Water Born (7 page)

TEN

A
noise to my right startles me. I look round and Milton is carrying a metal dustbin in through his gate. He plonks it down while he shuts the gate behind him, and then turns to look my way.

He sees me and looks away quickly, like he's been caught out. But he knows I've seen him, so he has to look back and now he presses his lips together in a sheepish sort of smile and half-raises his hand.

I'm the one who should be looking sheepish. After all, why on earth would I be leaning against my own front door? But his shyness tips the balance in my favour.

‘Hey, Milton,' I shout, and start walking down my path.

He wipes his hands on his trousers and starts walking my way. We meet in the middle, on the pavement. It's still tacky from the midday heat.

‘I wanted to say thanks. For the flowers,' I say.

He wipes his hands again.

‘Oh, that's okay. I upset you and I didn't mean to.'

For some reason his straightforward kindness hits a chord. Without warning, tears start welling up in my eyes. I blink, quickly and hard, to try and get rid of them, but they're unstoppable. They spill out and flood down my face. I give a little gasp and then a sort of sob escapes.

Most people don't know what to do when someone else starts crying, and I'm thinking Milton's one of them. He looks at me and says, ‘Whoa.' But then he digs in his pocket and produces a perfectly white, perfectly ironed cotton hanky. He shakes it out and puts it in my hand. Then he steps forward and puts his arms round me. He doesn't say a word, just holds me, and it's not pervy or awkward. It's solid comfort. Warm and quiet and human.

I don't even know what I'm crying about. The tears keep flowing until they stop. And it feels good, just to let it all out.

I use the hanky to sort my face out, and draw away from Milton.

‘Better?' he says.

‘Yeah . . . no . . . I dunno . . .'

We sit down on the garden wall behind us, perching side by side. The hanky is soggy in my hands.

‘I'll, um, wash it,' I say. ‘Thanks.'

‘That's okay. You can keep it if you like.'

He doesn't ask what's wrong, and somehow that makes me want to tell him.

‘Milton?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you sometimes wish things would just stay the same and never change?'

‘It depends on the things.'

‘Home.'

‘Oh. Nah, I wish things were different.'

‘What things?'

‘I wish Mum would be happier. I wish she'd be able to go out of the house sometimes. I wish she wouldn't cry so much.'

I haven't seen Milton's mum for years, but I've never thought anything of it.

‘Is she . . . ill?'

‘Agoraphobia. Depression. That kind of ill.'

He's so matter-of-fact about it, his face expressionless, staring forward, but when I slip my hand into his and give it a little squeeze, he squeezes back.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't know.'

‘Why should you?'

‘Well, we live two doors down from each other.'

He shrugs.

‘Behind closed doors . . .' he says. ‘Anyway, what's changing for you?'

It's difficult to put it into words. I can't think of a label like ‘depression' for the things going on in my life right now.

‘I dunno. It's just . . . I'm not sure my parents are who I think they are. I don't know if I know them at all. I'm not sure they're even my parents. My dad's got this thing . . . this obsession, and they've both got some sort of secret.'

I like the feel of his hand. He's way bigger than me, but our hands kind of fit together. After the first exchange of squeezes, our hands have just sat together, no fussing. Now his thumb strokes the base of mine.

‘Do you want me to help you?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I'm pretty handy with the internet. I could try and find stuff out for you, about your parents.'

‘Maybe.'

‘And you could find your birth certificate. Then we'll know if they are your parents or not.'

‘What would I look for?'

‘Just an official-looking bit of paper. It lists your date and place of birth, your registered name, your parents' names.'

‘Right, okay. I'll look.'

‘And I'll do a bit of digging.'

‘Okay. Thanks.'

I stand up and start walking slowly home.

‘Nic,' he says, ‘your mum and dad—'

‘Yeah?'

‘They've always seemed like good people to me. Don't be too hard on them. From what I've seen it's not easy being a grown-up.'

He picks up the bin and starts lugging it towards the house. Something about the curve of his back makes me want to hug him again, but the moment's gone.

‘I don't feel like training. I mean, what if I get too hot like Christie . . .'

‘I know, me neither. It just doesn't seem right, us being here while she's in hospital. It doesn't feel safe.'

I start to get all my things out of my bag. The others might have been put off, but I can't wait to get into the water. I feel sorry for Christie and I hope she gets better, but she's out of the game now. And I'm still in.

I put my stuff in a locker, make sure my hair's tucked in properly and my goggles are comfortable, and pad into the pool area. As soon as he sees me, Clive takes me aside.

‘You know that Christie is unwell. Obviously, we have to make arrangements in case she's not back for the regionals. So, for the time being, you're our number one for the freestyle. That's what I want you to concentrate on in training. This is your chance, Nic. This is the big one. Are you up for it?'

‘Yes. I really am.'

‘Good girl.'

I know Harry's watching the whole time I'm talking with Clive. His eyes are still on me as I make my way to the middle lane and lower myself into the water.

