Twisted Heart (3 page)

The competitors stayed silent, listening to every word. You could feel the tension rising.

‘When you reach the shore and finish this section of the race, you need to head straight for the stand containing your bikes. Each bike is numbered. Choose the correct one, the one that corresponds to your entry number. The cycling section runs in a northerly direction along the track by Prayer River. You’ll see orange ribbons tied to the trees – follow these markers for 5k until you reach the highway. After that you’ll cycle around Bitterroot on a 25k route, clearly marked and with marshals directing traffic.’

‘I’d rather die!’ Grace whispered with exaggerated weariness, and I agreed. And we hadn’t even got to the running part yet. I watched the athletes, especially the New Dawn kids, give Stetson-guy every ounce of their attention. Fists were clenched and adrenalin was definitely starting to pump, even amongst spectators.

At last he was through with the instructions. You could cut the silence with a knife as he raised the klaxon, waiting for the triathletes to turn and face the water.

The sudden blare from the horn made me jump. Grace grabbed Jude’s arm. Aaron’s gaze was fixed on Holly; he was praying that her surge tactic would pay off.

Waaagh!
The klaxon sounded, the swimmers plunged into the water waist deep, then they threw themselves full length. Everything was white foam and kicking, flailing limbs. They were off.

A hundred and twenty swimmers swam for the chequered flag. Heads bobbed, arms whirled, legs kicked.

‘Crazy,’ Grace sighed.

Jude stayed quiet. Serious asthma holds him back big time. Otherwise, my guess is he’d have loved to be in there swimming.

I agreed with Grace – all this sweat and competitive effort – crazy! I was still looking over my shoulder, only half paying attention.

‘I’ve lost Holly – I can’t pick her out,’ Aaron reported anxiously from the water’s edge.

A posse, a gaggle, a herd of athletes still thrashed through the water, destroying the peace. A few super-swimmers surged ahead but most were still bunched together about five hundred metres out, creating people soup.

A black truck pulled up in the parking lot – at last! I turned from the shore and ran.

Orlando stepped out of his dad’s truck. My boyfriend’s dark hair was shorter; he was wearing a new black jacket. Two months and a hundred metres separated us. I was running, he was running, we flew into each others’ arms.

He held me tight. I leaned my head on his shoulder, wrapped my arms around his waist, breathed him in. When he kissed me I knew he hadn’t found a new girl, that his heart was still mine.

‘You look amazing,’ he murmured, unclasping my arms and stepping back so he could take a longer look.

‘You too.’ My heart beat fast, I felt dizzy with joy to be gazing into his grey eyes, to be reaching up to run my fingers over his smooth, cool cheek, his soft lips. All I wanted to do was jump in the truck and get the hell back to my house on Becker Hill. ‘Oh God, I missed you!’

‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’

‘Don’t. It’s cool.’

‘I missed you every single day. But I needed the extra three hundred.’

‘It’s OK, honestly.’

‘I hadn’t planned for this trip and Dallas is expensive. I have to move out of my apartment to a cheaper place.’

‘Where will you move to? Who with?’

I plan to share a room with a guy called Ryan. He’s on my course.’

‘Is he OK about it? Will there be space for all your stuff? God, I sound like your mom!’

Orlando smiled and pulled me back in for more kisses. ‘How was Europe?’ he mumbled.

‘Exciting. Confusing. Different. But it’s really helped.’

‘You feel better?’ he checked.

I nodded. ‘I so needed to break free from what happened on Black Rock – literally to put a physical distance between me and the whole Zoran trauma.’

‘Cool,’ he sighed, then kissed me some more.

‘When I go back, swear you’ll visit,’ I urged.

‘If I can find the airfare. You’re going back for sure?’

I nodded. ‘Mom made me promise. Before I stepped on the plane in Paris, she laid down a condition: “Only come home if you buy a return ticket.”’

‘What date do you fly back?’

‘It’s an open return.’

‘Any news from the hospital?’

‘Not yet. Later today maybe.’ I was clinging on to his hand, I realized, holding on like I would never let him go. Spectators stood on the shoreline behind us, yelling their support for the swimmers. And two new people were walking down the track from the direction of the New Dawn cabins – a girl with short dark hair wearing sunglasses, white capri pants and a pale pink shirt, and an older, grey-haired guy with glasses. They walked through the parking lot on their way to join the noisy group by the shore.

