Deep Water

by Mark Ayre

  Alice watched Louis lower the drink but didn't reach for it. As Alex sat on the two-person sofa at one side of the room, Alice turned to her son.

  "What's going on. What’s your sister doing letting people into this house?"

  "Uh, excuse me," said Alex. "I'm the older sibling, remember?”

  "Not in terms of maturity. Tony?"

  "I wasn't convinced either, mum," said Tony. "But I think we should hear them out."

  "Hear them out? No, I'm here to hear Louis out. My children are to leave immediately. And you," she spun to Abbie, "I don't know what game you're playing, whether you're some pawn working for Louis or if this is kicks for you but—"

  "She certainly doesn't work for me," Louis cut in. "I get the impression she wouldn't do well working for anyone."

  "Impression from when?"

  "From when she and your son burst into my house earlier today and pointed a gun in my face. Honestly, Alice, I've always thought you a charming woman, but the effect you had on this Abbie in such a short time was astounding. She seemed rather afraid I might try to kill you tonight."

  Alice stared at Louis, then back to Abbie. She asked no questions, but her stare demanded an explanation.

  "I understand how this must seem," said Abbie, "but as I explained, I want to keep you alive. After Angel had a go at you earlier, I feared you might throw in the towel. I had my suspicions about Louis, but I wanted to confirm them. After we'd spoken, the picture became clearer, and I have to conclude Louis is not the enemy you fear he might be, nor the threat."

  Alice stared at Abbie for a while. Earlier, they had built a degree of trust between one another. But trust is like concrete; once applied, it grows strong over time. The trust Abbie had earlier earned had yet to set; it crumbled beneath what Alice suspected to be a trick.

  "You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for that.”

  Abbie shook her head. "I'd never expect you to. That's why we're here. Louis and Alex have things they'd like to say to you while Tony can catch you up on what happened today with Angel—" Abbie raised a hand when Alice prepared to ask about that. "Hold on. Let them get to it in turns. Like you said, you've no reason to listen to me. I hope you can bring yourself to listen to them. If not, at least get a nice G&T out of it."

  Alice looked around, to her daughter, her son, her enemy. Back to Abbie. Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward, grabbed the gin and tonic, and took a swig. Symbolic gesture made, she placed the glass on the table and withdrew a compact handgun from her bag. Pointed it at Tony.

  "I start to feel even the tiniest bit woozy, I will put a bullet in your head."

  "Mum," Alex snapped.

  "You do understand the effects of alcohol on the human body, right?" questioned Abbie.

  Alice dropped into her chair, put the gun in her lap, and took another swig of gin. "Better make this quick then because I'm thirsty."

  Smiling, exceedingly calm, Louis took a drink from his tumbler and settled into the armchair. Tony sat beside his mother on the three-seater sofa while Alex spread out on the two-seater. Still standing, Abbie smiled at the group.

  "Shall I call this meeting to order? I don't have a gavel. Doesn't it feel as though I should have a gavel?"

  "Oh," said Louis, raising his hand. "Before we begin."

  "Yes, you may go to the bathroom," said Abbie. "But make it quick."

  "No. It's Jacob."

  The humour left Abbie's face. She could not help but recall the argument between Angel and her son. Could not help but relive the cold determination in the eyes of Alice's eldest daughter. To Louis, she tried to show none of this.

  "What is it?"

  "He's, I, I think at the moment he might be…" Louis tailed off, struggled, tried to go again. "Obviously, something has… I mean, you told me about… But you said… Look because I know you went through… or certainly implied you did. Maybe you could… I don't know, it's probably—"

  "Louis," Abbie cut in. "I know you have aspirations and dreams, just like the next man, but I honestly believe the Guinness World Record for most half-sentences spoken in quick succession is out of reach, at least for tonight. I'm only saying that because you're a friend. Not a proper friend. The kind of friend where I hate everything you stand for and probably would hate you too if I got to know you, like an enemy. Actually, a friend of convenience. That's better."

  Tony was staring. Everyone was looking up at Abbie, and no one seemed quite sure what was going on.

