The Drowning Pool

by Syd Moore

  The alcohol was thrumming in my blood so I stayed for another and another.

  Around ten o’clock, when we were very sloshed, Sharon started getting weepy. I was talking to Rob at the time so couldn’t really work out what had happened. A few minutes later Corinne appeared and took her home. After that I finished up my drink and left.

  When I got home the lights were out. Margaret and Keith had my bed for the night so I threw myself on the sofa and covered myself in a sheet.

  I’ve always wondered what would have happened if Sharon hadn’t spotted me or if the in-laws hadn’t warmed to her so, or if we’d never had that conversation.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have killed her, as I did.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Old Town was packed. Sunday was the less traditional day of the festival. Bands varied in style from your generic folk to indie and rock as well. Stages had been erected at the seafront pubs, the Peter Boat, the Crooked Billet, outside the Smack and in a car park that had once been the old foundry. The tiny streets thronged with thousands of out-of-towners rubbing shoulders with locals and a great number of shaven-headed bare-chested Southenders who had come over for the day.

  Alfie kicked off his sandals as soon as we got there, expecting to head for the beach, then chucked a wobbler when Margaret told him we were going to look at the bands. Music, apparently, was stupid and nothing could pacify him for the good five minutes it took Keith to queue for an ice cream. This, as per usual, did the trick but we knew it wouldn’t last long and that our time at the festival was limited. He was mildly distracted by the parade, which waltzed down the cobbled main street. Men playing bagpipes headed it up, followed by several groups of morris dancers: some wore traditional outfits of black, white and red, others were black-faced and gothic. A kind of new neo-morris.

  Keith blew a wolf-whistle as a troupe of antique belly dancers wobbled by and was silenced by a blistering look from Margaret. Alfie got scared by a mummer dressed in black, wearing a bird-shaped headdress and carrying a cane with a skull on the top. But he liked the man dressed as a baby girl and giggled for ages after she/he danced by.

  Once the Spanish dancers had brought up the rear, we crossed over the cobbles and walked in the shade, past the expensive modern restaurant to the Peter Boat pub. I pointed out the Heritage Centre on the way and mentioned I’d like to pop in later. No one objected so I took it that we’d go there on our way back.

  The Peter Boat was teeming. Unable to find a bench we perched ourselves on the sea wall and watched Alfie run up and down the pavement while Keith queued up again, this time for drinks. While he did I made a quick phone call to Corinne. I wanted to check on Sharon. I was used to seeing her over-confident and loud, not fragile like last night.

  She was, according to her best friend, fine. ‘She usually gets like that at this time of year. It’s coming up to a couple of anniversaries, one of which is her mum’s death.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. The hangover had dulled my diplomatic tendencies. ‘Was it sudden then? Sorry. That doesn’t sound very sensitive, it’s just that if it’s still upsetting her … it was a while ago wasn’t it?’

  Corinne sighed. ‘Well yeah. About twenty odd years. It’s all quite mixed up in my head. There was a lot of other stuff going on at the time. Sharon went a bit off the rails and started making accusations against Doctor Cook.’

  ‘Doctor Cook? Why?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she sounded uneasy. ‘At the inquest, it was revealed that Cook’s notes indicated Cheryl, Sharon’s mum, had developed a terminal condition and not told anyone about it. Sharon took it very badly. But obviously Cook couldn’t tell the family. Not if Cheryl didn’t want to herself. Doctor–patient confidentiality. Sharon reckoned there was more to it than that, but she was in denial. Even Brian, her dad, could see it was an open and shut case, as tragic and unfair as it was. But Sharon, well, you know how it is when something like that happens. People want a reason. Someone to blame. And like I said, she’d started drinking and staying out. Her dad thought she was experimenting with drugs.’

  ‘Oh, I see. What was the other stuff that was going on?’

  Corinne let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Isn’t that bad enough, Sarah?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You said there was other stuff going on at the time.’

