Undertow (8 page)

“Who?” asks Martha. “When who is gone?”

Het looks up, frowns, as if it’s obvious. “The ghosts.”

BILLIE

MUM IS
cooking when I get back. Something with red wine that sizzles and spits at her as she pours it into the pan; the rest of it into a finger-printed glass on the counter, filled and drained once already.

“I rang the solicitors,” she says. “Asked where the rest of Eleanor’s money was, because it can’t have just gone, and it’s yours really. But they wouldn’t tell me.”

She takes a swig from the glass, stirs the pan. “Can you believe it? I mean, I’m family. And they wouldn’t tell me. You should ring. They’d tell you. I bet they would.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “They’re not allowed. You know, confidentiality.”

But even I’m wondering. Because there must have been money. He was a surgeon. And it can’t all have been used up settling bills. So where did it go?

“Oh my God.” Mum turns. “School. How was it?”

“Oh. Fine. You know, school-like.”

“Have they got guinea pigs?” Finn asks. “Mine’s got guinea pigs.”

“No,” I say. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“Never mind,” says Mum, ignoring the fact that I don’t even like the things. “I’m sure it will be perfect. Once you’ve made some friends.”

Then I remember.

“I met someone,” I say. “Eva. A girl.” Like it’s not obvious.

Mum whirls, wine sloshing down her hand, dripping onto the floor. “What’s she like? How old is she?”

“Fifteen, I think. Not sixth form. Year Eleven.”

I realize I’m not sure of anything about her. Except her name.

“That’s great,” Mum says. She’s happy. Billie’s-got-a-friend, half-a-bottle-of-red happy.

So I push my luck. “She’s asked me to meet her. Tonight.”

“Where?” asks Mum through the rim of the glass.

“Can I come?” asks Finn.

“No. At the Clipper. It’s a pub, I think.”

“No way,” says Finn. “You never let her go to the pub,” he points out to Mum.

But this is different. This is here. And now.

“Well, you’ll need some money,” she says finally. She puts down the glass and reaches into a coffee jar, pulling out a tenner.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Emergency funds,” Mum says. “They didn’t think to take that. Ha!”

“Where was it?”

“Where it always was.” She picks up her glass again, takes a swig. “In the cupboard.”

But when I get to the pub, she’s not there.

I sit in the corner with my drink. Being tall counts for something; the barman didn’t skip a beat, just poured the vodka into a glass with a dried-up slice of lemon and thumped the Schweppes bottle down next to it.

I was expecting some country inn, like you see on TV. All bare wood and log-fire warmth. The place is warm, at least: a gas fire is lit; three bars glow blue-orange in a copper surround. The rest is no different to the Wishing Well that Mum thinks I stayed out of. Foreign notes stuck on the ceiling with drawing pins, a quiz machine and a jukebox blaring out Status Quo.

I look at my watch. Half eight. Bitch, I think. She’s probably outside with some skanky friend. Waiting till I leave so she can laugh and point and prove I’m nothing, nobody. I stir my drink with the straw, releasing tiny cells of lemon flesh to cloud the neon.

“All right?”

I look up, and hate myself. Because it’s her.

“Eva.”

“We were waiting for Mercy.” She flicks her eyes to the bar, to a girl with long auburn hair, her arm snaking around Jake’s back.

“Right. His flatmate,” I say.

She laughs, a short harsh sound. “You’re joking. She wouldn’t live with him.” She flips a beer mat, looks up. “This is his flatmate.”

And I feel it again. That second of heart-stopping silence. Because I know who’s behind me before I turn. See the black T-shirt reflected in Eva’s eyes.

It’s the boy from the café.

I don’t want to look up. In case I’m wrong. In case I’m right. Don’t know which is worse. But I don’t need to. Because he sits down next to me. And Eva’s smile twists into that sneer again.

“Billie Paradise – meet Danny Jones. Danny – meet Billie. Oh, wait. You already know each other.”

“No, I—” I stutter.

“The café,” he says. His voice soft, like cotton wool holding me.

“No— I remember… It’s just… I don’t, you know,
know
you.”

Eva snorts. And I wonder then if he is hers. Or if she wants him to be. If he does. But he sat next to me.
Me
.

I close my fingers tight around my glass. Down it quickly, the heat burning my throat, making me cough.

“Want another?” Danny asks.

“Yes— No. I mean, I can’t buy a round.” I feel my cheeks flush with shame and alcohol. I’ve only a fiver left and some change. What an idiot.

