The Dead of Summer

by Camilla Way

  A couple of days later on our way back towards Greenwich we stopped to watch a tramp sitting on a bench near the jetty. Denis was endlessly fascinated by tramps for some reason. This one kept swigging from a bottle and talking to himself. Now and then he’d start shouting and waving his arms around, spraying wine onto passing tourists. As I watched, a picture of my dad popped into my head. I imagined him dressed in piss-stained clothes with broken teeth and a dirty, big beard. I found myself wondering how much of a jump it might be, from sitting day in, day out in front of the TV with a dole cheque’s worth of lager, to raving through the streets shouting at lampposts. I shuddered and turned to Kyle but the sight of him made me catch my breath.

  I was used to Kyle by then; his mood swings, the way he would sink without trace sometimes like a bottle filled with dirty river water. He’d be stood there beside you, but you knew he wasn’t really. It made you feel a bit anxious when it happened, a bit panicky. Like that feeling you get when you walk into a room and you think you can smell gas but you’re not really sure. Usually Denis and I just waited these moods out, talked between ourselves until he came back to us. But as I watched him gaze at the tramp I felt there was something wrong, something particularly strange about his stillness and his silence. ‘Kyle?’ I said, but he didn’t seem to hear. He had his big coat on that day and I remember thinking that he looked little, suddenly – like a much smaller boy.

  I touched his arm and he turned to face me. I remember I actually backed away so quickly I stepped on Denis’s foot and he yelped. He looked like someone else, as if someone who hated me had crept into his head and was now looking out at me with those eyes of Kyle’s. I felt as stunned as if he’d reached out and gripped me by the throat. He had been fine five minutes before that and the change in him was sudden and violent and it freaked the fuck out of me. And yet I understood somehow too that this stranger had always been lurking, treading water there beneath the surface.

  ‘Kyle,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  And then suddenly he just went. Just walked off like he was in a massive rush to be somewhere else. Denis and I stood for a moment watching his back as he weaved his way through the tourists, then we hurried after him.

  It was eight o’clock; usually by that time we’d have started thinking about going home, so I was surprised when he kept on towards Deptford. As we walked, the sky turned slowly from blue to pink to orange, tendrils of red spilling across the sky like broken blood vessels. Following the river we passed a couple of council estates, their forecourts full of kids and smashed-up cars, saris and tracksuits hanging over balconies, music blaring over the Thames from tiny windows.

  We stopped by a row of tatty caravans that overlooked a large bit of beach. Some houseboats were docked just beyond it. We followed Kyle over the railings and crunched our way across the muddy pebbles. The darkening sky glowed pink around us, dense with the whiff of the river. In the far corner, tethered to a wooden stake, sat a small rowing boat. We got in and sat side by side on one of the benches, looking across to the Isle of Dogs. This was not tourist territory; no one would even notice we were down there unless they leaned right over the railings to look.

  ‘It must belong to the gypsies,’ I said, nodding my head towards the houseboats and caravans. I could smell food cooking, could hear the soft rumble of voices and laughter from the nearest boat. I remember thinking how cosy and warm it sounded, and wished that I belonged there too.

  ‘Come on,’ said Kyle.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Denis. I could tell he was getting worried about his tea. Kyle smiled slightly, an empty smile that set my teeth on edge. ‘We’re going on a little boat trip.’

  The three of us got up and stepped out of the boat. I hoped that he was joking, but then he started untying the rope. ‘We don’t even have oars,’ I said. I looked out towards the river. It seemed very wide suddenly. The twin dome of the foot tunnel on the other side looked far away, the reflections of the lamps dotting the distant bank trailed orange streaks across the darkening water.

  ‘Yes we do,’ said Kyle. He hopped over to the other side of the boat and pulled two out from where they’d been hidden. He was full of energy and purpose suddenly, and when he’d finished untying the rope he looked at me and Denis impatiently. ‘Well, help me push, then!’

  Denis looked at the boat doubtfully, his fingers in his mouth. ‘Kyle,’ he said, ‘I can’t swim.’

  ‘Well, you won’t need to swim, will you? We’ve got a fucking boat.’

