Submersion (7 page)

‘I found this on my back step,’ he explained, pointing to the rear door.

I couldn’t see much beyond it, but I guessed the old man had a rear veranda. Some of the newer houses, those built with the floods in mind, had steel decking in place of gardens. At my house and at my aunt’s, we had simply lost our gardens to the river.

Old Man Merlin peeled off the lid and revealed inside the corpse of a rat. Dead, it looked smaller, its long tail curled underneath its body. Whilst Merlin had placed it carefully in the plastic coffin, the cause of death was clear to see – it had been bitten in two, its head torn from the body.

‘Why would someone do that?’ I asked.

‘
What
would do it, is the right question, boy,’ Merlin responded, putting the lid back on quickly, lest the small creature escape. ‘You must take this to Tristan, you understand? Tristan. No one else, just him. Is he home today?’

‘He should be, yes, he should be by now,’ I answered, suddenly caught up in Merlin’s urgency, sensing a little fear creep under my skin; a fear I also sensed in the old man’s voice.

‘Then take it to him now, and tell him where I found it. He’ll know what to do. But only him. Is that clear?’

Yes, I told him. It was very clear.

‘Good, on your way then.’

But it didn’t happen quite like that.

When I reached my aunt’s, Tristan wasn’t there to start with. He was
out with Jessie again
– Mother’s words, finding as much disapproval in his absence as she did in his presence. This was quickly followed by:
And what have you got there?

I had placed the plastic box containing the rat on floor whilst I’d removed my mask and outdoor garments.

‘It’s for Tristan,’ I began, but she was onto to it before I had a chance to stop her. Not that you could really stop Mother doing anything, once she put her mind to something.

Whilst Mother was disturbed and cross with what I had brought across the threshold – a threshold she had been scrubbing and polishing for the last three days with ceaseless vigour – it was Aunt Agnes’ limitless fury that shattered us. She wanted us all gone! All of us! She was sick of the interference, suffocated by having so many people milling around her.
And this!
she had hissed, pointing at the rat,
this! Do you think I need to be reminded of death? You stupid, stupid child!

In the midst of my mother’s packing, my aunt’s fury and my slow tears, ignored by everyone, Tristan finally returned and restored some calm. My aunt still wanted us all gone – including him – but Tristan helped reduce the sting her words and anger had unleashed. He did simple things – helped Mother with her bags, put the lid on the plastic box and took it from our sight, reassured Aunt Agnes that everyone understood and would comply with her wishes. And, whilst he instructed me to stop crying and help my mother, he took a moment to dry my tears with a rag from his pocket.

Within an hour, it was over. Mother and I were back in our boat, with my great-aunt and -uncle following behind, rowing ourselves along the two streets until we reached our home again.

Tristan was the last to leave, the gatekeeper of Aunt Agnes’ demands, ensuring we all kept to our word. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a mask, and I asked Mother why.

‘Because he’s a fool,’
she had replied.

I also noticed he had the rat box in one of his hands.

‘I’ll just be next door,’ he called back to my aunt, closing her door.

Then, he hopped from Aunt Agnes’ doorstep to Papa Harold’s, inside the old hermit’s house in seconds.

It was a while before I went back to Old Man Merlin’s. He had set me the simplest of errands and I had failed. I feared his disappointment; maybe I had lost his respect, his trust. Mother visited Aunt Agnes, as did my great-aunt, but I was left at home.
We don’t want a repeat of that business,
Mother had scolded.
Your aunt could do without that, clearly.

But something drew us all back one day, a month after Elinor had first gone missing: the prospect of a memorial service for Elinor. It wasn’t something my aunt had requested or suggested in any way, I’m certain. No, Mother and Great-Aunt Penny had conspired to descend and rally her round through a variety of tactics. Mother wasn’t sure just how long this could take – although I could have suggested
forever,
guessing just how resistant Aunt Agnes would be to the idea – hence her decision to bring me along this time.

On arrival, Mother had instantly dismissed me, actively encouraging a visit to Old Man Merlin’s. Given my concerns about seeing my friend again, I’m not certain I would have returned to him that day, had she not insisted.

Whilst I was in the habit of letting myself in, as I hadn’t been at the Cadley residence for some weeks, I decided to knock first, waiting on his platform out the front. Yet, after several raps, there was no response. So I simply went in.

Usually the rustling sound I created as I stripped out of my protective gear was enough to alert the man. But, on this day, I heard nothing from him. Deciding it wouldn’t be right to simply ascend to the upper quarters, I went in search of him.

