything! Anything!’ was a single word I heard her repeat, followed by Monty’s raised volume.

  ‘I’ve told you, Esther, I’ll do what I can! That’s all I can promise.’

  I couldn’t hear the rest, as he lowered his voice, just as quickly as it had risen. But I heard Mother expel a reluctant promise a few seconds later, and then the front door was locked and bolted. Monty Harrison had left. I expected Mother to come back up the stairs, but she stayed in the living area. I listened intently and imagined all sorts of noises through the dark, shifting shadows of the night. I was certain I could hear one sound clearly: sobbing.

  That week continued much the same – school for me, work for Mother, although Monty Harrison made no further house calls and Mother didn’t lock me in my room again. Until the Friday - then there were some small changes. Tilly Harrison, Monty’s niece, was moved out of our class and put four classes below our level. Miss Cracker brushed this off as an administration error.

  I also noticed that the three girls who had been present when Elinor had disappeared were also no longer in the class.

  ‘Where are they Miss?’ I asked, catching my teacher, as we filed out for home time.

  ‘Where are who?’ she replied sharply, tiny slugs of phlegm wiggling in the corners of her mouth.

  When I clarified who I meant, she simply looked at me coldly for a few minutes, a look that made my skin and bones retract and shrink a little.

  ‘Administration,’ she spat, singularly, as if this offered a full explanation. ‘Now, run along!’

  If this was supposed to indicate that these three – like Tilly – had been in my class by accident, it didn’t quite match up to the facts. You see, unlike Tilly, these three didn’t turn up in anyone else’s class. I kept an eye out too, even m
aking a few subtle enquiries. I didn’t mention it to Miss Cracker again – something about her icy stare warned me not to – but not one person I asked had seen the girls or knew what had happened to them.

  ‘I think they’ve vanished,’ I confessed to Tristan one evening.

  We were round Aunt Agnes’, a family gathering, although Mother and Great-Aunt Penny disputed this labelling, on account of the presence of Grandad Ronan and Tristan himself.

  We were in his room, half-way through a game of Rummy.

  ‘Like Elinor?’ Tristan asked, facing his hand of cards down, signaling I had his full attention.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, a tiny rasp of excitement in my voice.

  ‘And you’ve been asking questions?’

  There was a darkness, a fear that crept into his tone like a thick, slow wave rolling in to silently drown you.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, but without a trace of thrill.

  ‘You must stop,’ Tristan instructed, his voice quiet, but hard and cutting, like flint. Like someone else. ‘You hear me, Billy? No more asking questions.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You must swear to me, you hear me?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Tristan held my gaze a few moments longer and the cold, menacing wave rolled on, releasing softness back into his face. He picked up his hand and commenced with our game, picking up a card from the stack between us, instantly throwing it down in defeat.

  ‘Your turn.’

  And I kept my word – I asked no more questions. The unblinking fear in Tristan’s eyes was enough to ensure that. But I did keep my eyes peeled and those girls didn’t return to our school. Maybe they had all gone somewhere else? Maybe their parents had coincidentally sailed out of town around the same time, never to be seen again? There was no way of me finding out. Without my questions, I couldn’t ask their friends. And the water restricted everyone’s freedom to explore and observe our city, so I could only look out for them at school or home, or the places I was rowed to in between.

  ‘Maybe they’ve been taken,’ Tilly proposed one lunch time.

  Despite being moved out of my class, Tilly had started to talk to me at break times and we started sitting together at lunch.

  ‘Who?’ I questioned, feigning ignorance. I hadn’t voiced my concerns about the girls for several weeks, strictly following Tristan’s guidance.

  ‘You know who.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘And what do you mean ‘taken’?’

  ‘You know, like they used to, in the old times.’

  I shook my head, shrugged again.

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  Another innocent shake. A gradual, curl of pleasure twisted a smile onto Tilly’s face – she knew something I didn’t.

  ‘Tell me,’ I demanded, gently.

  ‘Later,’ Tilly insisted, enjoying the drama in the moment, making the very most of it. ‘Not here,’ she added, increasing the secret nature of her tale. ‘Could you get out to the train graveyard later? I could tell you there – where no one else can hear?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed, excited at the prospect, but also a little sad. That was mine and Elinor’s place. And, whilst Tilly was proving to be good company, it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t my cousin.

  That evening, I snuck out when Mother was distracted – scrubbing our bathroom with a brush and the cleaning fluids she had acquired from Monty. I took our small boat and rowed all the way to the train graveyard. I’d described the place where Elinor and I would meet up – inside one of the train carriages that were arranged like an accident, twisted together, some upside-down.

  I found Tilly there when I arrived, sat upright in an old seat, as if she was going on a journey. She giggled, her laugh vibrated by her gas mask, and I laughed along, liking her joke. Liking Tilly, even if she was a shadow of the friend I really wanted.

  ‘So, tell me,’ I asked her, and so she unveiled her tale.