A nightmare vision slams hard against the backs of my retinas, giving me a flash of pain. I see decomposing bodies escape from underwater coffins and drift up through murky water – whole skulls and ribs lurk out of sight, tiny metatarsals bob on a dark, oily surface.

Hell is always close to where I stand – a blink of the eye and I’m there.

Orlando realized that I’d got the queasy, gut-wrenching feeling that comes with my visions and he grabbed hold of my hand and held it tight.

‘That was Antony Amos!’ he whispered after they’d passed by, in the breathy tone of an anthropologist who’s just spotted a rare Amazonian tribesman. Amos moved back into the neighbourhood seven or eight years ago, but he’s hardly ever seen in public.

I was still intent on putting a lid on the nightmare vision so I didn’t waste more than a glance on the writer and his chic companion. In the flesh our local celeb didn’t look too much out of the ordinary, I thought. Rather tall but slighter than he looked on screen at the Oscar ceremonies, though the swept-back grey hair and tailored shirt did cut him out from the jeans and sweatshirt crowd. ‘He’s the sponsor,’ I told Orlando. ‘I guess he wants to see what he’s spending his money on. Hey, what do you say we get out of here, back to my place?’

Orlando grinned and started to pull me towards the truck. We’d have been reversing out of our spot and totally out of there in under a minute if it wasn’t for what happened next.

T
he crowd on the shore fell suddenly silent, but only for a split second. Then people started to point and yell, a warning klaxon sounded, the boats in the inlet set off full throttle towards the middle of the lake.

‘Someone’s in trouble,’ Orlando realized. He took hold of my hand and we ran back to join Grace, Jude and Aaron.

‘Out there, to the left of the flag!’ Aaron pointed to a swimmer waving both arms, crying for help. ‘I knew this would happen – didn’t I say?’

That there were too many competitors all bunched together, that it was dog-eat-dog out there on the lake. I swallowed hard and focused on the girl waving her arms. ‘That’s Holly!’ I gasped.

‘But she’s not the one in trouble,’ Jude was quick to point out. ‘See the guy next to her – the one who just dove down beneath the surface? It looks like he’s searching for someone.’

‘What’s Holly doing? Why has she dropped out of the race?’ It was Orlando’s turn to ask questions as the two boats roared towards the flag. Other competitors stopped or changed course to give them a clear channel. Meanwhile, Holly quit waving and dived down to join the swimmer who had just disappeared.

Ten, twenty, thirty seconds went by and I found I was holding my breath. The boats reached the spot as the first diver broke the surface. A guy in one of the rescue boats leaned over to speak with him.

‘Holly, come up, come up!’ I muttered.

‘How long can she stay under?’ Grace asked Aaron, who ran futilely knee-deep into the water then groaned and stopped.

The second boat slowly circled the flag. Back on shore, Antony Amos and the girl in pink hurried to speak to the guy in the Stetson. Amos snatched what looked like a two-way radio receiver from the race starter.

‘Holly, please come up!’ we all prayed.

At last, after what seemed an impossible length of time, Holly’s head broke the surface. She yelled to the nearest boat, pointed frantically into the water.

Meanwhile the first diver had strapped on a yellow life vest handed to him by a guy in the nearest rescue boat. He let himself be raised out of the water then flopped face down on the deck. On shore, a crowd gathered around Amos and his girl companion.

‘We lost a swimmer,’ Amos reported to his companion after he’d spoken to a lifeguard on the first boat. ‘Number 85 saw him go down. Number 102 went after him then 85 followed.’

‘Who’s missing? Do we have his number?’ the girl asked.

‘Tell Holly – number 85 – tell her to get on board a boat!’ Aaron broke in between Amos and the starter. ‘We don’t know what the deepwater currents are like out there. Tell her to quit playing the hero!’

But the organizers had more important things to establish before they started thinking about Holly’s heroics. Amos clicked a switch then spoke into the radio. ‘Give us the number of the missing swimmer.’

There was another click. ‘43, repeat 43.’

‘Is it one of us?’ Amos asked the starter, his hand shaking as he clutched the radio.

‘Number 43 – Conner Steber.’ The guy with the klaxon sounded certain but he pulled a printed list from his pocket to check anyway.

‘Conner,’ the girl repeated softly. She let out a soft sigh, a confirmation that the missing swimmer belonged to New Dawn.

