The Drowning

by Rachel Ward

  All these flowers. People must have loved him, mustn’t they? He must have been loved. Or are the flowers really for Mum … sympathy for a woman who’s lost a son? I can’t help thinking about the fist holes in our bedroom door, remembering the cold look in his eyes as he held the knife to me. Did he keep all that — his violence, his hatred — inside the house? Keep it for Mum and me?

  I walk across the yard and onto the concrete walkway, stopping to look over the edge. Garages and more flats beyond, everything soft and quiet, a yellow-orange world. There’s a sweet edge to the air as I breathe in, a hint of chocolate. The night shift at the factory must be busy. I look up, trying to see beyond the streetlight halos to the sky beyond. I can’t see any stars.

  At the top of the stairs I hesitate, then launch myself down, a flying leap taking four steps at a time — one, two, and then I lean to the side, my hands grab the concrete wall, I flick my legs up, and I’m over. It’s a six-foot drop on the other side. I come crashing down, buckling at the knees. My palms slam into the pavement and I crouch there for a couple of seconds, working out if I’m okay or not. As I get to my feet, I register a pain in my left ankle and another in my left knee. My leg must have twisted as I fell.

  I look around, hoping no one witnessed my landing. Looks like I got away with it. I dust my hands down on the top of my legs, wincing as scuffed-up points of flesh meet denim. Shit!

  Glancing back at the stairs, I wonder how Rob made it look so easy, and I see him again in my mind’s eye. He sails over the wall, lands as light as a cat, and dances around the girl.

  “Hey, Neisha,” he says. “What’s up?”

  He catches hold of her hand and pulls her toward him. And she laughs and her long hair flares outward as they twirl around in the parking lot, in tune with each other, moving to the rhythm in their heads. A soundtrack I can’t hear.

  Neisha.

  The girl’s name is Neisha.

  I turn the corner and strike out across the parking lot. Maybe being out and about will spark more memories. I know it’s all in there. In me. The doctor told me it’s just like drawers on a cabinet you can’t open: The harder you pull, the more they stick. But they’re sliding out, slowly. Haven’t I just remembered a name that I had no idea about a few minutes ago?

  None of this looks familiar, but I’ll just walk for a while and follow the same way back.

  There’s a big, open grassy space in front of me. A recreation ground. The only lights are the ones marking out the path that cuts across it. The grass on either side glistens in the circles of light they throw out; the rest is in darkness. Goalposts appear like ghosts in the gloom. A kids’ play area stands empty inside a knee-high metal fence. The air is thick — not wet exactly, not wet enough to be fog, but not dry, either, and now I realize that the reason I can’t see the stars is that there’s a thick layer of low cloud above me.

  I turn my collar up, put my hands in my pockets, and hunch my shoulders, trying to protect myself from the cold, wet air. I follow the path to the other side of the rec, where it dives between back garden fences, forming a narrow alleyway. It’s darker here. I can’t see what I’m treading on, but I keep going, trusting that my feet will find something solid, that there’ll be some light soon, that this leads somewhere.

  Soon enough it opens up, and now I’m in a little block of bungalows. They’re square, neat, and tiny. There are ramps up to the doors and tubs of flowers outside. The whole place looks artificial, like it’s made of LEGOs or something.

  The block leads directly onto the main street. I recognize it from the trip home in the cab, but it’s a different place at three thirty in the morning. Half the shops have their eyes closed — shutters down and locked. The rubbish bins are overflowing. Fish-and-chip wrappers, bottles, flyers, and old newspapers. A piece of soggy paper sticks to my shoe. I kick it off, but my eye’s caught by a newspaper nearby.

  It’s a local paper, and I’m on the front page.

  It’s the photo with Rob looking down his nose, and me not quite looking at the lens. And next to it, a photo of Neisha, not the one I’ve got in my pocket. This is another school one. Hair brushed. No earrings. White shirt, burgundy tie and cardigan.

  I crouch down and read the article, holding the paper up so that it catches the streetlight.

