Submersion

  The oddest thing is that I had a memory of Mother telling me the story of Father and the coconut, over and over again. Like it was the only part of that day she could bear to remember. Like it was the only happy part of it all. The rest of what happened, she refused to discuss. And so we got into our pattern of never mentioning him. Never mentioning any of it.

  Yet, even as I recalled it all to Tilly, I couldn’t help but doubt myself. Father holding up the item, his words and joy, Mother’s laughter – had it really happened? Had we all been that happy once? Or had I made this version up, to hide how things really were? No, it had to be true. It was so clear in my head; so undoubtedly real.

  ‘Maybe later,’ Mother had interjected, all those years ago, not crushing our joy, but simply putting it to one side for a while. ‘It’s late and someone needs to get ready for bed. Go on, up you go. I’ll be up to say goodnight in a minute or so.’

  But she never did.

  Once I was upstairs – proudly stripping off day clothes and pulling on night ones, something I’d only recently mastered to perfection on my own – things seemed to happen that changed the course of things. Mother’s laughter was stolen away – like someone had broken into her soul and stolen this jewel, with just a fragment remaining undetected in my memory. My father was reduced to a cowering wreck; his solid, upright frame shuddering with sobs. All this I heard coming up from below, the sounds tracing their way to me in invisible steps up the staircases. A row to end it all. A row that led to Father leaving us.

  Later, I would find the table centre piece – the focal point of the end of our day – smashed to pieces. Contrasting, jagged pieces of hairy exterior and waxy white insides laying shattered over a thick, red table cloth, a milky river weeping out from the centre, dripping away onto the floor. Red mixed with white, sloshed across the table, like animal remains.

  Looking back, I see the cracking open of the coconut as the catalyst. Father was wrong – there wasn’t just white fruit in the centre of that hard, furry nut; something else had escaped. Unleashed upon the world, it polluted the room with its undetectable poison, taking the life out of the happiness I had experienced there, leaving me with inexplicable sorrow.

  At least, that’s how I see it, looking back. That’s what my five year-old brain captured with its internal camera.

  That night, whilst I had lay patiently in my bed, awaiting Mother’s habitual good night kiss and ritual tucking in of my covers, below their row ensued.

  I couldn’t hear what was said, but I heard their crying – heard it from both of them. And an awful, awful shriek at one point. A blood-curdling cry; an inhuman, animal cry. A sound so petrifying that it kept me rigid. Kept me imprisoned in my bed…

  ‘What was it?’ Tilly asked me, stopping me for the first time.

  It was nearing the end of our break time and the interruption irritated me a little. She had broken my flow. Further, what if there wasn’t time to conclude it?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I told her, doing my best to hide that annoyance.

  ‘Oh.’ There was no doubting the disappointment in that single syllable.

  ‘It might have been one of them, I guess,’ I said, but I could see that this answer was unsatisfactory. I’d lured her in, but hadn’t delivered the goods. A bit like when she’d disappointed me with her weak tale of stolen children.

  The sudden ringing of the school bell - signaling the end of lunchtime, instructing us to return to our respective classes - brought our time together to an end. Worrying that I had lost her interest, I found myself rushing out a key part of my story – the part I’d told old Merlin – to ensure I kept her intrigued.

  ‘He disappeared, Tilly,’ I hurried, as we entered the main entrance, walking at the fastest pace allowed – anything above trot was punishable with lines, and running resulted in the sting of the cane across your knuckles, both hands.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He vanished,’ I repeated, but she’d reached her class and was naturally dragged inside by the unrelenting current of her fellow classmates.

  I saw her turn head again and mouth a perplexed What? But my full conclusion would have to wait till later.

  ‘Continue,’ she instructed on our journey home.

  We sat at the very back of the school speedboat, leaning in close to each other, so I could whisper, but still be heard above the roar of the engine and the hissing spray of the water.

  ‘Okay – are you ready?’ I said, a question I imagined Tristan would ask, gearing up for a big finale…

  After the rowing between my parents, the crying and that awful noise, I stayed where I was for a long while. Not moving. I still heard my parents below, but they had become quieter, calmer; still talking, but in whispers. So, eventually I decided to creep downstairs, very slowly. Step by step. First down the attic stairs, then through their bedroom and then gradually down the next set of stairs - only I stopped half way. I saw my father – his face stained with tears.

  ‘Up to bed,’ he instructed, stern. I obeyed instantly and turned on my heel.

  It was the last thing he ever said to me.

  As I reached my parents’ bedroom again, I heard the slamming of our front door.

  ‘He vanished,’ I’d told Tilly earlier that day, and when I returned to it later, it was no less simple.

  You see, I looked out into the street, through their bedroom window and he wasn’t there. In fact, bar the gentle rocking of moored wooden boats on the river road, the street was completely empty and silent – no sign or sound of anyone; no sign or sound of Father. So, he had walked out through the front door, but not appeared in the street…

  ‘Vanished!’ I repeated on our ride home, exclaiming the word as if it were accompanied with a tap of a wand.