“It’s OK. I’m a working man. Besides, it’s Jake’s round,” he smiles, his eyes waiting for a yes.

I give him one. “Vodka and tonic.” Like I drink it every night. Like I’m Cass, with her jelly shots and Bacardi Breezers and throwing up on the Grove so she can walk in the door sober.

But Eva knows different. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Nearly.” Old enough, I think. Older than you.

But Danny’s gone. And then there’s another vodka in front of me, cold and sweet and lemon-soaked. And he’s squeezing up next to me to let Jake and Mercy in. And Jake makes some joke and even Eva laughs and then it doesn’t matter any more if I’m sixteen, or eighteen, or whatever.

“Cheers,” someone says.

“Cheers.” I smile. And I mean it.

We stay until closing, until last orders and time have been rung. Until there are four empty glasses in front of me and four hundred “Remember whens” and “This girl at school” and “Mikey said Jonny said”. In return I’ve told them about London. About the time Cass got burgled when she was in bed, about the gun Leon’s brother Ray has under his mattress. Showing off. Vodka pulling the words out of me, blurring the edges, making it easier for me to look at him. To know he’s looking at me. Then I tell them about Mum and Finn and the house. About Luka and the tour. Hear Eva say, “Is he your dad and all?” Hear me reply, “Kind of. As good as.”

By the time we burst out of the gas-fire glow onto the empty street I am drunk. Eva pushes her arm through mine, and I let her, this stranger.

“The pier,” she says.

“Yes, the pier,” I say, like I’ve been there a thousand times. Like it’s filled with memories for me too.

We walk. Or stagger. Eva’s arm still locked in mine, Danny behind me, laughing with Jake about something I don’t hear and wouldn’t get anyway.

We push and dance our way along the jutting iron, our erratic steps echoing off wooden planks as we pass the shuttered fairground: the donkey derby, a carousel, a rocket ride and the waltzers. Past candyfloss cabins and hot-dog stalls. All shuttered, still. It’s eerie, I think. The stuff of horror films. Of nightmares. But I’m still laughing. Then we get to the end.

We’re in a line, leaning over the thin railing, breathless, staring into the black water below. It’s bottomless. The only movement a slow slosh against the rusting legs.

“Anyone for a swim?”

Jake is standing on the bottom rung, arms wide like he’s on the bow of the
Titanic
. Without warning, he grabs my arm and pulls me up with him. I see the water below me, feel the sudden lurch of fear. Feel the insects that have lurked in my stomach all night scatter. Suddenly I’m sober. Scared.

“No.” I wrestle his arm, try to shake him off. Then louder, “No. I can’t. I can’t swim.”

I hear Mercy shout his name, but he’s still holding me and I lash out in panic, sobs rising in my throat. Then I feel another arm grabbing me, pulling me down, back onto the boardwalk, back to safety. Danny.

“You OK?” he asks. I nod, quickly wiping the eyes that betray me. Don’t want him to think I’m like this.

His hands drop away and I will them back, but instead, he turns to Jake. “Idiot.”

“Joke,” Jake protests. “Jesus.”

“Don’t worry about it, Billie,” Mercy says. “He wouldn’t have. No one swims here. Not any more.”

I look down again. And I don’t get it. Because even though I wouldn’t, couldn’t, the water looks like silk, its blackness somehow inviting. “Why not?”

“Undertow,” Eva says. “It’s this kind of, I don’t know, secret pull. The water looks still on the surface, but underneath there’s a current, dragging everything out to sea.”

“Aren’t you supposed to swim sideways or something?” I say, remembering a TV news report.

Eva snorts. I guess not.

“It pulls you under,” Jake says. “If you fight it you just drown quicker.”

“Drown?”

“Yeah,” says Eva, eyes wide with mocking. “The seabed’s littered with skeletons. It’s like
Pirates of the Caribbean
down there. Davy Jones’s Locker.”

“It’s not a joke,” Danny retorts. “What about that kid last summer?” He turns to me. “This boy fell in and went under, then his dad jumped in to get him. They both drowned.”

I shiver. The last traces of vodka heat have drained away, and the rain has started again, a steady drumming, sticking my hair to my face.

“Come on.” Danny tugs at my arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

I feel a rush of nausea, of anticipation, and I don’t know if I’m glad or angry when Eva springs up from the railing.

“I’ll come.”

Danny laughs. “Don’t be stupid, you live in the opposite direction.”

“So?” She is determined.

“It’s fine,” I say. And part of me thinks it is, that I want her to come. Scared in case he tries anything. Scared in case he doesn’t. But I’m outranked.