  Corinne paused for a second then said, ‘Things were going on in their circle of friends. But that’s another conversation. Look, I’ve got to dash. We’re off to the Old Town for the festival.’

  ‘We’re here. It’s packed.’

  She ruminated for a minute then said she might catch us later. I let her go, feeling rather heavy and sad. Poor Sharon.

  Keith emerged from the bar after twenty minutes extremely flustered.

  ‘It’s bloody packed in there.’ It was unusual for him to swear so I got the message – we weren’t staying for another. He undid his top button and flapped his arms. After last night I couldn’t face alcohol so when Margaret suggested we move on to the Crooked Billet I hopped off the wall and took the lead.

  Out on the estuary a couple of jet-skiers showed off, trying to out-do the displays from the glorious thirty-foot yachts that sailed the high tide. The fishermen’s cottages that backed onto the pavement gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun and reflected the heat back onto the growing horde of festival-goers.

  We wove our way down the lane. Someone called my name. It was Ronnie, my grocer, as famous for his chirpy banter and eye for the ladies as he was for his generosity. I stopped for a few minutes but didn’t bother introducing Margaret and Keith. As we talked Ronnie ruffled Alfie’s hair. He squirmed away so I said goodbye and ran to catch up with him.

  When we reached the Crooked Billet Margaret asked me how I knew Ronnie. I explained and caught her glance at Keith. She said nothing, though her expression spoke volumes – ‘Won’t be long now before she’s off with another one’.

  How could they make such sweeping judgements? ‘He’s just the bloody grocer!’ I repeated, with perhaps unnecessary sharpness.

  Last night I had dreamt of Josh. It was one of those frustrating chase dreams: I searched for him in roads and alleys and the offices of Stealth Records with no joy. I went up to the castle and was about to give up when I turned around and realized he’d been following me all the time.

  I was so happy to see him. I said, ‘They told me you were dead. I knew you’d come back.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here all the time.’ He smiled and took my hands in his. I glanced down at them and saw our wedding bands glow. When I looked up at him again, his skin had darkened and his hair had turned white. It was not Josh at all. It was another man. But I was safe. He said, ‘I never meant to leave you.’

  I said, ‘But you did.’

  And he said he was sorry and then he was Josh again. I stepped towards him and pulled down his face. Then we kissed.

  When I woke up the sweet aftertaste of happiness lingered on my lips for a split second, before the customary dread of reality kicked in. Then, in a rare moment of self-pity, I cried till my nose was wet.

  The thought had crossed my mind that my visions of the other Sarah might be a delayed reaction to everything that happened back then. After all, it had been so sudden – one minute Josh was there, the next gone. Vanished. It was so difficult to accept that not only would he not be coming back, but that he had ceased to exist. In fact I was never sure that I had.

  Cue Sarah Grey.

  If anything, she was proof of an afterlife of sorts, wasn’t she? And didn’t I want Josh to be there too? It was somewhere for him to exist outside of my memory, which was human and flawed and could fade. There is so much pressure to keep the memory alive.

  Sarah had the same name as me. She was of a similar height and build, and during the storm, when I had seen her quite clearly for the first time, I put her age about ten years younger than mine.

  Perhaps she was a younger me? A creation of my dreams?

  But why wo
uld I do that? If indeed I was creating her, as Marie suggested. Grey was allegedly a sea-witch. Think witch, think bent old crone. The woman pushing herself through to my world was none of those.

  In fact, get beyond the pale skin and seaweed-like coils of hair, oh yeah, and the deadness, and there was something almost beautiful in the curve of her face, the intensity of her eyes.

  If I was doing this to myself what message was my sub conscious trying to send?

  I had no answer.

  But then I didn’t really think this was being generated by me.

  Not any more.

  The night Martha came round her words sounded empty. Superficial almost. Rather than allay my fears of ghosts and hauntings and things that were going bump, dropping pine cones and phoning me in the night, the simplicity of her rational explanation moved me to resist her and dig in my heels: No way was the thing happening here solely down to stress. Her theory was too reductive.

