The Drowning

  Later, with the soft cotton next to my skin and the blankets drawn up under my chin, I listen to the wind and rain battering against the window. They can’t reach me here, and neither can Rob. Tonight, I’m safe.

  I think of Neisha and I wonder if she’s lying in bed listening, too. What happened between us today doesn’t seem real. To get so close, to feel her warmth healing me, making everything seem better, and then to break apart so violently. To hear her shouting that she hates me. My stomach flips when I remember her voice, the look in her eyes. But there’s a hint of another feeling, too. A small sensation that I’ve won something.

  I couldn’t bear to push her away, but it happened anyway, and it’s the best thing I could have done. Because she’ll stay away from me now. She’ll stay away from me and Rob. And he won’t be able to hurt her. It’s shitty but it’s true. The more she hates me, the safer she’ll be.

  It doesn’t matter if I grow old and lonely without her. It doesn’t matter if I never have sex. It doesn’t matter if the voices in my head drive me over the edge. If I can keep Neisha safe, it will all be worth it.

  And now, tucked up in my makeshift bed, with thoughts of Neisha in my head, I’ve got some of that warmth back. It’s not the same as holding her, kissing her, but it will have to do.

  The sound of water on glass starts lulling me off to sleep. The room’s softly dark, but as I close my eyes it seems like the top corner where the wall meets the ceiling is darker than the rest, that there’s a patch that wasn’t there when Mum turned the light off. I tell myself I’m imagining it. I’m warm and dry and sleepy.

  I close my eyes and pull my blankets up a bit farther.

  Night, Cee.

  My eyes are open again. In a flash, I’m bathed in a cold sweat.

  It’s going to be another long night.

  The rain doesn’t let up all night. And neither does Rob. Every time I get to the edge of sleep, he’s there. A word in my ear. The sound of his breath.

  You’re running out of time, little brother.

  At one point the blankets start slipping off and I jerk into consciousness. Was it him? Did he move them? And all the while, I’m thinking about the dark patch in the corner — thinking of it creeping toward me, stinking silently.

  You’re running out of time, cowardly bastard.

  His voice is like a tap dripping. A noise repeated over and over again. He’s only whispering, but my mind turns it into something bigger, until each word is a hammer blow, and when he’s quiet I’m listening, cowering, anticipating the next strike. And beneath it all, mixed up in it, the kitchen tap is dripping — no, it’s more than a drip, it’s running now. And the pipe in the wall is gurgling — the tap in the bathroom upstairs must be running, too.

  Eventually I crawl into the kitchen and slump onto one of the chairs. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them. The rain’s still hammering at the window, but that doesn’t bother me too much. What gets me is the kitchen tap. And the more I try to tune it out, the more my mind focuses on it.

  I get up and go over to the sink. I wrench the tap around until it won’t move any more, but the water keeps coming. Jesus Christ! It’s only a tap. Surely I can turn the bloody thing off. I try again, almost expecting it to shear off in my hands.

  I grab a dish towel from the back of one of the chairs and put it in the sink. And the sound’s almost gone, just a dull, damp suggestion of a noise.

  Back at the kitchen table I get my head down again. I’m so tired, I don’t think anything’s going to stop me from sleeping now. I can’t hear his voice anymore. I can’t smell him. I pull the collar of the bathrobe farther up and close my eyes.

  But the water soon saturates the cloth. The sound that was muffled grows louder and louder. Water falling on wet cloth.

  Time’s up.

  I sit up.

  “For God’s sake, Rob, leave me alone. You’re dead. You’re dead. I’ve seen you dead.”

  My voice is the voice I’ve used during fifteen years of bickering and fighting, pleading and teasing. The voice I use when I talk to my brother. But the words are crazy. They’re not words I ever thought I’d say. If anyone else heard them, if there was anyone here except him and me, they’d be backing away quickly now or calling the men in white coats.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I swivel around.

  Mum’s in the doorway.

  “No one. I dunno, Mum. Him. Rob. He’s here. He’s still here.”

