by Guy Burt
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, I like it.’
I realize I’m smiling widely, and hastily try to look more nonchalant. Anna likes it. It’s difficult not to grin.
Later, upstairs, Anna and Jamie sit on the edge of the bath while I brush my teeth.
‘What about – you know?’ Jamie says.
I say, with my mouth full of toothpaste, ‘We could leave it.’
‘No,’ Anna says, as I’ve expected she will. ‘We should go. We needed to take more water in any case. Jamie?’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says reluctantly. ‘There’s not much left.’
‘It’s my turn,’ she says. ‘I don’t mind.’
Jamie glances at me, and then says, ‘No. I’ll go.’
‘You’re not on till four,’ she protests.
‘It’s your birthday,’ he says. ‘You should get a proper night’s sleep. I’ll go. I’ll do the whole lot, if you want.’ He grins, tiredly. ‘The way I feel right now, it won’t make much difference anyway.’
Anna hesitates, and I know she’s thinking of what it would be like to sleep all night in a bed, without having to get up every hour, and without having to trek all the way up the valley at some point. She says, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ Jamie says. ‘Birthday present.’
‘OK.’ She’s quiet a moment, and then she giggles. ‘God, yes. OK. You’re right. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘I’ll go at twelve,’ Jamie says. ‘They’ll be in bed by then. I’ll take him some water.’
‘You could take him some Asti,’ I say. Anna and Jamie grin.
‘Yeah. And a piece of cake,’ Anna says. She rubs her face with one hand. ‘It’s been a great birthday. Thanks.’
‘It’s OK.’
She gets up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she says. ‘Bed. To sleep for ages and ages and ages.’
We grin, rather enviously.
‘I might get up tomorrow,’ she adds, from the door. ‘Or I might not. I just – can’t – tell.’
‘Night,’ Jamie says.
‘Night,’ I say.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Anna says. ‘Thanks again.’
We hear her door close down the hall, and look at each other. ‘You’re mad,’ I say. ‘Are you really going to do the whole night?’
‘I can sleep in the belltower,’ Jamie says. ‘It’s not so bad.’ He yawns. ‘Let’s get a couple of hours, anyway.’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
I’m only half awake when he leaves. ‘Alarm clock’s here,’ he says. ‘It’s just midnight. Remember to watch for me at one.’
‘Mm,’ I say. ‘I will.’
‘It’s still raining,’ he says.
‘Wear your coat.’
‘I am. See you tomorrow.’
‘T’day,’ I mumble into my pillow. I don’t hear the door close, but he must leave. Darkness swells round me and swallows me whole.
I’m bleary when I put my eye to the telescope to check on Jamie’s signal; bleary and only murkily awake. Then suddenly my stomach gives a weird lurch, and the sleepiness is gone as if drenched away in cold water. I’m fully awake, and my heart’s pounding. I run to the light switch, and my fingers judder off it before I calm myself enough to do it properly.
I toggle the switch briefly six times; not the acknowledgement I usually send, but the ‘send again’ response that we’re supposed to use to confirm an unusual or misread signal. Then I hurry back to the telescope.
It’s the same.
I make the acknowledgement signal – three pulses – and then scramble to find my clothes on the floor. As I creep down the hall to Anna’s room, my heart’s still pounding: I can feel it, louder than my breathing.
I shake Anna’s shoulder.
‘Wha’?’ she mumbles. ‘Go away.’
‘Wake up.’
‘Piss off, Alex. I want to sleep.’
‘Anna, wake up,’ I say, shaking her more desperately. Finally her eyes come open.
‘What is it?’ She sounds thoroughly irritated. ‘Read a book if you’re bored. I don’t want to play anything.’ Then she must see my face clearly, because her tone changes completely. ‘Alex? What’s wrong?’
‘The signal’s red,’ I say.
Without the stars or the moon, and with the haze of falling rain thick in front of us, the night is horribly dark. We blunder along the farm track, only just able to discern the edges of the road.
