by Rachel Ward
I keep my head down. Debbie’s on the other side of Mum, arm in arm, and together we battle our way out down the street and turn at the corner by the old people’s bungalows, half walking, half running. We pass a line of people heaving bags of sand to each other, piling them up outside the front doors. I look up and Harry’s standing by his window. He raises his hand and I nod in return.
Another time when I ran away from here in the dark comes into my mind.
We leave the back door open and run. The woman is lying on the floor. I catch up with Rob.
“Should we ring someone? Call for an ambulance?”
“Shut up and keep running.”
“But she’s in trouble … she’s …”
“I said shut up. So do it. Shut it.”
Now Harry’s on his own. And Rob … Rob’s out here somewhere.
Rain is already getting in through the tunnel of my double hood and seeping through the seams of my coat. My sneakers are soaked through and so are Mum’s and Debbie’s. The water on the road seems to be getting deeper by the minute. I keep looking around, expecting to see him, hear him. He must appear soon, it’s just a question of when and where.
We walk up the alleyway, heading for the rec. It’s too narrow to walk together, so we form a line, with me bringing up the rear. Maybe it will be here — in this dark, confined space. He’ll stand in my path and I won’t know whether to stop or try and walk past him, through him.
No sooner have I thought that than we’re out in the open again and he still hasn’t appeared. The wind is whipping the stunted trees by the side of the path. Mum and Debbie cling onto each other again, but I don’t join them. I stop and look around. The rain’s sheeting down. I pull my right hand out of my pocket and hold it out, palm upward. It’s wet in an instant. Water starts to pool in the middle of the palm, trickling down my fingers and splashing in from the heavens.
The only sounds are the storm, wet footsteps, the wind in the trees. His voice isn’t here.
I open my eyes. Mum and Debbie are fifty feet ahead, huddled together. There’s no one else on the rec. Over by the shops, someone runs from the doorway of Ashraf’s to their car, holding a plastic bag over their head.
I scan the corners of the field, the gateways, for a pale figure. I can’t see him anywhere. I pull both my hoods down and tip my head back, tilting my face to the sky, trying and failing to keep my eyes open as the raindrops hurtle toward them. I blink the water out of them and look again.
He’s not here.
I’ve spent days being terrified, dreading the dripping of a tap, the hint of dampness in the air. And now this. Water drips off my hair and trickles down my neck.
No Rob.
I unzip my coat and take it off, pull my hoodie and T-shirt over my head. The rain’s shockingly cold but I don’t care. It stings as it hits my skin. I drop my clothes on the ground and hold my arms out horizontally, palms up, face up, mouth open.
A gust of wind buffets me nearly off the path, and I find I’m laughing.
He’s gone. He’s really gone.
I don’t need to be scared anymore.
I’m not going mad.
And then it hits me: He’s gone. He’s really gone. My brother’s dead. I killed him.
My arms drop by my sides. The rain keeps hammering down and it’s not exhilarating anymore and I’m cold. Cold and soaked and stupid and alone.
All that’s left of my brother is the body we just saw. The rest has gone, and the body will be gone, too, tomorrow.
Rob’s gone. I killed him.
Water drips off the end of my nose and my chin. I stand like a statue and let it drip.
“Carl? Carl, what are you doing?” Mum and Debbie are running toward me. “Carl, what’s happened?”
Mum slows down and bends to pick up the clothes I dropped.
“Carl! Carl! You’re soaked. Don’t just stand there. Come on, let’s get home. Come on.”
They’re both fussing around me like a couple of crows pecking at roadkill. And that’s what I feel like. Something dead and empty. Something useless and rotting. Something squashed flat by a passing truck.
They’re pushing and pulling at me now, and I let myself be dragged across the rec, along the pavement, and up the steps at the back. I’m very, very cold and very, very tired.
“I’ll run you a bath. Don’t argue. A nice hot bath will do you a world of good,” Debbie says, clattering up the stairs.
I glance into the living room. The black stain is floor to ceiling now on one side of the room. A thick dark stripe. The familiar twang of decay is there, but Rob is not.
