Water Born (10 page)

‘Sure.'

‘Cool.' He snaps it with his phone, then hands it back to me.

‘Thanks, Milton.'

‘I'll show you out.'

‘You don't need to – it's, like, down the stairs and out the door. I think I can manage that.'

‘Okay, I'll just get started . . .'

He eases on to his computer chair and starts typing, his face lit up by the glow from the screen.

‘Bye then,' I say. But his senses are locked in on the task in hand – he's lost to the outside world.

As I walk back home, a text comes through from Harry.

I want more
.

Not now. I haven't sent him anything since the photo with my top off. I ignore him, but another message pings in.

What you wearing right now? Take it off
.

I can't help smiling at the thought of peeling off my clothes in the street. And I can't help a little thrill of pleasure running up and down my spine at the thought of him sitting somewhere, looking at his phone, waiting. Waiting for me.

FIFTEEN

H
ospitals freak a lot of people out, but to me the local General Hospital is just where my mum works. She's been a midwife for as long as I can remember. The antiseptic smell doesn't bother me, or the long, white corridors. But I'm nervous as I walk towards the Intensive Care Unit.

I feel like an imposter. We're not close, Christie and me. She doesn't even like me, but when some of the other girls said they were going to visit after school I felt that I'd be seen as a total ice bitch if I didn't come too.

‘I'm not sure about this,' I say to Nirmala.

‘It's okay. We'll just talk to her, that's all. We won't stay long.'

‘Okay.'

There's so much stuff in Christie's room – monitors
and wires and tubes, flowers and cards – that at first it's difficult to see the person in the middle of it all. When my eyes do settle on her, she looks like a doll, a waxwork. Her mum's sitting next to her, holding her hand. She looks up when she hears us enter the room.

‘Oh, hello girls,' she says. There are black circles under her eyes.

‘Hello, Mrs Powell. Would you like a little break? A cup of tea or something? Nic and I will sit with Christie.'

‘Well . . . I don't know.' She looks from us to Christie and back again.

‘Have you been here all night?'

‘Yes.'

‘You need a rest, then. Something to eat and drink. There's a café near the entrance. Go on, Mrs Powell. Christie will be fine.'

‘OK, then.' She stands up, leans over and kisses Christie's forehead. ‘I won't be long, sweetheart,' she says. She gives us a weak little smile as she leaves the room. ‘Come and fetch me if anything . . . if . . . you know . . .'

‘Of course.'

I stand at the foot of the bed while Nirmala sits in the chair and takes Christie's hand, the one her mum was holding. ‘Hey, Christie,' she says. ‘It's me. Nirmala. And Nic's here, too.' She looks up at me and nods.

‘Oh, um, hi Christie,' I say.

Then there's silence, apart from the electronic hum of the various machines in the room.

‘I don't know what to say,' Nirmala hisses at me.

‘Umm, just tell her what you've been up to, what's
happening at school . . .'

We're both whispering, and the absurdity of it and the awkwardness make me want to giggle. I can feel it forming inside me. Nothing about this is funny – poor Christie lying there, lost to the world – but that just makes it worse.

A snigger bursts out of my clenched mouth along with a spray of saliva.

Nirmala looks shocked, then suddenly she's giggling too. She flaps her hands in front of her face for a few seconds, then covers her mouth and turns away from me, but her body is shaking.

‘Stop it!' Her words are high-pitched, almost squeaky.

‘I can't!' My squeaks match hers.

I hold on to the metal bed frame, scared I'm going to pee myself. I cross my legs hard, and bend at the knees a little to try and stop the flow, but I just can't stop laughing. We're both helpless for a long minute or two.

Eventually the giggles die down. I've got tears in my eyes, and Nirmala's the same. We both dab at our faces with tissues and take some deep breaths.

‘That was awful,' she hisses at me.

‘Don't,' I say out loud. ‘Don't whisper any more. That's what started it.'

‘Right,' she says. ‘Right. I'm okay now. Just don't look at me for a while, okay?'

‘Okay.'