  “He’s not here. Not like that,” she says. “There’s no one here but you and me.”

  “But he is. It’s the tap and the rain and the mold and everything. It’s him. It’s him, Mum.”

  She doesn’t back away or reach for her phone. She steps forward and strokes my hair.

  “Shh,” she says. “That’s enough, now. It’s not real, Carl. It’s not real. You’re coming with us tomorrow — well, later today now. It’ll help. I promise.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Half past four. You been asleep?”

  “No.”

  She strokes my hair again. “Me neither. Shall I put the kettle on?”

  “Whatever.”

  “We could see what’s on the telly.”

  “I can’t … I can’t sit in there,” I say. “The thing, the damp — it’s coming down the wall.”

  “Really?”

  She flicks the living room light on and curses.

  “This place,” she says. “You wouldn’t house a pig here.” She turns the light off again and walks back into the kitchen. “Let’s try the radio.”

  There’s some sort of mushy music on. Mum turns the volume right down while she makes us both a cup of tea.

  “What’s this dish towel doing here?” She picks up one corner with her index finger and thumb.

  “Nothing. I was trying to stop the tap dripping, stop the noise, that’s all.”

  She makes a face and drapes the cloth on the edge of the sink. Then she has a go at tightening the tap, gives up, sets our mugs on the table, and sits opposite me. Her face is crumpled and old. Her eyes are bloodshot from the booze and lack of sleep. But she’s calm. A lot calmer than me.

  The music fades and a tired-sounding DJ comes on.

  “It’s a rainy night in Georgia, and it’s a rainy night right here, that’s for sure. I’ve actually got a weather warning for you. The forecast says that given the level of groundwater over the past few days, this new rain is likely to bring localized flooding. So stay safe, people. Stay inside and turn the radio up. Here’s Travis …”

  “It’s never going to stop fucking raining, is it? We’re all going to drown at this rate,” Mum says, sipping her tea. Then she realizes what she’s said and looks up at me, stricken. “God … what am I saying? Carl, you know I didn’t mean …”

  “It’s okay,” I say, and find myself reaching across the table and putting my hand on top of hers and giving it a little squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s only words.”

  We’re all going to drown.

  But underwater or not, I feel like I’m drowning now.

  The body lies on a bed in the middle of the room. The covers are over his bottom half, and he’s wearing a sort of gown, like a nightie. It’s so clean, cleaner and whiter than anything we’ve got at home, and so’s he. I was expecting him, his corpse, to be how he comes to me now — streaked with mud, dripping wet, oozing water. But he’s not like that at all. His skin is smooth and dry, with no marks on his face. His hair’s been washed and dried. His eyes are closed. At first glance he looks as though he’s asleep.

  But this is just a body. An empty body.

  It isn’t Rob, not really. It’s a shell, something that used to belong to him. Part of me is horrified, shocked at being in the same room as his … as this.

  I force myself to look at the bed and then I look away. Well, I’ve done it now. I’ve “viewed the body” and I’m ready to leave, but Mum moves forward to stand next to his head, and since she’
s clutching my hand tightly, I have no choice but to go with her. Debbie stays just inside the door, silent for once, hand clasped to her mouth.

  Outside the wind howls and sighs, throwing rain against the small, high stained-glass window above the head of the bed.

  Mum’s face is alive, twitching and wobbling, her emotions bubbling and writhing under her skin, waiting to burst out. And then they come, with a great heaving sigh and huge, wet, ugly sobs. She lets go of my hand and bends over him, resting her head on his chest. Her movements, her convulsions, shaking the body and the bed.

  I look around, worried whether she’s allowed to touch him, make all this noise. The woman in the black suit who showed us in is still here, standing near the door, next to Debbie. Her feet are planted solidly apart, hands clasped gently in front of her. She sees me looking and her mouth moves a little, not a smile, not quite, something else — something that says this is okay.

  Debbie darts forward.