‘Holly!’ Knee-deep in the lake, Aaron yelled her name as many of the athletes realized what was happening, abandoned the race and began to head back to shore. Holly must have heard the call but chose to ignore it, taking a deep breath and diving down a second time. Almost simultaneously, two members of the rescue team jumped from the second boat to join the search.

Amos clicked the switch to speak again. ‘What happened exactly?’

‘We’re not sure. All we know is number 43 went under and 102 couldn’t find him. 85 and two of our guys are down there to try again.’

‘Tell her to quit!’ Aaron begged.

The starter nodded then took the radio from Amos. ‘Ziegler here. Get 85 out of the water and into a boat. When she comes up, don’t let her dive again.’

‘I hear you,’ the rescuer replied. ‘Here she comes.’

There was a gasp of relief amongst the crowd as Holly’s head reappeared a second time. We saw the rescue boat glide towards her, watched as a woman in the boat flung her a vest and talked hard at her, eventually grabbing her by the arm and hauling her on board.

A groan followed the gasp – the two professional rescue divers had just returned to the surface and were hauling a dark, motionless shape with them. I shuddered and held fast to Orlando’s hand. Down in the depths there was a whole town. I imagined streets with wooden sidewalks worn away by the water, steel and timber skeletons of houses, gas stations and grocery stores, spires with rusting crosses. Now only the bones of the dead jostled at shop counters and sat in weed-veiled Sunday best along the church pews. The divers swam slowly towards the nearest boat, hauling their burden with them. Close to the shore, distressed swimmers turned back to look and cry out. ‘Oh my God!’ ‘Can you believe it?’ ‘Don’t even look!’

‘Is it Conner?’ Ziegler asked, eyes narrowed, staring out across the water.

‘Conner Steben,’ the rescuer confirmed.

‘Any vital signs?’

There was a long pause while the divers struggled to hand their find over to the team in the boat.

And I’m still down there in the deep, dark water, amongst the skulls. A cold current draws me down, a strong pull of water which I can’t fight because my arms hang useless, my legs refuse to kick and my lungs, my heart are choked with weeds. My eyes are blind. I sink, I twist. I roll this way and that
.

Click. We hear a muffled reply from the boat. ‘We found a pulse,’ the tense voice reports. ‘Call an ambulance. We’re heading for the shore.’

Extreme emotion is hard to read. Jaws clench, lips are stretched in joy and agony, both the same.

So I couldn’t make out if Antony Amos and the starter were relieved or disappointed that the kid from their community was still alive as the rescue boat reached the shore and two divers carried him through the shallows on a stretcher, laid him out on the pebbles and stood back to let a paramedic try every technique she knew to resuscitate him.

All I saw of the half-drowned swimmer was a glimpse of grey and black wetsuit, a face turned towards me with eyes staring wide, mouth gaping open and a slick of dark-blond hair plastered to his forehead.

A crowd closed in with mixed motives, I realized. Some hoped the kid would make it, even praying aloud. Others with phone cameras at the ready just wanted an image to post on Facebook. Still in charge, Ziegler piled in and roughly shoved the rubber-neckers aside.

‘Cancel the event,’ we heard Amos instruct the girl in the pink shirt. Back in control of his facial muscles, he turned to her. ‘Aurelie, call your brother. Tell him to contact the traffic marshals, send them home.’

‘Papa, are you sure?’ She spoke with a foreign accent – maybe French, maybe Italian. ‘Shouldn’t we wait until—’

‘Call Jean-Luc,’ Amos insisted. He looked at the swimmers wading out of the water, spotted number 102 in his life jacket, still breathing hard and standing hands on hips slightly apart from the action. ‘Tell Jarrold to go to his cabin,’ he ordered the girl, who this time didn’t resist.

She went and spoke quietly to 102. He turned and walked barefoot up the hill without glancing back, his long fair hair dripping on to his shoulders. No one said thanks for trying to save a kid from drowning.

They ignored Holly too, who by this time was sitting with Aaron, huddled in the shade of the nearest trees. Nobody expressed any gratitude for raising the alarm and diving down to the rescue. Maybe that would come later, we told ourselves.

In any case, no one was doing much talking while the paramedic worked. The CPR kit was out, she was kneeling over the patient, intent on airway management, attaching a resuscitation bag to the mask strapped around his face.