Submersion Page 2

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ I told her and gradually, I steered the boat around and headed back.

  I didn’t look back.

  I so trusted in what was going to happen, in the safety of her routine, that it didn’t occur to me to even check she was still there. Had I known what I would discover just hours later, had I realised the significance of our parting that morning... Well, I would have done something different.

  But I didn’t.

  I just thought I was leaving her to join her friends on the platform. I just thought I was leaving her to catch the school speedboat that would complete the morning travel routine. I had no inkling it was a less abridged parting - that I was simply leaving her. We all were. To what? Her fate, maybe. Whatever it was, we would not find out for a long time.

  So, with Elinor’s last words to me still ringing in my ears, ignorant of their finality, I continued on my way, paddling towards my workplace in the opposite direction.

  My line of work was whatever was going – and had been for a long time. I had a sort of boss in Jessie Morton, in as much as I would seek him out, knowing he could find me jobs.

  I usually worked alongside him and a crew of three or four other men. Craftsmen, tradesmen, odd-job men – various job titles suited what we had to offer; in general, we fixed things up. Usually outdoor work – repairing roofs, replacing rotten timber, repointing brickwork, stabilising foundations; corrosion and decay were persistent in our waterlogged city and the work plentiful for those with the skills and hardy to the cold, wet environment.

  It was Jessie who approached me to work for him, just weeks after the city was drowned. He’d been asked by the authorities to help with the rebuilding of the city and was pulling a crew together. It would be hard labour, he told me, but could provide months of steady income for those with the right abilities. As I’d decided to stay on with Agnes and Elinor by then, I said yes.

  On the whole, we didn’t get involved with the clearing away of the debris or in the reconstruction of the town; we were mainly required for conversion and protection work. We worked quickly to safeguard the properties that hadn’t been destroyed by the water, adapting them to function as homes and businesses in the post-flood world. The authorities supplied us with the materials and science to restructure plumbing systems, so relatively clean water could be pumped into homes, keeping out the sewage that had initially washed through everything. We re-wired electrics with tough water-resistant cables and fixings, making them as safe as we could, although nothing worked as well as it had in the past and leaks were a frequent and dangerous concern. We also helped with the process of underpinning housing structures and the re-damp proofing of properties, now that the water levels had exceeded the original treatments. Success varied – some buildings were caught in time and still in use. For others, it was too late and the damp and damage continued to creep in and corrupt the structures – some were abandoned, others still occupied by those too poor and desperate to afford an alternative.

  All this work didn’t come without a price. Whilst the authorities paid Jessie for the work his team did, the money came from the people. And it wasn’t a simple question of taxation, spreading the cost across the land. You were given a price for the work required and you got whatever you paid for. It was a small levy to pay, the authorities claimed, given the extent of the devastation. And look, hadn’t everyone noticed – no dogs.

  But of course everyone had noticed. Yes, the dogs had gone and no one could argue with that.

  When we could get away with it, we’d help those that couldn’t pay, claiming to the authorities that there had been a discrepancy in the supplies we’d been given. But we couldn’t do that as often as we’d have liked.

  Our work helped stabilise the city, so despite feeling tarnished by our association with the authorities, we did know we were doing good. But the local government’s policy on how to fund the changes had a crippling effect for some - it made the poorest of people poorer, zapping any spare income they might have stowed away. And any monies they might have used to subsidise an escape - to finance another place to live - were gone. And poverty joined fear and ignorance in the list of things keeping people trapped in this ruined land.

  Jessie and I continued to do this work, usually through the authorities, fixing leaks, replacing worn out parts, keeping water and electricity apart, maintaining public property across the city, but the sense of urgency had gone.

  It was now business as usual.

  Occasionally, there would be a salvage job – the chance to enter some drowned establishment with the aim of securing it from further damage or looters, with the perk of helping ourselves to the odd treasure along the way.

  Jessie Morton’s place was a five-street row from Cedar Street. 12 Jackson Way was a house converted into a business. It had once been a two-storied building, with an integral garage; still was, but only the top storey was any use. The metal door to the garage was held in place by rust and the force of water. Jackson Way was deeper under the water than Cedar Street; the damage was deeper too and many of his neighbours had abandoned their properties, lacking the skills and money to protect them from complete ruin.

  What remained of Jessie’s house were four upper rooms, accessed by a platform at the front of the building, built from scaffolding and planks, much like the speedboat platform where I had left Elinor. The four rooms had been three bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom retained its original function, but the other rooms had become an all-in-one living and sleeping area and two storage rooms, housing Jessie’s business equipment and raw materials.

  ‘We have a salvage job today,’ Jessie told me when I arrived, twenty minutes after leaving Elinor. ‘And it’s just you and me. No one else on this job. No one else is to know about it either. Coffee?’

  The beverage offer was a signal that I was to moor my boat; we were stopping for a drink and a chat before we headed off to wherever the work was taking us.

