The Drowning Read online

  I don’t recognize them, but it’s obvious they know me … and they don’t like me.

  The alleyway is narrow, with high wooden fences. There’s just room for two people to pass without going in the mess of nettles and brambles and rubbish on either side. I’ve got no chance.

  I look behind me, but that’s my second mistake — I should have piled in with my fists straightaway or just run, run back the other way as fast as I could. Now I’m shoved sideways, squashed into a spiky bush. Razor-sharp thorns tear at my clothes and skin, pulling my hood away from my face. The air’s been knocked out of me and I’m struggling for breath. Panicking.

  One of the guys, an ugly dude with half his hair shaved off, is pushing my chest farther back. “On your own? Ha-ha, dumb question. Hey, at least one of you’s dead. Saves us half the trouble.”

  I think I might be able to knee him in the nuts, take him out, but there are the other two. Three against one is never going to end well.

  The rain’s started again and another wave of panic breaks over me, my automatic response now to water.

  Another shove to my chest and I grunt as my back hits the fence behind. Shaved Head sniffs hard, turning his head left and right.

  “There’s a nasty smell around here,” he says. “How many times do I have to tell you not to pollute my part of town, you dickhead? I told you I’d kill you if I saw you here again.” He brings his hand up toward me and I feel something cold against my neck, a sharp edge digging in. Shit, he’s got a knife. ’Course, I’ve got one, too, but if I get it out, someone’s going to get hurt. This could be a bloodbath. I’m still hoping I can bluff my way out of this.

  Behind him, something seems to crystallize in the drizzle. Something pale, shimmering. I’m distracted by it, but I’ve got to concentrate, play this smart, if I’m going to get out of here in one piece.

  “Look,” I gasp, “I don’t want any trouble. Just let me go, okay?”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you put your stinking feet on my patch.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “My head got bashed in the lake, I only got out of the hospital yesterday. I don’t even know who you are.”

  The rain is getting harder and the thing behind him is taking shape. A face with dark, dark eyes. Black holes, a dark smudge for a mouth. Even though I’ve got a knife at my neck I can’t help staring at it, watching it form.

  The face — distorted, blurred, strange — is the face in the school photo, the face on the front page.

  Rob. My brother. He’s not dead after all. He’s here …

  “You’re not even listening, you little arse-wipe.”

  Suddenly the pressure on my neck is released and I think he’s backing off, that he’s seen what I can see, but a second later I realize he’s just stood back to let his mate do the dirty work. The first punch to my stomach doubles me over, and then I take another blow to the back of my neck. I hit the ground, completely helpless. My cheek scrapes on wet gravel as they pile in with their feet. My body jerks with each kick, to my stomach, my back, my neck, my head. I try to brace against it, but I can’t protect myself. All I can do is hope they won’t stick me with the knife. I close my eyes and curl up as tight as I can until they stop.

  I don’t know if they think I’ve had enough or they just get bored, but eventually the kicking stops. I hear them walking away, their footsteps fading and then disappearing. I stay curled up for a while, on the wet ground, with the rain falling on the side of my head, starting to soak through my clothes. Blood trickles out of my mouth. I feel like a bit of rubbish someone’s dropped. Something left behind. Unwanted. Something to step over.

  I’m cold and wet. Very cold, like I was lying in thick snow, not on a damp path.

  Cee. Cee, can you hear me, you bastard?

  It’s not the gang. Only one person calls me Cee. And now I smell him, smell the sharp, sour twang of muddy lake.

  Can you hear me?

  I open my eyes a little way, so there’s a narrow slit to see out of, and he’s there, not three feet away.

  White face, streaked with mud. The face that got zipped up into the bag. My eyes open wide. My breathing goes shallow and fast.

  I close my eyes again. I’m not seeing this. It isn’t real. It’s the beating I’ve taken messing up my head.

  “Everywhere. He’s everywhere, isn’t he?” That’s what Mum said. She sees him, too, in her mind’s eye. I’ve got to remember that. I must be concussed, like I was after the lake. Confused. I’ll wake up for real soon and he’ll have gone.