“No it isn’t,” Jake says. “Who’s going to walk you home, Eva?”

“Danny,” she says.

“Thanks.” Danny rolls his eyes.

“I’ll walk myself then.”

“Nope, you can come with me and Mercy.” Jake pulls her towards him, nods at Danny, like he’s doing him a favour. “See you, Billie.” He grins at me now. “Good to meet you.”

“Yeah,” I say. Then, “Good to meet you too I mean.” Shit.

Eva rolls her eyes. “See you around.”

And then they’re gone, their backs disappearing behind the wooden slats of a stall. And it’s just us. Me and Danny.

Alone.

We walk up Camborne Hill in silence, a handspan between us, centimetres that crackle with possibility. But Danny’s hands are deep in his pockets, mine clasped round me, hugging my rain-heavy coat tight against the cold, trying to contain the insects that are in me again, flapping their wings in fear and excitement.

We reach the top and I feel my stomach tighten. Do I ask him in? What if Mum’s up?

But when we get to the gate I can see the stained-glass of the door is dulled to murky browns. The lights are out. They’re in bed.

“This is it,” I say.

“Nice house,” he says.

I shrug. “It’s kind of old, inside. Old person.” I stare down at the tiles, trying to find courage in the tight tessellation. “So—”

“Did you mean it?” he interrupts.

I look up. “What?”

His eyes are on me, in me. “About not swimming?”

I drop my head again. “Yeah,” I say quietly. Like an apology. Because it is. Because I’m this no-clue city girl, and he, he must be born to it. Him and Jake and Mercy and Eva, all of them. And it’s not like it’s a fear or anything – not like Mum, who shivers at the thought. Just that she never took me, and school, well there’s other stuff to learn in Peckham. Swimming’s not really a survival skill there.

“I could teach you,” he says.

“What?” I blurt, shocked.

He’s defensive. “No. Sorry, bad idea. You should get lessons—”

“No, that would be great. Thanks.” God, what am I saying?

“Oh. Right. I’ll check out the pool, find a good time.”

“Cool,” I say, not knowing if I mean it or not.

“Cool,” he repeats.

Then the silence is back, the crackling gulf. I should say it now, I think. Ask him if he wants a cup of coffee. But the courage I found on the tiles is gone. The words won’t come out. Not now. Not tonight. Instead I push my key into the lock, turn the handle.

“I should—”

“Right, yeah.” He comes to.

“Thanks for walking me home,” I say.

“Any time.”

“Night, then.”

He nods. “Night.” Then he turns and is gone.

I shut the door behind me and lean against the wall, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m laughing. I clap my hand over my mouth to cut off the sound. Don’t want to wake anyone. But then I see it, a rectangle of pale green spreading across the carpet, the tell-tale fluorescent glow leaking out from under an ill-fitting door. I was wrong; someone is up.

She’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, surrounded by our dinner plates congealing with the last of the spaghetti bolognese, staring at a big fat nothing on the wall.

“Mum?” I say.

But if she hears me she doesn’t show it. Ears and mouth muffled by the wine, I think.

I wonder if she’s been sitting there all night. Nothing’s moved since I left, it seems, just Finn, gone to bed. But then I see something else in the sea of dirty plates and glasses. A glint. Treasure.

I reach down and pick it up. It’s a silver chain, a locket. Not hers. Or mine. I open my mouth again to ask her where she found it, whose it is, but I feel a dizzy rush, realize I’m going to be sick, and instead I drop the locket, turn and run.

I hunch over the toilet bowl, but nothing comes up. Why should it? Only four vodkas, I think. Cass could do nine before she puked. My eyes and stomach ache from the heaving though. So I flush and, ignoring my toothbrush, walk slowly back along the corridor to Mum’s old room, wrap myself in the covers, and sink into sleep, a rabbit in my hand, and Danny in my head.

HET

AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD
Het eyes the silver thing in her mother’s fingers. The thin chain hanging like a single thread of cotton, and, clutched in her palm, the pendant, a cold, hard metal lozenge. Open and shut she flips it, open and shut. Each time ending with a satisfying click
.

It is seven in the evening and Het is lying on her parents’ bed, chin resting in her hands, watching as her mother goes through the motions of getting ready. The Pan-Stik, powder and rouge. The thick pink grease on her lips and black smudges on her eyelashes. The droplets of Chanel that drift gently to the floor like a perfumed curtain call, signalling that she’s done. Ready. For something Het longs for and dreads at once. Parties and people and life
.