The Drowning

by Rachel Ward

  “Iss nothing, Debs. Go back to sleep.”

  “How long’s she going to be here?” I ask.

  “She? She? She is my sister, and she can stay as long as she likes. She’s here to help me. To help me get through, because I dunno how I’m gonna do it, face the next coupla days, God help me. Thass wot I need, Carl. I don’t need you actin’ up.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …”

  “You’re just takin’ the piss now. You let me down today. Big-time. I wan’ you to think ’bout what I said, Carl. You can’t go on like this.”

  She wobbles off into the kitchen and I take the chance to escape upstairs. I close my bedroom door, but I can still hear her plodding up and into her room as I peel off my wet track pants, and then Debbie and her picking me to pieces. I slip back into my sleeping bag and try to tune out their words, let their voices become just another sound, a background noise, but there aren’t just two voices, there’s a third, a low-level whisper. It doesn’t take long for the booze to put them back to sleep again. Their voices get quieter and there are bigger gaps between their exchanges. And soon enough the snoring starts up again.

  And the whisper is there. The third voice. And even as I strain to catch the words, I recognize the tone, the rhythm, the pitch.

  You and me, Carl. You and me …

  I sit up and grope for the light switch, shielding my eyes until, little by little, they can cope. The light reaches every corner of the cramped room. There’s nowhere to hide. There’s nothing to see. Except two mattresses, heaps of clothes, a couple of fishing rods, and the damp patch of mold in the corner. But it’s not just in the corner now. It’s bridged the gap between our beds, spreading to my side of the room. Its ragged edge reaching forward, grasping, stretching. I put my hand on the wall, not two feet from the tip of the dark patch. The surface is damp, cold, and clammy.

  Kill the bitch.

  He’s here. In this room. He’s never going to leave me alone.

  Wherever I go, whatever I do, he’ll be there.

  My fingers find the fragments of the photo in the pocket of my jeans on the floor. I take them out and hold them in the palm of my hand. There’s an eye looking at me from the piece on top. Deep brown. Dancing with light. Neisha. My Neisha. And I think of those other photos, the ones on his phone.

  I crawl across the floor and fish the phone out of the jacket pocket. I page through the screens — menu, gallery — to the photos. This time I’m not looking at her body, I’m looking at her face, the pain behind her eyes.

  “He hit me.”

  I go through each image in turn. Delete. Are you sure you want to delete? Yes. Until they’re gone. I put the phone back in the pocket.

  I would never hurt her. I would never let anyone else hurt her. Except that I did. I made everything worse — with my lies and my jealousy and my childish resentment. I wound him up and set him off. That last time, it was just an argument, a row like a million other rows. It ended the same, too, with him battering me. And I never thought … I never imagined …

  It’s got to stop. But how can I stop him?

  This room is full of him. It’s infected and so am I. He’s wormed his way into my head. That’s what he is, a worm in my brain.

  It’s this place — I’ve got to get out of here. But he’ll come with me, won’t he? I bring him with me. In the park, in the street, in the school.

  He. Comes. With. Me.

  And now I know what I’ve got to do. Neisha’s dad is right. But it’s not the place that’s toxic, it’s me. I’ve got to get out of here. Leave and take Rob with me, away from this flat and away from this town. Away from Neisha.

  I’ve got to go. Tonight. Find a place where I’ve never hurt anyone, or broken anything, or broken in anywhere. See if I can start again. Just me and my shadow. Me and him forever.

  You can’t leave. I won’t let you.

  He’s still here. He knows what I’m planning to do. Of course he knows. I spring away from the wall and stand up.

  I said I’d fucking kill you and I will.

  I scan around the room, looking for things to take with me. I pull on some boxers, socks, and a pair of jeans, and reach for a T-shirt, stuff it and a couple of pairs of underwear in my coat pocket. There’s room for my book, too. It’s the only thing here that means anything to me. There’s nothing else. No reminders or souvenirs. I just want to leave it all behind. Except for the picture. My torn-up girl.