  Plus Marie had seen Sarah too.

  Marie the ‘nutter’ was how John had described his sister.

  Then the night of the storm, I saw her. She had spoken to me and I had heard her.

  Or perhaps I was simply going mad, losing my mind? And didn’t the insane utterly believe in their delusions?

  There was really only one way to find out and that was to dig deeper into the life and death of Sarah Grey.

  And attend the neurologist’s appointment.

  But first things first: the Heritage Centre.

  It was a discreet building, painted dark green and situated on the south side of the High Street. To be honest, if you didn’t know it was there you would probably walk past it. Displayed in one of its windows stood a model of a Thames barge, the only thing that encouraged Alfie to step across the threshold. I had expected more of museum but it was essentially an information centre with books and postcards for sale. There were a couple of local history books, pricey hardbacks. The woman at the counter was pleased to help me and produced a slim paperback. There was lots of local information within its pages so I paid for it and asked her if she knew anything about the sea-witch.

  ‘No. That’s funny. I had another enquiry about her the other day.’ She straightened the neckline of her lace blouse and shot me a furtive look from under thick rimmed glasses. ‘No one seems to know much about her. There is a pub named after her. One of the Leigh Society was trying to do some research but didn’t get anywhere. We suspect she may be a myth, an amalgam of several local legends.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ The disappointment was overwhelming. I tried not to show it and bit my lip hard. Inside I felt no small measure of loss.

  It was quite astonishing that she had come to mean so much to me in such a short space of time. My acute reaction to this piece of news revealed that I had built some kind of emotional connection with her, though until that point it had lain in my subconscious.

  But if Sarah Grey didn’t exist, I had to wonder who was haunting me and why?

  The woman was looking at me expectantly.

  ‘That’s a shame. I was trying to do some research too.’

  She smiled in recognition of my interest. ‘Well, Sarah Grey is a mystery.’

  Margaret bounded up beside me having listened in to the tail end of our conversation. ‘We’re Greys too,’ she told the cashier, brightly. The latter pushed her spectacles up her nose to inspect my mother-in-law, and extended her hand in greeting. ‘Sheila. It’s a pleasure. It’s the name that intrigues you is it? Though it’s very common.’ Then, without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a small brown paper bag and started to write something down on it. ‘There is one place you could look,’ she told us. ‘The local library.’ She scribbled down the name of an author. ‘Stephen Brightling. He collected local legends. Not completely accurate, you understand. He’s more of an oral historian. Lots of self-published books. Try him. You may find something useful.’

  As we left Margaret touched my arm. Her eyes were more animated than they’d been all weekend. ‘I don’t think there’s a link but it’s jolly sweet of you. Josh would be so pleased to know you’re still taking an interest in the family.’

  I gathered Alfie into my arms and blew a raspberry on his tummy, hoping his little body would obscure my flaming cheeks. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like a charlatan, though it was the first time I felt I’d used Josh.

  Chapter Twelve

  The holidays stretched before me like a lazy cat. Although we had enjoyed our time with them, Margaret and Keith’s visit had not been without its tensions and when they left a palpable relief overcame me.

  I had got the dates wrong about my leave and discovered I had paid for an additional week’s nursery for Alfie. This would have been a good time to carry on with my research into Sarah Grey but instead I threw myself into intensive cleaning rituals: scrubbing the windows and throwing them wide open to give the house a thorough airing and bring in the sunshine. The decking received a sweep and a bleach, the carpets got a shampoo. I washed down all the bed frames. The washing machine barely stopped for the first few days. By mid-week the weather had turned bad and along with the heavy rain brought a feeling of claustrophobia.

  Alfie was in a bad mood when I picked him up from nursery on the Wednesday. They had been meaning to go for a walk down to the seaside but the rain had forced them to cancel. As a result all the kids who could actually talk were complaining like a bunch of teachers.

  He took a long time to settle that night. But when he did, he turned to the wall and went off quickly.