“Get yourself upstairs and into that tub,” Mum says.
I don’t move.
“You don’t want me to take you up there and bathe you, do you?” The threat breaks through my numbness.
“No, no, I’m all right. I’m going.”
I squeeze past Debbie on the landing. She won’t look me in the eye. I suppose she’s nervous being this close to a nutjob, or maybe it’s the whole shirtless thing. Whatever, she can’t get by me and down the stairs quick enough.
I close the bathroom door and slide the bolt shut. Water thunders into the bath, sending up a cloud of steam. At the sink the tap is dribbling. A lifetime ago, when I’d just got back from the hospital, this was the first thing that really freaked me out. I reach out now and turn it clockwise. And it stops.
The bathwater is nearly up to the rim. I peel off my wet socks, jeans, and underpants, and turn off both taps. I’m about to step in when I get a flash of a picture in my head, an image of Rob, his pale body lying on the bottom of the bathtub. It’s not the Rob who’s been haunting me. It’s the one I just saw lying on a bed in a clean white gown. His eyes are closed. His face is clean.
It’s not him, I tell myself. It’s not him.
And it isn’t. It’s just my brain processing everything, trying to deal with it all. I wonder if there will ever be a time when water will just be water to me. I wonder if I’ll ever forget what he looks like.
I look at the bath again. There’s no one here. It’s just a tub full of clean, steaming water. I step in and lower myself down, every inch of me zinging as my frozen skin meets the heat. For a minute I think I’ve misjudged it and I’m going to be scalded, but as my body temperature adjusts, I relax a little. The water’s hot, but not too hot. It’s just right — delicious, even.
I lie with my knees bent and my head propped against one end, breathing in the steamy air. It’s the first bath I’ve had in nearly a week. The first time I’ve been able to really relax …
I try to clear my mind and just focus on being here. Now.
Today was weird and frightening. Tomorrow’s going to be difficult. Breathe slowly. Let everything go. Just for a few minutes. Let it all go and enjoy the warmth.
But I can’t do it. Something’s niggling away in my head, and some words from Harry’s book are there. The end of the story.
And George raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it close to the back of Lennie’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.
That story ends in death. And I’ve got a terrible feeling that this story hasn’t reached the end yet. Rob hasn’t got a gun. It won’t happen with a bullet in the back of a head. But he’s not finished. I know the ending. If I think hard, look inside myself, the answer’s there.
I start to panic again. I’m wet. As wet as I can be without dunking my head under. So where is he? At the chapel, he threatened to kill us all. And that window didn’t shatter on its own. Something punched it out. And then he went … where? He hasn’t come home with me. I don’t believe he’s actually, finally gone, to heaven or hell or wherever’s next.
I rack my brains to remember what he said.
“I’ll get you and I’ll
get her. No one can stop me. I’ll kill you all!”
Does that mean he doesn’t need my help anymore? That he can kill by himself?
And then I remember the power of his anger, the way he seems to control the water around him. He’s not here, so he must be somewhere else. With someone else.
Time’s up.
Neisha. She’s not safe. She’s not safe at all.
I leap out of the bathtub, water dripping off me. I don’t bother to towel myself dry — I just duck out of the bathroom and into my room, where I grab the first clothes I see. Three sides of the cube that is my room are completely black now. There’s water oozing out of the ceiling and dripping down. The smell is powerfully strong.
I step into some shorts, not caring if they’re as rank as the room they’ve been lying in, and I’m down the stairs in four leaps. I scrabble in my wet coat pocket for the phone and dial Neisha’s number, aware of Mum and Debbie standing in the doorway of the living room watching me. It rings for ages.
“Come on. Come on.”
Mum’s got that look again, the one where she’s trying not to show me that she thinks I’ve gone crazy.
At last Neisha’s voice. “Hello? Dad, is that you? Dad, I’m scared. The taps are all running. I can’t turn them off. There’s water outside. The river —”
“Neisha, it’s me. Carl. Listen, you’ve got to —”
“Carl?”
