Body of Water (7 page)

"Promise me. No pools, no rivers, no oceans. I lost my parents in the water, darling; I couldn't bear to lose you too."

At ten years old I was so concerned about what might be lurking out there, poised to strike the moment the pendant and I were separated, that I forgot to ask anything about its sender. Mum wanted me to stay away from water. I had no problem with that.

I wished I had the pendant now. Beth had searched her house several times but there was no sign of it. It had been a symbol of protection from the heritage that Mum and I shared. True, it was a heritage I had never known but that didn't alleviate my feelings of guilt at its loss. I broke my promise, swum with Shaun, lost the pendant, and now Mum was dead.

Dad prompted me. "Well, did she?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. Apart from her parents she only mentioned an aunt, and that was only once. I never thought to question her. Didn't you meet her family? I mean, you were married. What about the wedding?"

"It was just the two of us. She said that her surviving family would never approve of her marrying a Southerner so we did the whole eloping thing. She had as much flair for the dramatic as she did the romantic."

That sounded just like Mum. She had a way of getting what she wanted in the most difficult of circumstances and making the very best of it when she did so. Who would care that their families weren't there when the excitement of running away eclipsed any guilt she might have felt?

"Weren't Nan and Granddad mad that you married without them being there?"

Dad shrugged. "My dad was like your friend Shaun's. Once he realised that he couldn't control me he lost interest. He kicked me out at sixteen."

This was a revelation to me. On the few occasions that we had seen Dad's parents there was an omnipresent strain and I'd assumed it was some unresolved family argument but I'd never realised that Dad had been thrown out of his home. I felt closer to him for knowing this. We'd both been rejected by our families. How much worse had it been for Dad at his age? "What about Nan? Didn't she stop him?"

"She thought whatever she was told to." Dad had bored a tunnel through his mound of mash, lost in feelings that I felt guilty for having resurrected. "Would you like to meet them?"

"I have."

"Not my parents, Mum's family in Orkney."

My arms crossed, I leaned away from him. "Mum can't be replaced."

"I know son, I know. I just thought..."

My first instinct was to get up and walk away but this was Dad's first real attempt at talking to me in the two months since Mum's death. If he had something on his mind I wanted him to feel comfortable enough to open up and talk. Really talk. Getting defensive wasn't going to do that. I gritted my teeth and sat back in as natural a position as I could muster but consciously thinking about being natural made it harder. I nodded, conveying my understanding, and we talked into the late evening, sharing stories of all the funny things Mum did, or said.

Finally, unable to ignore my tiredness, I bid Dad goodnight. "It'll be OK Dad, you'll see."

His eyes shone with tears. "You think so?"

I hugged him tight and went to bed. Whether I believed it or not he needed to hear it.

The next morning, still in bed, I enjoyed the sun that streamed through the window and warmed my face. For the first time I hadn't woken from the nightmare. I'd still had it but the raw emotion was absent and I watched the events unfold with detachment. Feeling contented and rested, I enjoyed my slow, easy breathing, and the distant sound of children playing in the park. I stretched, catlike, and rolled over, my limbs loose.

Thinking about Mum, I decided that today would be a celebration of her memory rather than my usual moping about. I padded into my bathroom, showered and dressed, loving the feeling of a fresh cotton shirt on my body and the hug of my favourite jeans. I opened my bedroom door, intending to pick up the paper, sit in the bay window, and watch the world go by. The park would be busy on a sunny weekend like this and I enjoyed seeing the families walk to and fro. In the mornings the children would be so excited they'd run ahead of their parents and in the afternoons they'd be slumped in their arms, fast asleep.

As I closed my bedroom door behind me, I startled Dad as he loitered on the landing, somehow managing to look crumpled despite wearing the white shirt I'd starched and ironed for him last weekend.

"It's Saturday," I said. "You're going to work?"

He clutched an envelope in his hand. The solemn look on his face signalled that this letter was urgent, important. Bad news.