  I took my book to bed and read by lamplight.

  It must have been about two when I first heard him moaning lightly. I had fallen asleep with the light on and my book across my lap. Alert to his cries I sat up and leant slightly to the open door, listening out – hoping that he might go back to sleep. He often did. For two minutes I heard only the quiet creak of the house and the slam of a car door somewhere up the road. Then suddenly, splitting the silence like the crash of a cymbal, Alfie’s voice rose into a terrible scream. ‘No. No. Get him off.’

  I jumped up in bed at once, threw off the bedclothes, and burst into his room. It was a small box room with only one window. I’d left it open as I was putting him down and for some reason had forgotten to close it.

  In the pale blue glow of the nightlight I could see him standing on the bed thrashing his arms wildly in front of him, his back dangerously edging towards the open window.

  I wanted to gasp but I knew I shouldn’t – in case he was sleepwalking. It was hard to tell: his lips were contorted, his hair plastered down on his head, eyes wide open. But though he struck out, as if hitting something or someone just in front of him, there was nothing there.

  ‘Alfie, sweetheart. Sit down.’ I kept my voice even.

  There was no way of telling if he had registered my presence. ‘Alfie.’ He paused for a moment, then took a small step backwards and I leapt, catching his wrists in one hand, pulling him to me. With the other hand I slammed the window shut.

  Alfie screamed and pushed me away. ‘Too much blood, Mummy.’

  I picked him up in my arms and carried him into the centre of the room. ‘It’s OK, darling. You’ve had a bad dream.’

  He sobbed and buried his head in my chest. ‘But he cut her.’

  ‘Shh.’ I stroked his hair back off his forehead. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Alfie. It’s just a nightmare, honey.’ He was burning up so I blew on his skin.

  After a couple of minutes of hushing, he seemed to come to and looked at me as if surprised to find himself where he was. He was still crying but soon he sank his head on my shoulder and the sobs became little hics.

  ‘Shh. There you go.’ I was jigging him up and down gently in my arms. ‘It was just a nightmare.’

  I carried him back to the bed and plopped him on the mattress.

  He lay down, calmer now, and looked up to me. ‘There was a bad man. He did a bad thing to the burning girl’s friend.’

  It was like a b
low to the stomach. I felt winded but kept my voice as steady as possible. ‘Oh Alfie, not the burning girl again? I don’t want you to think about her any more. That’s what gives you these nightmares.’

  He frowned and squirmed, pulling down hard on his Superman pyjamas. ‘Ouch.’

  I pulled the sheet up over his short twisting body and tucked it in at his shoulders.

  ‘Ouch. Stop!’ He was really wriggling now.

  As I leant over to kiss him on the forehead, my chin brushed against something hard. I jerked back. He had pulled something sharp from underneath the bedclothes.

  ‘I said “Ouch”,’ he muttered, and waved it in his hand. ‘Take it away.’ He held it out for me.

  For a terrible moment before I saw it I knew what would be there. Things had been quiet lately. Far too quiet. Though I hadn’t thought Sarah was targeting Alfie instead.

  But there it was, in his hand, its leaves poking out from the central spine, half of them broken and stuck out at odd angles.

  A short, stubby pine cone.

  When my voice finally found itself it was tremulous and low. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Alfie was seemingly calm now, his nightmare forgotten, the irritating object removed. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘From the burning girl’s friend, Sarah. They are friends now. It wasn’t her fault. She knows now. After she died.’

  I tried to keep my face clear of the terrible feeling creeping over me. ‘Sarah gave this to you?’

  He didn’t speak but pulled the sheet up to his chin and nodded gradually, starting to get sleepy and bored now. ‘Yes,’ it came out with mild disdain. ‘She said you don’t listen to her, so she has to tell me.’ He yawned and turned to the wall again, his back to me. It was a gesture of dismissal.

  I sat there for a few minutes. My head ached and I was sweating. Then I gently kissed him goodnight.