Dark Waters (2 page)

Except for Mrs Holden, the Maths teacher. She and Col had long ago decided they didn’t like each other. She had also taught Mungo, remembered him from his
time at the school. Remembered the trouble he had caused her, and every other teacher. She’d expected the same trouble from the younger McCann, and Col hadn’t disappointed her. When he paid no attention in class, he made sure no one else did either.

She didn’t ask what had happened to him. Not out loud. But her eyebrow lifted, ever so slightly, when he strolled in late to her class.

‘It’s OK, Mrs Holden,’ Col explained. ‘I was having an intellectual discussion about algebra, and the other guy lost his temper. See, these mathematicians … they cannae take a joke.’

Denny laughed. Most of the class did, too. Only Mrs Holden’s face remained stony.

‘It would be nice to know you could be passionate about something, Col,’ was all she said.

If only she knew the truth, Col thought, as he slid down in his seat. Would she ever have done what he did for his brother? Somehow, he didn’t think so. Part of him wanted to tell her, to shout it to the world. But no, it had to be a secret, a McCann secret, and that’s how it would stay.

The cold wet weather turned to ice and the hilly town
became treacherous. The cold seemed to seep into the bones and the school’s central heating hardly took the chill off the air. One afternoon just a few days later, Col decided not to go back after lunch at the chippie. He wanted to breathe in the ice-cold air, and if he was going to be cold, he’d rather be cold outside than in. If anything, his face looked worse, the bruise turning blue then green, and the endless questions about it were beginning to annoy him. He wandered aimlessly up through the town, over the hills, past the local prison and the hospital. Someone waved from a prison window and Col waved back. He wondered what it would be like to be locked up, to have that door slam shut, and locked behind you – to know you weren’t free to leave whenever you wanted. He’d hate it. Mungo had been locked up. More than once, on remand. And he had hated it. He prided himself on the fact they had never been able to make any charge stick.

‘I’m too smart for them, son,’ he would tell Col.

Col walked on. The town was well behind him now. He loved how it never took long to leave civilisation behind him here. One minute he would be right in the middle of the bustle, the noise – squabbling children, angry mothers, traffic – and the next he would be deep
in the calm of the hills and the bracken and the loch. He loved coming here. He could think, and be quiet and alone.

It was hardly a loch. Not exactly your Loch Lomond, more a very large pond with swans and ducks; but it was peaceful, especially now with a misty, icy fog descending on the January afternoon.

Col squatted on the grass. He was already freezing. He was daft. Mungo, if he knew he had come here, would think he was crazy. He could be sitting by the fire right now, pretending to his mother that his belly ached. He could be home, getting spoiled. Hot broth, chips, his favourite comics.

He’d go in a minute, he decided. And yet, it was so peaceful here on this icy, dark afternoon.

There was a sudden squawk as a couple of ducks slid along the ice. Col laughed. They seemed to be arguing with each other. Man and wife, he imagined, blaming each other for something. He leaned forward to watch their progress and for the first time he noticed another solitary figure at the edge of the loch. A boy, much younger than Col, ten maybe, testing the ice with the heel of his shoe. He was wearing a maroon blazer. St Roch’s. Posh, fee-paying school nearby. Col watched
him as he took one tentative step on to the loch. There were signs everywhere warning of thin ice. The boy took no notice, but then ten-year-old boys never did. He took a few steps further, more confident as he realised that the ice was holding.

Col could almost hear him think, ‘Thin Ice? Who are they trying to kid?’ Col had done it himself many times.

The boy was beginning to get cocky. He did a little dance on the ice, then, embarrassed, looked all around him quickly to make sure no one was there to see him. Col darted back behind the bushes, hung with frost. But only for a moment.

The boy, now convinced he was alone, let out a yell of delight and went sliding almost to the middle of the loch. The two ducks squawked in annoyance and slid out of his way.

The ice in the middle held him too. Col could see his confidence growing. To make sure, the boy jumped once, twice, three times.

Col was beginning to think this wee boy was one sandwich short of a picnic. The ice in the middle of the loch probably wasn’t as thick as this boy was.

