Submersion (35 page)

I felt so overwhelmed that I thought I might be sick. No, maybe I was going to faint. Or, no - maybe I was…

‘Agnes? Agnes? Are you okay? It’s Reuben. Reuben. Can you hear me? Is everything alright? Should I call someone…?’

When I came round, I was on the small sofa in the kitchen-living area, my head resting on a cushion. Reuben was just a few feet away, sat at the table, folded at right-angles, like the first time he visited. Seeing me alert, he came to his feet.

‘I’m sorry. I startled you. You’d forgotten, hadn’t you? About the key.’

I nodded. Yes, I had, but I didn’t have the energy to argue that I was certain I’d never do such a thing.
These weren’t the rules of our game.
I didn’t even have the energy to remind him that I’d actually asked him to leave during his last visit. I needed him, after all. That’s why he’d come – for me, to support me, to listen to me, and to guide me.

‘It’s been a long day,’ I muttered, not moving my head, watching him at a ninety degree angle. ‘Very long. I’m exhausted.’

‘Would you like to talk about it?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I told him, and, despite my exhaustion, despite the fact that something wasn’t quite right with the scene, something wasn’t quite adding up, I began my long tale – starting from my first day at work, including all the events and revelations, and ending up with my afternoon with Augustus Riley.

‘
The
Augustus Riley?’ Reuben teased, like he knew he was significant.

‘Yes,’ I’d retorted, smiling gently.

It had felt good to tell him. Cathartic. And I knew I could trust him. Knew it wouldn’t go any further. How could it?

You see, I have a confession to make. About Reuben and I. He’s not just some missionary I’ve let in off the street. I tell myself that. Each time he comes into my life, I play the same charade with myself. Pretend he’s a stranger. Then, once I get comfortable, I battle with myself, challenge myself to face the truth – hence the little
disagreement
the last time Reuben visited. But, right now, I’m ready to tell you.

Reuben isn’t real. He’s the ghost of my dead twin who comes to comfort me in times of trouble. Only this time, something was different. This time, it seemed more real.

I got up from the sofa and sat across the table from him, putting my hands in the middle, reaching out to him. Reuben mimicked my action and our hands met, fingers entwining.

That’s what was different.

In the background, the telephone rang for a third, ceaseless succession of peels. I ignored it.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ he said, and I felt a cold shiver down my spine, like a slow, torturous trickle of icy water, as he squeezed his fingers round mine, his eyes staring into mine, drilling deep into my soul. ‘Feels like coming home…’

13. Billy

I did stop for a minute. To think about what I should do. Whether I should go ahead with my plans to enter my great-aunt and uncle’s old shop. Mother had been insistent that I should never go there again; had been furious with Great-Aunt Penny about that previous visit. But there was
something
going on in there, I knew that for certain. I recalled the nasty scratch on Great-Uncle Jimmy’s hand and the unexplained finger marks on Great-Aunt Penny’s neck. They had said the problems at the shop were electrical faults, but now I knew the truth. It stared out at me from the window at the apex of the building. A family face. My father’s face, I was certain.

‘But not a friendly face,’ I said to myself, torn between my fear of the unknown and my need to confront it.

Whoever it was, my great-aunt and uncle had seen fit to lock them away. Mother knew about this too. It was the only explanation for her over-reaction at my going there. Yet, how great was this danger? To my knowledge, no one had been killed. And if the person at the window had attacked my aunt and uncle, he hadn’t hurt them badly – just marks and scrapes.

‘And they have kept you prisoner,’ I justified, making up my mind.

I was going to enter the shop. I’d check out the floor I’d been on before, for definite. Then I’d think about my next move. I was certain he wasn’t loose in there. When I’d gone there the previous time, Great-Aunt Penny hadn’t shown any concern about me entering the building – she just didn’t want me ascending further than the first floor. That suggested he was secured further up – maybe the man at the window just had the attic to roam in.

A final nagging doubt stalled me – maybe I should go and get reinforcements? But who could I ask of any practical worth? Tilly Harrison was just a girl – and not one of Elinor’s pedigree. Tristan was away, and I wasn’t certain he’d have agreed to my plans. Old Man Merlin was – well – old. Far too old. And that only left me with family. So, back-up wasn’t an option.

‘Go in or go home,’ I told myself, still hesitant.

Going in I faced a certain element of danger – there was no doubt. But if I’d gone home, I’d simply have been facing trouble – Mother would have learnt of my truanting by then, of the stolen boat and, in the suspicious search of my person that would be certain to happen, she’d have found the keys, and that would have been that. My most rebellious act to date would all have been for nothing.

