by Lesley Kara
Right, then: it’s now or never. I dip below the surface of the water. It’s even colder than I imagined, a real adrenalin rush that makes me gasp. I propel myself forwards and, within seconds, Josh is swimming alongside me. I’d never have done this on my own, not at this time of year, but he makes me feel safe. There’s never a moment when I think he might ambush me from under the water or splash me. For Josh, swimming is a serious business.
I have a sudden image of him teaching a child to float. Our child. Talking to her in that gentle voice of his, a reassuring hand under the small of her back. My God, what am I thinking? I can barely look after myself, let alone a child.
I keep swimming, but now another child threatens to come into focus. I won’t let it. I won’t. But it pushes its way through, its little feet kicking and thrashing against the footplate of its pushchair, its face contorted in distress. And then the noise of its cry. That panicky, staccato burst that makes my ears pound.
Not now, please. Not here. I turn back towards the shore, anxious to get out of the water and dry off.
‘I don’t want to get out of my depth,’ I manage to say between breaths.
‘You won’t,’ Josh says. ‘Not if you swim parallel to the shore.’
At last, the image fades. The crying becomes the squawking of a distant gull and I feel strong enough to swim alongside him.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks.
Broken. Adrift. At the mercy of forces beyond my control. The sudden swell of an unwanted memory crashing into me like a wave.
‘Freezing,’ I tell him.
But with each stroke it becomes just a little easier, till it’s bordering on being strangely pleasant, in a sharp, biting, masochistically invigorating sort of way. The water is smooth and silky on my arms and shoulders. Every so often, I pause and stand up, just to reassure myself that I can still feel soft sand beneath my feet.
Josh dives under the water and surfaces a few feet in front of me. His wet hair clings to his head like a swimming cap and he runs his hands through it, pushing it back so that it’s off his forehead.
‘Maybe I should get a short back and sides like you,’ he says.
‘No. I love your hair.’ Shit. It’s too soon to be bandying words like ‘love’ about, even if I am just referring to his hair. Change the subject. Quick. I take a deep breath through my nostrils. ‘That ozone smell’s great, isn’t it? Takes me back to being a little girl, on daytrips to the beach.’
The way my voice is coming out, all breathy with the cold and the physical exertion of the swimming, I must sound like a little girl to his ears.
‘Except it isn’t ozone,’ Josh says. His face glistens with water, drops of it trapped on his eyelashes. ‘What you’re smelling is actually the gas that comes off decomposing plankton and seaweed. That’s why it has that sulphurous whiff. It’s called dimethyl sulphide.’
‘Now who’s being romantic?’
Josh grins and launches himself head first into the water again. The last thing I see are the pink soles of his feet. I wait for him to reappear, but he doesn’t. A stray cloud covers the sun and fear sneaks up my spine, vertebra by vertebra. How can he do that? How can he swim under for so long? I take a step forward. My foot slides across the slippery surface of a large smooth stone embedded in the sand, and as I try to right myself I realize my toes aren’t touching the bottom and I almost lose my balance. Water rushes up my nostrils and before I can snort it out some of it’s gone down the back of my throat.
I tread water till I’ve coughed and spluttered the pungent, briny taste away. A few yards to my right Josh’s shoulders and arms, and then the long, graceful curve of his back, break the surface. At least he didn’t witness me spitting and snotting into the sea.
I swim over to him in my pedestrian breaststroke.
‘I want to be able to swim like you.’
He pulls me towards him and encloses me in his strong, wet arms. ‘I’ll teach you,’ he says. ‘I taught my mum how to swim too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, she had a mean front crawl.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Sure you can. Go on, have a try.’
I do my useless version for as long as I’m able, which isn’t long at all, not in this choppy water.
‘Hmm,’ he says, grinning. ‘We’re going to have to do a lot of work on your breathing technique. You need to roll further for your breaths and breathe on alternate sides, if you can. You’ve got to find a pattern that matches the waves and breathe as fast as you can, suck the air in quick. You are breathing out underwater, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m holding my breath when my face is under.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re going wrong. You’ve got to exhale while your face is in the water, or you’re going to get out of breath and tire too fast. The most important thing to remember when you’re swimming in the sea is that if you get into trouble, try not to panic. Tread water for a while, or float. The more relaxed you are, the less oxygen you’ll need.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll be any good at it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘By the end of summer I’ll have you leaping through the water like a dolphin.’
The end of summer. It sounds so final.
23
The second I turn my key and push open the porch door, I smell it. Joint, by Roccobarocco. Simon’s aftershave. And even though I know it isn’t his – of course it isn’t, it’s just the postman – the sudden and powerful surge of memories that come with it still makes me gasp.
I drop my bag on the hall floor and walk towards the living room and the clacking sound of knitting needles. The door is ajar and, as I approach, I see Mum, sitting in her usual armchair by the fireplace, balls of flesh-coloured wool nestled in her lap like hairless kittens. On the coffee table in front of her are two empty cups and saucers.