  I open my eyes again. He’s lying on the ground like me, his body parallel to mine, but he’s naked except for his boxers. There’s not a spare ounce on him. I can see his ribs moving under his skin as he lies there gasping, and the hedge behind him, dark stems and leaves. Shit! I can see through him.

  He makes a gurgling noise, a wet rasping as he moves his mouth and water trickles out.

  You owe me, little brother, he says.

  My head’s telling me not to believe this. Not to trust my own senses.

  My heart’s beating fast and strong.

  My poor punched, kicked, bruised and beaten guts twist inside me.

  This isn’t happening. My brother’s dead. My brother is dead.

  I stretch my arm across the gap between us. My fingers pass through his shoulder. There’s no resistance, nothing there. But that’s not quite true, because my hand is aching with cold, like I was holding it in a freezer.

  I pull my hand back sharply, revolted by him, horrified.

  “What did I do?”

  His body convulses. He draws his knees in and jerks his head forward. Water gushes out of his mouth. Its foul stench fills my nostrils.

  I scramble to my feet. He’s still lying there, twisting and twitching like a fish out of water, retching and gasping. He’s lying at my feet, in the grip of something terrible. He’s no threat, surely. But I’ve never been so terrified.

  I can’t watch him. I can’t stay here.

  He splutters again, You did this. You’ll pay, you little runt.

  And I turn and start running.

  I run through wet alleyways and footpaths, under yellow streetlights, through the driving rain, trying to leave him behind. The thing. The Rob that isn’t Rob.

  But he’s with me all the way.

  He appears out of nowhere in front of me and suddenly I find myself running toward him, not away. I veer into the road, increasing my pace. But he’s everywhere in the shadows. Oh God. Oh God.

  Where are you going, Cee?

  I realize my feet are still taking me toward Neisha’s. I’m desperate to get there, get away from this nightmare, but I can’t run any faster. My ankle is still sore from my flying leap off the stairs. My stomach and ribs hurt from the beating. I can’t get enough air into my lungs. There’s adrenaline surging through me but I can feel my strength sapping away.

  I cross the bridge and turn the corner onto River Terrace. It’s a wide, tree-lined street, Victorian terraces set back from the road, each house with its own pretty garden. And he’s here, waiting by the solid stone gatepost at the entrance to Neisha’s. I screech to a halt thirty feet away.

  He says nothing, just stares at me. What does he want? Am I going mad? I’ve got to walk past him to get to her door, and that fills me with dread.

  The house is dark except for one light somewhere behind the stained glass in the front door. The light’s reflected on the polished tiles of the step. The curtains are open. Maybe everyone’s out.

  I’m wondering how to get past Rob when he starts coughing. He buckles forward, water pouring from his mouth, and stands there with his head hanging over the pavement. Real or not, I don’t want to get any nearer than I have to. I take my chance and vault over the low wall into the front garden.

  The ground is wet and slippery under my feet, the rain still hammering down. I stand by the window and look inside. Light from the hallway is shining softly into the living room, throwing a g
entle glow onto a couple of big sofas, a tiled fireplace with vases and ornaments on the mantelpiece above. It’s just under a mile away from home, but it’s a million miles from a shitty flat like ours … What the hell was Neisha doing with Rob? Why would someone like her talk to people like us?

  At first I think that the room is empty, but then I see that a discarded coat on one sofa has hands and a head and hair. It’s Neisha, curled in a ball, with her knees drawn up to her stomach. Her face is resting on her hands; her palms are together like she’s saying a prayer. Her eyes are closed and it feels wrong looking in at her … but I don’t want to stop. She’s beautiful.

  Even in her sleep she looks troubled. I lean closer and my foot tips off the edge of the lawn into the flower bed, throwing me off balance. I put my hands out to stop myself and they slap against the window. I curse at my clumsiness.

