Undertow (11 page)

So I do. I lie back in the water. Legs and arms out like a starfish. I feel his hands beneath me, supporting the small of my back.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re tensing up.”

I try. But it’s hard. All I can think is that I’m here, in this strange place, with this boy I barely know, his fingers on the tie of my top.

“Shut your eyes, Billie. You’re thinking too much. You need to let go.”

Yeah right, I think. But I do as I’m told. Close my eyes. Tip my head back until my ears are under the water. Until I can hear the slosh and the muffled echo of the deep. The water flows over me, thick and soft. Holding me. And it is. It is holding me. I can’t feel his fingers any more. He has let go. I open my eyes and jerk my head up, arms flailing. Water fills my throat and I can’t breathe; I’m choking.

But he’s laughing. Right in front of me, while I cough chlorine over him.

I can’t speak; wave my hands at him. Stop looking at me, I think.

But he doesn’t. He grasps my arms. “You did it. You floated, Billie. You floated!”

I hang my head, gasping for breath. Feel him pat me on the back. It works. I feel snot catching in my throat, cough it out. I can speak again.

I wipe it away. “Gross, huh?”

“Kind of.” He laughs. “But who cares? You swam.”

“No I didn’t,” I argue. “I just lay there.”

“Next time we’ll try to move,” he says.

“Can’t I just float?” I ask.

He laughs. “For today,” he concedes, “yeah, we can just float.”

And for an hour that’s what we do. I float on my back, eyes open now, watching the dark sky while he floats next to me then sculls to the side, wrapping himself in a towel and watching while I lie still on the surface.

Afterwards he walks me back into town.

“So you’re looking for work?”

“How did you—?”

“Same way I got your number. Pat.”

I nod. Of course. Well, the secret’s out now.

“You should ask Eva. Her mum works up at the Laurels. It’s a care home. They always need cleaners.”

I look over at him, unsure. “Won’t Eva want it?”

“You must be joking. Eva wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.”

“Right.” Like Cass. Cass wouldn’t even go to one of those places to visit her own nan. Said it smelt of pee and cabbage and death.

He writes down her address on the back of a receipt.

“So, Thursday for swimming, yeah? Same time?”

Thursday. It’s only two days away. But I don’t say no. I watch as he walks back towards the front, still smiling. Then open the receipt out, turn it over to read Eva’s address. And something else too. A phone number. His.

HET

HET LEANS
back on her arms and looks at her stomach, tan against the scarlet of her bikini. She inspects it, this stretch of skin, spreads her hands over it, feeling the heat of the last sun of the day, of the last days of summer. Then pushes gently, looking for something else. Something underneath that she knows is there but cannot see. Not yet
.

“Hey.” A voice calls out to her
.

Het looks up and out to sea. Searches for him in the shallows. The tide is coming in; it’s safe to swim now. And he is strong. Strong enough for the undertow. Though he is lean, his shoulders and arms are muscled from days of rigging at the fair
.

He stands, water running down his chest, hair dripping, body sleek with it. Het searches his face for the answer. An answer he has been seeking in the water, in the rhythm of his arms rising and falling, his legs kicking steadily, the cold of the water against his flesh
.

He sits down next to her. Rubs at his hair with a threadbare towel, lets it fall into his lap. “What about your dad?” he asks
.

“I don’t care about my dad,” she replies. Her voice scarred with petulance
.

“You should,” he says softly. “He cares about you.”

She snorts. “No he doesn’t.”

“Your mum then.”

Het sits up, crosses her legs. “They don’t matter. It’s not theirs. It’s ours.”

Tom reaches for her hand. Grasps it, making her look at him properly
.

“They won’t make it easy.”

She shrugs. “I’ve thought about it. We can go up to London, stay with Martha for a bit. You can play piano in the bars and I can work too, later. After.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll work in a café. Write a book. Something. Anything.” Het pulls her hand away and wraps her arms around her knees, holding herself tight. “I’ve got money,” she says
.

“Poor little rich girl.”

“Screw you,” she says quietly
.