I found him as I expected: in his back rooms, pottering, it seemed at first. Yet, his puzzled, crunched brow suggested deep concentration, as did the fact he failed to see me for some minutes.

He was working in his kitchen area. He had the back off an old radio and was fiddling with a screwdriver, putting wires back in place, from what I could see. Without replacing the back, he turned the item round and turned a dial on the front with his right hand, whilst wiggling its aerial with the other. Eventually, a sound came through, a sound he was clearly searching for, as he celebrated with an exclaimed ‘ha!’

Voices came from the radio. Not the sort of voices I heard at Papa Harold’s, when he got his old radio out. Papa H’s radio voice had told stories, occasionally news, if you tuned in at the right time. At Aunt Agnes’ there was also a radio, but that mainly played music, like that I heard in the music room at the Cadley residence. But the voices on that day were different: they were official voices. That was the best I could assume. Official voices – maybe police, maybe government or other official voices. One thing was clear: we shouldn’t have been listening. And, when I decided it was best to back away, sneak off unseen, and bumped into a table behind me, rattling a jar of screws, finally catching Old Man Merlin’s attention, the look on the old man’s face and his subsequent reaction confirmed this.

‘How long have you been lurking there?’ he accused, coming forward urgently, his voice fraught with fear and anger. ‘How long have you been listening in, boy? What did you hear? Tell me, what did you hear?’

Had I wanted to flee, I couldn’t: he had me by my wrists, gripping each with considerable strength given his age.

‘Just voices, that’s all,’ I winced and seeing my pain, his grip lessened, as if instantly he realised he was scaring me. ‘I’m sorry. I just came to say hello.’

He turned from me, rubbed his chin and paced a little, thinking through his next move.

‘I have to know I can trust you, boy,’ he eventually said, turning back to me, with eyes sharp and serious. ‘If you are to come here, if you are to know my secrets, I have to know I can trust you. You understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good, good. Then I need something in return. I need a secret from you. Something that nobody knows, or only a few know. Something that could land you in trouble if it gets out. Do you follow me? Do you have something?’

As odd as the request seems now, looking back, at the time I was swept along with the necessity that Old Man Merlin made of it.

Yes, I nodded again. Yes, I had something.

‘Then tell me.’

And so I did. With a huge serving of apprehension, I served him the truth about my father.

‘I’m not supposed to tell a soul. So, please, you mustn’t tell anyone,’ I pleaded. ‘I wasn’t supposed to see. Wasn’t supposed to be looking.’

The old man nodded, still somber.

‘I won’t. All the time you keep what goes on in this house to yourself, your secret stays with me. Well, well,’ he reflected, as he considered what I had revealed. ‘What a thing! I never would have guessed that. Not in a million years. Secret is a safe for now, boy,’ he reassured me, before turning away and heading back to his kitchen-laboratory. It was business as usual.

I went to leave, in search of my usual pleasures in the upper quarters, but Merlin turned back and spoke again.

‘Let me share another secret with you,’ he said, his face suddenly lit with a smile, vanishing the serious nature of our previous exchange. ‘Yes, let me indulge you,’ he added, as if this was simply a bit of fun, a
parlor game,
Great-Aunt Penny would have called it. ‘Can you guess my name?’

I shrugged. Until that moment, I hadn’t considered it. I knew Merlin wasn’t really his name, but it was enough. I thought of an old fairy story I’d come across in the library upstairs and was tempted to reply with
Rumplestiltskin,
in the spirit of this sport. Instead, I went for an obvious choice: ‘Mr Cadley?’

Old Man Merlin shook his head and then gave his answer.

It meant nothing to me.

He repeated himself, in case a second hearing would help me see the light.

Still nothing.

‘Sorry, I’ve not heard of you before,’ I told him, instantly struck by the oddness of my line.

‘You will,’ he foresaw, still smiling, enjoying this
amusement.
‘Listen out for me. That storytelling pal of yours is bound to mention me sooner or later. My name and your father – well, what a morning for sharing secrets,’ he added, shaking his head at the apparent pleasure of it all, finally heading back to his pottering for good, leaving me to ascend.

I headed for the music room, retrieving my copy of the Dumas on the way, but I didn’t read a word and simply sat in silence for a long time.

Thinking.

Thinking about what he had told me, thinking back through Tristan’s stories – had there been any mention of such a fellow; had I missed something because I wasn’t really listening out? Then the other: the secret about Father. What if he
did
tell someone? The fact I heard him listening in to the authorities or something similar, the fact I knew his true name – they paled in comparison to what I had shared, surely? What if he really did let it slip? He was an old man, after all; old men could be careless, forgetful, even.