  Neisha gasps and jumps to her feet. She claps one hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a scream, and starts backing away, then turns and runs out of the room. I push on the glass to right myself and step back into the middle of the lawn, my feet sinking into the soft, wet ground. I look at the front of the house, then go up to the door. The porch gives some protection against the rain. I crouch down and peer though the letter box. She isn’t there.

  “Neisha!” I shout. “Neisha, please talk to me!”

  Nothing.

  “Neisha! I didn’t mean to frighten you. Open up, please! I need to talk.”

  I bob down and squint through the letter box again. There’s a doorway at the end of the hall. Neisha’s hand is clasping the doorframe. That’s all I can see of her. Just her fingers curled around the edge of the wood.

  I turn my head sideways so I can see through the gap with one eye and still shout. Behind me I can hear the faint sound of liquid hitting the pavement. The sound of my dead brother vomiting his guts up. It’s not real, I tell myself. It’s just the pounding of the rain … But I know if I turn around, he’ll be there, with foul stuff pouring out of him.

  “Neisha, I know you’re there. Come on, please talk to me. You don’t have to open the door if you don’t want to.”

  Force the door, Cee. Smash it.

  His voice is no more than a whisper, but it terrifies me. I can’t look around. Oh God, Neisha, please open the door. Let me in. Get me away from the nightmare that’s followed me here. Get me away from my own madness.

  Rob’s groaning quietly now, and each noise twists my guilt tighter inside me. Did I do this to him? Did I really kill him? My guts are so churned up, I feel sick, too, like I did in the kitchen. There’s pressure building up inside.

  When I hear Neisha’s voice, it’s shaky and quiet.

  “Go away, Carl. I’m calling the police.”

  She’s still hiding. Her disembodied voice echoes in the hallway.

  “No, don’t! I want to say sorry!” I shout. “I’m so, so sorry!”

  “Sorry’s not enough,” she says. “Sorry’s just a word.”

  There’s a hard edge of bitterness there.

  “But I mean it,” I say. “I know I can’t bring him back” — even though, right at this moment, he’s spewing his guts up behind me — “but I am really, really sorry.”

  “Bring him back?” She sounds confused all of a sudden.

  “Yeah, you know …”

  “Carl, what exactly are you saying sorry for?”

  “For Rob. For killing him.”

  Silence.

  Then, “You killed Rob?”

  My head’s starting to cartwheel. This is what she was mad about, scared about, surely. The stuff in my stomach is pushing its way up.

  “Yeah,” I say, “at least I think so. I can’t remember, not everything.”

  “Shit.”

  I don’t get it. If she doesn’t think I killed him, why is she so scared? What’s going on?

  “What did you think I was saying sorry for?”

  “For God’s sake, Carl!”

  “Neisha, I can’t remember. Honestly. What happened? Why did you tell the cops we were larking around?”

  There’s a long pause. Her hand grips the doorframe more tightly. I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “You tried to kill me.”

  The cartwheels are sickeningly fast, everything I thought I knew turns upside down, spinning, reeling.

  I killed my brother and I tried to kill this girl?

  “But … but why would I do something like that?”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “Just little bits. Fighting with Rob in the lake.”

  “You and your evil brother. You were in it together. Now can you see why I don’t want you here? I don’t want you coming here, Carl. Ever.”

  I let the letter box flip closed and I sink to my knees. No wonder she screamed when she saw me in the ambulance. No wonder she slammed down the phone. Water drips from the edge of the porch roof onto my head, splashing the side of my face. Rob’s face flashes out of the darkness and it seems like he’s grinning, his mouth a grotesque scar across his pale face.

  “For God’s sake, go away. Leave me alone!”

  I’m shouting at something, someone, that doesn’t exist … Or does he?

  Saliva floods into my mouth and I can’t hold on any longer. I tip sideways and vomit into the flower bed. Cold water, again, with the same sour rankness as before. I spit and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, then I pick myself up and start walking. I keep my eyes firmly down.

  The rain’s still coming, but I don’t even feel it. I’m numb.

  There’s one word in my head.

  Evil.

  I don’t want to believe Neisha, but why would she lie? She’s terrified. I terrify her.