The boy looked all around him, thinking. Then he turned and began skating back to the edge. Col was
almost relieved. This wee fool had taken enough chances. His eyes followed the boy back to the bank, watched with interest as he picked up his rucksack and took something out and stuffed it into his mouth. By the way he began to chew it had to be a caramel. The boy dropped the rucksack and turned his gaze towards the loch. Still deep in thought. There was a determination in his step as he headed back.

What on earth was this idiot about to do now?

Col didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The boy lifted a boulder from the ground. It was almost as big as he was. Still chewing, he hoisted it up in his arms and struggled back on to the ice.

‘I don’t believe this!’ Col muttered softly.

The boy staggered into the middle of the ice again. It was growing darker by the minute and the icy fog was descending fast. He lifted the boulder as high as he was able and, suddenly, he hurled it down on the ice.

Col let out a low whistle. Crazy! he thought.

But it seemed to be all the proof the boy needed. He began to jump wildly up and down on the ice, cheering. As if he and the ice were in competition against each other, and he had won.

The boy was mad.

Col’s eyes were drawn back to the rucksack, lying half open, so close by.

He wondered if there were any more caramels in it. If there was, perhaps there’d be something more than caramels. Money.

St Roch’s. Fee-paying school.

Wee snotrag would be bound to have money. Mummy and Daddy probably gave him lots of dosh.

Col edged towards the rucksack. He was hidden by the bracken and the bushes. No one else was here. No one but him and this boy.

He’d lifted the boulder again. Not content, wanting to test it one more time. He never even glanced Col’s way.

Col moved silently. The rucksack lay open. Col could see books and jotters. He could even make out the tube of sweets.

The sudden crash of the boulder against the ice made him jump. He shot a glance across the loch, but the boy was only interested in the ice and the boulder. He was whooping like a Comanche brave on the warpath.

Col reached the rucksack, crouched down lower and began to finger through the books and jotters. Here, a bookmark; there, yuck, a sticky caramel half chewed. But then!

What was this? A crisp, ten-pound note.

Col leaned forward, ready to slip it out. Wee fool deserved all he got anyway.

Right then there was a sudden ominous crack. A yell. A panicked scream. Col looked up.

The boy was dancing on the ice again.

No. This time he wasn’t dancing. He was trying to balance. The ice beneath him was cracking. The boy tried to jump clear, but he landed badly and broke more ice.

Col saw the panic on the boy’s face as his arms flailed wildly and his feet jumped and slid about in a grotesque dance.

Mesmerised, unable to move, Col watched. The boy still hadn’t seen him, couldn’t see anything beyond his own peril. He wasn’t even screaming or shouting. He was trying to jump clear but, with every movement, the ice moved, cracked, broke beneath him.

‘It’s your own fault!’ Col wanted to yell. Stupid boy had brought it on himself, hadn’t he?

The ice on which the boy had been standing suddenly toppled almost upright, and the panic-stricken boy began to slip into the icy waters of the loch.

Col stood up, paralysed, unable to move. Nothing to
do with him anyway, he kept telling himself. Couldn’t the boy read? The notices everywhere.
BEWARE. THIN ICE
. His own fault.

The boy was yelling at the top of his voice.

‘Mum! Mum! Help me! Please! Mum!’

He was clawing at the ice, trying to pull himself up. His fingers clutched and scraped but couldn’t get a grip.

Inside, Col was screaming too. ‘Your own fault! You deserve it! Who cares? I don’t. I
don’t
!’

The boy was sobbing now, and Col tried to blot out his anguished cries.

‘Please! Please! Somebody help me!’

Not me. Not me, was all Col could think. Definitely not
me
! In the same instant he was running, pulling off his jacket, running towards the boy in the icy loch – and changing his life for ever.

Chapter Three

The boy saw Col coming, rushing towards him in a frenzy. His face was white with panic, with cold. He was breathing hard and fast, still clawing at the ice. Col skidded towards him, thinking as fast as he could. Trying to forget that now, he too was in the middle of the loch, with only breaking ice and swirling currents beneath him. Yet, his brain was clear, cool. He threw himself flat, and swung his jacket towards the boy.