  Abbie squeezed Louis' shoulder. "Why don't you show me Jacob's room? I'll be happy to have a word with him."

  Jacob's door was plain white with nothing to indicate it belonged to a teenage boy. Louis pointed it out, gave Abbie a hurried thanks, then backed away, as though Jacob had contracted a rare plague that would kill his father if he got too close to the teen’s bedroom.

  "Attend your meeting," said Abbie. "I'll do what I can."

  Louis gave a grateful but pathetic nod and scurried downstairs. Abbie might have been angrier, but for her own experience. After tearing herself apart to reveal to her family she had been raped, Abbie had watched her father stand and walk away without a word. For weeks, he had refused to look at or speak to her. Their relationship was never the same again. Abbie's mother blamed Abbie for breaking her father's heart. She also refused to believe Harry and his friends were rapists. She called her daughter a slut, and a disgrace. Somehow Abbie's father's refusal to acknowledge anything had happened, even as Abbie's stomach grew larger and even after she lost her baby, was worse than her mother's hideous insults.

  That wasn't Louis. He wanted to help his son but didn't know how, didn't feel equipped. Abbie wished Louis could have shown some backbone, forcing himself to offer his son an ear if nothing else. But at least he was doing something. If Abbie wasn't here, she liked to think he would have sought someone else. Maybe that was wishful thinking.

  Hampered by more nerves than was usual for her, Abbie hovered by the door as Louis descended the stairs and did not immediately knock. She wanted to help the boy, given her own suffering, but could she? Perhaps she was blowing it out of proportion. After all, nothing had happened to Jacob. Abbie had arrived in time. Ariana and Gray had been stopped.

  She knew this was nonsense. That Jacob hadn't fulfilled Ariana's sick demand might mean he had an easier time moving past what had happened. It did not mean there would be no internal scarring, that he would obsess about it. Abbie didn't know if she could help. She knew she had to try.

  Raising a fist, she knocked and waited. For five seconds, there was nothing, then she heard movement, shifting, and someone called, "What?"

  "Hey, Jacob, it's Abbie. We met on the beach early this morning. I was hoping I could come in."

  A longer wait this time. Maybe a minute. Abbie knocked again when that had passed, and Jacob forced her to wait yet another thirty seconds.

  At last, he said, "Whatever."

  Taking this as an affirmative, Abbie turned the handle and stepped into the teenage boy's bedroom.

  Incredibly, it looked like a teenage boy's bedroom. Dirty clothes on the floor, untouched homework on the desk, packets of crisps and chocolate on his bedside table; Abbie dreaded to think how long those had been there. In one corner: the bed, a pummelled ball of sheets, and Jacob. The teenager had messy hair and jagged nails; headphones in his ears, connected to an iPad. When Abbie was a kid, she had to make do with an Etch A Sketch. Jacob was watching a film. Abbie couldn't tell what the movie was, but there was plenty of blood.

  Ignored by her host, Abbie stood for almost a minute in the centre of the room. Surrounded by mess, she felt like a lonely sailor, marooned on a desert island with nothing but ocean in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

  No sooner had this metaphor entered Abbie's head, she felt a horrified lurch in her stomach.

  "Damnit," she said. "I'm old."

  Jacob looked up. Pulling one of his earphones free, he said, "What?"

  "I'm old," Abbie sa
id. "Alice said it was children that age you; apparently not. I'm 29. Feels like five minutes since I was a teenager. I thought I was young. Super young. Yet here I stand, surrounded by mess, and Jacob, I’m disgusted. I couldn't live like this. What's more, I don't understand how you can live like this, even though only fifteen years ago, this was my room. Except worse, because I'm a girl and my parents were poor, so I had more clothes and less space. Also, there was makeup. Did I ever sit in my bed while a guest hovered over me but refuse to remove my headphones? Probably not; I didn't own anything that required headphones. Would I have? I don't know, but I find it rude now. I want to tell you you're a rude kid, and you should respect me because I'm your elder, and there I go again, oh God, I'm ancient." Abbie took a breath. "I told Alice turning thirty, getting older, didn't bother me. I think I might have been lying."