I took a long, slow breath and cleared my throat but I couldn't talk. Dad pulled at his shirt and rubbed his head before he held the letter up to me.

Pressing a hand to my stomach, I stepped forwards to take it. If I could have taken smaller steps I would have. Dad's behaviour was making me as agitated as he appeared.

As my eyes dropped to the envelope I saw my real name, Michael, my address scrawled across the front, and a jumble of stamps cowered in the upper right corner as if to get as far away from the inked words as possible. Dad made a sound as I turned it over and saw that it had been opened. He had opened it. He knew what it said.

It was obvious but I said it anyway. "You've read it?" I was on autopilot.

My eyes cut to his and he grimaced. "I'm sorry."

Before I could question him he hurried downstairs and left me to read it alone. What was so bad that he wouldn't hang around while I read it for myself? It must be really bad.

Back in my room, I sat on my bed and turned the letter over again to examine the writing. One hand had written my name using a black fountain pen, large, bold, and flamboyant. But another had written my address; small, scrappy, childlike letters. Who were these people?

Dad's behaviour was odd; there was no doubt about that. I felt genuinely scared of what the letter might contain. I reached for my phone and called Beth.

No answer.

Voice mail.

Fuck.

I threw the letter down and moved to the window to see if I could see any sign of Beth. Her moped was still there. I tapped the windowsill as I looked back at the letter on my bed. Despite the warm sun on my body coldness settled upon me, my fingers almost numb. Rubbing them together, I snatched up the letter and ran downstairs. I heard Dad come out of the sitting room but I was already sprinting out of the front door, jacket in one hand, letter in the other.

The street was empty of familiar faces, not that I knew many. I mulled over which direction to head in; the park to my right or the boutiques and coffee shops to my left? If Beth wasn't home she'd either be running or catching up with school-friends while they sipped coffee or shopped. As I was her only running partner I decided she'd only be a few streets away.

Praying that she wasn't just sleeping late, I considered which street to start my search for her. Apart from the park, I didn't venture far from home. More than one street in any direction and my heart would race, my breathing become shallow and laboured, and my vision blurred.

I swallowed down my apprehension and started walking to the end of the street, turning right and then left into the first rows of boutiques and coffee shops.

I met no one's gaze, and went on my business with my head down, listening for Beth's voice. But despite my bowed head I knew exactly where everybody else was and what they were doing. My peripheral vision and hearing more than made up for my actual focus.

By the time I passed several shops with no sign of Beth I became aware of someone watching me. I looked up and saw someone move out of sight. A red-haired man sitting outside a coffee shop, I thought, but I couldn't be sure.

Shaun?

I crossed the street to where I'd seen the man but there was no sign of him. The empty table on the pavement marked the spot where I'd seen him. I reached down to touch the half-drunk cup of coffee. It was still hot.

Unsettled, I returned home. I needed to grow some balls and read the letter myself. I wasn't a kid too scared to open their exam results, I was a man.

As I turned back into my street, I saw the same man disappearing into Beth's house.

"Shaun!"

I broke into a sprint but the door slammed shut before I got a good look at who it was.

For the remainder of the day I sat alone in my room, the letter clutched in my hand, my eyes trained on Beth's house. Beth hadn't mentioned Shaun since she had told me about his wedding. If he was home, I would wait all night for one more, one last, glimpse of him.

I wondered why he wouldn't have contacted me on his return before reminding myself that he hadn't contacted me at all. Perhaps his wife - wife! - was with him. Maybe he blamed me for his father finding us together. Maybe he was scared of me for what I'd done that night. God knows his dad was.

Thank heavens for Beth; without her I'd have no friends at all.

At just past midnight I saw her familiar shape tottering down the street, laden with shopping bags. Clearly Beth's day spent shopping had segued into a drinking session with her friends. She shouldn't be drinking at sixteen. Please God, I thought, don't let her end up like her drunken mother.