She goes to stand but he pulls her back and into him
.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just… It’s not a book or TV, Het. It’s real.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she says. “I’m not Cinderella. And there’s no fairy godmother going to come and save me. There’s…”

But he’s shushing her now, rocking her gently
.

“I’ll save you,” he says
.

Het thinks about this. “We can save each other,” she says finally
.

“Deal,” he says. And he moves back so he can look at her, drink her in. Then he looks down at her tummy. Puts his hand on it. “Do you think Cinderella ever got pregnant?” he says
.

Het laughs. It’s going to be all right. They are going to be all right
.

BILLIE

EVA LIVES
out on the edge of town, in one of the tight terraces. It’s nearly nine when I knock on the door but I figure she’s hardly one for early nights or homework. She leans against the doorframe, sizing me up, wondering what I want from her. When it’s not her I want at all.

“Is your mum in?”

“No.” Her voice is tinged with suspicion. “What do you want her for?”

“Work. Danny said there might be a job at the home.”

“She’s round Bernie’s.” Like I know who that is.

“Oh. OK.” I turn to go. But Eva has other ideas.

“You can wait if you want. She’s only gone to borrow a plunger.”

I look past her down the corridor. Can see the front room flicker with TV glow. “OK. Thanks.”

She walks into the light and I follow, sit on a sagging yellow chair, while she slumps on the sofa, an ashtray balanced on the arm, spilling its contents over the white vinyl. On the floor an overweight Staffie is eating what looks like a Mars bar. The room stinks. Of fags and dog and this-is-it.

Eva flicks an orange lighter, dips the tip of a Marlboro in the flame. “Where’d you see Danny then?”

“The pool,” I say hesitantly, like I’m giving something away. A secret. Then I remember nothing happened. Not really. Not that you could use as evidence. Though it doesn’t feel that way.

“You smell of bleach,” Eva observes.

I smile, shrug. “So, you and Danny…?” I ask. Because I don’t get her, where she fits in. And I’m scared of where it might be. Or where she wants it to be.

“Me and Danny nothing. He’s Jake’s best mate. Been around since I was born. His mum and my mum were at school together. Our school. Can you believe it? The minute I’m sixteen I am so out of this dump.”

I look around and nod. Though I know it’s not the room she means.

“We’re close,” she adds. Then looks at me slyly, gauging a reaction. “Never done it though.”

“Oh,” I feign indifference. But it’s not enough.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” I bat it back.

“You into him?”

“I… I don’t know—” But I’m saved by the sound of a key turning in the lock and the bustle of Eva’s mum stamping her feet on the doormat.

“All right, Eva?” she calls.

“In here,” she replies, stubbing her cigarette out in a heap of ash and fag ends. Though it’s hardly a secret.

Eva’s mum is the spit of her daughter, all tight curls and sly eyes. The only giveaway is the lines around her lips, creasing her mouth into a puckered hole. She looks at me, trying to work out who I am.

“This is Billie. She’s after work up the home.”

Eva’s mum nods. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I say. “Seventeen in a few months.”

“You at school?”

“Yes. No. Well, I will be, after Easter.”

She sighs. And I worry that it’s over. But she’s just thinking.

“It won’t be regular, like. Just when we need cover. But I could use someone Thursday. We’ll see after that. Maybe you can do after school or weekends.”

“Great. Yeah, anything.”

“The pay’s not much mind. Minimum.”

“I don’t care. Really.”

“Fine. Well, be up there at ten. Ask for Debs.”

“Debs,” I repeat.

“That’s me.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I think she’s going to go then, but instead she looks hard at me, like she’s trying to see inside. Like Finn used to do, when he claimed he had special powers.

“Where you from?” she says finally.

“London,” I say. “But my mum grew up here.” Like that makes it all right. Makes me one of them.

“Right,” she says, lost for a minute. Then, “So, Thursday at ten.”

“I’ll be there.” I smile. “Thanks, Debs.”

She nods and walks out, heading towards the kitchen with her plunger and twenty Bensons and the dog trailing behind her.

“Thanks, Debs,” Eva repeats all sing-song, like it’s a joke.

“I’d better go,” I say.