Oh no, Pam isn’t here, is she? Mum’s informant. That’s all I need. I’ve only met her a couple of times, and on both occasions she looked at me as if I were some kind of alien. Pam’s daughter, it goes without saying, isn’t a hopeless alcoholic without a penny to her name. Pam’s daughter is a proper grown-up. A maths teacher, married with two boys. Lives in a semi on the new estate on the outskirts of Mistden, which, if you listen to Pam, you’d think was the pinnacle of success.
And to think, all that could have been mine …
I walk further into the room and turn, reluctantly, towards the sofa. But whoever was here is now gone. Only a slight indentation in the cushion remains.
‘You’ve had a visitor.’
Mum lances a ball of wool with her needles and drops it into the basket at her feet. ‘Yes, she came back. The girl who used to live here. Well, young woman, I suppose I should say. She kept saying how different it looked.’
My eyes scan the room. Something about this doesn’t feel right.
‘When did she say she lived here?’
‘Some time in the early nineties, I think she said.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd? I’d be surprised if the decor in here isn’t exactly as it was twenty, maybe even thirty years ago.’
Mum shrugs. ‘If you say so, dear. The furniture and curtains will have been different, though, and the layout. I expect that’s what she meant.’
‘I thought you told me once that the previous owner was really old. A widower, you said.’
Mum stands up and starts stacking the cups. ‘Yes, that’s right. He got too frail and had to go into a home.’
‘So how could a little girl have been living here?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Astrid. I don’t know. Maybe she was his granddaughter.’
‘Did she go upstairs?’
Mum walks out into the hall with the cups and saucers. ‘Of course. She wanted to see her old room. She was only up there a couple of minutes.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like the thought of a stranger coming to the house when Mum’s on her own. She�
��s too trusting. It could have been anyone.
I follow her out. ‘You mean she was up there alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jeez, Mum! You let a complete stranger wander round the house on her own?’
Mum makes an exasperated snorting noise. ‘Astrid, why do you always think the worst of people?’
‘I don’t, I just …’
‘She was only up there a few minutes, and then she left.’
‘Did she tell you her name?’
‘Laura.’
‘Laura what?’
‘I don’t know, dear. She didn’t say.’
‘And you didn’t think to ask?’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Perhaps I should have checked her ID before letting her over the doorstep. Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you. Your DWP letter’s arrived. I’ve left it on the stairs on top of some other bits and pieces that need sorting through for recycling.’
My stomach muscles tighten at the thought of another brown envelope and what it might contain, but when I see what she’s talking about my fears dissolve. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I recognize the official logo. I tear the envelope open and scan the letter inside, relief flooding through me. Mum looks at me expectantly.
‘They’ve given me a date to sign on. About time.’
I scoop up the pile that’s left and head for the recycling box in the porch, sifting through them as I go. A flyer about pizza delivery. The little magazine full of adverts for local services and tradespeople. Something from Flinstead parish church detailing service times and various other groups and clubs – nothing about AA meetings, I notice, although I guess that’s not the sort of thing they tend to shout about – and … and another brown envelope with the same curly green handwriting as before. My ears begin to buzz. My gut feels as if it’s being wrung out like a towel.
Mum’s still standing there. ‘Did I miss something important? I thought the rest was all junk mail.’
I force myself to think of a response. ‘It’s from someone I met in rehab. I recognize her writing.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realize you were keeping in touch with anyone.’
‘She said she’d drop me a line some time.’ My voice sounds distant and tinny, as if it’s being squeezed through a narrow tube.
‘Right, I’d better get on with our supper.’ Mum heads towards the kitchen. ‘Could you close the window in the front room, please? I don’t know what perfume that girl was wearing, but it was really overpowering.’
Something niggles at the back of my mind. Like the trace of a dream I can’t quite remember. The sense that I’ve overlooked something. An important detail. And then it comes to me.
‘What did she look like? Can you describe her?’
Mum stops and turns round, an irritated look on her face. ‘Why are you obsessing over this? She was about your age, I think. Pale skin. Dark hair.’
My scalp shrinks. There’s a strange, tightening sensation in my chest. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘What is this, Astrid? An interrogation?’ She sighs. ‘Jeans, I think. Grey jeans. Oh, and she had a sort of quilted anorak on. I remember thinking she must be far too hot in it, but she wouldn’t take it off.’
The tightness in my chest intensifies. ‘Do you mean a puffa jacket?’
‘I’ve no idea what a puffa jacket is, dear. It was grey and quilted, that’s all I can remember. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Someone at AA mentioned there’s been a spate of house burglaries recently and they all reported having strange house calls a few days before.’
The lie sounds plausible enough.
Mum makes one of her little harrumphing noises as she sets off for the kitchen again. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, dear. I’m perfectly capable of using my own judgement.’
I stare at the green writing on the envelope. Why didn’t I make the connection before? The first time I noticed the smell was the night I thought I saw Simon’s ghost running past me. There was someone else there too, wasn’t there? A girl tying her laces. A girl in a grey puffa jacket. I almost tripped over her.
I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in the toilet. The handwriting on the envelope taunts me with its extravagant loops and curls. With its psychopathic greenness. This time, there’s no postmark.
