Water Born (14 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

T
he bus is achingly slow as it winds its way through the suburban shopping streets. At last we reach our stop. Mum, Dad and I hurry through the pedestrian entrance, past the large iron gates and down the long sweeping drive, walking as fast as we can in our Sunday best. Dad's in his interview suit, Mum and I in black dresses. I've borrowed a pair of shoes from Mum – black patent court shoes that are pinching my feet. They clip-clop like horses' hooves on the tarmac. I wish I could take them off.

The other mourners are gathered outside the chapel, waiting for their turn to go in. Through a shabby trellis, with a dried-up rose clinging to its fretwork, I can see the guests from the previous ceremony filing out of the back door, pausing to read the cards on a row of wreaths laid
flat on the floor.

Nirmala, Shannon and the others from the team are standing in a group. Jake's there, too. They're held together with arms linked or draped across shoulders. Tight.

One of the girls clocks me as I approach. I can read her lips. ‘She's here,' she says to the others. Some turn round and stare. Nirmala and Shannon keep their eyes firmly on the ground, still giving me the cold shoulder. I'm not going to let them.

I break away from Mum and Dad and try to join the group. ‘Hi,' I say.

Nobody answers.

Perhaps they didn't hear.

‘Hi,' I try again.

Nirmala tears her eyes away from the ground, but can't bear to meet mine. She looks past me, to where my parents are standing. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes unnaturally bright.

‘Don't start, Nic,' she says. ‘Don't talk to us.'

‘Nirmala, I didn't mean to hurt her. I gave her a tiny sip, because she asked me to.'

‘I can't believe you're here. You've got a nerve.'

‘I keep telling you, I never meant to hurt her. She was my friend—'

‘You weren't her friend and you're not ours. We don't want you here.'

A long black vehicle is coming down the drive towards us.

‘You might not like it, but I'm part of the team, you
can't push me out.'

‘You did that yourself, you slag, when you sent that picture to Christie's boyfriend.'

It feels like the ground's falling away beneath my feet. They've seen it – the photo on Harry's phone.

‘He's sent it to you? He's better?'

‘Well, he's conscious, anyway. I saw him in hospital yesterday,' Jake says. ‘He gave me his phone, asked me to look after it.'

‘It's not what it looks like,' I splutter. ‘I didn't know he was seeing Christie. I didn't—'

‘Just stop it, Nic. Stop right there. Have you no respect? She's here,' Nirmala says.

The hearse draws to a halt opposite the entrance to the chapel. The other mourners are filing in. The girls follow, arms around each other, and I'm left standing, looking at the coffin sitting in a sea of tributes in the back of the hearse, like a trophy in a glass display case.

Mum touches my elbow.

‘We'd better go in. Are you okay?'

‘Yes,' I say, numbly, and I let her and Dad gently guide me in through the chapel doors and into a pew at the back.

The service passes in a blur. Pretty much everyone is crying. The order of service says it's meant to be a celebration of her life, but grief has won the day. Shock, hurt and disbelief at a life cut so tragically short.

I want to be like the others. I want to cry for Christie, share the grief with them. But my eyes stay obstinately dry. And while half of me is listening to the vicar, the
readings, the poems, the prayers, the other half is churning with resentment and shame.

All the girls know. Soon everyone in this chapel will know. My mum. My dad. The whole city will know. I'm the girl who sexted Christie's boyfriend. I'm the slag who betrayed her.

Slag. Bitch. Whore.

There's no point denying it. After all, I did send the pictures. I can try saying that I didn't know Christie and Harry were seeing each other, but I don't think anyone's in the mood to listen. I'm guilty in their eyes. I'm beneath contempt.

Towards the end of the service there's a bit of commotion in the pew occupied by the swimming team. Shannon, overcome with emotion, sits down heavily during the last hymn. She curls forward in her seat while the girls either side rub her back and fan her.

And now the final act. The vicar intones as curtains slides around the coffin. This is the end.

There's a shout as Shannon slips on to the floor. Her parents rush forward. Another girl sinks to her knees.