  Jacob stared at her as though she might be quite mad—and maybe she was—then said, "Okay," and put the headphone back in his ear.

  Shaking her head, Abbie took the perilous journey through mounds of clothes, games, and school books to reach Jacob's bed. When she arrived, she yanked out his headphones and snatched his iPad.

  "Hey, what the hell?"

  "Except I'm not like most adults," said Abbie, stepping away, still holding the iPad. "You're used to teachers and your dad having a go, but with a near stranger, in your room, you think you're safe. Well," having somehow reached the desk, Abbie placed the iPad on it, "not with me. I'm not going to ask you to listen, then stand around while you ignore me. I have stuff to do. I need to get on, so let's do this.”

  Still glaring, Jacob watched as Abbie took his office chair and pulled it from the desk.

  "What do you want?" he said.

  "Not very specific," said Abbie. "Like any well-rounded person, I'm overflowing with never to be fulfilled wants and desires. That's the thing about getting older; it's the scenic route to regret and bitter disappointment."

  "What do you want with me?" Jacob said through gritted teeth.

  “Better, and I want to help you. Your dad asked me to have a word. You've been through a lot."

  "I'm not a baby," said Jacob.

  "Which is unfortunate for you. People argue about how much babies absorb and how their early experiences affect their development and later life. But one thing's for sure: if you were a baby, I wouldn't need to talk to you. Aurora's death would have had no effect—" Abbie noted the grief in Jacob's expression at Aurora's name. "—and Ariana would never have tried to do what she did to you. She might have drowned you in the bath, bitch that she is, which would have destroyed your father, but I still wouldn't need to talk to you. So, I agree, you're not a baby. Hence, you might need to talk."

  Jacob seemed stumped. His hands were by his side, gripped into claws where his iPad had been, as though expecting it to reappear any second. He didn't know what to say. An affliction Abbie had never suffered.

  "I know," said Abbie. "I talk a lot, and it's awfully annoying. I want you to know I recognise it's a problem… for other people. But I can listen, too." She glanced around her feet. "Can I nudge some of these clothes out the way? Give me room to put this chair; I don't want to hover over you like this."

  Jacob looked at the chair, as though involving it in the decision, then back at Abbie.

  "Whatever."

  Guessing this was as positive an answer as she was likely to get, Abbie started moving clothes aside with a foot, creating space for the chair. Once it was settled, she climbed over the clothing piles she had made and sat down, facing Jacob.

  "I don't need a shrink," he said, after a period of silence.

  "I don't need a chiropractor," said Abbie. "Doesn't mean I don't like the occasional massage."

  Jacob stared. "What?"

  “Just because you don't need professional help doesn't mean it's not beneficial to talk problems over with someone who might understand."

  "Understand what?" said Jacob. "Nothing happened."

  "And that's how you view the situation, is it? I arrived in time; therefore, there's nothing to worry about because nothing happened?"

  "Exactly."

  "Okay then," said Abbie.

  "Really?" said Jacob.

  "Really. Why do you think I'm here? Your father asked me to come up because he's worried about you. He wanted me to try to help, if I could, by listening to what you had to say. Well, I'm listening. I have listened. If you tell me your view is that nothing happened, and you're therefore not dwelling, that's fine. No, better than fine. That's brilliant, and that's all your dad wants."

  He stared at her. "Thank you."

  Abbie nodded. Paused. She could have got up and walked away, but she worried about the boy. She wanted to give him a chance.

  He looked away, his face flushed as he looked to the wall above his bed. There stood a tall, stunning blonde who seemed to have forgotten to bring clothes to the poster shoot. A pity the wardrobe department couldn't have provided anything.

  As Jacob turned back, Abbie pointed to the poster. "Think I used to have the same one."

  Jacob rolled his eyes. There was another period of silence, then Abbie stood. She didn't want to go. Something told her the threat of leaving might be enough to loosen Jacob's tongue.

  "What happened to you?" he said.

  Abbie hovered over the chair. "You'll have to be more specific," she said. "I lead an exciting life."

  Again, Jacob's cheeks reddened. He looked away, and Abbie used the opportunity to reclaim the office chair.