  She puts her arm across Mum’s back and leans down so her face is close to Mum’s. They’re both crying now. Their noise fills the small room. It’s out of control, so out of control it’s almost frightening. I’m embarrassed for them, I desperately want them to stop, but then I suddenly think, It’s not them who are embarrassing, it’s me.

  I killed him. I killed my brother. I took him away from Mum. Yet I’m standing here like a plank of wood. I don’t feel anything. What’s wrong with me?

  I’m aware of Suit Woman’s eyes on me, and the urge to leave, to walk out of here, gets stronger. I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t want to. I turn to go, but somehow Mum notices.

  “Carl!” she wails. “Carl, come here!”

  She opens her arms and I go to her. What else can I do? Both she and Debbie wrap me up so I’m nearly smothered. Their coats are wet from the rain. Their faces are wet from their tears. And now I’m wet, too.

  They hold me and rock me and cry. Close up, the sound is distorted, barely human. It’s the sound of raw distress, and it starts to get to me. Everything still feels unreal, but I’m starting to believe it now, the whole sequence of events: the old lady, the necklace, Neisha and Rob, and the lake. It was all leading here, to this sad, stark room. To a body on a bed.

  I peer over Mum’s shoulder and he’s here, over by the wall, watching.

  Rob. The other Rob. Mud-streaked and dripping. His mouth is open, and brown liquid trickles out of both sides.

  I close my eyes and open them again. He’s closer this time. Now his lips are moving.

  You owe me.

  Even above Mum’s and Debbie’s noises, I can hear him, loud and clear.

  I can’t wait for you any longer.

  A big fat ball of something is growing inside me. It swells and grows harder, pushing up against my diaphragm and my ribs, stopping me from breathing.

  Time’s up, Cee.

  I can see the pores in his face, leaking, oozing. I can see the fetid water leaking from his eye sockets.

  It’s still growing, the thing inside me, pressing down on my guts, squeezing my bowels. My legs are shaky. I don’t know how this is going to end. It feels like whatever this is, it’s too big to come out of me. It’ll rip me to shreds.

  Some part of me twitches and an odd retching noise comes out of my mouth. My throat is desperately sore and my eyes are stinging.

  “That’s right, Carl,” Mum says, “let it out. It’s okay.”

  Someone’s rubbing my back and convulsions start rippling through me. And I’m underwater again, with the pressure inside and the pressure outside building until it’s unbearable.

  I need air. I’ve got to get air.

  I gulp and swallow but nothing will stay down now. Whatever’s inside me is on its way out, and here it comes, bursting from my mouth and my nose and my eyes.

  I buckle forward, but Mum and Debbie prop me up.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. Let it out.”

  There’s another noise now, coming from inside me, drowning everything else out — Mum, Debbie, Rob. A harsh, thick, grating sound. A strangled, tearing cry of agony.

  They can’t hold me. I crash to the floor and now I’m on my hands and knees, tears pouring off my face, strings of drool spooling out of my mouth. I can’t stop it, whatever it is — grief, self-pity, anger, terror. It’s taken me over in its tidal wave. I’m being swept along, powerless to do anything but go with it until it stops.

  I see his feet in front of me, toes bent like claws, mud under the toenails. The sound, my noise, is reverberating around my head, but his voice breaks through again.

  I’ll get you and I’ll get her. No one can stop me. I’ll kill you all!

  My mind gropes for the word. My tongue and lips try to find the right shape, to form themselves around this noise, mold it into something that makes sense. Something that will stop this, once and for all.

  I close my eyes again and scream.

  “No. NO! NOOO!”

  “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Mum’s crouching next to me. She puts her hands on either side of my face, wiping the tears and spit with her thumbs. I open my eyes. All I can see is her, her face blotchy and wet.

  My jaw presses down into her hand as I open my mouth and yell.

  “NOOOO!”

  Saliva gushes out and is caught between my skin and hers, but she doesn’t flinch. She’s here for me, even though her face is creased with concern.

  “Carl. Carl. It’s all right. I love you. It’s gonna be all right.”

  The room turns icy cold. There’s a sharp bang, the sound of breaking glass, and a woman screaming.