  Police are describing the death of local teenager Robert “Rob” Adams, 17, as a tragic accident. Robert died on Tuesday after emergency services were called to the lake in Imperial Park, Kingsleigh, at approximately 4:30 p.m. Police divers recovered his body from the water, and he was declared dead at the scene.

  It is understood that he had been swimming with his brother, Carl, 15, and a friend, Neisha Gupta, 16. Weather conditions were said to be “atrocious,” with Kingsleigh hit by a severe storm at around the same time.

  Inspector Dave Anthony of the Kingsleigh Police Department said, “Initial investigations all point to this being a tragic accident. This is a well-known spot where local youngsters often swim in the lake, despite warning signs, and unfortunately it appears that young Rob got into trouble, which resulted in his death. We will be talking to the other young people involved when they are up to it, to find out exactly what happened. Our thoughts are with his family and friends.”

  Sources confirm that a postmortem has taken place. The results will be reported to the coroner.

  Kerry Adams, 34, Robert’s mother, was too distraught to comment at the time this went to press.

  I read it again, more slowly this time, trying to take in every word. At first reading it just seemed to confirm what I already knew — my brother drowned in a lake. This time, I see that there’s more there, much more. Neisha is Neisha Gupta. She’s sixteen. There was a storm. The police want to talk to me. There’s been a postmortem. The press have tried to talk to Mum.

  I try to process all this. For some reason my mind keeps sticking on the word postmortem. God, they’ve cut him up. I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t stop. Somewhere out there is my brother’s body. The zipper goes past his face, over his head. They’ve cut into it, looked inside. I glance back at the photo, and I can’t get the two things to fit together. A schoolboy, bit cocky, bit tough — and a cut-up body on a slab. Shit.

  A drop of water lands in the middle of the photo. I look up and I feel a splash on my face, just to the right of my eye. Cold and light. Another splash hits the paper, and another. It’s starting to rain.

  It’s pounding the surface, bouncing up, making a layer of spray. The lake looks like it’s boiling. I can’t see the bank anymore. I can’t see anything, anyone. The rain’s pushing me down, the water’s pulling at me. Rob and Neisha have disappeared. I can’t see them and I can’t hear them. I’m treading water, turning my head left and right, trying to make out anything I can through this relentless wall of rain. Every time I breathe I get water in my mouth. It catches in my throat. I spit and inhale again, and it’s the same.

  I don’t want to be in the rain. I don’t want to get wet. My panic is physical. I’ve got a lump in the back of my throat and my heart’s beating fast. I’m sweating and my legs are shaking. I’ve got to get out of this. I’ve got to find somewhere to hide.

  I pick the newspaper up and stuff it inside my jacket. Then I start running. The rain’s coming down heavily. Ahead of me someone darts into a shop doorway. Someone else on the main street, at four o’clock in the morning. I’m almost there, too — a big ledge overhanging the double doorway of a drugstore. All of a sudden I’m not sure if I want to put myself in that space with a stranger, but the rain pounding on my head persuades me. Water in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Water forcing its way down my throat. I’ve got to get out of it.

  I duck into the doorway. It’s empty. They must have gone into the shop, but wouldn’t it be locked? There are no lights on inside, I can’t see any movement. I give a little shudder. Something’s not right. My face and hair and hands are wet. I’m starting to get cold.

  I look out at the street. It�
�s pouring now, noisy as the rain hits the road and dances up. I close my eyes and somehow I know that I used to like this sound, pattering on the window when I was safe and sound inside. Now it’s ringing alarm bells inside my head, it’s plucking at my stomach with nervous, busy fingers. A drop of water trickles down the side of my face from my hair.

  You bastard, Cee.

  The voice is close and threatening. Next to me, whispering in my ear. I open my eyes and look around. Who said that? Who’s here?

  I’m on my own, an empty street in front of me, solid glass and a dark shop behind. I give another shudder. I’m freaking out. Seeing things, hearing things, things that aren’t there. The rain’s showing no sign of easing off, but I make the decision to go for it, run through it and home. It’s not far.