I think of Milton's verdict of the girls in school. Mass hysteria. Perhaps this is another case of it. I don't feel faint or queasy this time, but Mum squeezes my hand.

‘You okay?' she whispers.

‘Yeah.'

‘I expect it's just a bit much for them. I'm going to help. You stay with Dad.'

She bustles forward and is soon lost in the throng. The whole thing's descending into chaos. At least I can escape
before everyone's remembered about me and my crimes.

‘Dad, can we wait outside?'

He nods. We're meant to file out of the other door, but we'd have to pick our way through the knot of people at the front, so instead we just leave by the entrance. There's another huddle of mourners waiting for the next funeral on the conveyor belt. We make our way through them and walk around the side of the chapel to the back garden to wait for Mum.

But she doesn't come out. Hardly anyone does. The conveyor belt has jammed. An older couple, maybe Christie's grandparents, emerge and stand in the shade. Dad wanders up to them.

‘What's going on?' he asks.

‘They're going down like ninepins in there,' the old chap says. ‘There's something wrong with the girls.'

By now I can hear the wail of an ambulance floating through the clammy air, see a flashing light speeding along the top road, the other side of the cemetery wall. It turns into the site and heads down the drive. It's followed by two more.

‘God, Dad, what's happening?'

I start to run towards the door, but he grabs me. ‘Don't go in there.'

‘They're my friends!'
Were
my friends.

‘You'll just be in the way. Let the professionals deal with it. Don't get hot and bothered.'

‘I'm already hot.' The afternoon sun is frizzling the skin on the back of my neck. ‘Have you got a drink?'

‘Yeah. Come and stand in the shade.'

The edge of the roof is creating a line of shade along the wall of the chapel. I lean back and swig from Dad's water bottle.

‘Just a little. Sip it, Nic.'

But I can't sip. My mouth is parched. I gulp the stuff down, tipping my head back so I can get it down my neck.

Dad grabs the bottle from out of my hand and it splashes my face. And I hear a voice. Rob's voice.

It's all for you, Nic. Nasty girls. Bitches
.

‘Dad!'

‘That's enough, Nic. Remember where you are,' he whispers. ‘What happened.'

Ignore him. His time's up, Nic. Bring him back to me. Do it, or the killing will carry on
.

I look round. Of course he's not here. How could he be?

But somehow he is. He's with me.

And I shudder as I realise: he's with me wherever I go. He was looking for me and he found me, and now he won't let me go.

I close my eyes tight shut. I visualise the word NO in capital letters. I want this to stop. I don't want to be part of it any more.

NO, I think, sending the message to Rob as strongly as I can without saying it out loud. NO. NO MORE.

‘You all right, Nic?' Dad asks.

I open my eyes again.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘Just too hot. Dad, do you believe in ghosts?'

He looks at me sharply.

At that moment Mum comes out of the chapel door. She strides up to me and puts her hand on my forehead. ‘How are you feeling, Nic?' she says.

‘I'm fine. A bit hot, that's all.'

‘Let's get you home.'

‘What's going on in there?'

‘It's the whole team. They've all got fevers. Some of them are having difficulty breathing. Looks like it could be something like legionella to me.'

‘What's that?'

‘I'll tell you later. I'm going to ring for a taxi.'

In the taxi, Mum keeps watching me like a hawk, but I don't feel any different. Just hot, but everyone's hot.

‘What's legionella, Mum?'

‘It's a bacteria. It can make you quite poorly.'

‘Kill you?'

She pauses. ‘Sometimes. If you're old or ill. Not young people like you.'

‘Never?'

‘Not usually.'

‘How do you catch it?'

‘Through water,' Dad says. ‘You inhale it in water droplets or fine spray.'

Now I do feel sick.

‘Is that right, Mum?'

‘Yes, it lives in water tanks and air-conditioning systems, that sort of thing.'

‘Swimming pools?'

‘They're treated. Should be safe. But it might be in the air-con or the showers.'

‘But if it's the whole team . . .'