  Tilly was silent for a moment, and I wondered if she was a little disappointed. Old Man Merlin had been quite impressed by my finale, if I remembered correctly. Said it was quite an unexpected outcome. Tilly’s mute response suggested a different reaction. Yet it turned out she was just thinking and, rather than disappointed, she was simply not sure I was right.

  Eventually, she spoke and what she said alarmed me. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was a possibility, after all. Unlikely, yes, completely unlikely, because surely I would have noticed? But any less likely than vanishing into thin air as you crossed the threshold of your house into the cold night?

  ‘What if he didn’t leave the house?’ Tilly asked.

  And then I was the silent one. Thinking, worrying.

  When I got home, I took myself off to my attic room to mull over this new possibility in solitude. What if he didn’t leave the house? Thinking about it sensibly, it could have been that he didn’t leave the house at that moment – when the door slammed. I didn’t go downstairs to check, so I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that he left at that point. But he didn’t leave at any other time, either. I’d have known. You see, I stayed awake. My perception that he had simply vanished made something else disappear – my ability to sleep. I stayed wide awake, watching the road as it got lighter, wondering if he might reappear, I guess. And I listened out. I’d heard Mother on the telephone to someone – a hushed conversation; I remember that clearly. But there was no more opening or closing of doors. Just that one harsh slam.

  I did go downstairs one other time that night. Much later. Once it had been calm for a good while. I passed through their bedroom and Father wasn’t there. He wasn’t in any of the other living rooms, either. It was then that I came across the mess on the kitchen table. The coconut, smashed across the red cloth on the table, red and white curdled, dripping. He wasn’t there then. Just Mother, standing over the mess, shocked to see me.

  Get back to bed, she had said, an echo of what Father had instructed earlier. And I had obeyed and taken myself back up immediately.

  No, it had definitely just been Mother in the house then; her stern glare had endured in my memory. No sight of Father. Yet, doubts were now nagging a
t me. Could I really be so certain?

  What if he didn’t leave the house? A possibility I couldn’t shake. And something else came back to me, something else I knew started after my father left.

  Coming back down the stairs again, once it was light enough not to be in trouble, stumbling over my own feet as the sleep deprivation left me clumsy, I found Mother in the upper hallway. On her hands and knees, to her left was a bucket of soapy water and in her right hand was a scrubbing brush. So focused and vigorous was her scrubbing of the bare floorboards that she didn’t even pause as I stepped around her and entered the kitchen. The table was cleared of the mess from the night before.

  It was over an hour later when she finally paid me attention and prepared me breakfast. I’m not sure exactly what she fed me, but it was probably some toast, a bit of cereal if we were lucky to have some. But I do remember what she said. I remember that clearly, without a single doubt.

  You mustn’t tell anyone about last night, she said, her eyes cold and serious. It’s a secret, Billy. You mustn’t tell anyone. Do you understand?

  And, at the time I had simply obeyed, even though I hadn’t entirely understood. My five year-old self wasn’t sure if it was the possession of the exotic fruit or my father vanishing that was the issue. But I did as I was told and didn’t tell anyone – not until Old Merlin and Tilly.

  Shortly after, Mother began working for Monty Harrison.

  What if he didn’t leave the house?

  Those words continued to nag at me.

  If Tilly was right, where was he? Where had she put him? And, if he hadn’t left the house that night, had he left it since? What exactly had happened to him that night?

  By myself, at the very top of our house, a sickening dread filled the silence around me, creeping under my skin, thickening and slowing my every breath.

  ‘Billy, dinner is on the table!’ Mother called out. My calm, cold mother, who didn’t like tears and hadn’t laughed since that mysterious night. The same mother who worked in secret for Monty Harrison. ‘Billy!’

  Taking myself in slow steps down the two flights to our kitchen, I couldn’t shake the thought that he was still here. Under our roof. What if he didn’t leave the house?

  ‘We’ve got sausages!’ Mother was announcing, as I entered the kitchen. ‘From Uncle Jessie,’ she beamed and it was like I was seeing a different version of her.

  Oh – there’s something else I haven’t told you. The Uncle Jessie tag is quite significant. You see, that’s the final part of the tale of my father – he was Jessie Morton’s younger brother. Joe Morton.

  ‘My favourite,’ I announced, sitting opposite Mother, pulling a joyful shroud over my worried features, hoping she wouldn’t notice, wondering when I would get the first opportunity to search the house for clues of my father’s never leaving us.

  PLAY

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  A merry chuckle.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘You really want me to talk about myself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would a young girl like you be interested in an old man like me?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No, not to me.’

  ‘Well, you’re a mystery. You live in this tall house, full of bits and bobs. You’re very old – I don’t know anyone else as old as you.’

  Another soft, endeared chuckle.

  ‘And, whilst everyone refers to you as Merlin as a kind of joke, I think there’s some truth behind it all.’

  A pause.

  ‘You think I’m a wizard?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘The truth, my dear girl, isn’t anywhere near as magical. And – what I am, the truth – well, it’s best you don’t know it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A second, longer pause, followed by a deep intake of breath.

  ‘Far too dangerous. Plus, once I’d told you, I’d have to kill you.’

  Two voices erupt into sudden, giddy laughter.

