The Drowning

by Rachel Ward

  “I didn’t know what had happened,” she says. “All I can remember is that we’d swam farther than I wanted to, way out of my depth. I wanted to go back, but he stopped me and then …” She starts to stumble on the words. “… then he ripped the necklace off me, he put his hands around my throat. He was strangling me, and you were swimming toward us, shouting. And he let go. The thing is … you must be telling the truth. Why would he let go unless someone forced him to? Unless you forced him to? You probably saved my life, Carl.”

  Can that be true? Am I the one who saved her?

  “Did you see what happened next?”

  “No. As soon as he let go, I started swimming away. I didn’t even know where, just away. And it was raining so much I couldn’t see anyway. I could hear you, though, the two of you … swearing at each other, splashing, getting fainter the farther I swam … I made it to the shore, and a few minutes later, so did you.”

  “But you said before that I tried to kill you. Me and my evil brother.”

  “I was confused. It was all so quick. I was in shock. I thought you were in on it, that you knew what he was going to do. You see, he had some photos of me, on his phone.” She’s looking down at our hands on the table now, can’t meet my eyes. “He said he’d show my dad if I didn’t meet him. And you said — don’t you remember? — you said that he’d really do it, that I had to go to the lake and see him, but you’d protect me. You’d meet me from school and we’d walk there together. And then you’d stay in the bushes nearby while I talked to him.”

  Walking across the grass together. She touches the silver locket at her neck.

  “But at the lake, you kissed him,” I say. “I saw you. You both took your clothes off, you went in the water … you were back together with him, Neisha.”

  “Because he said that if I didn’t do exactly what he told me to, he’d put the photos on the Internet, he’d print them and send them to my dad … he’d turn up at home if he needed to. I was scared, Carl. I had no choice. So I did it. I took my clothes off … and when I looked around for you, you were walking away. I thought you’d betrayed me.”

  “But then I saw you in the water, struggling, and I came to help. To get him off you.”

  “Yes. I really think you did. You were looking out for me after all, Carl. Like you always did. You never betrayed me, and thank God you were there, or else … I would’ve …”

  I saved her? I’m her hero. Rob was trying to kill her. Him, not me.

  She takes a sip from her glass. A drop spills on the table. It sits on the Formica surface, a tiny dome of water. It’s nothing, just a drop. I put my fingertip on it and try to smear it away and suddenly my head is full of him.

  Don’t listen to the bitch.

  His voice in my ears. The harsh twang of lake water in my nostrils. A chill running down my spine.

  I wipe my finger on the leg of my jeans and it all stops. I’m right about the water. I must be.

  Neisha brings the glass up to her lips again, and my stomach turns inside out as the water passes from the glass into her mouth. Water. In the tap, in the lake, on her lips, in her mouth. Her hardly-there Adam’s apple bobs up and down as she swallows. And now I notice a vivid red line around the side of her neck, where the chain must have bitten deep into her skin.

  She mustn’t drink the water. I reach forward and take the glass from her hand. She’s too surprised to resist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t drink it,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It’s dirty. I just noticed — the glass is dirty.” I quickly take it away and put it in the sink.

  She scrapes her chair back, but doesn’t stand up. “I’d better go, anyway.”

  She’s biting her bottom lip and I know she’s got something else to say. I wait, letting the silence hang between us.

  “Carl, I know this is terrible for you. If you did kill him, you did an awful thing. But you did it to stop something else bad happening. And I’m really, really grateful.” She’s looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. As she speaks, her fingers squeeze hard. She’s squashing her hands out of shape. “The thing is, you’re a good person and I should have listened to you. Should have kept away from him from the start. All of this, it’s not all on your shoulders. I’m guilty, too.”

  “What do you mean?” I say. “You’re not guilty of anything. He tried to kill you.”

  “I made him do it.”

  “What?”

  “I pushed him too far.”

  She checks up at me briefly and looks back down again.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. I sit down at the table.

  “You really don’t remember, do you?” She sighs.

  “I feel like I’m going mad not knowing what’s going on, what happened.” My voice is louder than I intended and she looks up, startled. She’s chewing at her lip again. When she speaks, it’s so quiet I can hardly hear her.

  “I threatened him. I threatened to tell his secrets. Secrets that could get him in a lot of trouble.”

  I’d tried to break away from him so many times, but I always went back. He’d say sorry, talk me around. I believed him each time. Believed he was sorry. Sometimes, when I was upset, I’d talk to you. You were always there for me. You’d listen. But Rob thought it was more than that. He was jealous, really jealous. I tried to tell him it was all in his head, but he went mad. Then I knew I had to keep him away from me, for good this time, so I told him that if he came near me again, I’d tell all the things I knew about him. Things that would get him in trouble. Sent to prison.”

  “What things?” I say. Her hand goes up to her neck.

  “He gave me that locket and he told me where it came from. Do you remember that, Carl?”

  I nod.

  “The old woman,” I say. “The one who died.”

  “Me, you, and Rob, we were the only ones who knew about it,” Neisha says. “I told him that I’d tell the police about the necklace if he didn’t leave me alone.”