She starts to talk to Christie – about school, about the weather, about training. After the first few hesitant sentences, she's chatting away quite naturally – a
one-sided gossip. I examine the cards and flowers clustered on her bedside cabinet. The cards are from Auntie this and Uncle that, the usual family and friends. I pick up one from near the front. It's got a picture of a teddy bear on the front, holding a red heart. Inside it says,
To the best girlfriend ever, Get Well Soon, with all my love, Harry xxxxxxxxx

The best girlfriend ever?

I turn around. Nirmala's still chatting away.

‘ . . . really thinks he fancies her, but I heard he was doing it for a bet . . .'

‘Nirmala—?'

‘What?'

‘This card . . .'

‘What about it?'

‘Have you seen it?'

‘No. I don't know. Why?'

I hand it over. She looks at the front and reads the inside.

‘Ah, that's sweet,' she says and hands it back to me.

‘Is he—? I mean, are they—?'

She smiles.

‘Yeah,' she says. ‘It's meant to be a secret, but everyone knows. They've been going out for nearly a month now.'

I guess my jaw must have dropped, because she looks at me and frowns.

‘What?'

I shut my mouth and try to get myself together.

‘Nothing. I just . . . I just didn't know.'

‘He's really into her, it's so sweet. He's been in pieces since she's been here.'

‘Yeah. Right. Poor Harry.'

I want more. What are you wearing right now? Take it off
.

I can feel myself going hot all over.

‘Nic? You all right?'

‘Yeah, just feel a bit . . .'

‘Look, you sit down here for a minute. It's your turn anyway. Talk to Christie.'

I walk round to the other side of the bed and sit down.

The white sheet rises and falls gently as Christie breathes in and out. Her face is completely still, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. I think of her hot and sweaty and gasping for water in the changing rooms. I think of her hot and sweaty with Harry . . . but it's not just sex with them, is it? They're going out. They're ‘sweet' together.

He loves her, not me.

I'm just a bit on the side. Someone to be used. A nobody.

My phone pings. I glance down. Harry:
Wot you doing now, sexy?

Oh my God. I feel so dirty, used. I put my phone away.

‘It was you all the time. Of course it was,' I say to her, under my breath.

Nirmala looks at me, frowning.

‘What did you say?'

I ignore her and study Christie's face, trying to see what she has and I don't. What it is that makes her the sort of girl boys fall in love with, and me the sort they want to mess about.

And as I stare at her . . . there's a flicker, a hint of
movement at the corner of one of her eyes.

‘Nirmala! Did you see that? Look! She's waking up!'

We huddle closer.

‘I can't see anything. I can't . . . oh my God!'

Christie's eyelids flutter. Open, shut, open again.

‘Christie!' Nirmala squeaks. ‘Oh my God, Christie!'

She grabs her hand and squeezes it. Christie's eyes are darting left and right. She seems to have difficulty focusing. Then she sees me. Our eyes meet and I feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘Oh my God, this is amazing!' Nirmala shouts. ‘I'll go and fetch her mum!' She sprints out of the room, and we're alone together. Me and the girl I betrayed. But she doesn't know, does she? Nobody knows.

But still she stares at me, and I feel sweat pricking at my scalp.

Her sore, cracked lips move apart a little.

The tip of her tongue comes out, moves left and right over her lips.

The tendons in her neck stand out as she tries to strain her head forward.

I put my hand on her forehead, the way my mum used to do when I was ill.

‘Steady, Christie. It's all right. Your mum will be here soon. The nurses . . .' I don't know if it's me or her I'm trying to reassure.

Her lips move together again. She purses them and makes a croaking noise. She's trying to speak.

I move my head closer, tip my ear near to her mouth.

‘Waaw,' she whispers.

‘What? What was that?'

She tries again.

‘War . . . ter. . .'

She's thirsty. I remember her staggering around the changing room, slugging back bottle after bottle.

‘I don't know if I should . . .'

There's a white plastic beaker on the cabinet next to the bed, and a jug with a lid, half-full of water.

‘Maybe just a little . . .'