  Neisha.

  How can I just leave her like this? Will I ever see her again? When I figure out how to get rid of Rob for good — maybe then I can come back.

  I can ring her tomorrow, when I’m far enough away. Try and explain. She’ll understand, won’t she? Maybe she’ll even wait for me.

  I don’t know, but I do know this is the right thing to do.

  The wind’s picked up outside. It whines as it hits the corner of the flats, but I can’t hear any rain. I want there to be rain. I need it on me, on my hair and my skin, in my face. As long as I’m wet I’ll be able to drag Rob away with me.

  I peer out through the curtains and I think, This is the last time I’ll look out of here. It feels good, like I’m on the right track.

  Right on cue, big fat raindrops start flicking against the glass. This is it. Time to go. I tie the coat around my waist, hesitate in the doorway, and look back at the room. The stain on the wall is turning it into a dark, damp cave. If I stay here, I’ll suffocate. It’s time to go.

  The snoring has died down to a low rumble in Mum’s room. I wonder how long it will take her to realize I’ve gone. She’s not going to be happy when I miss the funeral. I should leave a note. Something to stop them from looking for me, raising the alarm. I turn back and rip a page out of an old school notebook, then scrabble through the heaps on the floor looking for a pen or pencil.

  I’m stuck. All I can think of to say after fifteen years, and I’m not even sure about the Dear.

  That should do it. I can’t bring myself to write love so I just put my name. Carl Adams. Then I feel like a dick for putting the Adams and I want to rip it up and start again, but I want to get away now. I need to go.

  I tiptoe downstairs and put the note on the kitchen table.

  I ease the front door open and slip out, pulling the door closed very, very slowly. It gives a little click as the catch jolts into place, and I’m out of here.

  I get a blast of cold, wet air straightaway. Jesus, I’m going to freeze without a shirt on, but it’s got to be like this. As the rain starts spattering my bare skin, the whispering stops and Rob appears in the yard.

  I start to run.

  Running away?

  I jog along the walkway and jump down the stairs. I look behind me to see if he’s swinging over the concrete rail, but he isn’t behind me. He’s jumped in front, waiting, watching.

  You always was a coward, little brother.

  I was a coward, he’s right, that’s what got us into this mess. I didn’t have the guts to stand up to him. But I’m not one now. Not anymore. I have to be strong for Neisha.

  I don’t stop. I’m around the corner now and heading for the rec. The wind buffets me in the face, carrying the rain with it. I’m cold already, and my chest is aching as I suck in the stormy air, but I don’t mind. I’m riding a wave of confidence. I’ve got a plan and it’s working. For the first time in a long time, I’m in control.

  Cold and soaked through, I head toward the edge of town — the railway, the factory, and the fields beyond — and Rob tags along, as I knew he would.

  For a while my route heads toward Neisha’s. Then, instead of crossing the bridge and turning onto her street, I carry on alongside the river. Even in the dark I can see that it’s running high. The rain from the last few days has swollen it, and now it flows fast and strong a few inches below the top of the bank. It glistens in the streetlight like a big fat snake.

  When I turn away from Neisha’s, Rob starts to get more agitated. His tran
sparent form paces the pavement, shouting and cursing, arms flailing by his sides.

  The wind’s picking up. Fallen leaves rise in a corkscrew in front of me, swirling around madly. The rain’s coming harder now.

  There’s hardly anyone else around. No other pedestrians. A few cars. Traffic lights reflect on the wet surface of the road, broad bright streaks of color that look like they’ve been painted there.

  You can’t do this, you coward!

  His voice is a roar, in my face, in my ears, in my head. He’s right in front of me. And I run at him and I keep running, bracing myself for the moment of contact. At the last minute I can’t help closing my eyes. When I open them again he’s standing ahead of me, on the bridge over the bypass.

  I jog toward him. I feel exposed here. The wind’s gusting from all directions, pushing and pulling at me. Below, cars stream toward us, under and away. Streaks of white light one side of the road, streaks of red on the other. I could get down the embankment, hitch a lift. But if I really want to disappear, I’ve got to find a way of doing it without being seen.