‘Except you. You're all right, aren't you?'

‘Yes. I think so.'

‘I wonder why you're different.'

I think about my last swim. I was too scared to get in the shower afterwards. And I didn't swim with the others. Presumably their routine afterwards was the same as usual.

‘I didn't have a shower,' I say. ‘The last time I swam. Do you think that's it?'

Mum gets her phone out and rings the hospital. She tells them what I've said.

‘They'll test the water there. They'll have to. They'll probably close the pool until the tests come back.'

‘Close the pool?'

‘It's a serious public health issue, Nic. They won't have a choice. I'm sorry.'

‘No. No, it's fine. I was going to tell you, I want a break from it anyway.'

‘Swimming?' Dad says.

‘Yeah. It's just got too much.'

He puts his arm round me. I don't want him to say anything smug or triumphant, and he doesn't. He doesn't say a word. I rest my head on his shoulder until we get home.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
he bathroom door resists a little as I turn the handle and push against it. Then it gives and I'm in. Mum's already in there.

‘No!' she yelps.

She's sitting on the edge of the bath, naked.

I've seen her like this before, of course, but not for years. It's a shock for us both. She doesn't try to cover herself up – we've never been particularly shy of each other in our family – but she does look ashamed.

‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' I shout. I'm halfway out of the door again when my brain starts to register what I've seen. I stop.

‘Mum? What are you doing?'

‘I'm . . . I'm washing myself.'

‘But you're not, are you?'

There's no water in the bathtub. The shower isn't on. She's got a wet wipe in her hands. She was using it to clean under her armpit as I walked in. Wiping herself clean, not washing.

‘Can we talk about this in a minute? Please. I'll come and find you. Just close the door now.'

I retreat and pull the door to. For some reason I feel dirty too now. I want to wash these feelings away. Instead, I go into my bedroom and sit on the bed. A few minutes later, she joins me. She's got a thin summer dressing gown wrapped round her.

‘Nic,' she says. ‘You could try knocking next time.'

‘I didn't think anyone was in there.
You
could try locking the door.'

‘I did. Well, I thought I did. That catch has always been a bit dodgy.'

‘Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . I mean I wouldn't have . . .'

‘It's okay.'

We sit in silence for a minute, pondering the gap between our words and reality.

‘So . . .?' I say, as in
What the hell did I just walk in on?

‘I just . . . couldn't be bothered to run a bath.'

‘Or take a shower?'

‘Or take a shower.'

‘Or use soap and water in the basin?'

‘Those wipes are refreshing when it's so hot.'

‘Or . . . or you're as freaked out about water as Dad is.'

She looks at me then, and her eyes are haunted. She's looking away – looking down, left, right – anywhere but
at me. Her hand goes up to her ear and plays with the earlobe.

‘Mum, don't even bother lying any more. You told me that it's always better to tell the truth. Tell me the truth now. Are you scared of water?'

She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths.

‘Yes, I'm scared. I don't want your father to know. He's so close to the edge right now. I keep trying to reassure him, calm him down. I don't want this getting out of hand.'

It's Rob. They're both scared of what the water is harbouring, but neither of them will say it, use his name. Is this the moment to tell her that I know?

‘What is it? Why are you so scared? What are you scared of?'

‘A long time ago, before you were born, water nearly killed me twice.'

‘The lake. I've . . . um . . . seen the articles on the web.'

‘The lake, yes. And afterwards there was a flood. It destroyed Grandpa's old house. I was inside.'

‘You never said. There seems to be a lot I don't know.'

‘It was before your time. History.'

‘I still don't understand. You haven't been scared for seventeen years, have you?'

‘Yes and no. When you've been through that sort of thing, it never really leaves you. It's always there.'

‘That's not it, though. You haven't been like this all the time. Using wipes instead of water. We used to have baths together, remember? When I was little . . .'

There's doubt in her eyes. She's weighing up whether to tell me the truth or not.

‘You think there's something evil in the water, don't you? Just like Dad.'