I pour some water into the cup. Then I slide one hand behind her head to support it and gently bring the lip of the cup to her mouth. She grunts, which I take as encouragement. I tip the cup and water trickles in. A little spills down her chin. The grunting turns to coughing. Tiny drops spray into my face. Her body jerks.

Appalled, I put the cup down and slide my hand further behind her, trying to rub the top of her back, soothe her somehow.

Her eyes are bulging in their sockets.

‘What are you doing?' I turn round as a nurse bustles into the room.

Suddenly the room is full of people. Alarms are going off. I'm pushed out of the way and retreat into a corner, from where I watch a team of nurses cluster around her, shout at her, shout at each other.

Christie's mum stands in the doorway, Nirmala close behind. One of the nurses darts to the door and closes it in their faces. Then she spots me, grabs my arm and propels me towards the door. ‘You can't stay here!'

And now I'm out of the room, the door is closed again
and I'm standing looking directly into Mrs Powell's shocked face.

‘My baby,' she gasps. ‘What are they doing to my baby?'

I turn round. Through the criss-crossed square of glass at eye level, I can see the nurses applying a couple of large, rectangular paddles with wires coming out of them to Christie's bare chest. I turn back, not wanting to see the jolt in her body as they deliver the electric shock.

‘They're just . . . I'm sure it's going to be . . .'

‘What happened?' she says to me. She clutches both of my arms. ‘What happened just now?'

‘She woke up. She asked me for some water.'

‘She spoke to you?'

‘Yes . . . sort of. Just one word. “Water.” And she was trying to lick her lips.'

‘And you gave it to her?'

‘Um . . . yes.'

Her hands are gripping me so tightly now it hurts.

‘That's what was killing her. Too much water. Swelling her brain. Killing her from the inside!'

The veins in her temples are standing out. Her fingers are digging in so hard, I swear she'll break my skin in a minute.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't know . . . she's going to be okay. They're doing everything . . .'

The door behind me opens. A doctor stands in the doorway.

Behind her the room is quiet. Figures move around the bed silently, putting things away, covering Christie's naked chest up.

‘Mrs Powell?' the doctor says.

She lets go of me and I step to one side. She searches the doctor's face and says, ‘Don't say it. Don't tell me.'

‘Mrs Powell, I'm so sorry. We did everything we could.'

‘No. Don't tell me my baby's dead. No, no, no, no, no!' She looks wildly about her for a moment before fixing on me. ‘You've killed her! You!' Angry tears spill down her face.

Nirmala and the doctor stare at me.

‘I didn't mean . . . I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' I say as I twist away from them and start running down the corridor. This is all a mistake. I'll wake up in a minute, in my own bed, in my own room . . . and this will be gone, just a half-remembered nightmare.

I'll wake up. Won't I?

SIXTEEN

‘
W
hy didn't you answer my texts?'

‘I didn't get them!'

‘Nic, don't take me for a fool. You got them.'

‘I didn't have my phone on, okay? I'd switched it off. I needed a bit of time on my own. Christie died, Dad. I was there, right? I
saw
her die. I needed . . . I just wanted to . . .'

‘It's okay, we understand, don't we, Clarke?' Mum's placed herself between Dad and me in the hallway. She's holding my hand now.

‘You can't just run off, Nic.' Dad's not giving up. ‘Your mum and me have been worried out of our minds.'

‘I was only gone a couple of hours. What's the big deal?'

‘You just said it yourself. Christie's dead. Everything changes now.'

‘I don't get it. What changes?'

‘You're in danger, Nic. Real danger. You have to listen to me. You have to do what I say.'

‘Clarke, please . . .' Mum holds her other hand up, as if that will stop him.

‘Sarita, you've got to back me up. You can't ignore the evidence any more.'

‘Not in front of Nic, Clarke, please. She's upset. We need to concentrate on her.'

‘That's exactly what I am doing. Thinking of her.'

‘For God's sake, you two, this isn't about me! It's not about you, either. It's about Christie. My friend. My friend's dead.'

Tears spill down my face and they're real, but I don't know if I'm crying for Christie or for me.

I gave her the water that killed her. However I play it in my head, wherever I go, the truth doesn't change. It comes with me. It won't ever go away.