‘There it is,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘There.’
We cross the bridge and scramble down the sharp bank more by touch than anything. Anna is first down; I hear a splash, and her voice, high with shock, shouts ‘Shit!’
‘What is it?’ I say, but I’m slithering down the muddy bank too, and a second later I’m beside her and the question’s answered for me. ‘Ow!’
The empty river isn’t empty any longer. Fast-running water, sharply cold, is halfway to my knees. I can just make it out, swirling and eddying and sweeping past under the bridge. We’re both speechless for a moment.
‘We can go along the bank,’ I say.
‘How?’ Anna demands. ‘It’s all bushes. We can’t see a thing. It’d take us all night.’
‘The roads, then,’ I say, a little desperately.
‘We don’t know the way. We’d be lost.’ She lets out an explosive breath. ‘Shit! Why didn’t we ever think of this?’
I don’t have an answer, so I keep quiet. The cold is starting to seep up my legs.
‘Come on,’ she says, and I hear more than see her splashing out into the middle of the river.
‘We can’t go up this,’ I say.
‘We’ve got to. It’s all right. It’s not deep, and the bottom’s not too muddy.’
‘I’m cold,’ I say miserably.
‘Me too. If we walk fast it’ll help keep us warm. Give me your hand.’
I splash after her and put my hand in hers. She grips it tightly.
‘There. We won’t let go, OK? It won’t be so bad. Come on. We can tell stories and sing songs and stuff like that.’
It feels like some of her determination is flowing through her fingers into me. I say, ‘OK, then.’
‘Yeah! Alex is on the team!’ she shouts, which makes me grin. Then, ‘Right. Let’s go.’
We splash erratically up the river. The water is quick-moving and the surface of it is all hissing with the rain that’s coming down, so the river, when we can see it, looks like it’s boiling. It doesn’t feel that way, though. It feels colder and colder with every step, and although Anna’s right – I’m quickly out of breath and I can feel sweat on my forehead – my feet and legs are still chilled.
‘Don’t kick through it,’ she says after a time. ‘Lift your feet out and then put them down. It’s easier.’
I try, and she’s right, though the peculiar, high-stepping gait feels uncomfortable and awkward. Thunder grumbles in the hills, and a couple of times there is lightning far off, which clicks a momentary brilliance on the valley; but mostly there is just the steady, unending sound of the rain, never varying, never slackening. It sounds as though it might just keep raining for ever.
‘What songs do you know? We’ll sing a song.’
Sometimes I feel stuff in the water snag round my legs, and I have to shake it off to free them; there must be weeds and plants and things. Once, a piece of wood or something heavy cracks me hard across the shins, and I cry out.
‘You OK?’
‘Something hit me.’
‘Try to keep going. Let’s have another song, all right?’
We sing, trying to be cheerful, but our voices sound thin and too high against the heavy wash of the rain, as though all the strength has been stolen from them. Anna tells me stories, and I try to think of jokes that Jamie and I have swapped in the past. Sometimes we laugh, but the sound is breathless and stilted, punctuated by the sloshing of our wading steps.
‘It’s getting deeper,’ I say.
‘No it’s not. It’s you
r imagination.’
‘No, it is. It’s deeper than before. It’s up to my knees.’
She’s silent for a minute; then, ‘Yeah. Mine too. It’s filling up.’
‘What’ll we do?’ I say, and real panic grips me.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘It’s only going up slowly. We’ll be all right. Look, if it gets too high, we can get out and try to go along the bank like you said, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. Don’t worry.’ The words are hypnotic, like a chant. We thresh through the water, hanging onto each other’s hands so hard it hurts.
‘Anna? I’m scared.’
‘No you’re not. It’s not so far to go now.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw something back there,’ she says, lying. ‘A tree. We’re really close now.’
‘Are you sure?’ I say. I know it’s a lie but I want to hear her say it all the same.
‘Yeah, I’m really sure. Not far now. Just keep going.’