She bites her bottom lip.

‘I think there could be. I think we all need to be careful. You, me, him. Nic, if you ever see anything – any
one
– in the water who shouldn't be there, you must tell me. Come to me, not Dad.'

Anyone. Can I tell? Should I?

‘Mum. There's a boy at the pool . . .'

‘A boy? A boy you like?'

‘No, not exactly . . .'

‘I thought you were seeing Milton. He's a nice boy, Nic. Don't play games with him, not that sort of game. Don't mess him about. If you're not serious about Milton, then don't string him along. He's very sensitive and he's got a lot on his plate.'

‘I know. I'm not . . . it's not like that . . .'

The bedroom door opens and Dad walks in, carrying a handful of tools and a washing-up bowl. He takes in the scene.

‘What's this? A girls' pow-wow? Am I interrupting?' He doesn't wait for an answer. ‘I can't turn the boiler off. It's gone crazy, it's like it's possessed. I'm going to drain the system. If I take the water out, that'll stop it.'

He marches over to the radiator.

‘Shouldn't you get a plumber?' Mum says. ‘If it's still on, if it's still trying to heat something that isn't there – isn't that dangerous?'

‘Nah, it'll be fine. No need to shell out a hundred quid for a call-out. I can do it myself.'

‘You're not a plumber, Clarke.'

‘I've worked on enough building sites, Sarita. I know what I'm doing. Stop fussing. Anyway, what were you girls talking about?'

‘Nothing,' we say together. Then we look at each other, like we've been caught out, but Dad's too busy with the job in hand to notice. He kneels down, places the bowl under one end of the radiator and starts trying to undo a rusted-up nut with a spanner. He grunts with the effort.

‘Never mind,' he says. ‘Can you go and look for some more containers – buckets or big plastic tubs? I'm going to do all the rads. This has gone on for long enough. If I get the water out, out of the whole system, it'll be better for everyone.'

Mum and I go off in search of buckets.

‘He'd be better off taking out the fuse, or disconnecting the boiler from the electricity, wouldn't he? That would stop it working.'

‘Oh, let him just get on with it. At least he's busy, not staring at that computer screen, and he's off your case for a bit.'

‘It's the water, isn't it?' I say. ‘He wants to get rid of the water.'

Mum doesn't reply. She pokes around in the cupboard under the sink. ‘I think there are some buckets in the shed, Nic. Can you go and look? While you're in there, can you get the barbecue out? Think it would do us all good to do something a bit different. You could invite Milton, if you like . . .' There's a little smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

‘Mu-um . . .'

‘I'm only kidding. Unless you do want to invite him . . .'

I'm out of the kitchen and out of earshot before she can embarrass me any further. Misty trails after me. She has a quick sniff round the shed until I chase her out, remembering the time she managed to knock over a tin of white paint and paddle it all through the house. While I lock up the shed again, she flops into a patch of shade underneath one of the bushes in the border.

The rest of the day feels almost normal. Dad's busy inside. Mum and I set up the barbecue and the sunshade and make some salads. She sends me to the corner shop to buy some buns and a packet of frozen burgers. I'd normally take Misty with me but the sun is still punishing, its heat radiating up from the pavement. I leave her lying under the bush, tongue lolling out, panting hard.

The bottom of my flip-flops are turning tacky, starting to melt. It makes walking a bit difficult. I could take them off, but I'm worried about burning the soles of my feet.

Milton's coming out of the shop as I go in. He holds the door for me.

‘Hey, girlfriend,' he says.

‘Hey,' I say, blushing.

‘Tough day.'

‘Yeah. Did you hear about the girls on the team?'

‘It's all over Twitter. Are you okay?'

‘Yeah. Think so.'

Milton closes the door and guides me gently round into the shade of the shop canopy. We lean against the wall.

‘Nic,' he says. ‘I'm starting to think your dad's on to something. There's too much happening. I think there's some weird shit going on.'

‘I know,' I say.

‘You think so too?'

‘There is something . . .'

‘So . . .?'