  PAUSE

  9. Agnes

  The unravelling began with a simple act: I returned to work. Took the advice of a young missionary and took myself back to my life before Elinor disappeared.

  Almost.

  Had Esther known the source of this advice, she would have beamed with pride. Pride at me, her sister, finally succumbing to ways she had been promoting for so long; a little self-congratulation at having turned me.

  But, of course, Esther wasn’t privy to that information. I continued to keep Reuben to myself; he was my secret.

  It didn’t happen that quickly. I still wasn’t entirely sure if I was doing the right thing. I’d already tried to return, after all, and Reuben had stopped me last time. And now he was openly encouraging me, and more than that – he was suggesting I used my position to find Elinor. To break rules, to take risks and face potential danger. It wasn’t going to be easy, and I wasn’t sure I could do it – despite the underlying motivation.

  So, I started with small steps. I started with a call to Jerry Carter, my boss. Why don’t I come to you? he offered, reaching out verbally across the crackle of the water-damaged line. See you on your turf and take it from there. I agreed; it was a good start and I didn’t even need to face the great river beyond my doorstep.

  The day Jerry agreed to visit coincided with the day garbage was collected from our street. A monthly occurrence, the authorities arranged for tug-boats to trawl along our roads, dragging black bags of garbage that bobbed along outside our homes. The rule was that you couldn’t put your sealed rubbish onto the water’s surface until the morning of your collection. With no dry land in sight to hygienically store our waste, this caused issues for the vast majority of the other 29 or 30 remaining days. We were lucky. At the rear of our house, and at Papa H’s, Tristan had created a storage space – a kind of balcony beyond the living room window, made with a non-corrosive metal frame and boarded with treated planks. We’d put plastic containers here, which were covered over, storing both our rubbish and the unpleasant aroma it created. The old man at the Cadley residence was luckier still – he had a purpose built decked area to his rear. But not everyone had this relative luxury. Whilst Tristan had offered to create a similar set up for our neighbours, he couldn’t do it for free and not everyone could afford his price or even the materials to attempt it themselves. In these houses, they did what they could, but generally the black bags floated around in their lower quarters, attracting rats, decay and disease.

  ‘It’s probably that, rather than the authorities, that’s polluting our waters,’ Tristan regularly commented, displaying his distrust and dislike of our governing body in that one line.

  In reality, we didn’t have to keep our rubbish for the entire month - the authorities encouraged us all to make our own regular visits to the dumping ground, further north. Jessie offered the services of his speedboat to our nearest and dearest – including Ronan, Papa H, Esther and my aunt and uncle, who had next-to-nowhere to store waste in their tenth-floor flat. He’d drop by most weeks and remove a load, meaning our output on tug-boat day was much less than some of our neighbours. But if you didn’t have a Jessie or a speedboat, your options were limited to taking single bags in your rowing boat - or storing it up, creating your own little sewage outlet in your cellar or flooded ground floor. There was another option – you could sneak out in the night, and let your rubbish loose in the waters. But get caught – and there were plenty of snoops happy to report you to the authorities – and the punishment was severe.

  On the day Jerry came by to see me, to discuss my return to the office, Cedar Street looked as if someone had done exactly that – emptied their garbage onto the still, shallow surface. Coming out into the street – head to toe in protective gear and on my way to Papa Harold’s – the sprawling mess was a shock to the eye. A swirling, kaleidoscopic vomit of peelings, packaging and other domestic debris. Evidence of legitimate remains swam in perfect synchronicity with black market c
ontraband. Potato skins and apple cores bobbed alongside the palm-tree heads of pineapples and the emptied husks of watermelons. Milk cartons surfaced alongside wine bottles. Tissues, bones, plastic bags gravitated towards each other in small islands.

  ‘What on…?’ I gasped to myself, temporarily frozen by the anarchy of manmade flotsam.

  Papa H was at his front window, looking out too. He’d have his bottom halves on, protecting his lower body from the waters, but nothing else. His bare face was up close to the glass; his expression was troubled. He didn’t like what he could see; feared the implications.

  ‘Come in,’ he mouthed to me, an invite and a demand in one.

  ‘I was on my way in any case,’ I shouted out loud, but I knew he couldn’t hear me through the mask and the pane. ‘Coming for your bags!’

  Once inside, I shut his front door and pulled up my mask. It was mainly for show now, in any case. I didn’t fear the atmosphere half as much since Billy’s uneventful exposure. But I did fear the suspicions aroused if I was seen to break the rules. Neighbours could be your allies, but there were gains to be made for turning you in.

  A year back, there had been an incident on our street that had unsettled the trust and harmony amongst us residents. Shelia Bacon – a widowed woman in her fifties, five doors along – who had been receiving and redistributing luxury goods from an unknown source (not Jessie, he confirmed at the time,) snitched to the authorities when she noticed another neighbour emptying a bag of rubbish into the flow of the river road in the middle of the night. Peter Ashworth was widowed like Sheila, but, aside from this act of desperation, was otherwise a law-abiding citizen. He was taken away one night by the authorities, a few days after Sheila reported him. Papa H witnessed this from his upper front windows; suffering from a bout of insomnia, a hassle of aggravated voices had drawn him to look out.