My thoughts tortured me for most of the day, until early afternoon, when I decided it was time to leave.

As if sensing my anxiety, Old Man Merlin sought me out in his hallway, as I redressed for the outside.

‘We have a bargain, you and me,’ he reassured. ‘You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours. I might be an old man, but I’ve got it all up here.’ He tapped his head.

Rowing back to my aunt’s, I felt my worries lessen. I could believe him, I told myself. I could trust him. And what was the worst that
could
happen if he spoke out about Father? Mother would be mad with me, yes, and I would be in serious trouble with her for talking about family business outside of the home, but it would go no further. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong.

Yet, as one worry diminished, another replaced it.

Something was in the water.

Something I kept knocking against with one of my oars.

Something that stopped me from rowing any further.

‘Mother!’ I cried, hollering at the top of my voice, ripping off my protective mask when I realised my muffled cry would not carry. ‘Mother! Tristan! TRISTAN!’

Within minutes, neighbours filled doorways and windows, staring out at the frantic child, who had foolishly exposed himself to who knows what by ripping off his mask. Watching as
that woman’s crazy lodger
waded through the water, completely unprotected, to grab said boy. Then, still as statues, when they saw the cause of the fuss.

When they saw what was in the water.

            
 
PLAY

‘I worry about her, you know. Going out for long days. I want her to have her freedom, but what if something happens to her?’

‘Nothing is going to happen to her. She’s a good girl. And it’s safe.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There’s nothing out there but water.’

‘What if she drowns?’

‘She’s a strong swimmer. And you could
what if
all day.’

‘But what if there is something in the water, something hidden we can’t see?’

‘And what if we just stayed tucked away, inside, never venturing out. Never looking beyond our own front door, like our neighbour? You don’t want that
what if
for her, do you?’

‘No, I don’t want that at all.’

PAUSE

             
3. Agnes

It has been two weeks since Billy’s screams drew us all from our houses. Two weeks since Tristan threw all caution aside and exposed himself to the elements, as he rushed to my terrified nephew’s rescue. Two weeks since my drenched lover hauled the boat back to its mooring, lifted Billy back inside. Two weeks since Tristan then went back in for the body.

Two weeks.

That’s all it’s been – two weeks - and my life here has been turned upside down yet again.

Nearly seven weeks since the first time. Since. Yes – since. That’s as far as I can get, I’m afraid. Since. At
since,
my mind freezes, refuses to comment; can’t comment. So if you expected a narrative from me beyond
since,
you’ll be disappointed. Listen to other voices if you want news of that.

They are still here – Billy and Esther. The former
convalescing
, if my sister can be believed; the latter still cleaning, like there was anything left that she hadn’t scrubbed and scrubbed to an inch of its former self.

‘You should never, ever be too careful, Agnes,’ she tells me, as if I am mad to question her compulsive, paranoid scouring of my home. ‘Especially after they both got exposed. Who knows what they brought back in with them! I’m sure Billy’s skin is not right. And as for that Tristan. What was the fool thinking? Going out into the water like that!’

‘I think he was rescuing your screaming baby,’ I reply and it silences and halts her momentarily. She doesn’t know what to say.

We are in the kitchen. I have my back to her, leaning against the table in the centre of the room. Esther is at the sink. I consider speaking, apologising:
I went too far, didn’t mean to imply…
But, whilst she keeps her mouth still, the scrubbing is quickly resumed, so I assume I haven’t insulted her as much as I feared, if at all.

Besides, given the circumstances, she’s hardly going to return an insult about her child with one about mine – I might not let her finish cleaning my house.

Tomorrow, I go back to work. It’s been far too long already, but Tristan thinks it’s too soon. I need to earn money again, I tell him. Still need to keep this roof over my head. What if? (Whilst my story telling stops at
since,
I am happy to entertain
what-ifs.
) That is, I add, unless you can afford to keep this roof over our heads, whilst I stay at home and make more mess to give my sister’s life meaning? It was him, after all, not me, who kept on insisting that we needed the money, that I needed to be careful about my opinions and not upset anyone, particularly those in authority, in case it cost me my job.