‘Grab this!’ he snapped. Not angrily. He wasn’t angry. He was so calm now it almost scared him. But he had to calm the boy in the loch. ‘Grab this!’ he said again. An order.

The boy’s hands were shaking, so cold his fingers would hardly close, but still he reached out for Col’s jacket. Without the support of the ice he lost his hold for a second and panic gripped him as the water, the
clinging reeds, began to pull him down. Col edged closer, grabbed the boy’s hands just as his face was covered by the freezing water. He hauled him up.

And felt the ice below him crack.

No!

Col swung the jacket again and this time, with Col’s support, the boy’s grip was firm. Col bellied his way back slowly. ‘I’m going to pull. You keep holding tight.’ He realised his teeth were chattering.

The boy’s only answer was his numbed fingers closing on the jacket. Col edged back cautiously. He could feel the ice move under him.

This time the crack was heard by the boy. His eyes, half shut, snapped open in terror. Terror at the thought of his saviour crashing through the ice, of both of them in the water, drowning, dying. It was too much for him. He began to scream, to thrash about. That was the last thing Col needed.

‘Stay calm.’ Col was surprised at how soft, how gentle his own voice sounded. If he could keep him calm, keep moving back along the ice, pull the boy at least halfway out of the loch, then maybe … just maybe, they might both be all right.

But all the boy could see was death and cold, and the
terror of it overcame him. He started to flail about wildly. He let go of the jacket, grabbed for Col’s arms. Missed. Screamed.

He was about to go under again, and Col knew that this time he wouldn’t be able to haul him up.

He would have to let him drown. What else was there for him to do?

Yet still he found himself moving forward, grabbing for the boy’s arm, his hand, his hair. His almost numb fingers gripped at last the collar of his blazer. The boy was squirming, splashing, screaming. But at last he had him. Col pulled with a strength he never knew he had. With one yank he had him shoulder high out of the loch. He screeched, and grabbed for Col’s elbows. Now he was waist high. Col almost had him out of the icy water. One more pull. Just one more—

In that instant the ice cracked again. This time it didn’t hold. Col felt his legs being dragged down into the freezing water that burned into his bones. Still he didn’t let the boy go. Now he pushed, pushed him up and on to strong thick ice, and as one boy rose out of the water to safety, the other, Col, was sucked under by a swirl of currents that seemed almost alive.

NO!

He sent the boy sliding along the ice. Let him go. Reached out for something to hold on to himself. But he found nothing, only ice that scraped through his fingers.

He wouldn’t die this way! No!

He clawed, grappled at the ice, but his fingers, too cold, too numb, found nothing to hold on to. The cold took the breath from him.

He was going under.

The boy struggled to his feet. He was crying, looking around for help. Too young, too scared to know what to do.

This is your fault, Col wanted to scream at him. Yours!

And as the waters closed around his head, he could still see the boy shimmering above him, running towards him. Still screaming.

But Col couldn’t hear him now.

He was in a silent, eerie world.

Reeds brushed against his face, clutched at his ankles as if they were pulling him down, welcoming him into their cold watery world.

For ever.

He thought he could see Mungo’s angry face through
the ice, angry that he should die this way, trying to save a boy who had it all coming to him.

And his mother too. He was almost sure he could see her standing on the ice with the boy, crying uncontrollably.

But who else would cry for Col McCann?

Nobody.

The ice was closing above him and through the dark waters frightening images floated towards him. Reeds undulated in the current. Then became faces, ghostly, uncanny faces, calling to him silently. This was their world. And soon it would be his. His for ever. Col, with hardly any life behind him, now had none in front of him.

Floating ferns wrapped themselves around him, and something else. Something so close he could almost reach out and touch it. Something he didn’t want to face.

Something terrifying was there in the loch with him.

Did Death have a face?

No! No! No!

He wouldn’t look at it.

He wouldn’t be lost in these dark waters for ever.

He began to struggle wildly again and, suddenly –
where did he get the strength from? – he was surging up and up and up, almost as if he was being pushed. Kicking with frozen legs, with all the determination of someone who just wasn’t ready to die.