Into the Water(7)

And he did, he laughed out loud – it was the first time he’d felt like laughing in months. It was the first time he’d been in the water in months, too. The river for him had gone from a source of pleasure to a place of horror, but today it switched back again. Today it felt right. He had known from the moment he woke up, lighter, clearer of head, looser of limb, that today was a good day for a swim. Yesterday, they found Nel Abbott dead in the water. Today was a good day. He felt not so much that a burden had lifted but as though a vice – one which had been pressing against his temples, threatening his sanity, threatening his life – had at last been loosened.

A policewoman had come to the house, a very young detective constable with a sweet, slightly girlish quality to her that made him want to tell her things he really shouldn’t. Callie Something, her name was. He invited her in and he told the truth. He said that he’d seen Nel Abbott leaving the pub on Sunday evening. He didn’t mention that he’d gone there with the express intention of bumping into her, that wasn’t important. He said that they’d spoken, but only briefly, because Nel had been in a hurry.

‘What did you talk about?’ the DC asked him.

‘Her daughter, Lena, she’s one of my pupils. I had a bit of trouble with her last term – discipline issues, that sort of thing. She’s going to be in my English class again in September – it’s an important year, her GCSE year – so I wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to have any further problems.’

True enough.

‘She said she didn’t have time, that she had other things to do.’

True, too, though not the whole truth. Not nothing but.

‘She didn’t have time to discuss her daughter’s problems at school?’ the detective asked.

Mark shrugged and gave her a rueful smile. ‘Some parents get more involved than others,’ he said.

‘When she left the pub, where did she go? Was she in her car?’

Mark shook his head. ‘No, I think she was heading home. She was walking in that direction.’

The DC nodded. ‘You didn’t see her again after that?’ she asked, and Mark shook his head.

So, some of it was true, some of it was a lie, but in any case the detective seemed satisfied; she left him a card with a number to call and said he should get in touch if he had anything to add.

‘I’ll do that,’ he said, and he smiled his winning smile and she flinched. He wondered if he’d overdone it.

He ducked under the water now, diving down towards the riverbed, driving his fingers into the soft, silty mud. He curled his body into a tight ball and then with one explosive burst of power pushed himself back to the surface, gulping air into his lungs.

He’d miss the river, but he was ready to go now. He’d have to start looking for a new job, perhaps up in Scotland, or perhaps even further afield: France, or Italy, somewhere nobody knew where he had come from, or what had happened on the way. He dreamed of a clean slate, a blank sheet, an unblemished history.

As he struck out for the bank he felt the vice tighten a little once more. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not yet. There was still the matter of the girl, she could still cause problems, although since she’d been quiet this long, it didn’t seem likely that she’d break her silence now. You could say what you liked about Lena Abbott, but she was loyal; she kept her word. And perhaps now, freed from the toxic influence of her mother, she might even turn into a decent person.

He sat on the bank for a while, his head bowed, listening to the river’s song, feeling the sun on his shoulders. His exhilaration evaporated along with the water on his back but left in its place something else, not hope exactly, but a quiet premonition that hope might at least be possible.

He heard a noise and looked up. Someone was coming. He recognized the shape of her, the agonizing slowness of her walk, and his heart beat harder in his chest. Louise.





Louise


THERE WAS A man sitting on the bank. She thought at first that he was naked, but when he stood she could see that he was wearing swimming trunks, short and tight and fitted. She felt herself noticing him, noticing his flesh, and she blushed. It was Mr Henderson.

By the time she reached him, he had wrapped a towel around his waist and pulled a T-shirt over his head. He walked towards her with his hand outstretched.

‘Mrs Whittaker, how are you?’

‘Louise,’ she said. ‘Please.’

He ducked his head, half smiled. ‘Louise. How are you?’

She tried to smile back. ‘You know.’ He didn’t know. No one knew. ‘They tell you – they, listen to me! The grief counsellors tell you that you will have good days and bad, and you just have to deal with it.’

Mark nodded, but his eyes slid from hers and she saw colour rise to his cheeks. He was embarrassed.

Everyone was embarrassed. She had never realized before her life was torn apart how awkward grief was, how inconvenient for everyone with whom the mourner came into contact. At first, it was acknowledged and respected and deferred to. But after a while it got in the way – of conversation, of laughter, of normal life. Everyone wanted to put it behind them, to get on with things, and there you were, in the way, blocking the path, dragging the body of your dead child behind you.

‘How’s the water?’ she asked, and his colour deepened. The water, the water, the water – no way to get away from it in this town. ‘Cold,’ she said, ‘I imagine.’