  Neisha thinks I’m evil. And I don’t know any different. There’s only one other person who could tell me if she’s right.

  The rain trickles down my face and I shiver. I look around for Rob, but for the moment I can’t see him.

  I stumble on, hardly noticing where I walk, ending up in the town center, rain bouncing in the gutters. Nearly all the shops are closed. People are hurrying home. I scan the street. He was here before. I didn’t know it was him then, but it must have been. Darting in front of me. Ducking into the doorway.

  So where is he?

  I walk past the shops and turn into the square of old people’s bungalows. There’s no one around here. Doors are closed. Curtains are shut.

  And now I see him. He’s pacing backward and forward in the middle of the path.

  My stomach lurches. There’s something sickeningly edgy about him, like he’s full of a demonic power. Backward and forward, like a tiger in a zoo. He’s muttering to himself, but I can’t hear the words.

  He turns his face to me.

  “Did we do it? Did we try to kill her?” I shout.

  Now I hear him.

  Kill her. Kill her.

  Is he repeating what I’ve said, or talking to himself? What’s going on?

  The rain spit-spots on my face. The smudges where Rob’s eyes should be narrow. Two dark slits. Soundlessly, he walks toward me, face looming up to mine. Close, closer, closer still. I back away but he’s faster. I stagger into a doorway, banging my head back on the wood behind. He’s coming. I can’t stop him.

  At the last moment I flinch and close my eyes, anticipating the crunch as he smashes into me … but feel nothing except an ice-cold draft cutting through me, penetrating my bones.

  “Jesus!”

  I open my eyes, and he’s gone.

  I look all the way down the road. No one. An empty street, tarmac glistening in the streetlight.

  “Rob!” I shout out. “I need to know!”

  But he’s gone. Suddenly the door I’m leaning on gives way and there’s a guy standing there, clasping a poker like a sword. He’s an old fella, wearing a checked shirt tucked into impressively high-waisted trousers held up with leather suspenders. There are slippers on his feet.

  “Clear off!” he says. “Get out of here!”
Then he stops. “Oh, it’s you, Carl.”

  He lowers the poker. He knows me. I’m racking my brains trying to think how. What’s the connection? The paint on the door isn’t wet — the porch has protected it — but it’s shiny in the streetlight. Why am I remembering the strong, oily smell of gloss paint?

  “How’s your mum coping? Worst thing a mother can go through, losing a kid.”

  The air coming out from the open door is warm and stuffy. I shiver.

  “What’s happened to your face, son?”

  “Some lads jumped me,” I say. I hear him sigh.

  “Fighting?” he says. “Don’t you think your poor mother’s got enough to deal with right now?”

  I look at him then, and he sighs again.

  “Come on in, son. You need to clean up that cut.” He nods toward my face. I put my hand up and suck in my breath as my fingers touch a graze on my cheek that I didn’t even know was there.

  “Nah, I’ll do it at home. No worries.”

  “Come on, I owe you for that work you did in the summer. You did a good job of my front door.”

  “I did?”

  “Huh” — he chuckles — “I thought I was the one with the spotty memory. I’m Harry, remember? The school sent you. You and your mates. Community service or something — I don’t know what they call it — but you were a big help to me. I can’t do the things I used to, you know.”

  It’s not quite there, but the memory’s not far away, either. I stand in the doorway while he turns away, heading inside.

  In the hall facing the door are two rows of coat hooks, a dog leash and a collar hanging on the lower row. My hands reach forward, picking up the collar off the hook, turning it around in my hands, and my mind spins back to a dark night, a bungalow that we thought was empty.

  We don’t even have to break in — the back door isn’t locked. Rob’s in front of me. I can hear barking.

  “Winston?” A woman’s voice.

  “Rob, get out! Get out now!”

  It was here. This was the bungalow. The dog that barked — this was his collar.

  “Close the door behind you,” Harry says, reappearing from the kitchen at the back. He stops as he sees me with the collar in my hands. “Put that back, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me do what he says, quick.