  "You said… something similar… like with me… you said you suffered… I just wondered…"

  Abbie did not joke about how Jacob was going for the same half-finished sentences record as his father. It didn't feel like the time.

  She said, “On my sixteenth birthday, a boy I fancied invited me to a party. My mother forbade me to go, so I snuck out. It was the first time I'd ever disobeyed my mother. She was a terrifying lady. Big on rules, small on love."

  "Sounds like my mum,” muttered Jacob.

  "Then maybe you get it. I feared my mother and was a good girl anyway. But the thought that Harry, the guy, might fancy me, that I might have a shot with him, was enough to convince me, for the first time, to break the rules. Besides, I told myself I wouldn’t be gone long. I also said I wouldn't drink, but Harry persuaded me to have just one when I arrived. He'd make it weak, he said. Have it for him, he cajoled. And I was a stupid girl, easily led and enamoured with this boy. So I nodded like an idiot. I drank the drink."

  Abbie shifted in the office chair. It suddenly felt a lot less comfortable than it had thirty seconds ago. It seemed as though it would be much more comfortable if she turned it around, so Jacob was staring at the back of her head rather than into her face.

  "I drank the drink, and Harry introduced me to his friends," said Abbie, keeping the seat where it was. "They were nice to me, but I soon began to feel woozy and unwell. When that happened, when I felt as though I might fall down, Harry took me upstairs and suggested I lie down."

  Abbie stopped again. Realised her hands were gripping the edges of her seat. She forced them away and smoothed her tight trousers with her palms. They didn't need smoothing. It was something to do with her hands.

  "You're sixteen,” said Abbie. "Not a kid. I won't spell out what happened next. Harry came in with his friends. Can't remember most of it, but nor can I forget. The emotional damage caused that night is like a set of weights around my ankles, and I can't ever take them off. I can move on, but the weights stop me from moving too fast. That's how it feels, anyway."

  Abbie finished speaking and refused to let herself look away from Jacob. She watched him look to his ankles. Then back to her. He tried to talk but the words caught in his throat. Tried again, and his voice was raspy, quiet. Abbie had to lean forward to hear.

  "Couldn't sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept thinking about it. I wasn't even dreaming, but I could see myself… with Gray and Ana laughing, and I wanted to stop b
ut…"

  "That'll happen," said Abbie, when Jacob couldn't go on. "Wish I could say otherwise, but I think it's unavoidable. What can you do about it? You lie there, eyes closed, and take deep breaths. If your mind won't stop showing you what you never did, tell yourself, out loud, I did not succumb. I walked away."

  "But I would have. If it wasn't for you—“

  "No, no, no," said Abbie. "That's not helpful. Our minds can be our worst enemies, but we are always in control of our voice box. You forget about me. You tell yourself you didn't succumb; you walked away. Because that's what happened. That's the truth. You tell yourself enough times while taking deep breaths, self-belief will overpower your subconscious. You can win, but only if you go to war with that stupid mind of yours."

  Jacob looked at Abbie again. His voice remained quiet, almost silent.

  "What about next time? She won't stop."

  "Ariana? Not of her own volition, no. But that's okay. Alice is going to try and stop her, and if Alice can't, I will. I promise you that."

  "Why?" asked Jacob, genuine confusion in his eyes. "Why would you help me?"

  Abbie leaned back, considering the issue. She tapped a finger to her lips.

  "I think your father is probably a bad person, a crook," said Abbie. "I cannot approve of or condone his business activities. Maybe one day you'll follow in his footsteps, and I'll feel the same about you. Not that I'll know you by then. However, for now, you're a teenager, under eighteen, and I don't believe your father's involved you in his business. You're an innocent, Jacob, which means you're worthy of protection, and I’ll protect you. Ariana won’t get a second chance to hurt you."

  Nodding, trying not to cry, Jacob pulled his legs to his chest and hugged them. His eyes expressed his gratitude. If he were a few years younger, he might have risen to give Abbie a hug, to say a proper thank you. That would have made Abbie uncomfortable. She was glad he remained on the bed.

  In the end, he did manage to say, "Thank you."