As she neared her house I hammered on my bedroom window to get her attention. She stopped and looked up and down the road like a lazy lighthouse, unable to identify the source of the sound.

I raced downstairs and into the street. As I reached her she dropped her bags and threw her arms around me.

"Levvy! Levvy-kins. My darling, I've had the most wonderful day. You should come out with me and the girls one night. They'd love y-"

I scooped up her bags in one hand and put my arm around her shoulder to guide her to my house. As she stumbled to keep up with me she chattered on about her day, what she'd bought, and the latest Primrose Hill gossip. In any other circumstance I'd be interested, living it with her, feeling less isolated than if I'd been left to my own devices, but right now I needed her strength and support.

Several black coffees later she was sober enough to realise the enormity of my reluctance to read the letter. She sat at the kitchen table, opposite me. I pushed it towards her but she didn't pick it up. She seemed as scared of its contents as I was.

"Your dad gave you this?"

I nodded.

"Have you spoken to him since?"

"No, I went out looking for you and when I got home he was out. He hasn't come back yet." As urgent as the letter was to me, I had another pressing concern. "Listen, Beth, earlier today I thought I saw-"

"Shaun's home."

I jumped to my feet. "I have to see him."

"Sit down, Lev."

"Why?"

She sighed as if she'd gone over this with me a hundred times. "He won't see you."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think? He doesn't want a scene."

Anger pushed against the boundary of my feelings. "Why are you protecting him? You chose me, remember?"

Beth laughed humourlessly. "I'm not protecting him. I'm protecting you. He doesn't want a scene because he's a coward. I don't want a scene because I don't want to see you get hurt."

"And if I want a scene? What about that?"

"I think you've had enough scenes to last you a lifetime, haven't you? Besides, this letter," she picked it up, "could prove to be a massive disappointment."

Her brow crumpled as she saw it had already been opened. The question formed on her face before she could ask me.

"Dad has read it." My answer was shaky.

"Didn't he tell you what it said?"

Sitting down, I shook my head then motioned for her to continue.

"Why didn't you just read it yourself? I'd be desperate to find out what it said."

"Please Beth. I can't handle any more bad news."

"You're becoming such a drama queen." She pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. What looked like a photograph, dropped face-down onto the table. I could just make out the brand printed diagonally across the back.

Beth pulled her legs up so her feet perched on the edge of her chair. Her knees rested on the table. She picked up the photograph and looked at it for a long time, looked at me, and then back at the photograph. Slowly, she put it down, face-down, on the table. Her eyes roamed across the page of the letter.

I watched her face for any flicker of emotion but it remained impassive and unreadable. When she finished the letter she put it on top of the photograph and pushed it towards me.

The tension was unbearable. I placed my hand on the letter but was still too scared to turn it over. "What?"

"Pour me a drink. A bloody big one."

The moment the man exploded through the doorway I wanted to run, and keep running, but fear anchored me to the spot.

After taking less than thirty seconds to read the letter it took me less than another five to accept its invitation. Now, two days later, I was here in the Orkneys and wondered if I should have taken longer to think about it.

Against the light flooding from the house the man was a black outline, a slab of threat, as tall and wide as the door itself. If he was anything like the wind in Orkney he wasn't going to bother to go around me and I, the immovable object, was already beaten into submission from the violent rain. One more step and I'd be trampled underfoot.

When he finally stopped in front of me my relief was palpable but it dissolved quickly when he grabbed me by my jacket and hauled me off my feet.

"Who ere ye?"

It took me a moment to process what he'd said. He had the thickest accent I'd heard during my journey here. My fellow passengers had tried to talk to me, once they'd finished staring, but I shrugged and pretended that I couldn't hear them over the whine of the transfer plane's engines. My mum's Orcadian accent had been extremely soft compared to the locals I'd met so far.

But it wasn't just their accents that confused me; I'd felt from the moment that I set foot on the island that the ocean tugged at my guts with an invisible force.

"Who ere ye?"