  The edge to Kyle’s voice made my heart sink. Reluctantly Denis joined him and together they started pushing. I stayed where I was. ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea. Seriously, man.’

  Kyle stopped pushing. He walked towards me, his eyes boring into mine. I took a step back. He spoke softly, his nasal, London accent thin in the muggy evening air. ‘Either help us push, or fuck off home.’ He stood there for a moment, staring, then walked back to the boat. I helped them push.

  When the boat was finally bobbing about on the water, we got in, Denis and I on one side, Kyle facing us. Kyle used one of the oars to lever us away from the beach and suddenly we were floating, our little boat rocking gently on the water. Kyle paddled us out and in no time at all we were metres away from the edge. The water that had looked so calm from the shore started bobbing more aggressively around us, carrying the boat further out into the middle of the river. We floated past a houseboat, two scruffy kids waving at us from the deck.

  Denis gripped the sides and tried to look like he was having fun. I just stared back at the shore, wondering how we were ever going to get back there. The sun was red and low in the sky. The houses and flats and pubs on the river’s edge had faded into grey and lights had started to appear in windows. As I watched, two men from one of the caravans appeared and started shouting something at us but I couldn’t hear what they said.

  We were being carried into the middle of the river, the boat rocking ever more quickly towards Rotherhithe. Kyle tossed the oars into the middle of the boat, sat back and lit a fag butt he’d had in his pocket. I didn’t like being so close to the water. Push had told me once that it was full of the dead bodies of suicides and drunks. I knew that he was full of shit but still it made me jumpy. I scanned the murky river for corpses then looked back at Kyle who was gazing blankly ahead, the red-hued water and its secrets reflected in his eyes.

  I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘Kyle,’ I said, ‘I think maybe we should …’ but it was pointless. He was utterly unreachable. He just sat there, puffing away on his fag and staring down at a little puddle in the bottom of the boat, the same, thin non-smile on his face. I don’t think he could even hear me. Waves started lapping more aggressively at our boat suddenly, and I looked up to see the last commuter ferry of the day heading towards us. We began to rock back and forth, water spilling over the sides onto our feet. I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  ‘Denis,’ I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Pass me the oars.’ Denis reached down and Kyle put his foot on his wrist. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Kyle, for fuck’s sake!’

  I was too scared now to care about him being angry. But he just kept looking down at the puddle, and I realised then that he didn’t care. He really didn’t give a flying fuck if we all drowned. The realisation hit me like icy liquid shooting up my spine. A slow panic rose in my chest. Suddenly a long wailing horn blasted; the ferry was nearly upon us and our little boat started rocking more wildly, the edges dipping further each time into the water. Denis started crying.

  I made a grab for the oars and Kyle kicked my hand. ‘Leave it you fucking Paki cunt.’ It was a stranger’s voice.

  He’d kicked my hand really hard, and I gazed from it, to his face, in disbelief. ‘What did you call me?’ I asked stupidly. But I had no time to dwell on it. In a sudden panic Denis had stood up and started flailing for the oars. What happened next isn’t clear, even to me. Did Kyle actually, purposely, kick him
into the river or did he just kick him away from the oars? Whatever – it had the same effect. Denis lost his balance and fell backwards into the Thames.

  It’s funny the things you notice in moments of panic. I remember, as I reached out to grab Denis’s flailing arms as he sank and splashed and resurfaced, the faces of the passengers of the commuter ferry as they hung over the railings to watch us. I saw a little blonde girl laughing as if delighted at the fat kid splashing and screaming in the water below her. I turned to Kyle and said desperately, ‘Help me, Kyle. Help me hold onto him.’ And in that split second, as if blinking awake from a coma, Kyle’s eyes cleared and he helped me hold onto Denis’s arms.

  Suddenly we heard an engine roaring behind us, a loudspeaker, a cheer from the ferry. The little blue and black police boat reached us in no time.

  The three of us didn’t speak in the police car as it drove us back from Rotherhithe, Denis wet and shivering between me and Kyle on the back seat. The two policemen however had plenty to say and didn’t hold back the entire journey. It turned out we were stupid little bastards and they had far better things to do with their time than fish thieving shitheads out of the Thames.