  I turn my collar up and set off, sprinting down the pavement. The rain’s starting to make little rivers in the gutters. There’s water running down the back of my neck, between my shoulders. My feet slap on the pavement, smacking into the puddling water. Behind me I hear footsteps. I glance behind, but there’s no one there. The street is mine, just me and the rain. So it must be me I’m hearing. The sound of my own feet echoing off the buildings.

  The water hits my face and the top of my head. It drips and trickles and dribbles down. It feels like something’s alive in between me and my clothes. Something’s crawling on my skin. I let out a yell.

  There’s a flash of light and I can see the whole street in a split second of unnatural brightness. A few seconds later the deep rumble of thunder starts up.

  I skid around the corner by the bungalows, missing my footing and sliding onto the grass. My foot splays out at an angle and I fall awkwardly, wrenching the knee I hurt earlier, cursing as I go down. I put out my hands to stop myself and they slip forward in mud until I’m facedown in it. And I can smell it, wet mud in my nostrils and the rain battering on the back of my head. It’s happening again. I’m drowning.

  I turn my head and see Rob’s face: white, lifeless, streaked with mud. And the zipper moving up and over it.

  I scramble to my feet. He’s not there, of course. No one else is around, no one else is stupid enough to get caught in a rainstorm hours before dawn. I could be home in five minutes, but it’s lashing down now. The thunder is overhead, earsplitting explosions like the sky’s cracking open.

  I duck under the porch of the nearest bungalow, leaning against the dark-colored door. I go to wipe my face with my hands, but my palms are caked with mud. I rub them on my jeans instead and then stuff them in the pockets of the jacket, hoping for some tissues. The pockets are deep. My fingers find a crumpled tissue. It’s been used and I hesitate for a moment — my snot or his? Does it even matter? I make the best job I can of cleaning myself up with it. Then my hands dive back, because there aren’t just tissues in there.

  I pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Two boys by the lake. Drinking and smoking. Laughing in the sunshine. Me and Rob.

  My hands are shaking as I take a cigarette out. I can hardly hold the lighter still enough to get the paper to catch. I draw the smoke into me. It snags in my throat, just like the water did before, and suddenly I’m struggling for breath again, coughing, choking, bending forward to try and spit my airways clear. Still leaning forward, I drop the cigarette and grind it into the ground. Two boys by the lake, I think wryly. Only one of them smoking and it wasn’t me.

  So this is Rob’s pack of cigarettes. His jacket.

  I feel inside again and this time I draw out a phone. It’s a cheap-looking touch screen. I turn it over in my hand, press one of the buttons at the end, and the screen flares into life.

  I feel guilty. A guilty thrill. Phones hold names, numbers, messages, pictures. Phones hold people’s lives.

  I scroll through the address book. There aren’t many names — a dozen, no more than that. Neisha Gupta is one of them.

  Next, texts: Inbox and Sent. The most recent messages are at the top of the screen.

  Sent to Neisha Gupta, 13:29: Will u b there? 3:30

  Inbox from Neisha Gupta, 13:32: I said so, dint I?

  I look up, switching my focus from the bright square in my hands to the dark, wet world beyond the porch. Before my eyes properly adjust I think I glimpse a pale figure in the rain — maybe forty or fifty feet away from me. I squint and look harder, but it’s gone.

  He knows I’ve got his phone, I think. But that’s nuts. He’s dead. Rob’s dead.

  The screen’s gone to standby, a faint image of itself, hardly there. I press the power button to bring it back, and look through the menu.

  Gallery: The first picture is a bit like the one I’ve got torn up in my pocket. Neisha, pouting for the camera. It’s more vivid on the screen than on paper, more real. My stomach flips as I look into her eyes again. She’s beautiful. Sexy. But now I can’t have any doubt — she was looking into this lens, this phone, when that photo was taken. She was looking at Rob.

  Neisha Gupta. Rob’s girl.

  I drag my finger across the screen to find the next picture. It’s not just her face this time. It’s a wider shot, taken in a bedroom, not ours. She’s in her panties and bra, sitting on the bed, leaning forward toward the camera. One of the straps is hanging off her shoulder. She’s not pouting anymore, but she’s not smiling, either. Her expression is uncertain, like she doesn’t know what to do with her face. But it’s not her face I’m looking at.