‘Anna—’
‘Yeah?’
‘We’re not going to drown, are we?’
She laughs, and it sounds shrill and forced, like it might shatter in the air. ‘It’s only up to our knees, Alex! Don’t be silly. It’s just a little river.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘I know. Keep going. It’s not far now.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. Promise. I saw a bush back there. We’re really close now.’
‘Jamie will be surprised to see us like this,’ I say. ‘All wet.’
‘Yeah. He’ll probably laugh his head off.’
‘Anna?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s above my knees now.’
‘No it’s not. It’s just slopping up when you walk, that’s all.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. You can’t really tell cos you can’t see properly.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’
‘This is going to be really funny when we’re all dry and warm,’ she says.
‘Yeah!’ I say. ‘Yeah, it is.’
‘Not far to go now.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I saw a tree back there, I think. I think I did.’
‘Me too. We must be pretty close now.’
The rain hammers down on the swelling river, and we plough on through it. No matter how high I lift my feet, they’re never out of the water now; and our progress is laborious and exhausting. Every step is an effort. We haven’t much breath to sing or tell stories, and for half an hour or more all that passes between us is the occasional reassurance that we’re getting close, that the water’s not rising any more, that we’re going to be warm and dry soon.
‘I think – we’re there,’ Anna gasps.
‘Me too,’ I say dully. ‘I saw—’
‘No, Alex,’ she says. ‘Really. Look – over there. Is that it?’
I peer through the gloom. There’s a pale shadow just visible through the rain. ‘I think – yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘Where’s the place through to the fence?’
We fight our way in to the bank and along it. ‘Here!’ I say. ‘It’s here.’
The bank is slick and muddy. I slip back the first time I try to climb out, but then I get a handhold on the thick stem of a bush and pull myself free. Looking back, I can see the water swirling thickly around Anna. She scrambles for the bank, and I stretch out my hand to her. She grabs it and has hauled herself part-way out when something gives way. There’s a slithering sound, and her hand is wrenched from mine. She doesn’t even have time to cry out. A splash, and she’s lost in the dark water.
‘Anna!’ I shout, but there’s nothing: only the sound of the rain hissing into the river, and the slop of water against the mud of the bank. She’s gone.
I panic. I cast about in the little area of bank on which I’m standing, trying to get a clear view of the river. ‘Anna!’
There’s a voice; or at least, I think there’s a voice. I hear something. The wash of water sounds fills my head. Somewhere away in the darkness is a heavy splash; part of the bank falling in, perhaps. I think of where the river goes: all the way down through the valley, through the town in its concrete conduit, and out into the harbour, into the distant blackness of the sea. ‘Anna!’
‘Alex!’
It’s her. I can’t see her, but I can hear her voice. I get down as close to the water as I dare, clinging to the bush I’ve found. ‘Where are you?’ I shout.
For a long time there’s no response. Then I see something: a slight, dark figure battling against the coursing weight of the water. A tree branch sweeps by me, and I see it flash past her and then disappear into the night. She makes her way closer in to the bank, where the water is slacker. I can hear her gasping for breath as she gets near, and I stretch my hand out towards her.
‘I’m here,’ I say. I feel her hand – terribly cold – close over mine, and for what feels like ages she just grips it, so hard it hurts through the numbness of my fingers, just holding me. I squeeze her hand back. At last, she manages to pull herself out of the water and up onto the mud with me, and she sits down suddenly and heavily, with a thump. Her breath is still ragged, and she’s drenched, her hair plastered down over her head. She’s shivering and I can feel her body shuddering through her anorak. She looks up at me, and on her face there is an expression I don’t recognize. It’s halfway between fear and – I can’t tell.
Suddenly she turns to one side and spits. ‘Shit. I’ve got—’ She pauses, spits again. ‘Yuk. I’ve got the whole river in my mouth.’
‘Did you go under?’
‘Yeah.’ She spits again, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Shit, I’m cold.’