The phone goes dead. She’s hung up. The moment she knew it was me, she hung up. She still hates me. But what was she saying? The taps … the river …
“Shit.” He’s coming to get her.
“Mum,” I say. “Mum, she won’t listen to me. You’ve got to speak to her. Tell her …” Tell her what? To stay in the house? To try and get out now, go somewhere else? “Tell her to keep dry.”
“What? Carl, slow down. Everything’s all right.”
“It’s important, Mum. She’s not safe. He’s going to get her. He’s going to kill her, Mum. You’ve got to ring her. Please, Mum. Please.” I can hear myself babbling. I can hear how mad it sounds.
“Carl, you don’t need to worry. She won’t go out in this, will she? It’s horrible.”
“But it’s not safe for her inside or out. She needs to keep dry.”
Now Debbie chimes in.
“Kerry, first he’s scared of getting wet. Next he’s hitting you. Then he’s stripping off in the middle of the rec. Now he doesn’t want this girl to get wet. Can’t you hear how … how odd that sounds? Can’t you?”
“Debbie, I’ve told you, I’m dealing with it. Let’s just get the funeral over with and …”
This is just wasting time, when there’s no time to waste.
“Mum, it’s life or death. Ring her. Please ring her.” I thrust the phone toward her.
“Carl, I don’t know what’s gone on between you two, but she doesn’t need any more aggravation at the moment. It’s the funeral tomorrow. Leave her be now. Just leave her be.”
“You’re not going to ring her?”
“No.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Still holding the phone, I slam out of the house. I’m only wearing a pair of shorts, nothing on my feet, but I don’t care. The rain’s thundering down. I run along the walkway and fly over the concrete wall, landing squarely on my feet, ignoring the pain that shoots up my bare legs.
No one’s playing by the garages today. The yard is covered by a sheet of water, the surface dancing under the onslaught of rain. In the middle, water bubbles up through a grate, toying with a crumpled plastic football that bobs up and down, unable to break away.
I run on, getting colder and wetter as my feet pound through the surface water. It’s only when I’ve gone past the rec and I’m diving down the alleyways leading to Neisha’s that the images really register: sand bags, surface water, a football dancing. Water bubbling up.
All this time, I’ve been terrified of water falling on me. I forgot about it creeping up, rising, flooding.
Still running, I redial Neisha’s number.
She answers immediately.
“Carl? Carl! Help me!”
She’s terrified.
“What’s happening, Neisha?” I gasp, trying to get enough breath to speak. “Are you okay?”
“I’m trapped. The water’s a foot deep outside. It’s starting to come in under the door. All the faucets are running brown. I can’t stop them. I —”
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Where are you now?”
“I’m downstairs, in the hall.”
“Go upstairs. Can you do that? Just go upstairs. Keep out of the water. Keep dry. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She starts screaming. I can’t hear any words, just the raw one-pitch note of her terror. I’m yelling now, trying to get her to tell me what’s happening.
“Neisha! Neisha!”
“Oh my God, the toilet’s flooding! There’s stuff … there’s sewage coming up! Oh God! Oh God!”
“Neisha, go upstairs! Go now! Please. I’m nearly with you. Just go upstairs. I’m going to stay on the phone. Tell me when you’re there.”
I clamp the phone to my ear and book it down the road. A series of sirens wails from somewhere across town. I’m nearly at the bridge. I can’t see the arches anymore — the river is up to the level of the road. There are cars pulled over on either side, a police car blocking the entrance with its lights flashing. A cop in a fluorescent jacket is putting out yellow cones.
A cluster of onlookers is gathered along the water’s edge — it’s way over both banks.
“The bridge is closed, mate,” one of them says to me. “There are cracks in the tarmac. It’s going to go.” He’s got his camera at the ready. One for the album.
I carry on running and try to dodge past the cop. “Oi! Slow down! You can’t go over there!” he shouts, lunging toward me and catching my arm.
I wrestle myself free, losing the phone as I do so. It slips out of my fingers and plops into the ankle-deep water.