  “But why do something like that? Threaten him? Couldn’t you just break things off and keep out of his way?”

  She gives a little snort through her nose.

  “Sounds easy when you put it like that. But you can’t go anywhere, do anything in this town without bumping into people. You can’t avoid people unless you just shut yourself away. I did that, too, though, believe me.”

  “So he wanted to keep you quiet, that’s why he …”

  She nods. “Yes, but it was the jealousy, too. He thought that you were … we were … you know … behind his back.”

  “But we weren’t … were we? And he didn’t kill the old lady, Neisha. That’s not how it was. Rob killed the dog, and the old woman was screaming and crying about it. Then she kind of … collapsed. It was horrible, and I hated him for making me go with him to burgle Harry’s, just ’cause I knew the layout, where all the valuables were. But he didn’t kill her.”

  She looks at me sharply.

  “That’s not what Rob said. He said he’d done her. Used those words. ‘Done her.’ And no, you and I weren’t at it. You’re too nice for an idiot like me. We were just friends.”

  I run my hands through my hair, starting to doubt the memories that have come back to me. “But what I don’t get is, if that’s what he told you — that he killed her — why did you stay with him? Why did you keep going back to him? Was it just the photos?”

  She sighs and, leaning her elbows on the table, holds her head in her hands, mirroring me.

  “No, that was toward the end. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  But she does know, she’s just not saying.

  “You thought he was a murderer, and you went back …”

  There are tears seeping into her eyelashes. I want to stop this, make it better, hold her. But I need to know.

  “You went back, Neisha. Why?”

  She looks up. Her lips are pressed into a thin line.

  “I was scare
d. He told me he’d kill me if I left him. And I knew he could kill. I knew he was violent. You saw what he did to me.”

  The red line around her neck.

  “In the lake?”

  “And before. That’s why you and I became close.” Her dark eyes are swimming in tears.

  “It was my fault, Carl.”

  The mark on her face is showing through her makeup. A dark shadow that won’t stay hidden.

  “No. It can never be your fault. You didn’t make him do that. It’s wrong.”

  “I upset him. I was nagging. He told me to stop.”

  “He was born upset, Neisha. Trust me, I know.”

  Another gap starts to fill in my brain.

  Neisha holds her forehead with her hand, squeezing at the temples. “It wasn’t just that old woman. He hit me. Remember? He hurt me.”

  There’s a noise from the hallway. A soft thud. Neisha and I look questioningly at each other and then I jump up and go to look. Mum’s there, bending down to pick up a pile of magazines.

  “You all right?” I say.

  She looks up at me and her face is flustered, caught in the act. How long has she been there? How much did she hear?

  “I was just … just going to put these in the recycling,” she says.

  Neisha’s next to me in the doorway, pushing past.

  “I’d better go,” she says.

  “No,” I say, “no, not now. Please. Please stay.”

  I reach out and put my hand on her arm, and she flinches.

  A set of dull gray bruises on the soft part of her arm, between her wrist and elbow. She thinks I haven’t seen, but I have.

  “He shouldn’t do that to you.”

  She looks away. I reach out and take her hand in mine. It’s soft and warm.

  “I would never, ever hurt you, Neisha.”

  I move my hand away, but I follow her to the door. Mum stands and watches us, magazines in hand. It’s raining, a soft, soundless drizzle drifting about in the air. It’s not much, but it’s enough to set butterflies going in my stomach. Neisha pauses on the front step. She turns her collar up around her neck. I stand next to her and pull the door shut behind me.

  “She heard,” she says.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ll talk to her.”

  “God, what a mess.”

  “It’ll be all right,” I say, but my words sound empty and foolish.

  The concrete walls and walkway look grayer than ever in the rain. A drip from the ledge hits my hand, and someone, something, flits across the far end of the walkway, near the top of the stairs. I pull my arms in close to my body, flatten myself against the door.

  “What are you doing?” Neisha says. “Are you hiding?”

  “No. No, ’course not.”

  I want to tell her, I really do. But not yet.

  She looks over her shoulder.

  “Is someone there?”

  “No, there’s no one.”

  She checks behind her again. I guess if you’re not used to it, it would feel threatening around here.

  “Will you walk me to the end?” she says. She’s looking at me, waiting.

  “Sure,” I say, and I step out from under the canopy. The rain is so light it’s hardly there at all. There are no sudden movements, no voices in my ear, and my fear starts subsiding. Neisha links her arm through mine and, even through her coat, I’m aware of her warmth.

  “I’ll walk you home, shall I?” I say.

  She looks across at me.

  “You’d better stay and talk to your mum,” she says.

  “But we need to talk, you and me,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, “and we will, but we need to know how much she heard, what she’s going to do. She could go to the police, couldn’t she? You could be in trouble.”

  I shrug. “I dunno. I don’t think it’s likely. If she heard what he did to you, I reckon she’ll keep quiet. It happened to her, see. Not Rob, our dad. He hurt her. It’s how she lost the end of her finger. I was defending you in the lake, trying to protect you, so I don’t think she’ll tell.” We’re nearly at the end of the walkway. The rain is so soft I hardly notice it, but my face and neck and hands are moist. “Neisha, why did you tell the police what you did? That we were just larking about? Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”

  “I was scared of you. You persuaded me to meet him. I thought you were in it together. I thought you’d come after me if I said anything.”

