Water Born (15 page)

TWENTY-SIX

I
spot Misty's back legs sticking out from behind the bed.

‘Ooh, you're in trouble,' I say. ‘Everyone's looking for you. There's a sausage with your name on it downstairs.' No need to tell her it's one that fell off the grill and on to the ground. ‘What are you doing here?'

The sound of my voice normally triggers a ridiculously over-enthusiastic response in her. She should be round my legs now, jumping up. Hell, even the sound of my footsteps would usually be enough. But it's hot, crushingly hot. No wonder she's listless – I'm sapped of energy too.

I flop down across my bed and peer over the side. The washing-up bowl at one end of the radiator has a couple of inches of rusty brown water in it. Misty isn't moving. She's lying on her side. The patch of carpet around her head is dark and wet.

‘Misty?' I say. She doesn't raise her head. Her ear doesn't twitch, and her eyes stay fixed and glassy. I reach down and touch the fur on her back. She feels normal – the body beneath isn't stiff or cold – but it isn't moving either. There's no rise and fall of her ribs, no quivering in her muscles as she chases squirrels through her dreams.

‘No, no, no, no, no, no,' I say, as if denying it can somehow make it not true. ‘Please, no. Don't do this.'

I climb off the bed and kneel down next to her on the floor.

‘You can wake up now. It's all right. No one's cross at you. It's okay to be here. Just wake up.'

I touch her muzzle, the meltingly soft black skin around her mouth. There's no hot breath from her nose or mouth. Nothing. The skin is damp, a bit sticky. The last thing she did was to throw up. Then she simply lay in her own mess, and was gone.

I look at the washing-up bowl. It looks as though Misty had been drinking the evil-looking water.

‘Mum! Dad! Muuuummm!'

It seems obscene to make so much noise in this place – the place where Misty is lying – but I can't help it. I lean over her, my tears dripping on to her side, a string of saliva escaping from my mouth.

Mum and Dad rush upstairs.

‘What is it? What's—? Oh my God!'

‘Is she—?'

They join me on the floor.

‘We should get her to a vet,' Dad says. He starts to ease his hands under her body.

Mum shakes her head. ‘She's gone. She's gone.'

‘But what's—? Why—? What's all that wet stuff round her head? Oh my God, the water. The water from the radiator. I left it draining. It's got that stuff in it, to clean it out . . .'

‘You weren't to know. She shouldn't have been in here. She's not – she wasn't – allowed upstairs.'

‘Of course I should have known! I should have shut the door. He's killed her. He's killed Misty. Right here! In Nic's room!'

He grabs the washing-up bowl and throws the whole thing out of the window. I hear the plastic snap as it lands in the front garden below. He leans on the windowsill and his shoulders start to shake. He's crying.

Mum stands up and goes over to him. She puts her hand on his back and moves it gently up and down his spine. ‘Ssh, Clarke. You'll upset Nic. This is bad enough without—'

‘I know,' I say. ‘I know about Rob.'

They both turn round and stare at me.

‘That's the “he” you're talking about, isn't it? The “he” you're so scared of. I know who “he” is.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Don't pretend. Please. Stop lying to me. You had a brother, Dad, who drowned in a lake seventeen years ago, but, somehow, he's back. He's back and he's killed . . . killed . . .' I can't bring myself to say her name.

Neither of them says anything. They simply stand and gape at me. A couple of hours ago, I swore Milton to secrecy, but it doesn't seem to matter now. Nothing matters.

‘I've seen him. He was at the pool. In the water. He spoke to me.'

Mum gasps. Dad grips the edge of the windowsill. His knuckles are white.

‘I knew it,' he breathes. ‘I knew he was back.'

Mum shushes him. ‘Be quiet. Let her speak, tell us what she knows. Go on, Nic.'

‘He says he has . . . unfinished business.'

Telling Mum and Dad should be a relief, but it feels unreal. I'm kneeling here in my own room, with my dog dead in front of me and my parents shocked and scared, and I'm telling them about the ghost who killed her. I move my fingers in Misty's fur, feel her softness, watch how the waves and curls of hair move in response to my touch. Evidence to my senses that this is real, after all. But it still feels like a movie, like I'm watching someone else's life, or living in someone else's dream, nightmare.

I extract my fingers from Misty's fur and pinch the skin on the palm of my hand hard, squeezing a tiny section between the nails of my thumb and index finger. My brain registers a sharp point of pain. I squeeze harder. The pain increases, but I still feel disconnected.

‘Is he here? He's here, isn't he?' Dad says. ‘Can you see him? Can you hear him?' He looks wildly round the room.

I still feel like a witness, like everything here is on the other side of a thick glass window. I force myself to respond. ‘No. I can't see him. He's not here now. I don't think he is, anyway.'

‘But he was.'