I leave Officer Plod behind and run onto the bridge. The road rises out of the flood as I reach its humped back. And now I can see that everyone’s right. The surface under my feet is tearing apart. There’s a crack right across the middle. I can feel it moving and I run faster so my feet are hardly touching the ground. I’m heading down the other side, back into the floodwater. There’s a soft noise behind me, a slurping, slushing sound, almost a sigh. A chorus of shouts goes up. I’m on the other bank now and I glance behind me.
One side of the bridge has gone, collapsed into the swirling river, just a gap where the road should be. Another second and I would have gone with it.
I’m not far from Neisha’s now. The townscape’s utterly changed. Half the familiar landmarks have disappeared. It’s just a series of islands occupied by houses and trees.
I’m wading through knee-deep water. It’s cold and thick and brown. I can’t see what’s under the surface. Each step forward is a step into the unknown. I try to follow the line of the road, trusting my instinct. The ground slopes down and the water travels farther up my legs. The water’s not still, it’s flowing, and the movement is surprisingly strong. It’s buffeting against me and now I’m glad I’m not wearing jeans — there’s nothing extra to drag in the current. I’m moving with the flow, which should be easy, shouldn’t it? But when I lift one foot up, the water tries to push it forward, suck it away from me. It feels like there’s someone in there, pulling at me, trying to knock me over. I peer at the water around me. It’s so muddy I can’t see past the surface. Is Rob down there?
My foot searches for solid ground, toes clawing at the unseen lumps and bumps. I’m losing my nerve — I have to plant it down firmly, believe that there’s something there to plant it on.
There are other people wading through the water, making their way out of the cottages, heading for higher ground. One guy’s carrying a toddler on his shoulders. She’s laughing, patting his head like this is all a game. He’s grim-faced,
holding on to her legs. He shouts at her to sit still. Her face changes as he grips harder, and she starts to cry.
The guy shouts over to me.
“It’s rising too fast! Go back, son!”
I look past him to the terrace of houses beyond. The water is up to the downstairs windows. Did Neisha make it upstairs?
“I’ve got to get in there!” I shout back. “My friend’s in there!”
He shakes his head and struggles on.
I’m opposite the house now. The garden wall is somewhere under the surface. I edge forward, anxious not to clatter into it, trip over it, cut myself open.
The water’s up to my waist.
A branch a couple of feet long is floating toward me. I grab it and use it as a probe, poking it into the water ahead. I find the wall and manage to clamber over. Something tears at the skin on my legs. I think of Rob’s nails, the mud caked underneath them, but I keep going, ditching the branch so I can use my hands to paddle through the water. I’m still on my feet, but only just. It’s almost chest height here.
“Carl!”
I look up. Neisha’s at the top window. It’s open and she’s leaning out.
“Get in!” I yell, waving my arms at her. “Keep dry!”
“What?” She doesn’t move. Instead she’s craning forward. “What’s that in the water?” she shouts.
I look around. I can’t see anything apart from the branch I chucked away, and that’s rapidly floating off past the houses.
“Nothing!” I shout back.
“In the water behind you! What is it?”
I check again. Apart from the people making their way out of the flood, I’m on my own. Maybe it’s a trick of the light on the water or something. Maybe there’s some debris that I can’t see.
“I’m stuck, Carl! I can’t get out! The water’s coming up the stairs! Should I jump?”
“For Christ’s sake, stay there! You’ll be okay! I’ll try and find my way in!”
She leans forward, farther out into the rain.
“Get back in!” I scream. “Get back in! I’m coming to get you!”
I wade to the front of the house, using my arms to get me through the water. I look through the living room window. A coffee table is floating forlornly in the middle of the room. The water level seems slightly lower than outside, but it’s at least two feet. The window is an old style, the sort where the bottom half slides up. Used to be Rob’s favorite kind. Much easier to break into than modern double-glazed plastic jobs. Trouble is, I’m not at a great angle here for getting a purchase on anything. I have a go with one, but I can’t get it to budge. I’m cursing myself for letting the branch go. I could have used it to lever the window up or smash my way in.