  Mum and I look up. It’s Suit Woman screaming. Her hands are up by her face and she’s staring at the wall above the bed. The metal framework of the stained-glass window is still there, but most of the glass has gone. A few bits are left, like broken teeth clinging on in a mouth that’s been punched out. And now rain comes in horizontally through the black gap. A few drops hit me, but most of them spatter the body on the bed.

  I scramble to my feet.

  Suit Woman’s trying to get herself together.

  “I’ll have to ask you to leave,” she says shakily, stepping toward us, indicating the way to the door.

  “What’s happening?” Mum asks. I help her up from the floor.

  “The storm!” Debbie wails. “It’s blown the window in.”

  No one else seems to notice that there’s no glass inside the room. That something blew the window out.

  “Please, I need to ask you to leave. I’m sorry.” Suit Woman puts one hand on Mum’s shoulder.

  “I need to say good-bye,” Mum says. “One minute. One minute, that’s all.”

  The white gown is blotched with raindrops now, turning the fabric see-through, making it cling to the cold flesh beneath. The skin on Rob’s face is wet. The pillow and the covers are wet. Mum wipes him gently with a tissue, leans forward and kisses him.

  “Carl, do you want to … to say something?”

  I look down at the body. There’s a blast of air from outside, bringing little brown leaves mixed up in the rain. A couple settle on the body’s face. Small, dark flecks of stuff that look for a moment like mud.

  “Oh my God, oh my God.” Mum wipes at his face again, her actions panicky this time. As she dabs at him, his head moves under her fingers.

  She gasps and a high, frightened squeal escapes from her lips.

  “Leave him, Mum,” I say. “It’s time to go.”

  “Miss Adams, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened. We’ll clean him up, I promise. We’ll look after him.”

  “I can’t leave him. Not like this …”

  “It’s not him, Mum. Not really,” I say. “He’s gone, Mum. Rob’s gone.”

  And looking around the room, I really think he has. It’s not just that I can’t see him or hear him anymore. It feels different. There’s nothing left of Rob here anymore.

  Debbie and me steer Mum out into the waiting room. The wind from the broken window r
uffles the plastic flowers in their vases. A few little bits of leaf have settled on the carpet.

  Suit Woman is almost back in control of herself. She smoothes down her skirt and says, “I want to offer you a sincere apology. That’s never happened before. It was unacceptable. I was very … unprofessional. I’m so sorry.”

  Mum looks at her, a bit bewildered.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Debbie says. “It’s this weather, isn’t it?” The wind’s rattling the door to the outside now. “S’pose we’ll have to go out in it again.”

  Suit Woman looks around her.

  “I can offer you an umbrella.”

  “We’ve got some, thanks,” says Debbie. “Not that they’re going to be much use, it’s coming down so hard. We’ll just have to brave it. Thank you, though. Thank you for everything.” She looks at Mum and me. “Are we ready?”

  I thought I was. I wanted to get out of here right at the beginning, but now I’m not so sure.

  Rob’s not in here, after all. So he must be out there. Somewhere in the storm.

  Mum and Debbie walk toward the door, but I lag behind.

  “Carl?” Mum says. She walks back to me, a little unsteady on her feet, and links her arm through mine. “You hold me up and I’ll hold you up,” she says. “Okay?”

  I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and the hood of my jacket on top of that, yanking them as far forward as possible, then ease my sleeves down over my fingers and put them in my pockets. I know they’re giving me funny looks, but no one says anything.

  “Okay,” I say, and Debbie opens the door.

  None of us are ready for the force of the air that hits us. It whistles through the room, buffeting us where we stand. Papers blow off the reception desk and into the chapel behind us.

  “Oh good Lord!” Suit Woman sets off after them. We leave her to it and push our way outside.

  It’s two in the afternoon, but it’s so dark it feels like the middle of the night. There’s water everywhere now, the streets are running with it. The few people we see are splashing along, leaning into the wind, or being blown forward, legs scrambling to keep up with their bodies.