And I
wanted
to go in. At that moment, I wanted that more than anything. And it was a family face – my father’s face – a thought, a hope that kept overriding everything else, reason included.

‘Okay,’ I said aloud, my decision made.

I drew the oars from the water, lay them on the floor of the boat and secured it to the mooring with a thick rope.

I tried several keys on the main padlock, before the link gave and the chain slipped away, slithering fast like an oily snake through my hands, hitting the water with a heavy splash, much to my horror. There was no going back; no covering this up. Unleashing two more chains, I was careful to catch them and lay them in the boat, next to the oars.

I looked up to the attic window again, before pulling the hefty metal door away from the frame. The face had moved away from the glass.

The quiet made it worse than it was. The dark, too; it was creepier in the dark. When I came with my great-aunt and –uncle, I had just been intrigued. There hadn’t been any impending danger – just my intrigue at their reluctance to bring me there and my fascination at what lay inside.

This time, alert to every noise – the gentle swish of the water as I moved through it, distant animal noises, unidentified creaks – my anticipation slowed me down. And I was cold, too – even through the rubbery legs of my suit, I could feel the iciness of the water. Breath left my mouth and nostrils like smoke.

On my last visit, I had been whisked past the rot of that ground floor and hadn’t had a chance to check out the decaying remains. In the blackness – why hadn’t I bought a torch,
Elinor
would have brought a torch, been more prepared – in that cold dark, it was hard to make out the smaller things. But, as my eyes adjusted, the bigger things came into my vision.

The thought of my lost cousin intensified my loneliness and isolation and somehow the night got a little colder.

Throughout, I could make out the familiar sight of steel columns, like those in the cellars and ground floors of our homes, holding up the ceilings of the floors above, providing stability.

Half-way along, on the right, a counter jutted out into the room and this had obviously been the paying point. I’d seen such things in old pictures – glossy wooden surfaces and sleek tills, like small computers, with little items hanging on adjacent displays. There was no till here, but I made out the gap where it had previously been. Inching towards the rear, I saw a long, narrow bench, about waist height and two standalone shelving units. My gloved hands reached out and, even through the protective layer, I felt the sliminess of the algae and decay. The smell inside was sour with damp, more unpleasant than I recalled. Finding nothing of particular interest – my search of the shop floor hadn’t revealed anything I hadn’t already imagined – I slowly turned and edged my way back, seeking out the staircase to the first floor with my adjusted night vision.

Passing the shop counter again, something unexpected occurred – something gave beneath me, floorboards, crumbling away like a biscuit – and I slipped below the surface. With no time to think, I floundered in the dense, dirty waters. My vision was impaired again – I could see nothing, just felt the weight of the water submerging me as the floor dissolved. And I was terrified I would drown, terrified the rest of the floor would liquefy and I would plummet into the dark oblivion beneath the shop. An instinct eventually kicked-in – an instinct to survive, I guess – and I tried to feel for the side of the counter. I found it and worked my hands up, till they broke the surface. Clutching the slimy edge, I pulled myself up.

I stayed there for several minutes, staring ahead and out through the door I had left open, allowing an oblong of moonlight to light up the room. As my panic subsided, I considered taking the sensible option – move straight ahead, back to the boat, back home. Back to a scolding, followed by a warm bed, which seemed like a comforting alternative to drowning in the dark. Who would have thought that Mother’s cold eyes and harsh smack would have been my deepest desire, but at that point, as I shivered and fought back tears, I would have given anything to feel her fury.

A noise above sobered me. A voice. Distant, muffled, but definitely a voice. The man at the window, it had to be. My father? Maybe. Sniffing back, I took a deep breath and listened again. Yes, there was definitely
something,
a voice for certain, but I couldn’t really make it out. There were too many layers in the way. Floors, walls distorting the sound. My gas mask didn’t help either. I considered whether to take it off. I recalled the fuss from Mother the last time I did this – the panic, the frantic bid to strip me and get me washed, the embarrassment of washing in the shower with Tristan, of seeing him naked, the days of bed rest that followed. But nothing had happened. There had been no side effects at all. I thought for a moment longer. Then, steadying myself with one hand on the counter, I took it off. Placed the mask to one side.

Cold, silent air bit at my ears, stung my tear-stained cheeks.

I listened.

Nothing.

So, I moved forward, very, very slowly over that treacherous floor, praying it could hold my weight, heading to the staircase. I’d decide whether I was going up or going home once I reached it.

Touching the bannister – its wood slimy like the counter – I heard the voice again. Louder than before and clear, but still far away. Far above me. I put a foot on the staircase, tested the give. It creaked, was a bit spongy, but it felt safe enough. I tried a second foot, still unsure how far I was going. Then I heard the voice again and made something out. A word. No, no, not just a word – something more surprising. A name. The voice was calling out.