‘I can't tell you.'

‘'Course you can. You can tell me anything.'

‘It's crazy.'

‘That's okay . . . Crazy's okay. I deal with crazy every day. Come on, Nic, spill . . .'

I don't know where to start, what to say. I run through it in my head, but the words won't come.

‘Is it about your dad?'

‘Yes. No . . . it's about me.'

I feel like I might actually break in two, split down the middle, if I say it out loud. It doesn't seem possible that I can tell someone what's going on and still live and breathe like a normal human being. Because this isn't normal. None of it is normal.

‘I can see my uncle. The dead one. He's doing things . . . making me do things . . . bad things.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I see him in the water. He found me in the swimming pool. And since then . . . things have been happening.'

‘What things?'

‘I . . . I gave Christie the sip of water that killed her. I pushed Harry.'

‘And he . . . he made you do it?'

‘Yes! No. I don't know. He understands my feelings. He can read my thoughts. It's like . . . those girls were really mean to me, they pushed me out, made me feel bad . . . and now they're in hospital.'

‘But that's like a bug or something. You didn't do that.'

‘I think he did. I think the bug that's making them ill was in the water at the pool.'

Milton rolls his head back against the wall and breathes out slowly.

‘Holy shit.'

‘Do you believe me?'

He opens his eyes again and turns his head. A little trickle of sweat makes its way down the side of his nose. I hardly dare to look at him, but I need to know. Does he think I'm mad? Is he on my side?

His brown eyes search mine. I think of all the times I've been mean to him, all the put-downs. He could crush me now, if he wanted to.

He pushes his glasses up a little, licks the salt sweat off his top lip.

‘I believe you, Nic,' he says. ‘I do believe you.'

It's too hot for hugs. Instead, I slip my sticky hand into his. He gives it a little squeeze.

‘But you mustn't tell, okay? Dad's pretty much having a breakdown right now. And Mum . . . Mum's scared too. They're both . . . I've never seen them like this. So please, please, Milton, don't say anything. Okay? I'm handling it.'

‘How exactly are you handling this? What are you going to do?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You're not on your own, okay? Don't think you're on your own.'

‘Thanks.'

‘And whatever you do, you need to be careful, really careful. I want you to be okay, Nic.'

We stand for a little longer, hand in hand, backs against the wall. Then, he waits for me while I get the things on Mum's list and we walk home together. He carries my shopping as well as his.

‘Do you want to come for tea? Anson family barbecue?'

‘Or Adams family?'

‘God, yeah. Sounds more appropriate somehow. Want to be part of our little freak show? And your mum, too?'

‘Mum won't come. I'd better stay in with her.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yeah.'

‘There's plenty of burgers . . .'

‘Nah, that's okay. Another time maybe. I've got some stuff to do anyway. Going to google “ghostbusting”, see what I can come up with.'

I can't tell if this is one of his jokes or not. He hands me my shopping bag.

‘Skype me, okay?' he says. ‘Or text me. I've always got my phone on me. Day or night.'

‘Okay. Thanks.'

I watch him as he turns into his front garden and shambles up the path. By the door, he turns round. ‘Stay safe, girlfriend.' This time he's smiling, and it brings an answering smile out in me.

I can see a plume of grey smoke tufting into the sky over the roof of my house. I walk round the side and let myself through the gate into the back garden. Dad's poking at the charcoal on the barbecue with some tongs. He's just wearing his shorts, a baseball cap and some old slippers. He's got a beer open on the fold-up table beside him.

Mum walks out of the house carrying a couple of bowls of salad. ‘You don't need to keep poking it,' she says.

‘Hey, I know what I'm doing. Man make fire. Man cook,' he says, beating his bare chest with his free hand balled up in a fist.

I can't help smiling again. This is Dad how I remember him when I was little. How our family used to be. Can we really be like this again? Maybe we can.

‘Yes, all right. Well, start cooking those sausages, then. Woman hungry,' Mum says. I pass Dad the packet, then sit down and start to split the buns in half and pile them on a plate.