  I feel like someone’s scooped out my insides. The thought of her being scared of me — I can’t stand it.

  “And I’d have had to tell everything,” she says, “everything I just told you. I just couldn’t do it.”

  “I don’t understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. He hurt you. You were trying to protect yourself.”

  “It sounds so simple when you say it like that. It’s not simple when you’re in the middle of it. It feels like … like it’s your fault. And you feel … ashamed.”

  She looks away. I stop walking and put my hand on her other arm, gently turning her to face me. She still won’t look me in the eye.

  “It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. My God, Neisha …”

  I want to put my arms around her. I want to draw her close.

  There’s something pale in the stairwell. It’s blurry, indistinct, just a suggestion of a shape.

  I freeze.

  It’s coming out of the gloom, heading straight for us.

  Neisha turns her head to face me. “What is it?” she says.

  The shape is human. It’s only half there, but I know who it is. And he’s angry. Really angry.

  “Run!” I shout. “Quick, back to the flat!”

  I start to drag Neisha back along the walkway. I’ve got to get her inside.

  She’s screaming, “What’s going on? What is it?”

  We blast in through the front door, staggering into the hall. Mum’s not there anymore. I grab a dish towel from the kitchen and rub my hair, my face.

  “It’s the rain. The rain …”

  I hold the towel out to Neisha. She’s hovering by the open door, wide-eyed. Rob isn’t there. He hasn’t followed us in. We’re safe.

  “No, it’s all right,” she says. “I hardly got wet. What’s wrong? You’re frightening me.”

  What’s wrong? What is wrong? She doesn’t know; she can’t see what I see. I think I know what’s going on now, but I need to be sure before I tell — if …

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just jumpy about rain, ever since … you know.”

  “Stay in, then. Stay here. I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, at least take an umbrella. Don’t get wet, Neisha.” I can’t believe I’m letting her go out alone.

  She squints her eyes a little, like she’s going to ask me something else, then she decides against it. “Calm down, I’ve got one,” she says, patting her shoulder bag. “Will you ring me later?”

  “Yeah. I will.” I need to know she gets home safe.

  “You’ve got … you’ve got his phone? It confused me when you rang the first time, it —”

  “Yeah, I can’t find mine. Maybe it’s at the bottom of the lake.”

  She’s coloring up and then I do, too. I can feel the blood surging into my face as I think of the photos. The photos of her.

  She looks like she wants to say something more, but then she bites her lip, mutters, “Later, then.” And she slips out of the flat. I hear her walking away, her boots slapping on the wet concrete. I close the door and lean against it for a minute or two, trying to catch my breath, trying to get the kaleidoscope of voices and pictures in my head to settle into some sort of pattern. Something that makes sense.

  What Neisha’s told me has stunned me. I should be with her — there’s so much I want to ask. But she’s right: I need to talk to Mum.

  “Mum? Where are you?”

  “I’m in here.” Her voice is dull, a monotone. She’s in the living room, sitting on the sofa.
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  The magazines are on the coffee table. She’s got something else in her hands now — the old school photo, me and Rob in matching shirts and ties and slicked-down hair. She’s muttering under her breath — I can only just catch what she says.

  “So young. So young …”

  Her son, dead at seventeen. And I killed him.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t seem to have heard me.

  “… You think it just goes over their heads, but it doesn’t. They take it in, even when they’re tots. I should’ve got out earlier. Left the bastard. I never thought … never thought …”

  She puts the photo down and now she’s clasping her hands together, rubbing the end of her short finger with her thumb.

  “Mum … ?”

  She looks up, sees me framed in the doorway.

  “Rob?” she says. “Oh, Rob, what have you done?” She struggles to her feet and steps toward me, frowning, shielding her eyes.

  “No, Mum, it’s me. Carl.”

  I move toward her and we meet in the middle of the room.

  “Carl,” she says, like she’s trying to remember. “Carl.” Then her face clears. “Carl,” she says. She takes both my hands in hers, and now it feels like she’s back with me. “Has the girl gone?” She looks past me, into the hall.

  “Yes, she’s gone home. How much did you hear?” I ask.

  She looks at me, brimming over with confusion.

  “Enough,” she says.

  “Are you going to turn me in? Are you going to tell anyone? The police?”

  “What for?” she says.

  “You know what for. I … killed him.”

  “It was an accident,” she says stubbornly.

  “No, Mum. It was a lot of things, but it wasn’t an accident. I wouldn’t blame you if you did turn me in.”

  “We don’t do that, Carl. Not in this family. We don’t blab. We don’t snitch.” She looks at me bleakly. “Besides, what good would it do? I’ve lost one son; I don’t want to lose another.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  Her hands tighten on mine, and I feel the end of her little finger on my skin. It’s smoother than the other fingers. Something jolts inside me. The pain she’s gone through, held inside all these years.