  A truck rumbles across the bridge, sloshing water over my feet, big wheels at touching distance. I reel back and hold on to the bridge’s handrail, and then something clicks in my brain.

  A truck. They’re in and out of the factory twenty-four seven.

  I should be able to find a trailer and climb in the back without being spotted. There’s security there, but with the weather this filthy I’m betting the guys will be in a nice warm office having a brew.

  I set off toward the factory gates, open like always. I stand behind one of the brick gateposts and look into the site. There’s a long driveway, sweeping between two lines of trees, leading all the way to the factory. In between the trees there are streetlights, but they only throw their glow a few feet on either side of the road. I leave the gateway and follow the fence around to the right.

  The rain’s coming in earnest now. The wind’s blowing in my face — it’s a struggle to make any headway. Suddenly a big gust comes in from the side, blowing me into the fence. The trees in the avenue to my left are thrashing around. There’s a splintering noise, and a branch lands a couple of yards away.

  I won’t let you do this. I’ll kill you.

  And I get the crazy feeling that the weather’s on his side. That he might even be controlling it. The wind and rain are trying to stop me. I push off from the fence, pick my way past the branch, and start running again. The cold’s got to me now. My legs have lost their strength and I can’t feel my fingers.

  I make it to the factory buildings. I don’t have time to check for security cameras, I’ve only got one thought in my mind. Find a truck and get out of here. I cut down between two buildings into a yard behind. There are three trucks parked, no one around, so I scuttle to the back and look for a way in. One of the trucks is a flatbed with canvas sides. The canvas is rippling in the wind, billowing out and pressing back, whipping and cracking under the strain. It’s tied down with straps and buckles, but there’s one place where it’s started to get loose and is flapping at the bottom. I reach up and try to unpick the rope to make a bigger hole, but my fingers aren’t working properly. I blow on them and try again. One of the knots starts to give — I scrape the skin off my finger and thumb, and at last I’m able to feed the rope through.

  I yank at the canvas and haul myself up onto the platform of the truck. Most of the space is dry but, just where I’ve got in, the rain has got in, too. I flop down onto my back in the damp patch — keep wet, keep him with me. I glance across at Rob. He’s sitting curled up, clutching his knees into his body. He stares at me with simmering hatred. And a cold pain stabs my head. He’s going to make me suffer for taking him away.

  This isn’t over.

  I breathe through the pain and listen to the wind battering against the canvas. He’s not going to win. The truck rocks, creaking and complaining like a ship at sea. It’s wild outside and it’s going to be a long night.

  My brother’s with me, stabbing ice in my head, shackled to me by the puddle of water under my bare back. With no one else in the yard, I guess we’re not going anywhere until the morning. All I can do is wait. But I’ve survived everything that Rob’s thrown at me so far, and I’m on my way out of here. Everything’s going according to plan.

  I sit up and put my T-shirt on. My jeans are still soaked and the T-shirt will get wet enough from the puddle to keep Rob with me. I untie my coat from my middle and roll it up for a pillow. I lie down again and curl up on my side, bringing my hands up to my face, cupping them to catch the warmth from my breath.

  I take another look at Rob. He’s huddled and silent now. For the first time in days, I don’t feel threatened by him. It’s me and him, like it always used to be, but now the tables have turned.

  I close my eyes and before long the noise of the subsiding storm and the creeping comfort of my own body heat are lulling me toward sleep.

  I don’t know why they’re talking about closing — we’re busier than ever,” a gruff voice says.

  I open my eyes and try and work out where the hell I am. A shadow that looks like Rob stares back at me and for a moment I think I’m at home, we’re on our parallel mattresses, and it’s the start of another ordinary day.

  Then I remember he’s dead.

  “It’s crazy. We’re making a bloody fortune for ’em and it’s still not enough,” another voice says.