Tristan laughs. This isn’t the first time I’d joked recently about the housewife suggestion. First time I mentioned it, he took it seriously. Yes, he could, he said; he was earning enough. But when I pursued this angle with more questions: how much and how exactly? Well, that came to nothing. He had a job on with Jessie – a
big
job, that was clear. Yet it was also a secret job: he couldn’t tell me any of the details, on a need-to-know basis. I needed to know, I said, if I was to feel comfortable staying at home doing nothing. He ignored that and continued: even he didn’t know the exact destination. Jessie blindfolded him each time and, much as he tried to orientate in the dark, he wasn’t confident he could trace the route.

So, all future suggestions that I might give up my job were simply met with a chuckle from Tristan, and no further pursuit. He cannot – will not – satisfy my curiosity about his current prospects, and that is the end of that.

I could tell that Tristan worried his secret job was adding to my woes.

‘I promise you it’s safe,’ he reassured me, but unnecessarily.

I trust Tristan implicitly; and if that wasn’t enough, he’s with Jessie. Another man I’d give my heart and soul to without a single worry. Like Tristan, Jessie would put his own life on the line before sacrificing me. And I’ve known him nearly all my life, too.

That’s one reason why I don’t believe any of that bullshit the police tried to pin on them. The business with the rotting platform. Whatever happened there – and I’m not going into the details, I’ve made that clear to you – it wasn’t due to anything they did, or neglected to do.

He’s out with him on this day – Tristan. Left early in his boat and by now he’ll be with Jessie, his blind journey over, getting on with whatever their
job
entails. I have things of my own to pursue – stepping around my sister as she leaves everything sparkling and shiny, I have to get myself ready for my return to work tomorrow.

You are probably wondering about the body. I wouldn’t blame you. You’re only human after all, I’m guessing. I could make you wait, could keep you guessing. But I won’t. That would be cruel and there has been enough cruelty of late.

It’s not the obvious. It’s not that which I won’t speak of. Of course it isn’t. As I’ve said: it was a body, dead. And, that which I won’t speak of is alive. There, I’ve said enough, got too close. Let me get back to my tale. The body? Here you go…

When I think about that day, I wonder just how smart my sister and aunt actually are. I also consider how stupid they think I might actually be. Or blind – maybe they just think I have very limited vision, in every interpretation of the word. Because, it was as clear as day from the very outset what their visit that day was about.

Hints were dropped and suggestions made from almost the minute they sailed up to my front door and moored.

Esther started-off subtly enough – for Esther, that is.

‘It’s been a while since we had a formal family gathering, something to bring us together,’ she began, positioned at the sink, wiping the bowl with a cloth. ‘Aunt Penny?’

Aunt Penny was sat at the table, opposite me. She had long, grey needles in her hand, and was knitting grey and brown wool into what looked like a scarf. At her feet was an orange plastic bag, filled with assorted balls of dull coloured, recycled wool and a pattern or two. I remembered her doing that when I was a child and searching through her bag of wool, admiring the different colours and pulling out the patterns, choosing my favourites. There had been a small shop in town that simply sold wool and other knitting materials. Long gone. The wool in Aunt Penny’s bag that day was ancient leftovers she had somehow preserved.

‘Yes, I always like a family gathering,’ my aunt said, answering Esther’s question. ‘What did you have in mind?’

I wasn’t paying them too much attention. I had a mug of coffee in front of me – the coffee courtesy of Jessie, who suddenly had a plentiful supply. Jessie was useful – he
knew
people. But, despite the strong links of our past, he didn’t usually share his luxuries with me. He usually kept them for business – to win favour, to reward his workers. I knew what the gesture stood for: sympathy, some kind of compensation. It had made me cross – had he no hope? did he think this luxury item would make a difference? – but I had taken the gift all the same. Stirring the drink as my aunt and sister wittered on, I let it go cold on purpose. What did it matter?

Yet, it was a certain word that piqued my interest:
service.

‘Of course, you can’t have what you used to be able to have, you can’t have a church,’ Aunt Penny said, her needle clack-clacking, the grubby coloured scarf gradually extending. ‘Such a tragedy. Some of them stood for centuries, you know. Then, a bit of water and that’s that. Ruined.’

‘They’ve built halls, though – to replace them. On stilts, like the Cadley house, Agnes,’ Esther added, dragging me in, hoping that they hadn’t reached the dizzy heights of
too-bleeding-obvious
quite yet. They hadn’t – not
quite
yet, but they were very close.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening,’ I said and, without realising it, I had given them permission. Permission to move in – which they did, Aunt Penny casting aside her knitting and giving me an earnest, full-eyed look, my sister abandoning the sink, wiping hands dry on her pinny and taking a seat next to my aunt. Permission to speak, too; permission to address their concerns and position their agenda directly.

