The Art of Not Breathing(67)

A gust of wind blows over us, and I long to get inside and dry. I want to lie down and never get up. In the distance there’s a siren. We all hear it.

“Don’t call the police, Elsie. They were just kids,” Mick says.

But I already know that I’m not going to. Tay and Danny are not to blame—I’m the reason Eddie died. Blood rushes to my head, and I stagger into my dad as I faint.





3



IT’S DARK OUTSIDE WHEN I WAKE UP. A LAMP GLOWS IN THE corner of the room, and the clock on the TV tells me it’s ten p.m. I have no idea what day it is or how long it’s been since I went to find Eddie. I’m lying on the sofa covered with my own duvet and head propped up awkwardly on about four of the sofa cushions. My mouth is dry and my throat is on fire. When I breathe, it hurts. I can’t feel my legs. I reach down to check my legs are there. They’re cold to the touch.

“Hello?” I cry hoarsely.

My father enters the living room wearing his brown woolen sweater. I get a waft of his smoky smell.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly, and it makes me want to cry. “How are you feeling?”

He walks over and perches on the sofa arm above my head. He doesn’t touch me, but this is the closest we’ve been in a long, long time.

“Cold,” I say. “Have you spoken to Mum?”

“She knows I’m here with you. I haven’t told her what happened yet. She’s been very worried.”

I wait for him to start yelling, but he continues to whisper.

“Your brother is in a bad way.”

“I know.” I turn my head to the back of the sofa. The fibers smell musty.

“Want some dinner? I made pasta.”

The thought of food in my mouth makes me heave. I cough and sound like an old man.

My father reaches out and touches my forehead.

“You’re hot,” he says.

“I feel cold.”

“I’ll get you another blanket,” he says, but he doesn’t move. “That boy came by. He wanted to see if you were okay.”

My stomach leaps. Tay. The boy who lied to me. The boy who left my brother in the water. I feel myself blush as I remember our naked bodies in the boathouse. I hate him for still being able to make me long for him.

“What did you say?”

“I thanked him for saving your life last night.”

He means Danny. The one who ruined all my plans. The one who hid Eddie’s T-shirt for five years inside a damp, moldy cave.

“I didn’t want to be saved,” I say quietly.

My father snaps. “That’s enough, Elsie. Have you any idea what it was like for me to have that man turn up on my doorstep with his son and tell me that they’d just saved you from drowning? What were you even doing in the water in the middle of the night?”

“I was trying to find Eddie.”

“Damn it, Elsie. Don’t you think it’s enough that we’ve already lost Eddie?”

“I just wanted to see where he went!”

“He’s not down there! He’s not anywhere.” My father leans on the windowsill and presses his head into the glass. “He’s gone.”

“If he’s gone, then so am I.”

“No. You’re here.”

“Am I? Really? I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”

My father leaves the room. I wonder if I really meant what I said about not wanting to be saved. The plan was to escape, to run away and never be found. But I only made my decision not to come back up while I was down there. The depth may have messed with my mind.





When I wake up again, I’m in my own bed. I search for Jasper and remember that he’s gone. The phone rings, and I hear the deep rumble of my father’s voice. If I had the energy, I would drag myself to the phone in the hall and listen. Pain sears all the way down my throat when I swallow.

My father knocks on my door and waits. I don’t move. Eventually he peers in.

“Can I come in?”

He has changed and had a shower.

He comes in and places a cup of tea by my bed and rubs his face. He tells me I’ve been out of it for three days, that a doctor came by and gave me antibiotics for a lung infection.

“Was that Mum on the phone? Is Dillon okay?”

My father looks tortured.

“They’ve committed him.”

“So they’re making him eat?”

My father rubs his face again. “I don’t know what they’re doing to him. They’ve locked him up. They’ve locked up my boy.”

“Can we see him?”

“Yes. Come on—get dressed.” He sits me on the bed and opens my wardrobe. “This?” He holds out a navy blue sweater. I take it and slip it over my head. It used to be tight and now it hangs off me. I must be really sick.

“Do you still wish it was me who died instead of Eddie?”

My father freezes and slowly moves closer to me.

“What? Of course not. Why on earth do you think that?” He holds my head in both hands, so I can’t move.

“But I heard you. The day after he went missing, in the bedroom, you said, ‘Why did it have to be him?’”

Dad sobs into my hair. “No, sweetheart. I wasn’t talking about Eddie.”