‘Unless it was just another accident,' Mum says. We both look at her. ‘If nothing else had happened, we wouldn't even be talking like this, would we? We'd just agree it was an awful, terrible accident.'

‘Come on, Sarita, you don't believe that. It's not some isolated thing.'

‘Nobody saw him in here. All that happened is that you left the radiator draining into the bowl.'

‘I know! I know it's my fault! And I'm sorry . . .'

‘I'm not talking about fault, I'm just saying—'

‘He doesn't work alone,' I say.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘
I
gave Christie that water.
I
pushed Harry . . .'

‘We've been through this, Nic,' says Dad. ‘You never meant to hurt anyone—'

‘—and neither did you. We don't mean to do these things, but somehow we end up doing them. Maybe we're not guilty, but we're not exactly innocent, are we, any of us? We're all part of it.'

They lied to you. It wasn't an accident. It was murder
.

‘You're not part of this, Nic,' says Dad. ‘This was me. I would never, ever have hurt Misty. I love this dog. We all do. Did. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.'

He sinks to the ground and curls up.

‘Stop it. This has got to stop right now.' Mum's got hold of Dad's elbow and she's shaking it. ‘Throwing blame around won't help anyone. You've been saying for weeks that these things didn't just happen, Clarke. Well, okay, I believe you now. Okay? Do you hear me? I believe you. And I'm scared. He's in our house. He's found our
daughter. Just like you said he would. So now what? What do we do? What the hell do we do?'

Dad's still crying. Mum's shaking him and then she starts to cry, too. I can't remember the last time I saw her cry. She's so self-contained, self-assured. She's the one who keeps calm in a crisis, who others depend on to see their babies safely into the world. She can deal with pain and terror, blood and panic. She can cope with anything at all.

She lets go of Dad and rocks backwards and forwards on her heels.

My mum and dad are in their thirties, but right now they are as helpless and vulnerable as a pair of little kids.

The locket presses coolly against my skin. And I know who to blame, whose fault this really is.

Rob was gone from their lives, left in the past, seventeen years ago. I brought him back. If it wasn't for me, digging around, poking my nose where it shouldn't be, he wouldn't have found us. And because of this, one girl is dead and so many others are in hospital. My jealousy, my pride, my selfishness put them there.
I
put them there.

And now this. Misty, who I loved more than anything in the world, is dead. Because of me. I wouldn't do what he wanted. I said ‘no'. And Misty paid the price.

So it's down to me. I did this, and I've got to put things right.

TWENTY-SEVEN

H
e starts with a spade and moves on to a pickaxe. Mum and I stand under the sunshade and watch as he swings it above his head, twists his body, brings it over and down, slamming the point into the ground. The earth is solid, unyielding. After ten minutes, he's only scuffed the surface.

He stops and leans on the axe, breathing heavily, staring down.

‘This is hopeless,' he says.

‘Leave it for now,' Mum says. ‘It's still too hot to be pushing yourself like this.'

‘I need to soften the ground.'

He strides up the garden and starts unravelling the hose from its coil on the wall.

‘But Clarke . . . the water . . .' Mum says.

‘I'm not going to get wet and neither is anyone else. I'm just going to let it run on a patch of earth for a minute or two.'

‘You can't. There's a hosepipe ban, remember?'

‘I've got to do something.'

‘I know, but we don't need an appearance in court, do we? Or a fine?'

‘Who's going to tell?'

Mum looks significantly back at the row of houses. The lace curtain in the bedroom window next door swings to and fro. Mrs Collins next door isn't the only one who's been watching, but she's the one most likely to ring the council.

‘It's not worth the risk,' Mum says.

Dad turns to face the neighbours and spreads his arms out wide. ‘My dog's dead! I've got to bury the dog!' he shouts.

The net curtains don't move, but Dad's not looking anyway. Holding the end of the hose he strides down the garden to the patch of slightly disturbed earth.

‘Okay, turn it on.'

‘No,' Mum says. She folds her arms.

‘Turn the bloody thing on!'

Mum holds both hands up and, with a shake of her head, walks back into the kitchen.

‘Nic, turn it on, please?' Dad says.

‘Really?'

‘Just do it. My responsibility. I'll go to bloody prison if I have to.'

I start turning the tap. The metal is warm to the touch.
I twiddle it round and round again. There's a slight juddering in response, but no water.

‘Come on, Nic. Keep turning.'

The tap's fully open now, but the hose is limp and empty. ‘There's nothing there, Dad.'

He drops the nozzle on to the ground and marches up towards me.

‘Dad, I've turned it as much as I can.'

He tries turning it both ways, peers down the garden and then stalks into the kitchen. I follow and find him standing at the kitchen sink, turning the taps there. At the same time a distorted booming sound drifts in through the windows in the front room. I walk to the front door and open it, horribly aware that there will be no dog rushing past my legs to escape this time. Or ever again.