Eva shrugs. “Whatever.”

I laugh. “See you around.”

“Yeah.” She pauses, narrows her eyes. “I’ll probably be at Jake and Danny’s at the weekend. If you’re about.”

“Great, yeah.” And I cringe as I hear myself. An eager puppy. Desperate for affection. “Whatever,” I add quickly.

“Whatever,” she repeats.

Eva closes the door behind me. I stand in the street, smell the smoke on my skin, in my hair. I shake it, letting rain spatter onto my face. Do your worst, I think. Because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

I’ve got a job. An honest-to-God minimum-wage job.

And I can swim. Well, float.

And it’s all because of Danny. And as I think his name I feel the butterflies dance, but not in fear, in delight.

HET

HET HAS
seen the girl before. Seen her with her friends at the fair, slinking round Tom and Jimmy. Smiles sticky with Twilight Teaser and legs shiny with Hawaiian Tropic Factor 2. Kelly something, her name is
.

She is beautiful, Het thinks. In a way. Obvious, her mother would say. All that flesh. Her breasts pushed up in a Wonderbra, skirt barely below her knickers. Will and Jonty call her a townie, a slapper. But she knows Will’s had his hands inside that black lace, whatever he says to their parents. Jonty says he’s got better taste. Lets his eyes fall on Het’s chest, move down to her crotch. She shudders
.

Kelly is walking towards her now. The others a step behind, like bridesmaids, or henchmen. They stop dead in front of her in a cloud of Impulse and cigarettes
.

“You’re Het, aren’t you?”

Het nods, knowing that being Het is a bad thing right now
.

Kelly considers this, blows out a careful ring of smoke, tips her head to one side. “Stay away from him. He don’t belong to you.”

Het knows she means Tom. “He doesn’t belong to anybody,” she replies
.

One of the girls laughs, but Kelly jabs her elbow into her
.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that.” Het shrugs. “He can make his own mind up.”

Kelly snorts. Then tries a different tack. “He only wants you for one thing, you know?”

“Maybe,” Het concedes. But she knows it’s a lie. It’s not that. It’s more; it’s everything. And they know it too
.

The laughing girl tugs at Kelly’s crop top. Kelly takes a step back, links arms with her
.

“You’re right – she’s not worth it,” she sneers. And they turn in sync like Rockettes and walk back down the street, cheap heels click-clacking in unison on the gum-sticky pavement
.

Het sees the laughing girl’s name across the back of her top, spelled out in glittery gold iron-on patches. It says
DEBS
.

BILLIE

THE LAURELS
sounds like this lush green oasis, but it’s anything but. A hulking great lump of granite on the main road, no one else would live here, no one who had a choice anyway. There are no trees to speak of and the rain hits it from every angle. As I walk up the gravel-bare drive, I hear the rumble of lorries on the A30. Sweet dreams.

Inside it’s like they’ve tried to recreate some
Care Homes from Hell
cliché. From wipe-clean furniture screwed to the floor to the windows that never open. And the heat. I swear it’s a hundred degrees inside. I touch my finger to a radiator and feel my skin burn. The place is like a Lock-and-Lock box, keeping in the prickling smell of ammonia and hopelessness. The TV room gives a nod to comfort: fitted carpet and covered chairs. But they’re old, and the smell is worse here, the fabric has absorbed the farts and sweat and stale breath of generations. It sticks to everything. To them. And to me.

“You don’t need to talk to them,” Debs tells me. “You’re not paid to do that.”

And at first I’m relieved because I don’t know what to say. But when I see them staring at
This Morning
, not really listening, just watching the pictures moving, I want to talk. I want to shout.

Where are their families? I think. Have they just left them here? Forgotten about them? And I wonder what will happen to Mum when she’s like this. What I’ll do when she’s too old to look after herself, let alone me, and it’s my and Finn’s turn to look after her instead. “Take me to Switzerland,” she used to joke, “before I think I’m the Queen of Sheba.” But sometimes she already does. And anyway, I don’t know if she’ll get that far. Always thought there might be a chance she’d go in her own way, in her own time.