  We stopped at Denis’s first. The tall, skinny, blond copper rocked on his heels as the doorbell played its hymn. I could tell from his back that Denis was shitting it. At last Gloria opened the door, her little eyes narrowing even smaller as she stared suspiciously out at the man in uniform with her son. The policeman talked, Gloria threw her hands to the sky and Denis hung his head. Eventually she said something to the copper, wagged her finger in his face, pulled Denis into the house and slammed the door, but not before she shot a low, mean look into the backseat of the car where me and Kyle sat. ‘Fucking nutter,’ muttered the policeman as he got in again beside his mate. We drove on.

  Next stop was Kyle’s. The policemen told me to stay where I was and they both got out and walked him to his front door. When Patrick answered their knock I remember thinking the first look on his face was strange. It was fleeting, the fear that flashed into his eyes, but it was definitely there. Just for that split second he looked straight at Kyle and he looked terrified. Within a moment though, it was replaced by worried concern as he listened to what the coppers had to say. After a while he started talking and although I couldn’t hear what he said there was a grace and intelligence about the old man, a calmness that I could see and feel even from where I sat in the car. I somehow knew, from the way they stood and listened and nodded, that the coppers were impressed by him; respected him in a way they hadn’t respected Gloria and wouldn’t respect my dad. Finally Patrick must have cracked a joke because the two policemen suddenly lost their air of irritated self-righteousness and started laughing, raised their hats, then turned back to the car, and me.

  It took ages for someone to open our front door. The policemen stood stony-faced before our unimposing pebble-dash and the three of us waited in silence. They looked disapprovingly at a pile of beer cans by our bin. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t my fault that a bomb had fallen long ago and destroyed the proper houses that should have still stood there. It wasn’t my fault they’d put this row of council homes there instead. It wasn’t my fault Kyle was such a fucking lunatic, either. But I just kept my mouth shut and wished that someone would hurry up and come.

  When Push saw me with the two policemen he went boggle-eyed with excitement. ‘Daaaaaaaaaad!’ he yelled over his shoulder, then turned back to gape at me. After a few minutes my dad appeared, dazed and baffled in his cardigan. The coppers towered over him and he shrank back, blinking.

  ‘Mr Naidu?’ said the first copper. ‘Is this your daughter?’

  Dad looked at me, doubtfully. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We found her in the Thames, Mr Naidu. She and her friends had stolen a boat.’

  Push let out a whistle and looked at me agog. ‘A boat?’ he spluttered. ‘You stole a fucking boat?’ He waved his right hand, making a clicking sound like he’d seen the black kids at school do. ‘Oh, man!’

  The blond copper looked at my dad and brother with distaste. He hadn’t had the chance to be very impressive on Patrick’s doorstep, and I could tell he was going to make up for it on mine. ‘It was potentially a very dangerous situation, Mr Naidu,’ he began, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his puny shoulders. He consulted his notebook and spoke like he was in the dock of the Old Bailey. ‘The incident involved not just the theft of private property, Mr Naidu, but also risked the lives of a number of the general public.’

  And so on and so on. The policeman just kept talking and talking at Dad, probably trying to get some sort of reaction from him. I could have told them they’d be there all night, but I sensed it was probably better if I kept my mouth shut. Finally Janice appeared and shoved her way, tits first, in front of Dad. She beamed at the blond one, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me firmly inside behind her. As I went up the stairs I heard her say, ‘She’s usually such a good girl, Officer, but there’s been a recent death in the family and I’m afraid …’ I closed my bedroom door and lay down.

  After ten minutes my dad came. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in my room before. He sat down on Bela’s bed and looked around in amazement, his gaze finally resting on a pair of tights wrapped around an empty bottle of vodka. Neither of us spoke. I pulled at some loose wallpaper and watched him. Eventually he tried a smile and said, ‘Didn’t take you for the nautical type, Ani.’

  I hated it when he called me that. I shrugged. ‘Things just got out of hand.’

