Water Born

by Rachel Ward

  ‘Okay—’

  He pushes past me into the changing room. ‘First-aider coming through!’ He crouches down by Christie. There’s a folded-up towel under her head now. He puts his fingers on the side of her neck to feel for a pulse.

  ‘Christie? Can you hear me?’

  She turns her head a little.

  ‘What are you doing here? This is the little girls’ room . . . naughty, naughty . . .’

  ‘Christie, have you taken anything?’

  She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I’m thirsty . . .’

  ‘She’s already had nearly three bottles of water,’ Nirmala says.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I’m going to call for an ambulance.’

  It only takes a few minutes for the paramedics to reach us, two women in uniform with a couple of bags of kit and a stretcher. They blast into the room and cut through the crowd, immediately taking charge, asking questions, assessing the situation. We all stand back and watch.

  By now Christie is hardly responsive at all. She can hear them, but her replies are nothing more than murmurs and grunts. Her eyes keep closing, and the paramedics battle to keep her awake while they take her pulse and blood pressure.

  They quickly decide that she needs to be in hospital. She’s lifted on to the stretcher and carried out of the changing room. It’s all over so quickly. As the door closes behind them, a hush descends.

  We finish getting changed in subdued silence. A couple of the girls are crying.

  I put all my stuff into my bag. I’m on my way out when I notice my empty water bottle lying on the floor. The middle is crumpled where someone’s trodden on it. The plastic has split. I pick it up and drop it into the bin.

  EIGHT

  Dad’s right outside the changing room, pacing up and down.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Christie didn’t feel very well.’

  ‘I just saw her being carted off. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad, she was just really hot . . .’

  ‘Like heatstroke, or exhaustion or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Are you okay? Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so, just a bit shaken up.’ But the truth is that now it’s all over, I’m starting to feel a bit wobbly. ‘I could do with a drink.’

  He hands me his bottle.

  ‘Here.’

  I take off the lid and take a good long drink.

  ‘Whoa, take it steady,’ Dad says. ‘Are you okay? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I just . . . I just want to go home.’

  He ruffles my hair. ‘Let’s get you out of here. You can tell me about it in the car.’

  Once we’re on the road, the questions start.

  ‘You got out of the pool at the beginning of the session.’

  ‘That was just . . .’ I’ve got a hunch I shouldn’t tell him about the boy. Anyway there’s nothing to tell, is there? There wasn’t a boy after all. ‘I just had a bit of cramp.’

  ‘Cramp? In your leg? You weren’t limping.’

  ‘It had started to go off. Walking helped.’

  ‘And you’re okay now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the balance of salts, Nic. You must keep hydrated.’

  ‘Ha! Like Christie? Didn’t do her much good . . . you should have seen her, Dad. She drank three bottles of water in there, one after the other. I gave her mine. And however much she drank she just got hotter and hotter.’

  ‘And the water didn’t help. The water made it worse . . .’

  It’s like he’s talking to himself. Thinking.

  ‘Do you know how old she is, Nic? Is she the same age as you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ And then I realise – his table, the girls. He’s thinking about all those other girls. ‘She’s sixteen, Dad. Like me.’

  ‘That place isn’t safe,’ he says. ‘You can’t go there any more.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘The pool. You shouldn’t be going to the pool.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Dad, the pool’s fine. I expect Christie just overdid it training. She’s just exhausted or got heatstroke or something.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to your mother when we get in. If she agrees with me, that’ll be it, you’ll have to stop going.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I’m not stopping swimming, okay? I love it, Dad. I’m good at it.’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult getting to all the sessions anyway soon, I think I’ve got a buyer for the car.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Yeah, should have upped the price, I reckon.’

  ‘I can walk, anyway. I’ll just have to set out a bit earlier, that’s all.’

  He sighs and shakes his head as he eases down through the gears to stop at the traffic lights. He puts the radio on while we wait.

  ‘. . . this follows today’s official announcement that limited water rationing will be introduced from midnight tonight. Non-essential users such as golf courses and car washes will be banned from using water. In some areas, a rota system is being introduced for domestic supply. The situation is under review, with the next step being the closure of public and commercial swimming pools, and the closure of some water-intensive industries that use mains supplies.’

  ‘God, Dad, it’s getting bad, isn’t it? I’ll have to stop swimming anyway if they close the pool.’

  We take a different route home from normal, avoiding Wellington Avenue. There’s something propped up against the front door. Half a dozen flowers, yellow and red daisy-type things, held together with a rubber band. They’ve been sitting in the sun and when I pick them up they flop down over my hand, wilted and sad.

  ‘Hmm, nice flowers,’ Dad says. ‘Who are they from?’

  There’s a piece of paper tucked into the band. I pull it out and unfold it. The paper is off-white with a fine pale-blue grid printed on it. The writing is neat and careful.