And that’s not the only time I’ve seen her. I’m sure it was her eating chocolate when I was in the Fisherman’s Shack waiting for Josh. And I’ve seen her at the beach too. Those times I’ve caught the scent on the breeze … the scent that must have acted like a trigger in my mind and made me hallucinate. All this time, she’s been following me. It wasn’t the postman after all. And now she’s been inside this house! She must have slipped this into the pile of post on her way upstairs when Mum wasn’t looking.
As before, there’s just one piece of paper inside. Gingerly, I draw it out, unfold it slowly. It’s a page torn from a local newspaper with the name blacked out – a family-announcement page – and there, in the deaths section, someone has crossed out one of the names of the deceased and written something above it, in tiny neat letters.
I peer a little closer. It says ‘Hilary Phelps’.
The walls close in on me and my eyes grow fuzzy. Someone wants me dead.
The sheet of newspaper flutters to the floor. And that’s when I see the large green letters scrawled on the back:
You’d better not get too comfortable in sleepy little Flinstead. You’d better keep your wits about you from now on. What goes around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time to pay for what you’ve done … Because it’s not just Simon on your conscience, is it?
24
I open my eyes. I’m scrunched up on the toilet floor, face squashed against the rubbery cork tiles. What the hell happened here? I must have passed out.
Then I remember, and it’s like a switch has been flicked on in my brain. All the bad neurons firing at once.
You need a drink. It’s the only way out of this.
I can’t allow myself to listen to this voice, but it’s so persistent. So persuasive.
You know how good it will taste. Just one little drink. You can handle it.
I can’t. I really can’t.
Oh, but you can. You’ll know when to stop this time.
No! I just have to ride the compulsion out. I can resist it. I can. Whoever’s doing this to me wants this to happen. They want me to fall apart. But I won’t. I can’t. Not this time. I’ve got too much to lose.
Too much to lose? Don’t make me laugh. You’ve lost it already. You don’t for one minute think this thing with Josh has got legs, do you? It’s doomed, and you know it. He won’t want anything to do with you once he knows what kind of person you are.
It’s true. I can’t deny that.
Pretending your mother’s depressed and that you’re here to look after her. How low can you get? Hah! Daft question. We both know how low you can get, and it’s much, much lower than that. You’re a disgrace, a pathetic excuse for a human being. A waste of space.
I snatch the piece of paper from the floor and rip it up, tearing into it till it’s completely destroyed, till there’s no way I could piece it together again, even if I wanted to. Then I scoop every last scrap of it into my hands and throw the whole lot down the loo and flush the chain.
It hasn’t gone away, though. How could it? I’ll never unsee those words.
Because it’s not just Simon on your conscience, is it?
The young woman from my nightmare appears behind my eyes, struggling to her feet and pointing her finger. I shake my head to force the image away. Simon wouldn’t have told anyone else. We made a pact when we sobered up. He was as disgusted with himself as I was. As I still am. The self-loathing. The guilt. These things don’t lessen with time, they get worse. They fester inside you like a cancerous growth. It was the one thing we couldn’t talk about, either of us, ever again.
What goes around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time
to pay for what you’ve done.
As if I don’t pay for it every day. As if it isn’t always hovering at the back of my mind, ready to ambush me at any given moment.
I take a deep breath. My mind won’t stop now. It’s doing what it always does, flinging me straight back to the horrors of that night – what bits of it I can remember. The pictures in my head collide and blur. The horrified shape of her mouth. Her knuckles white against the brown leather strap of her bag. The child in the pushchair screaming and kicking its legs.
Now that I’ve conjured the fragments of memory I’m piecing them together like I always do, trying to find the right order, to make sense of the noise and confusion in my brain. The pushing and shoving. That sickening crack. The rising note of terror in the child’s wail.
My heart pounds. The rest is blurred, like a film on fast-forward. Simon pulling me away. The pain in my chest from running. The fluorescent light in the late-night Spar. More cheap wine. More cider. Then … nothing. I must have blacked out. When I came to there was blood on my sleeve, but it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t mine. What the hell did I do to that poor woman?
I force myself to breathe more deeply, to return to the here and now. I retch into the toilet. It’s the patchy nature of my memories that’s so hard to bear. The not knowing. It was down by the river somewhere. Blue railings, that’s all I can remember. She must have fought back or she wouldn’t have fallen. Why the hell did she fight back? She had a child with her, for Christ’s sake!
Was it her head that hit the paving stones? She could have died! And what about the child? How long was it screaming before someone came to help? We scoured the news reports when we sobered up, desperate for information, but we couldn’t find it reported anywhere, not even one small paragraph in the local news.
I unlock the toilet door and go into my bedroom. My eyes travel slowly round the room. At first glance, it looks exactly the same, but something in this eight-by-ten-foot space is subtly different. Like in one of those spot-the-difference pictures.
I draw back my duvet and stare at the bottom sheet and the pillow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but whatever gruesome discovery my subconscious anticipates – a dead rat; a horse’s head – the bed harbours nothing but my own folded T-shirt.