I killed Christie. As good as. I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life.

‘Of course,' Mum soothes. ‘You've had a shock.' She puts her arms round me, hugs me close.

‘I didn't mean for this to happen,' I blubber. ‘Why can't everything just stay the same?'

‘Ssh!' she says into my hair. ‘It's all right. It's all right.'

But it isn't, is it? How can anything ever be all right again?

‘I want to lie down.'

‘Of course. You go up. Take a bit of time. Dad and I will be here if you need us.'

I start to walk up the stairs.

‘Sarita, are you just going to leave it at that?' Dad hisses.

‘Ssh.'

‘Don't ssh me, we need to talk. We need to tell her. Swimming's finished. It's over.'

I turn round.

‘You can't take that away from me,' I shout. ‘It's all I've got left!'

‘It's not safe. It could've been you in that hospital. It could've been you who . . .'

‘. . . died?'

‘Yes.'

‘But it wasn't. Look!' I fling my arms out. ‘I'm still here. And you can't, won't, stop me swimming.'

‘I'm your father, Nicola. I'm telling you . . .'

‘I'm sixteen. You can't stop me – unless you get enough people signing up to your
petition
.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Yes, what
do
you mean?' Mum says.

I can't bottle it up any longer.

‘I don't know,
Carl
, you figure it out.'

‘What?'

‘You figure it out,
Carl
.'

‘What are you talking about? Why are you calling me that?'

‘Because it's your name. Your real name.'

Mum gasps, then there's silence.

Dad staggers back and leans against the wall.

‘How did you find out?'

‘This.' I open the flap of my bag, take out the folded-up
birth certificate and hold it towards them. ‘This is the truth, isn't it? In black and white.'

Neither of them says anything. They look at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

‘I'm not Nicola Anson, I'm Nicola Adams. And you're not Clarke, you're Carl. And you're Neisha.'

‘That's who we were, Nic, but not any more,' Mum says eventually. She seems calm now that the dam has burst, whereas Dad is collapsing – curled forward, face obscured, hands squeezing his scalp.

‘What happened to telling the truth, Mum?' I say. ‘Were you ever going to tell me? And why change your names anyway? What the actual fuck is going on?'

And now Dad explodes. He jumps across the hall and puts one foot on the stairs, shouting, ‘Don't you dare use that language in this house! Don't you dare!'

‘Why shouldn't I? I don't know what's going on! I don't know who you are or who I am! You're always whispering together when you don't think I can hear. I don't know what the fuck's going on, because neither of you will fucking tell me!'

In two leaps, he's caught up with me on the stairs.

Mum's screaming and pulling at his legs.

‘Clarke! Stop it! Calm down!'

And he's grabbed my arms and his face is in my face.

‘Everything, everything I do is to protect you. It always has been.'

‘Moving? Changing our names? Taking me everywhere? Watching me morning, noon and night?'

‘Yes, yes! All of that.'

‘You can't protect me from life. Shit happens! It just does. I'm suffocating, Dad. You're suffocating me.' I try to escape his grip but he's holding on tight. ‘You're hurting me,' I grunt. ‘Let go!'

‘I can't let go. I can't let you out of my sight. It's close now. The danger. It's getting closer.'

‘What danger?'

‘The thing that killed Christie.'

‘Water?'

‘Water.'

‘Dad, that just sounds insane.'

Mum's on the stairs now, the three of us squashed together in this narrow space. She puts a hand on Dad's arm.

‘Let go, now, Clarke. You don't want to hurt her, do you?'

Again, it's like he's waking up.

‘Hurt her . . .? Hurt Nic . . .? No. No, never.'

He moves his hands away from me and I retreat up to the top of the stairs.

‘What are we really running from, Dad? What's really going on?'

Looking down at him, wild-eyed and sweating, I wonder if I've known the answer all along. The threat – the thing that I've got to be protected from at all costs – maybe it's here in our house. Maybe it lives within Dad . . . an obsession, some sort of madness.

I leave my question hanging in the hot, stale air of the hallway, and retreat to my room.