‘Fifteen minutes' warming up,' Clive says. ‘Then we'll concentrate on technique.'

I push off gently, not kicking, just reaching forward, feeling the water around me, getting a sense of it. A pool is a pool is a pool, right? The same each time. Uniform. Except that it isn't. There are slight changes in water temperature, air temperature, the balance of chemicals. It's different every time and you have to experience it to understand it. You have to feel it on every inch of you, over and under, in front and behind.

I flip on to my back and do a couple of lazy backstrokes, then on to my front again and now I start to kick with my legs and scoop with my hands. Gently, stretching out, almost in slow motion. The water's beautiful today. I'm in ahead of the others. For a moment I've got the pool to myself. I ease my way down the lane effortlessly.

Looking good, Nicola. Swim to me
.

I'm not even trying to swim fast, not competing at all, but the voice is there. I'm almost annoyed. It's broken into my blissful solitude. But the voice is me, isn't it? My subconscious coaching me. I'm still on my own, right?

I close my eyes, reluctant to scan the water, see what's there. But even with my eyes closed, I can sense a presence. I open my eyes.

There's someone there.

Underwater.

The boy is there.

I head towards him in the deep end. A pale, white body, drifting close to the bottom of the pool. I draw nearer and I can see his face. His eyes are closed, his mouth too. His short brown hair plays around his forehead.

It's the same boy. The one that no one else noticed. That not even Harry, on lookout from his perch, saw getting out of the pool. Who is he? Why's he messing about here when the pool is meant to be closed to everyone except the swimming club?

I won't get help this time. If he needs rescuing, I can do it. I'm as strong a swimmer as any of the lifeguards.

When I'm almost above him, I stop swimming and float at the surface, looking down. If I take a good breath,
I can easily dive down and fetch him up, but just as I'm about to raise my head to breathe, he opens his eyes.

I start to gasp, feel the water invading my mouth, catching at the back of my throat.

‘Nicola,' he says. A stream of bubbles rises up from between his lips and heads towards me through the water.

His voice is the voice in my head.

‘Don't be scared,' he says.

He's lying on his back, looking up at me. His eyes are pale, blue or grey. His gaze is intense. I don't want to look away, even though I need to breathe.

I can't believe this is happening. You can't talk underwater. Can you? How's he doing that? How is he breathing? How does he know who I am?

‘I'm sorry I frightened you before. I didn't mean to.'

There are marks on his body, dark streaks, cuts and bruises. He's wearing white boxers instead of swimming shorts.

I can't look any longer, I've run out of air.

I jerk my head out of the water and take a quick breath. The murmur of voices bounces off the ceiling above me – the other girls are coming in.

I duck my head under again.

He's gone.

He can't have.

I dive down, swimming around in a circle, looking left and right.

Time to swim. Let's show those bitches who's the boss
.

The voice is so close. He's right next to me, but I twist my head and I can't see him.

I'm with you. Don't worry. I'm here. Let's do this
.

He's with me. He's the voice. Last time, I swam faster, better, stronger with him coaching me. Now, I'm freaked out.

I can't explain what just happened. I'm not sure I want to be here any more. He can't be real, can he? What happened can't have happened. But it did.

Another visit to the surface to breathe. I hold on to the lip of the end wall and look back down the pool. The other girls are swimming towards me, pushing a surge of disturbed water in front of them. The pool's no longer mine.

But it can be. Take it back from them. You can swim better than all of them
.

His voice is seductive.

I'm still freaked out, but the tingle of fear is turning into a frisson of excitement. I want to believe him. I want to be better than the rest of them. I want to win.

I take an almighty breath and duck under the water. I push the soles of my feet hard against the wall, reach forward and dolphin my way through the water. My body is a wave. I'm part of the water.

That's it. Feel the water. Use the water. Be the water
.

I stretch and reach and roll and breathe. I kick and pull and turn.

And no one can touch me.

ELEVEN

‘
T
he improvement's phenomenal. I'm telling you, Mr Anson, it's not often you see something like this'

Clive's asked to see me and Dad after the training session. He's bought us both a cold drink out of the machine and we're sitting at one of the little round metal tables in the lobby.

‘Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. Diet, rest, the whole lot. Keep this up for the regionals and we've got a rising star on our hands.'

Dad's trying to be serious, but I can tell he's almost bursting with pride. He's got his sensible, listening face on, but there's a little telltale twitch at the side of his mouth.

He gets his notebook out of his pocket, the one where he keeps all my stats.

‘We haven't been doing anything special. I'm sure there's room for improvement. Diet, for instance. What should we be concentrating on?'

He makes notes as Clive talks. Protein, carbs, calories . . . I drift off as they discuss the technicalities. I know what's making the difference. It's not diet, or the schedule, or cross-training. It's the boy. His voice.

He told me I could do it, and I can.

I can't stop thinking about him.