  I’m in a huge rectangular tent, lying in a puddle. The voices are very close, just on the other side of the canvas. I lie still, listening, while the memory of finding this place in the middle of the night slowly comes back to me.

  “It’s greed, though, innit? They can save on wages in Poland, so that’s what they do. Here, hang on, you got trouble here —”

  “What is it?”

  “Straps have gone. Not surprised with that bloody wind. Is it just these ones?”

  Feet make their way all around the truck.

  “Yeah, it’s just those two, but you can’t go out like that.”

  “I’ll report it, see if I can take the other rig.”

  So this truck’s not going anywhere. Shit! One set of feet heads off across the yard. The other stays put. I can hear the guy playing with the straps and buckles, see the shadows his hands make on the other side of the canvas.

  I ease myself onto my hands and knees. It’s a painful business — my limbs are stiff and sore after a night sleeping in the cold. Crouching low, I move to the opposite side of the truck. The canvas is held in place tightly. No way out here. I creep back, slipping my arms into my coat. My jeans and T-shirt are still damp. The shadow hands have disappeared, and I can’t hear anything.

  I put my face down by the gap, and tug at the canvas gently until there’s a slit. All I can see is someone’s broad back inside blue overalls, about two feet from me. I can’t hope to slip out behind him without being heard or seen.

  There’s a shout from across the yard.

  “We can use this one! I’ll back it up.”

  Blue Overalls moves away to the side. When I can’t see him anymore, I make the gap bigger and peer out. It’s okay. I turn around and slither out backward on my belly, letting myself down slowly, feeling with my toes for somewhere to take my weight.

  Once on the ground I crouch down, then scurry across the gap between my truck and the next. I remember now that the other two trucks in the yard had metal sides. I won’t be able to get into them, so I’ll have to do it another way. I’ve got a picture in my head of how they do it in the movies, clinging on to the underside of trucks and planes and trains. Looking at the bottom of this truck, I can’t see how that would be possible. You’d have to be Superman to hold on here.

  What now? The cold pain in my head’s back, a searing ache that threatens to dull my thinking.

  It’s over. Nice try, loser.

  At least Rob’s still here. I can’t answer him for fear of being heard. But I’m not giving up, whatever he throws at me.
No way.

  I crawl around the far side and out again, straightening up and flattening myself against the side of the truck. I’m between the second and third one now. I edge along toward the cab. There’s a gap between the cab and the metal trailer behind, a flat metal neck with some thick coiled wires or pipes joining the two sections. I clamber up onto the metal platform. There’s just enough room here, but no cover. I slither back down and duck under the back of the truck again. I’ve got a plan now. I’ll stay underneath until they’ve loaded up and the driver’s safely in the cab. Then I’ll nip up to my perch on the neck.

  It’s drizzling outside, the air is damp and heavy. There are more feet in the yard now. My heart’s starting to thud in my chest, but I know I can do it.

  I warned you.

  Mustn’t let the pain distract me. I need to concentrate.

  There’s all sorts of shouting and joking about, and then the clattering of a metal shutter going up somewhere at the edge of the yard. The door of the cab of my truck groans on its hinges as it’s unlocked, yanked open, and slammed shut again. The engine splutters into life. This is it. I’ve got to move, but there are people on either side of the trailer. I can’t get out now, I’ll be right under their noses.

  The noise of the engine is roaring in my ears and now some sort of warning noise is sounding, bleeping on and off and a recorded voice booming out. On either side of me, the wheels start to move, rolling slowly backward. The bottom of the cab is coming toward me. Backward? I’ve got no choice; I have to go backward, too.

  On my toes and knuckles, I crawl like an ape across the yard, through pools of oil, sharp stones, and puddles of water, keeping pace with the truck’s movement. I try to stay level with one set of wheels, so I can’t be seen. The truck creeps slowly across the yard and comes to a halt up against one of the buildings. The back doors are opened up and then a million feet are in and out above my head. I’m buzzing now. This truck is definitely on its way today. If I keep my head, this is my ticket out of here. I’m gonna do it.