  Nicola, I hope you’re feeling better.

  It’s signed, but I don’t need to see the signature to know who the sender is: the graph paper has already given it away.

  ‘Milton.’

  ‘Two doors down?’

  I nod. ‘Don’t ask.’ I look to my left, half expecting him to be lurking in his front garden, ready for my reaction, but he’s not there.

  We go inside. Misty, flopped out in her basket in the kitchen, doesn’t get up to fuss round our legs like usual. I put the flowers down, crouch next to the dog and gently twiddle her ears.

  ‘What’s up, Misty? Too hot for you?’

  She raises her head and attempts a crafty lick of my wrist before resting her head down again.

  It seems too harsh to just bin the flowers, so I start filling a glass vase with water to stick them in. The water running into the vase is cloudy and brown.

  ‘Look at this,’ I say to Dad. ‘The water’s a bit funny.’

  I hold the half-full vase out towards him. It looks like it came out of a pond.

  ‘What the—?’

  As quick as a flash, he’s grabbing the vase from me.

  ‘Is this a wind-up?’ he says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice that I don’t like.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s coming out of the tap like that.’

  He lifts the vase up level with his face and peers at the water, turning it round, looking at all angles. It’s pretty disgusting.

  I pick up a drinking glass and hold it under the tap.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad, it’s running clearer now.’

  He snatches the glass out of my hand, too, and screams, ‘Get away from the sink. Dry your hands. Do it! Do it now!’

  His face is red and sweaty. His eyes are bulging in their sockets. The guy who went nuts over a water pistol is back, and he seems ten times scarier in a small space like this.

  I back off and pick up a tea towel. He puts the vase and the glass down at the side of the sink and
turns the tap off. Then he grabs another towel and starts to dry his hands. I watch in horror as he scrubs his skin so hard and so long that it starts to look raw.

  Gently, I edge forward. I take his towel and tease it out of his grasp.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad. I think you’re dry now. Shall I tip the water away?’ I say, looking at the vase and the glass on the worktop.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘leave them. I want to show your mum.’

  He’s deadly serious.

  ‘It’s just water, Dad.’

  ‘Look at all the stuff in it. All the stuff that came from our tap. In our kitchen. Here, in our house. I don’t want you drinking this shit, okay? Bottled water from now on. Promise?’

  ‘God, Dad, chill out. I’m sure there’s a really simple explanation.’

  He shakes his head. His breathing is very fast. The wet patches on his shirt have spread down both sides.

  ‘Dad, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m okay. It’s . . . it’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s you I’m worried about. Keeping you safe. But you’re not safe. Not at the pool. Not here, even.’

  ‘But I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine. Look at me. There’s nothing wrong.’

  He won’t look at me. Instead he’s staring at the tap.

  ‘Stay away from us,’ he says, under his breath.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He does look at me now, and it’s like he’s just woken up.

  ‘Nicola,’ he says. ‘Come here . . .’

  He opens his arms. He needs me, and right now I need him to be my dad again, to be normal. I want that more than anything.

  I put my arms round his waist and he wraps me up in a sour-smelling bear hug.

  ‘I love you, Nic,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I love you too.’

  And I do. I love him, but he’s scaring the hell out of me right now.

  NINE

  ‘Look at it.’

  Dad’s brandishing the glass in front of Mum’s face. The water looks clear now, but a thin layer of brown silt has settled at the bottom of the glass.

  ‘Was the water off during the day?’ Mum says. Then she looks past him to the kitchen bench. ‘Where did those flowers come from?’

  ‘Um, they’re from Milton,’ I say. ‘For me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet. What a gentleman. You should say thank you, Nic.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Never mind the flowers.’ Dad takes a teaspoon and stirs the water until it looks like the cloudy, brown stuff that came out of the tap earlier. ‘Look at the water. Look! It came from our tap, in our house.’

  Mum sighs and walks across the room. Her flip-flops scuff on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Where are you going? We need to talk about this!’

  ‘Nowhere,’ she says. She rummages in her handbag, brings out her phone and calls a number. ‘Denise? Hiya, love. Was the water off today at all? Ours has been running a bit brown. Yeah. Between twelve and two? Any warning? Hmm. No, that’s okay. Yeah, fine, thanks. You?’ She laughs. ‘I know. Thanks, love. See you later. Bye.’

  She ends the call and looks triumphantly at Dad.

  ‘Off for a couple of hours at lunchtime,’ she says. ‘They sent a van round with a loudhailer half an hour before. That’s all it is.’

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘It was the whole street, Clarke. Not just us. What’s it like now?’

  He’s standing by the sink.

  ‘I dunno,’ he says.

  ‘Well, have a look, then.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want you to either . . .’

  He doesn’t move.

  ‘Clarke, don’t be so stupid. I’m too hot and tired for this. Run the bloody tap or I will.’