His pale, thin body. The marks on it.

Whoever he is, whatever he is, wherever he's come from, he's good for me. He's my secret weapon.

I'm still a little bit scared. After all, I can't explain who he is or
what
he is, but I know I want to see him again, look into those eyes. Were they blue or grey? I need to get closer. I need to . . .

‘Nic? That's right, isn't it?'

Dad's just asked me something, but I've got no idea what it was.

‘Sorry, Dad, I was miles away. Tired.'

‘It's okay, love. Time to get you home.'

We're walking, which is fine, except that today I could do with being on my own, having some space to think, but Dad's so full of times and training and regimes and schedules that I won't get a moment's peace.

It's nine o'clock in the evening, but the heat is still radiating up from the pavement. People are sitting outside pubs, music's blaring out of cars with their windows down. Ahead of us, two guys who are the worse for wear are having a drunken fight, aiming big swinging punches
at each other and mostly missing.

Dad puts his arm round me and ushers me over to the other side of the road. ‘Tsk!' he tuts. ‘You shouldn't have to see that sort of thing. Some people are animals.'

‘It's okay, Dad.'

‘I can't believe I had to let the car go.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘How are we going to get you to regional meets, national ones? We're going to need some more wheels, Nic.'

‘If I'm really that good, Dad, we'll be able to get sponsorship.'

‘Yeah, Clive was saying . . .'

‘It'll work out, Dad, you'll see.'

He gives my shoulder another squeeze.

‘Yeah,' he says, ‘I really think it might. We could be on the up and up now.'

‘So you're glad I came today? You understand why I want to keep swimming?'

‘I do understand. Of course I do. I hate it every time you get in the pool, but I'm excited too. This could be something. You could change your life with this, change all our lives.'

‘Hate, Dad? Why do you hate it?'

‘It's just . . . I just don't . . .'

‘What is it?'

‘I'm not . . . I suppose I'm not much of a swimmer myself. It worries me.'

I've never seen Dad swimming. He never took me to the pool or the beach when I was little.

‘Can you swim? Did you swim when you were at school?'

‘Yeah. A bit.'

‘Were you in the Scouts?'

‘God, no. Why d'you ask?'

‘You said “Scout's honour” the other day.'

‘It's just a saying, isn't it? No, I wasn't in the Scouts. I wasn't that sort of boy at all.'

‘What
were
you like?' He never talks about growing up, his family.

‘I was just like I am now, only smaller. More hair. No tattoos.'

‘What did you like doing?'

‘I dunno. Just the usual stuff boys do. Mucking about, football . . .'

‘. . . and swimming. So . . . there's no problem with me swimming, is there?'

He purses his lips and breathes out slowly, but he doesn't answer.

‘I'm going to do us proud, Dad,' I say.

‘Yes, Nic. I really think you are,' he says, but the doubt in his eyes is still there.

As we turn into our road, I can see Milton standing on the pavement halfway along. He's obviously waiting for me, but as we approach he pretends to be doing up the laces on one of his trainers.

‘Milton,' I say.

He straightens up. ‘Oh, hi,' he says, like it's a surprise to see me there. ‘Hi, Mr Anson.'

‘Hi Milton.'

Dad and I walk right up to our gate, with Milton trailing in our wake.

‘I'll go in,' Dad says.

‘It's okay, I'm coming. I'm tired. Been training,' I say to Milton.

‘Right, it's just . . . er . . . have you got a minute?'

‘I'm pretty pooped, actually. Will it wait?'

‘Not really.'

Dad's standing near the front door, looking back at us.

‘Everything all right?' he calls out.

‘Yeah, everything's fine,' I answer.

Milton looks from me to him and back again. Dad goes in.

‘So . . .?' I say.

‘So, after what you were saying, I did a bit of research.'

‘Okay . . .'

‘You said that you didn't feel like you knew your parents. That you weren't even sure that they
were
your parents.'

‘Right . . .'

‘I asked you to look for your birth certificate, but all that stuff's online these days, so that's where I started.'

His glasses have slipped down his nose again. Sweat is trickling out from under them, running down the side of his nostrils, heading for the edge of his mouth. He pushes the glasses up and wipes his face with his white cotton hanky.

‘Great! What did you find? Can I see?'

‘That's just it. They're all online, except . . .'

‘. . . except what?'

‘. . . except yours. I couldn't find it.'

‘What are you saying? Are you saying I don't exist, because, duh, here I am!' I hold my arms out wide.

‘No, I'm saying that there's no record of you being born. Or rather, there's no record of Nicola Anson being born.'

‘So . . . so my parents didn't register me.'

‘Or they registered you under another name and changed it later. That's what I think must've happened.'

‘Why do you think that?'

‘Because when I couldn't find you, I started looking for your mum and dad, and I couldn't find entries for Clarke or Sarita Anson either. You, your mum and your dad don't feature on the official records at all.'