The shivering is worse. I say, ‘We’d better get inside. Maybe there’s—’
‘Yeah. Let’s get inside. Come on.’ She drags herself to her feet, still gripping my hand. She glances down, and seems to notice for the first time that she’s still holding onto me. Abruptly, as if she’s suddenly embarrassed, she lets go. She leads the way up the bank, but I notice that her steps are uneven and look weak. We struggle through the undergrowth until we crash into the fence.
‘Ow,’ she says.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. I banged my arm.’ Her words are indistinct; her teeth are chattering.
My legs are numb and feel wobbly. It’s more difficult climbing the fence than I would have thought possible; on the other side, I almost collapse. Anna is bent double, holding her knees, panting.
‘God,’ she says.
I struggle to my feet and she straightens up.
‘Nearly there,’ she says, and this time it’s a joke, and I manage a breathless laugh.
‘Yeah. I saw a chapel back there.’
‘Yeah. Too right.’
‘This had better be important,’ she says. ‘If he’s just – forgotten his comics or something, I’ll—’
‘Me too.’
We round the end of the chapel and come up on the side door. It’s open. Anna’s first inside, and I follow.
Jamie has lit several of the supply of candles, and they cast a warm light on the pale inside of the chapel. I think briefly to myself that he’s been wasteful to light so many; we’re supposed to be saving them. I stop beside Anna. Jamie comes up the chapel towards us; he has the torch in his hand. He is staring at us, and for the first time I am able to look down at myself and see what he’s seeing: I’m soaked to the waist, my clothes all slathered with mud and bits of grass from the river-bank, and pine needles. Anna is even worse. Water is coming in a steady stream from the hem of her anorak, and all down one side she’s covered in ochre slime from the riverbed. Jamie’s mouth is open, and I can tell he’s shocked at how we look. Glancing at him, I see that only his shoes and the ankles of his trousers are wet; the river must have been only filling a little when he made his way up. For
an insane second, it’s all wildly funny to me, and I want to burst out laughing.
Anna says, sharply, ‘What’s wrong?’
The urge to laugh dies in me. Even though she’s drenched and shivering, Anna is still in control. ‘Is he OK?’ I echo.
Jamie shakes his head. He closes his mouth, and swallows, and then says, ‘He’s gone.’
‘What?’ Anna says. She sounds like she hasn’t heard him properly. Maybe she’s shivering too much.
‘He’s gone,’ Jamie says again. ‘When I got here, he wasn’t there. And he’s taken the gun.’
Anna and I stare at him stupidly. ‘But he can’t walk,’ I say.
Jamie shrugs helplessly.
‘Gone?’ Anna says. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. He just is.’
The candles flicker and jump in the air coming in through the open door. Jamie and Anna and I stand there, not speaking, not knowing what to say or do. The hermit’s gone, I think to myself; the hermit’s gone. I’m so tired that the words don’t feel like they’ve really got a meaning; they’re just words, going round my head. Anna, beside me, is hugging her arms around herself, trying to keep warm. River water is in a pool on the chapel floor around our feet. The hermit’s gone. It doesn’t mean anything.
Chapter Twenty
We sit on the bare boards of the chapel, shivering. I can feel my teeth rattling together in my head, and Anna, when I look her way, is still shaking visibly. When she speaks, her voice trembles with cold.
‘How did he know where the gun was?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jamie says.
‘And how could he walk?’
I say, ‘He was bending his leg yesterday. But he said it would be a long time before he could walk on it.’
‘He lied to us,’ Anna says, incredulously.
Jamie says, ‘He must have got all the way up into the belltower.’
‘How did he know it was there?’ Anna says again. Then, ‘Shit, I’m cold.’
‘Me too.’
Jamie says, ‘What happened to you?’
‘The river’s filled up,’ I say simply. ‘We had to wade through it. Anna fell in.’ Anna and I glance at each other, and a silence absorbs this understatement.
‘It was only like a stream when I came,’ Jamie says.
‘Yeah, well, it’s full now.’