The Water Cure(48)

‘Come downstairs,’ he says. ‘We made food.’ It could be a trap, but our stomachs complain with hunger. We follow him.

‘We buried Gwil in the forest,’ says James as we eat pancakes made with just flour and water. Our dry mouths sip at too-weak coffee. ‘We wanted to do it as soon as possible.’ His voice catches. ‘We wanted to do it alone.’

My sisters and I say nothing. The men do not talk about why they locked us in the room; they do not say anything further about Gwil’s death being our fault.

We file out after the meal, but Llew catches me by the arm just before I leave.

‘Stay,’ he says. ‘Come for a walk with me.’

It isn’t a question. I look to my sisters, and they nod.

We walk along the shore, just where the water hits the sand. Llew kicks at the ground. His face is sharp. I check reflexively for the dorsal fins of sharks, for more ghosts, but the sea is clear.

‘How are you?’ I ask. He laughs.

‘How do you think?’ he replies. ‘Not good, Lia. Not good.’

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he tells me. ‘You don’t know how to talk to people. You don’t know the things you’re supposed to say in these situations. You would say, for example, I’m sorry for your loss.’ There is an edge to his voice.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I repeat.

Llew swerves towards the jetty and walks out to where the rowing boat is moored. I look at it doubtfully.

‘Let’s go out on the boat. It’s a beautiful day,’ he says.

‘It’s not safe,’ I say.

‘It is,’ he tells me, and somehow I find myself climbing in, my shoes darkening with the water already in its gut, and I am reminded that I will do anything he wants.

I let Llew row. The boat doesn’t start taking on water at once, but I know it will not be long. The air is close. There is a sharp noise somewhere far above, or in my eardrums, I can’t tell, and the sea is too flat. I hold on to the side of the boat until I can’t feel my fingertips.

‘What are you so scared of?’ Llew asks. ‘I can’t fucking relax when you’re like this.’

‘I’m not scared,’ I tell him.

‘I can tell you are. You’re so tense. What is it?’ he asks. He hits the water with his oar, voice louder. ‘What is it?’

I can see, too late, the knife in his belt. The rope at the bottom of the boat, snaking around his feet, wet now. My breath comes in shallow bursts, and I know I am dying without him even having to touch me.

Llew stares at me. ‘You’re having a panic attack,’ he says, with something approaching wonder.

‘I’m dying,’ I tell him.

‘No,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He reaches out and holds my hand, presses his fingers to the base of my palm and I flinch, but all he does is count my pulse aloud until my breathing goes back to normal.

‘We’ll stop here,’ he says, laying the oars down.

I will never come further than this from my home, I will never be a person who crosses the border. I will never leave my sisters again. Bargain, or realization, or both. There is dank water around my feet, a tidemark of dirt. And I say a prayer for myself, finally. Prayer for days under the sun. Prayer for sea anemones and perfectly shaped stones and cold water against my hands, and the feeling of being very clean, and movement, explosive movement, the birds wheeling up from the trees, the slates of the roof hot under my skin.

When I look up, Llew is staring at me. It seems incredible that I ever thought his eyes kind. My body has been playing tricks on me all along.

‘I need us to go back,’ I say.

‘I’m tired. I don’t want to go back yet,’ he says. He is still looking at me. ‘Are we too close to the house?’ he asks. ‘Will we be seen?’

We are too close, but I shake my head. He reaches out to me. I unbutton his shirt.

Partway through he pauses, takes hold of the rope, and I know that this is it. Even with my well-trained lungs there is no way I will last more than two minutes in that water with my hands tied, but a great calm comes over me. What I think right at the moment when he ties the knot around my wrists: It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. A life for a life. I have always been ready to give mine for my sisters.

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘You’ll like it.’

I let the grieving man do what he wants. Squeeze my eyes tight shut against the sun, red light fruiting behind my eyelids, and wait. Joy’s echo returning, somewhere, my heart leaping in my chest, because he must still love me really.

Sudden memory of lying down on the recliner in the first days after Mother’s disappearance. I am tired; I am looking for my sisters but something about the sun has struck me down. I sleep for a short while in an angular piece of shade. Llew wakes me up by sitting on the end of the recliner and taking hold of my ankle. He is very tender with it. Easy touch, unthinking, then he leaves. I keep that foot so still that I develop pins and needles. Another pathological reaction.

Once he has loosened the rope he dresses quickly and sits back away from me, puts his head in his hands. There is silence for several moments. I debate whether to say the three words I have been carefully considering, whether it will change things.