A van is driving slowly along the road with a loudspeaker on its roof.

‘Your water has been switched off until further notice. Midlands Water will be installing a standpipe in Mortimer Street within the next hour. We apologise for the inconvenience.'

‘What's that?'

‘It's off, Dad. They've switched the water off.'

He joins me at the front door and listens to the message as it's repeated.

‘That's it, then.' Mum is standing on the stairs behind us. We both turn round. ‘It's buckets and plastic bottles from now on.'

‘How am I going to dig my hole?'

‘I've been thinking, we'd be better off taking her to the
vet's. Have her cremated. We can keep her ashes then, or bury or scatter them. It's better really. I can't stand the thought of something digging her up – there are so many foxes round here. It'll cost, though.'

‘Well, I've got the car money. Shall I ring up? Take her now?'

She nods.

‘Might as well. It's too hot to keep her here.'

Dad disappears into the lounge and I can hear him on the phone, making arrangements. Mum sits down on the stairs and I join her on the step below.

‘I don't want her to go to the vet's,' I say.

‘I know, but it's for the best. We'll get her back again soon.'

She starts stroking my hair, like she did when I was little. We sit like this in silence until Dad reappears.

‘That's sorted. I've rung for a taxi too.'

‘Shall I give you the cash?'

‘No, I've got it covered.' Dad squeezes past us and heads upstairs. He pauses on the landing and turns round. ‘You know what this means, don't you?' he says.

‘What?'

‘It means we're safe now. No water. He can't get to us. This house is as safe as it can get.'

He should be right. Logically, he
is
right. But I'm not convinced.

I can't get the sight of Misty, lying on my bedroom floor, out of my head.

I don't think I'll ever feel safe again.

Dad goes into his bedroom.

‘Mum,' I say.

‘Yes, love?'

‘You and Dad keep saying he's back. Dad's brother. Did you see him before – after he'd died, I mean?'

She sighs. The hand that was stroking my hair stops moving.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘I saw him in the flood that destroyed my old house. And Dad saw him before that.'

‘What happened that time? How did you make him go away?'

‘I've been thinking about that. I think it was Dad who did it. He came back into the flooded house looking for me. He was prepared to sacrifice himself in order to save me – he loved me that much. Rob was so full of hate and jealousy. I think it was love that defeated him.'

‘ Wow.'

She gives a hollow little laugh.

‘I know. You wouldn't think to look at us now that we ever loved that hard, that much. But we did. We still do, really. I love your dad and I know he loves me. It's just that life, the business of living, grinds you down. Sometimes you forget what really matters. You forget to tell people how much they mean.'

‘I love you, Mum. And I love Dad.'

‘I know. And we love you, too. More than anything.'

‘Coming down!'

Dad's at the top of the stairs with a blanket bundled up in his arms. It's not just a blanket, though. It's a blanket with something inside.

‘The taxi will be here soon.'

‘Shall we come with you?' Mum asks.

‘They're not particularly nice places, vets' surgeries, are they? Better to say goodbye here. I'll put her in the lounge while we wait.'

He lays the bundle on the sofa and gently opens it up so we can see her one last time. Mum runs her hands over Misty's face and muzzle and gently closes her eyes for her.

‘Do you want some time on your own with her, Nic?'

I nod. But once they've left the room, I feel lost. I can't think of anything to say to her except ‘sorry'. Over and over again.

I stroke her fur one more time, kiss her forehead and wrap her up in the blanket. The taxi sounds its horn as it draws up outside.

Mum pops her head round the doorway.

‘Okay? Or do you need a bit longer?'

I shrug, too teary to speak.

‘Oh, love. I'm so sorry. Come here.' She hugs me as Dad picks up the blanket bundle and walks towards the front door.

‘I won't be long,' he says. ‘You two stay here. I know you'll be safe here, so promise you'll stay put? Okay?'

‘We'll be here,' Mum says. ‘See you later.' She closes the door behind him. ‘You look done in,' she says to me.

‘I am,' I say. ‘I'd try having a lie down, but I can't face . . .'

‘Of course not, stay here. I'll clean your room. It won't take long, then we can both have a nap. Or try to, anyway.'

I perch on the arm of the sofa. I feel numb, hollowed out. Above me I can hear Mum scrubbing my bedroom carpet. When she finishes, she comes downstairs.

‘That's better,' she says. ‘It doesn't look too bad now. It should be fine when it dries.'

‘Thanks,' I say bleakly.

‘Come on, Nic. Try having a nap. I'm going to. It's been a long day.'

I follow her upstairs.

‘That's it, love,' Mum says. ‘A lie down will do us both good.'

I manage half a smile and watch her retreat into her room.

Dad's right. She'll be safe here, until he gets back. It will be one less thing to worry about while I try and work out how to stop Rob.