  My father looked at me then and sighed. ‘Do you …’ he stopped

  ‘What?’ I said, more aggressively than I’d meant.

  My dad flinched. ‘I’m sorry, Nita.’ He said finally. He shook his head and tried again. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been …’

  Oh God. Not this. The last thing I needed was this. I interrupted him. ‘Look, Dad, it’s all right. Really. Just don’t worry about it.’ I turned away and started fiddling with the telly.

  He sat there for a few minutes longer, but eventually gave up and opened the door. As he left he turned and said, ‘OK. But if you …’ he gazed at me, then shuffled back out of the room. Twenty seconds later I heard the Bullseye theme tune blaring from the lounge.

  I lay on my bed and thought about when it was that my dad and I had stopped being able to bear being in the same room together. It was like an icy wind had just drifted in sometime after Mum had died; a coldness that had circled around and around looking for somewhere comfortable to rest, until without warning it had plotted down between the two of us. A stubborn, watchful and uneasy ghost.

  But maybe it had always been that way. It was odd, because in a lot of ways we were the same, me and Dad. And yet we took no comfort in each other; we much preferred the company of Mum and Push and the twins, felt more at ease with happy, outgoing people, who didn’t shrink from the world like we did. And maybe we felt Mum’s death more than the others, perhaps we suffered more than them. But it was almost as if recognising it in each other only made things worse. So we avoided one another, pretended not to notice how badly her death had affected us.

  Or maybe he just never forgave me for all the time my mother had focused on me before she died, the attention that she used to give me. He never really understood the need for that.

  I thought about the things that had started happening to me way back in my past that had made it necessary to close myself off, keep myself in check and not let anyone guess at the secrets that I kept. The secrets only Mum knew about. I felt exhausted suddenly with the effort of it all, with the loneliness of it.

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was pitch-black and my heart was banging in my chest, my pillow wet with sweat. I’d dreamt that I was running down a very long, very narrow tunnel. Kyle was chasing me and no matter how fast I ran I knew he was catching up. Ahead of me behind every bend, I could hear my mother calling, ‘Keep running, Anita, I’m here.’ But every time I thought s
he’d be just around the next corner the tunnel would twist and turn away from me and there would be only blackness ahead.

  Of course we weren’t going to get away with stealing a boat and nearly crashing it into a ferry without a bollocking. But I realise now that Patrick must have come to some sort of arrangement with the police. They knew him down the local nick, and knowing Patrick he must have charmed them into letting us off with a warning. I knew none of this at the time though and when Patrick and Kyle collected me two days later on their way to Brockley Police Station, I was bricking it.

  We walked to Denis’s house first, Kyle and I silent, Patrick humming to himself. When Denis answered the door he shot one agonised look at the three of us then stood aside to let Patrick pass before joining me and Kyle on the street.

  We stood on the pavement and waited for Patrick to come back out. ‘Do you think they’re going to put us in prison?’ asked Denis. He looked like he was going to cry.

  Kyle looked bored. “Course not, dickhead,’ he said. ‘They don’t put kids in prison.’

  ‘My mum says we’re all going to hell,’ said Denis. ‘For stealing.’

  Kyle shot him a contemptuous look, but said nothing. Finally, Patrick appeared. I saw Gloria behind him, but she didn’t say a word.

  At the police station we walked into the reception to find two policemen behind the desk. They didn’t notice us come in. The first one was bald and chubby and was busy mopping up some spilt coffee. ‘Fuck’s sake, Alan,’ he was saying. ‘You’re such a clumsy bastard.’

  The second policeman smirked. ‘Calm down, Jim, it’s only a bit of coffee. Let’s not turn a rape into murder.’ They both roared with laughter.

  Patrick cleared his throat then smiled easily as the two men blushed and straightened. ‘PC Baxter?’ asked Patrick. He strode over, offering his hand. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Patrick Morgan.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, Mr Morgan.’ The bald chubby one led the three of us into a little room and left us there. As we passed out of the reception I heard the one called Alan clear his throat and say, ‘Hope you don’t mind my saying, sir, but I remember you from the, er, business last year. Sure it must still be very difficult for you …’