  ‘In the old days, before the flooding,’ she began, relishing each word, as she captivated her audience of one, ‘in the days of the dogs, they used to take children from schools. Not just any children, but the intelligent ones. Take them from their schools and never return them!’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, thinking this was a tall tale; something Elinor might make up herself. ‘And who?’ I added, before Tilly could respond.

  She simply shrugged.

  ‘Is that what you brought me here to tell me?’ I inquired, my disappointment evident. It wasn’t true and it wasn’t even a good story. Tristan could tell a good story – blood, guts, trepidation and horror, all wrapped up with a twist or something that made you jump or laugh. But Tilly’s tale was empty – just a couple of lame lines.

  ‘It’s what my Uncle Monty said to me. It’s what he reckons happened to your cousin. It’s why your mother is all worried, too.’

  This piqued my interest.

  ‘What do you know about my mother?’

  ‘I know she’s worried. Heard Uncle Monty saying. I know she doesn’t want you in that top class anymore. That she’s worried it’s started up again, that’s the school’s in cahoots with the authori-.’

  ‘That’s why you’ve been moved!’ I interrupted and it silenced her. ‘Isn’t it - that’s why you’re not in my class? You’re uncle spoke to someone, and Mother wants him to get me moved. That’s why he’s been round.’

  Tilly looked to her lap, picked at the damp fabric of the train seat she was perched on.

  ‘Tilly?’

  A shrug. ‘I think so. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.’

  ‘But you’ve started telling me.’

  ‘I don’t really know anything else.’

  I sighed. Frustrated and now a little concerned, as her story seemed a little more real, even if it was incomplete.

  ‘But who would take anyone from school and why?’ I said, repeating my questions from earlier and Tilly replayed her response – she shrugged.

  We stayed at the dump till it started to turn dark. I knew Mother would have noticed my absence by then, but she could do little about it. Ring my aunt or great-aunt and –uncle, but little else as I had our rowing boat after all.

  Rowing back, I was a little shocked by my bravado. A few weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have dreamt of sneaking out or staying out after dark. But I’d survived the dreaded waters and even encountered a dead dog. Somehow, that had given me an edge, a sense of being brave, even if I had screamed at the time.

  The closer I got to home though, my old fears returned. I would be in trouble, I would face a scolding, and maybe a smack. Then Tilly’s words began to nag at me. I know she’s worried. Heard Uncle Monty saying. I know she doesn’t want you in that top class anymore. That she’s worried it’s started up again. Even if it wasn’t true, this taking business, I did believe that something was worrying Mother. I knew something was worrying Mother, as I’d seen how she’d been behaving, how she reacted to the news I was in the top class. That last street home, I rowed as fast as I could.

  She was waiting for me on the step, dressed in full protective gear. As I predicted, she was frantic with worry and heavy-handed with her scolding.

  ‘Get in and get up to bed! Where have you been? How dare you just sneak off, stealing the boat, leaving me worried like this? Anything could have happened to you! Anything!’

  Did you think I’d been taken? I wanted to try out, to test her reaction and Tilly’s story with one quick line, but I didn’t have the nerve. I simply took the verbal punishment and the hard slap on my right arm in silence and went up to my room as instructed.

  The house was silent for a while. Mother was downstairs, in the living room, possibly seated at the table. I could have taken myself down, apologised, but I feared she wasn’t ready yet. And, if she wasn’t ready, I would simply have received a repeat of the reprimand I got on my way in. So, I stayed in my room, thinking over Tilly’s words, wondering.

  Later, there was a tap at our front door, indicating a late-night vis
itor. I wondered if it was Monty again and thought about Tilly’s words again, too. If they were true, would I hear Mother pleading with him, asking his help to get me out of that top class? So, I crept down the attic stairs and located their voices: the living room.

  Only, it wasn’t Monty Harrison at all – it was Great-Uncle Jimmy, by himself. That alone heightened my interest. They spoke in hushed, night-time tones.

  ‘Just thought I’d pop by, check in.’

  ‘Good, everything alright?’

  ‘Yes, just come from locking the shop up.’

  ‘Everything okay there?’

  ‘Yes, all ship-shape, nothing to worry about.’

  ‘And he’s okay, is he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine, nothing to worry about.’

  For a second, I thought they were talking about me, that Uncle Jimmy was asking if I was alright, following my temporary disappearance earlier. But the voices were the other way round and that didn’t make sense.

  That night, when Mother eventually came to bed, she climbed the attic stairs and locked my door, keeping me prison-secure until the morning.

  PLAY

  ‘When they took me, they kept me isolated at first. The idea was to break me in some way. Remove contact with other reasonable humans with the view of removing humanity from me entirely. During that time, they continued to test me. In between meals and trips to the bathroom, and sleep, of course, they brought me papers to complete, or lists of questions I had to answer. And once we had gone through all that, they introduced the experiments.’

  ‘Experiments?’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t the worst of it.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘No, that came later. You see, I was compliant at first. Tests, questions, experiments – I went along with it all. But then I was introduced to him and that’s when the real terror began.’

  ‘Him? Who do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘A secret?’

  ‘A secret name.’

  ‘Tell me. Please. Tell me his name.’