‘Miles away, my love?’ my aunt said, in response to my own, empty comment, reading depth there.

‘Not really,’ I replied, keeping neutral in my reaction.

There was part of me that knew Aunt Penny meant well; there was another part of me that knew she had an idea about what
should
be done, what was
proper.
And it was the latter that dominated what she did and said.

‘We’re discussing a memorial service, for Elinor, dear. To acknowledge-.’

‘To say goodbye, Agnes,’ Esther cut in, putting her hands out on the table, as if reaching for mine. Instinctively, I put mine in my lap.

‘Remember when your mother passed away,’ Aunt Penny continued, but she was talking to Esther, taking the hands I had refused to hold into her own. ‘We had a beautiful service. I know it was at her house, but it was the words, how we felt. That’s what made it.’

‘Yes,’ Esther acknowledged, a raw edge to her voice that I couldn’t begrudge. She had taken our mother’s death badly – was still suffering in its shadow – and the service had helped her. Boy, how many times had she told me that, referring back to the
comfort it had brought her
whenever she tried to talk me into joining her in prayer or exploring faith. It wasn’t for me, though, a point I politely made every time she pursued it. But this was different; this wasn’t about her.

‘You have two choices,’ I told them, coming to my feet, my tone cold, stern, ungiving. ‘You can change the subject, or you can continue this conversation in one of your own houses. Just not mine.’

‘Agnes,’ my aunt pleaded softly, touching my arm. ‘We are only trying to-.’

‘She’s not dead,’ I retorted, sweeping from the room, seeking the solace of my own room, where I dived for my bed and crawled under the covers.

Are you hiding under there?
A voice. In the room? No, just in my head. Mother’s; my beautiful mother’s voice, coming back to me.

Yes,
I whispered back.
I’m hiding.

Is it good in there?
she inquired, just as she had, all those decades ago.

Yes, it’s good. It’s safe and warm.

There, I came close, didn’t I? Almost verged into forbidden territory. But that’s all you are getting, okay? That’s as deep as I’m prepared to delve.

In my bed, I slept and I dreamt.

It’s a dream I hadn’t had for a while, but it’s a familiar one. A dream I’d come out of and think:
not that one again.
I’m back in my childhood, in the garden of my childhood home. I’m just with Esther to start with. She and I, playing in the garden. Sometimes we are throwing a ball, other times doing cartwheels. A pram I remember owning sometimes features, and bubbles – sometimes we are blowing bubbles. But what is constant is that someone else joins us and changes the dynamic of our sisterly playing, and that someone is always Jessie Morton.

On this occasion, Esther and I are sitting on the back of a wooden toy truck my father had made us. It was a ride-a-long toy, with a handle and peddles at the front. One person would sit upfront and peddle, whilst two or three could sit on the back. It didn’t go far with that many on it, unless someone really strong was in the driving seat, but there was always room to sit. Besides, we weren’t allowed to go off that far, not when we were young. There was always the threat of the dogs and our parents preferred us to play within the confines of our high walled garden.

In the dream, when Jessie appears in the garden, I beckon him over, shift along on the seat and encourage him to sit between us. Whatever we are doing, it is always me who encourages Jessie to join our activity, be it skipping, playing house, or kicking a ball. And Jessie never denies my requests. So, he joins us and sits on the back of the truck, between Esther and me. And that’s when it happens: that’s when she bites him.

That is the other constant: Esther always bites him, unprovoked.

This time, she leans over and clamps her jaw around the soft tissue above his knee, cutting in sharply, releasing an unaccountable flood of red fluid.

I woke at the bite, the shock of it still reeling inside my head, although the dream was over. There is blood, always lots of blood, despite Esther’s small child’s mouth and I don’t like the sight of blood. But several seconds out of my dream, I still felt the assault on my senses. A feeling of alarm, of shock I couldn’t shake. Still veiled by the wooziness of sleep, it took a few seconds more for my brain to connect with the fact that the source of this feeling – and what undoubtedly broke my slumber – was a rally of screaming voices below.

If you are wondering about the dream itself, it’s not for nothing that it recurs. There was a connected incident between Esther, Jessie and I, back when we were children, but it played out differently. Jessie and I are a similar age and attended school in the same year. Esther, being one year my junior, always felt a little left out when friends called for me to play; the fact she had a silent crush on Jessie magnified this feeling whenever he chanced to call.