  My fingers are sweaty as I scroll to the next shot. She’s smiling now but only with the edges of her mouth, the rest of her face is scared. Her left cheekbone is redder than the other one and I can’t help reliving what it felt like when Mum slapped me in the taxi. Her eyes are pleading with the camera. Pleading for what? I feel dirty looking at her, but I don’t, can’t, stop looking. My eyes drink in her soft curves, the warm honey tones of her skin. She’s still wearing her necklace. A heart-shaped locket dangles at the end of the silver chain, resting dead center between her naked breasts.

  “Just give me your necklace and I’ll go.”

  Rob’s voice is in my head, a memory’s forming that I can’t quite get hold of. He wasn’t talking to Neisha. Who was it?

  I hear a noise behind me. I jab at the button again to turn the power off, and quickly stuff the phone back in my pocket. A light’s come on in the bungalow behind me. Shit!

  The rain’s eased off a little. I turn the collar up farther on my jacket and make a run for it. My head is full of the hot guilt of seeing the pictures on the phone. It’s only when I’m halfway across the rec that I think about the light, the rows of bungalows facing each other around a scrubby grass square, and it triggers another memory.

  Rob’s in front of me in a dark house; I can hear barking. Then there’s a yelp and the barking stops. Rob’s heading into the front room … I can see something on the floor between me and him, a mound, a still, dog-shaped heap.

  “What is it, Winston?” A woman’s voice, old, quavering.

  “Rob, get out! Get out now!” I hiss.

  And then a light flicks on.

  I’ve stopped walking. I’m standing in the middle of the rec. The play area for the little kids is to my right. There’s an ugly pod of parallel metal bars, which offers no shelter from anything at all, to my left.

  In a daze, I walk over to the metal shell and perch on the bars. They are spotted with rain and I can feel it soaking through, adding to the wetness already there. The rain’s gently pattering on the ground around me but I’m not hearing it. I’m hearing a yelping dog, then a moment of silence and the old lady’s voice, pleading with Rob. Cursing him. I hear my voice, too. Scared. Panicking.

  I feel churned up inside, sick. The brick wall in my head, the blankness, was better than this. Maybe there was a reason I forgot everything. Maybe this was the reason. The truth is best forgotten.

  There’s no vibration through the metal, there’s no noise, but suddenly I know I’m not on my own anymore. There’s someone close. I sense him and shudder, thinking of t
he shadow darting into the doorway, the pale shape across the street.

  I force myself to twist around and look through the metal bars. I jump. There’s a face looking back. The eyes are fixed on mine. The lips move.

  You bastard, Cee.

  I blink and he’s gone.

  Shit! I’ve got to get out of here. Go home. I’m going mad. My mind is playing tricks.

  I jump up from my perch and stumble across the rec, looking all around me as I run. I dash through the empty parking lot and haul myself up the steps of our building. There’s a set of keys in the other pocket. I let myself in and head straight upstairs. I don’t check the room first. I just go in, drop the jacket on the floor, strip off my wet things, towel my hair with a dry T-shirt from the heap, and flop down on my mattress. I lie on my right side, facing the wall, so I can’t see Rob’s sleeping bag, and I close my eyes tight shut.

  This time I don’t hear him breathing as I drift off, and I don’t hear him telling me to say good night, but at the last moment something clicks in my brain, and just before I’m asleep, I whisper the words, “Night, Rob.” And that’s the last thing I hear, my own voice … and the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom tap.

  I have restless dreams, dreams where I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep, what’s real and what isn’t. Dreams of me, of Rob, of Neisha. With her clothes on. With her clothes off. When I finally wake up, the first thought that hits me is, My brother’s dead. Rob’s dead.

  I’m in our room, on my own, and he’s dead. The words are starting to mean something now. He was dead yesterday and he’s still dead today. Is it always going to be like this? This sledgehammer? Is this how I’ll wake up for the rest of my life?

  It’s light. I stick my hand out from the clammy folds of my sleeping bag, grope around the floor by my bed until I find my watch. It says ten past three. I shake my head and look again. The second hand’s ticking around, so it’s working. It must be the afternoon.