I listened again.

Surely I couldn’t be hearing properly?

I took further steps, careful not to slip, one foot at a time, until I was nearly at the top.

The voice was closer, clearer still.

The word, the name – it was unmistakable by then. Unbelievable, too.

‘Billy.’

That’s what it sounded like. Still two floors above me, behind locked doors.

‘Billy.’

I wanted to search through the first floor again. Wanted to look at it with fresh eyes again, look on it with what I now knew. Look for more clues about Great-Aunt Penny’s dead twins, look for possible clues about Father. The voice above called me on. I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t want to ignore it. So, I bypassed the stockroom with its chaise-lounge and its fancy items sealed in plastic sleeves, preserved for better times to come. Instead, I took myself up another flight of stairs to the second floor, climbing with confidence, the treads under my feet dry and firm.

All the while listening.

And at each step, the sound, the calling was transformed, was clearer.

The initial
Billy
became less muffled. And, as I reached the peak of the flight, it was crystal clear.

‘Billy,’ it called. ‘Billy.’

That second floor appeared to consist of two rooms – one facing out and one facing towards the rear. I peered inside them very briefly. Moonlight seeped through the windows, although they were smeared with something, which meant the light was muffled. The backroom was a bedroom – double bed and some furniture. The front was a sitting room – sofa, chairs and small table in the middle. I would explore more another time, I promised myself. But, at that moment, I was being called up, into the attic.

It was him. It had to be, didn’t it? He’d seen me, after all. That’s how he knew it was me. And the family face, the resemblance – I’d been right about that. I’d been right all along.

The stairs to the attic were accessed in the bedroom, just like in our house, but they curled as they went up, half-spiral, their upper-half jutting out over the front lounge. Reaching the top of these, the voice was so very clear. And he was so very close, too. Just on the other side of a locked door. I’d come here expecting to find clues, and instead I’d found
him.
I’d found
him!
And he was just the twist of a key away.

‘Billy! Billy!’ he cried out, eager, his pitch rising, as my proximity excited him.

‘Yes, Father, it’s me! Just a second! I just need to get the key! Just a second!’

I fumbled, my fingers as sloppy as jelly, the keys slipping through them, hitting the floor and beginning a jangled tumble back down those stairs. For a heartbeat, I feared they would somersault all the way to the bottom of the shop, the keys lost in the muddy submersion. My chance lost as well. But the clanging was short-lived and they rested just three steps down. Retrieving them, I started again – taking it slower, breathing to keep calm. I found the right key – the only one I hadn’t used that night – pushed it into the lock and released the door in seconds.

I expected him to be there, at the entrance, eager to greet me, and just as eager to spring free. But he wasn’t. As my eyes adjusted, I realised he’d retreated to a far corner. He was crouching beneath the attic window, the one he’d been looking out of. And suddenly, everything felt wrong.

‘Billy, billy, billy,’ he began to chant over and over. But in the room, closer than I had ever been, I realised my mistake. Realised I had misheard. He wasn’t saying
Billy
at all. ‘Bully, bully, bully,’ was how it sounded now we were in the same room, and my hopes disintegrated like the ground floor dissolving beneath my feet. My deepest yearnings had fooled me. ‘Bully, bully, bully.’

It wasn’t him, was it? Whoever it was, it wasn’t my father.

Excitement disappeared and fear replaced it quickly.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, staying near the entrance, wondering if I should slowly back away and lock the door again. ‘Who are you?!’ I repeated, raising my voice, hoping to sound confident, but I feared he’d sniff out my fear, like a dog might. And suddenly that thought led to another crazy thought – what if he was
that
dangerous? What if this man my family had locked up was as dangerous as one of those rabid hounds I’d heard such frightening tales about?

Suddenly, my mind was clear and I stepped back out into the stairwell, pulling the door back as I went.

But he was too fast for me. Just inches from the frame, the door was ripped away from my fingers and the man – the beast, the dog, in those terrifying seconds I wasn’t sure – was upon me, pinning me down, pushing me so I lay backwards on the stairs, blood running to my head, something else – something wet and warm – spreading out across my crotch. I felt his breath on me, his teeth close to my ear; hands or claws held my shoulders, squeezing, something sharp digging in.

‘Who are you?’ I repeated, daring to look at him, our eyes meeting.

He was definitely human and he was definitely family, too. I could see it in him. A bit of Mother, Aunt Agnes; a bit of my great-aunt. It came to me instantly – one of the twins. The not-so-dead twins.