  She lurches towards the sink, but he blocks her. She moves to the side to get round him, but he grabs hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides. I’ve never seen them like this before and all of a sudden I don’t want to be in the room, but maybe I need to stay, to protect Mum.

  ‘For God’s sake, let go, Clarke! Don’t you dare put your hands on me!’ Her anger is white-hot.

  He lets go and for a moment they stand there, half a metre apart, their faces mirroring each other in shock and dismay.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dad blurts out. ‘I’m sorry, Sarita, I’d never . . . you know I’d never . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know you wouldn’t. It’s okay.’

  She steps forward into his arms and they hold each other, rocking gently from side to side. Mum’s kind of buried in him and Dad’s resting his face against the top of her head. And now I do sneak out, but not before I’ve seen Dad’s face: his eyes closed, his eyelashes wet with the tears that are leaking out.

  I creep into the hall, but no further. I’m out of sight, leaning against the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’d never, never hurt you—’

  ‘I know. It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not okay. You’re my sunshine, Neisha. You make everything worthwhile. What’s happening to me?’

  Neisha? Oh God, he’s said someone else’s name. Another woman’s name! This is going to go nuclear now.

  ‘It’s okay, Clarke.’ She hasn’t picked him up on it. She’s stressing his name like she’s reminding him what it is. What the hell? ‘It’s just too hot. Everyone’s going crazy with it.’

  ‘I’m not crazy. Something’s happening. He’s coming back.’

  ‘He—? What do you mean?’

  ‘All these stories on the news. There are too many of them. Too many kids drowning.’

  ‘Oh, Clarke, not this again. It’s a hot summer. Kids seek out water to cool off in – they always have. You know that. We know that, don’t we? And the more kids that are playing in water, the more likely it is that accidents will happen. That’s all there is to it. Accidents happen, Clarke.’

  ‘It’s more than that, I’m sure of it. Look at the evidence. Girls the same age as Nic are dying. Mixed-race girls. I’ve found thirteen of them so far. And today one of her teammates fell ill at the pool. Christie. She drank too much water. The water made her worse. It could have been Nic. We’ve got to stop her going there.’

  ‘Calm down. I can’t understand what you’re saying. What girls? What happened at the pool? Tell me slowly . . .’

  ‘I can show you on my laptop. I’ve been gathering the evidence. Sit down, I’ve got it here.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m really tired.’

  ‘It won’t take a minute.’ I hear a chair scraping on the floor. Then it’s quiet and I picture Mum scanning through the same pages I was looking at yesterday. Now and again Dad points things out and Mum murmurs in reply.

  ‘Do you see? Do you see what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Not really. Things happen all the time. Things go wrong. Why do you think this has got anything to do with us?’

  ‘Look! All Asian or mixed-race girls. All sixteen. Getting closer and closer. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Of course it can.’

  ‘It isn’t. I’m sure it isn’t, Neisha.’

  ‘Look, stop calling me that, Clarke. What if she hears? So what do you think’s going on, then? I know you’re dying to tell me.’

  ‘It’s obvious. It’s him.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Come on, Clarke, that was a long time ago. There’s been nothing for seventeen years.’

  ‘And now he’s back.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Her voice is so low I can hardly hear.

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘Do you really think I wouldn’t tell you?’

  The laptop lid closes. The chair scrapes back.

  ‘Let’s stop this right now,’ Mum says. ‘You said you weren’t crazy, but this . . . this is crazy. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘But the evidence . . .?’

  ‘It’s not evidence, is it? It’s a bunch of sad stori
es that you’ve put together to fit your fear.’

  ‘We should at least stop her swimming. Come on, back me up on this.’

  ‘Stop her? You know what it means to her. It’s her whole world at the moment. Besides, she’s doing brilliantly. She could really get somewhere, Clarke.’

  ‘But they’re sixteen-year-old girls, Sarita. He’s killing sixteen-year-old girls. It’s too dangerous . . .’

  ‘Nobody’s killing girls. Girls are having accidents. Boys are having accidents. That’s all there is to it. Anyway, think about it – the swimming pool is probably the safest place for her. There are always other people around. There are lifeguards watching the whole time. You’re watching. God, Clarke, I’m too tired for this. I’m going for a lie down.’

  The chair scrapes again. Damn, I’m about to get found out. I open the front door and slip out as quietly as I can.

  ‘Sarita, I’m really worried . . .’

  ‘I know you are, but I can’t deal with it at the moment. And we need to stop talking about it. Unless you want Nic to find out . . .’

  I close the door behind me and stand with my back to it. Too late, Mum, I’ve already heard. But I’m not sure what I’ve heard. None of it made any sense.

  It’s him. He’s back.

  Who on earth was Dad talking about? And what happened seventeen years ago?

  I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.

  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.