The Sister(21)

A noxious odour drifted out from the deep, water-filled hollow and registered with Kirk, triggering memories. He’d once lost three men while crossing a swamp in Borneo, a pocket of marsh gas and hydrogen sulphide had erupted from the mud in such concentrations that it killed them within seconds, before dissipating in the open air.

Behind him, his colleague stripped off, preparing to go into the water.

Kirk caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The PE teacher in his underpants ran by, ready to dive in. He’d almost reached the edge.

‘Stop,’ Kirk’s parade ground voice barked. The other man stopped dead. ‘You can’t go in there.’ He pulled the inside of his collar up, covering his mouth. ‘The gas, it’s poisonous, keep back.’

Kirk delegated him to run for help instead.

Even away from the water’s edge, the smell was overpowering. On the lower banks, the corpses of several different species of birds provided a testimony to its lethal potency.

Somebody put a red blanket over the surviving boy’s shoulders. Two teachers tried to comfort him.

Milowski watched the scene descend further into chaos. In his detachment, he was as far removed and indifferent as the buzzard that continued circling the skies above.

He began rambling again. ‘You could see the sky in the water, but then it turned black! The shadows, they live in the water, and they’ve got out. They’re going to get us all!’ he paused, suddenly quite lucid. ‘I let him have my seashell, I threw it to Brookes, and he caught it. I thought it would save him…’ Then he screamed again, a few of the boys started to cry. Kirk slapped him hard, the sound cracking like a rifle shot. Everyone turned to look at him. He immediately put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

‘You’re in shock, kid, calm down. You’re safe now; it’s going to be all right.’

The slap had snapped the hysteria out of him and he shivered once, the reversal of his state was unnatural in its immediacy. He sank to his haunches, squatting twenty-five feet from the edge of the water, quiet, almost catatonic and stared across it, contemplating the loss of his friends. Empty and bewildered at what had just happened, unable to accept its reality, he’d already begun to seal the memory. He’d put it away in a bubble and not remember it again for a long time. The last part of child in him had finally gone and, with it, more than that. The blind faith he’d held in the power of his magic seashell. And with that, his belief in God disappeared, too.

He refused to move, even after the emergency services arrived.





An unmistakable smell of sulphur rose from the stagnant pond, churned up by the activities of the dive teams, and swamped his senses. He got the inescapable feeling that if there really were a hell, that’s where he was already. Struck with the conviction that something else was going to happen – he sat, watched and waited.

Only four-wheel drive vehicles were able to get close. They had little tents erected in a cluster near the entry point for the divers. One of the trucks, a pick-up, had an A-frame bolted onto the back. A heavy-duty hook connected to a steel cable winch hung from the top pulley. Milowski wondered why they needed a piece of equipment like that.





Two hours later they pulled the first body out, clothes heavy, skin pale against the black waters that left trails and traces of silt as it drained off. Even through all the dirt and filth, his bright copper-coloured hair marked him out in death as unmistakably as it did in life.

It was Brookes. The last one to drown had become the first one out.

Milowski sat staring at the scene playing out before him.

Kirk eyed the fifteen-year-old youth crouched beneath a red blanket draped over his head and shoulders, a corner of it extended to a point just below his haunches, almost touching the top of the trampled grass. It hasn’t hit him yet.

Two teachers and a paramedic were trying to coax him away. He brushed their hands from his arms and shoulders without saying a word, becoming increasingly agitated; his demeanour suggested he might explode at any moment.

Unable to persuade him to leave, the teachers shrugged at each other, at a loss for what to do next.

Kirk marched over. ‘What’s his name?’

‘It’s Bruce Milowski,’ the PE teacher said.

The ex-army officer nodded and tried to repeat the surname without success. Anti-communist sentiment, a throwback to his military days, would not allow him to get beyond the first three letters before his tongue felt tied and alien to him. It might have been appropriate under the circumstances to call him by his Christian name, but given his background, he struggled with that, too.

He lowered his voice, almost sounding gentle. ‘Listen, boy, I’m going to stay with you, all right?’

The water seemed to hold a continuing fascination for him. He didn’t answer.

‘All right?’ Kirk said again and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Milowski nodded without looking round.

Kirk squatted down next to him. With his broken nose, beady eyes and square jaw, his face was at odds with this newly found gentleness, and he managed a lop-sided grin that showed off his chipped teeth. His eyes didn’t miss a trick. A veteran of the Korean War, he’d seen this sort of thing before; the boy was suffering from shock. On the battlefield, he’d have put himself in danger just sitting there, but not here.

The paramedic leaned down and spoke quietly in Kirk’s ear.