  The salvage jobs were different from the majority of the work we did. Rather than repairing our city, it involved going onto land or into buildings and taking out what was still of value. There was more money in this than the repairs; at least, there was for me, when Jessie handed over my earnings. What arrangements Jessie made thereafter, I had little knowledge of. There was someone he called my client, that was certain, but their name, needs or business remained unknown to me. At first.

  ‘Coffee is exactly what I came for,’ I said, accepting the invitation.

  Jessie was tall and broad: six foot one, muscly, with dark blonde hair and greying-blonde stubble covering his chin and cheeks. His eyes were green but there was nothing green about his wits and nature. He was a sharp businessman, an opportunist who made a good living out of the predicament the flooding brought us. His home and attire – grubby denim jeans and jacket, white t-shirt soiled yellow with oil and sweat – reflected none of his success. Yet, I knew where he was investing his earnings.

  ‘In the future,’ he confessed to me once. ‘In her future,’ he specified.

  You see, there was a reason Jessie Morton passed work my way, a reason I was nearly always on his team, nearly always first to get work – he was keeping me close. He was keeping an eye on me, making sure he knew as much about the comings and goings of Agnes’ lodger, friend, lover as he could. Agnes meant a lot to him; Agnes was his ex. By default, Elinor meant even more to him.

  ‘He’s her father?’ I asked Agnes one evening, when I dared venture into an area Agnes rarely let me enter. We were interrupted before I could continue – a bang on the wall from Papa H, demanding our assistance. Turned out, Papa H’s toilet cistern had sprung a leak and my plumbing skills were required. Agnes and I did not return to the subject again.

  Father or not, Jessie Morton was fond of Elinor and was investing much of his profit in her future. He had never told me exactly what this meant, just that he was doing it.

  ‘It’s his way of hanging onto you, like he’s making a claim,’
I complained to Agnes, but she shrugged it off. Did it matter what her ex did with his money? If Elinor happened to benefit at some point in the future, did I really expect her to complain? And if I hated working for Jessie so much, why didn’t I just quit?

  But I didn’t hate working for him and didn’t need to quit. I never would. Despite my dislike of his continued interest in Agnes’ affairs, I liked Jessie a lot. He had been good to me – whatever his motivation – and he had something else that appealed to me, something that was rare in our town. Five minutes after my arrival at his place that morning, he passed me a hot, steaming mug of that rarity.

  ‘Black, one sugar, just as you like it,’ he said, handing over a thick rimmed white mug.

  We were in his living area, sitting on two grey leather car seats he and I rescued from the train graveyard one drunken evening, after we had shared a bottle of scotch he’d illicitly acquired. Spirits were even harder to come by than coffee. Between us, a wooden crate served as a small table. Just what are you investing all that profit in, I wondered, but I didn’t ask. Jessie might have taken a lot of interest in my life, in what I did, but he was shy about exchanging facts about himself, taking offence if you asked much beyond the superficial. He had a brother, I knew that, but his long-term absence wasn’t discussed.

  ‘This salvage job?’ I asked, knowing this would be safe territory to venture into, necessary territory at that. ‘Usual client, usual deal?’

  ‘It’s a bit different,’ he offered, sipping his coffee, savouring its thick, pungent taste. ‘You can’t tell anyone about it. Even after. Not even Agnes. And you’re not to turn it into one of your bedtime tales for Elinor, either. It’s strictly between you and me, with no questions asked at all.’

  ‘Not the usual client then?’

  No answer.

  ‘Can I ask where it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ There was a smile in my one word question; a hint of disbelief. ‘No?’ I repeated, getting to the bottom of the mug. It was gritty with coffee sediment, but I swallowed the lot; a luxury not to be wasted.

  ‘I’ll need to blindfold you,’ Jessie told me, coming to his feet, his features serious, despite the odd nature of his words. I read his face for a moment or two, wondering if it might crack, the damage parting to allow a smile through.

  It remained serious.

  ‘Blindfold?’ I checked, unnecessarily, as I had no doubt that he meant it, but somehow I needed it to be cemented further in his assuredness.

  ‘Blindfold, Tris old pal,’ he confirmed, attempting to lighten the seriousness with his familiarity, as he reached out to take my mug. ‘You in or out? I need a quick decision and then I need to get on.’

  My eyes were uncovered for the first part of the journey, as we travelled east of the city in Jessie’s own speedboat. It is smaller than the one which took Elinor to school, with a smaller engine and tank, but big enough for the work we did. And it was the only visible sign that Jessie made a good profit; no one else I knew - at least, no friend or family – had their own speedboat. We sailed beyond Jessie’s road, at the top of which there was a crossroads. Once controlled by four sets of traffic lights, it was by then a free-for-all, but as with most of the river roads, the traffic was light. Most people had neither the means nor the inclination to travel far from their homes. We sped straight over at the crossroads, curled along a mile long fir tree lined avenue and then Jessie stalled the engine.

  ‘Time to cover up,’ he informed me, although I’d guessed that was the reason for stopping the boat. He tied an old, silky scarf around my head, folding it wide enough to block out my sight entirely. Even through the war-time face mask, my nose caught the scent of the fabric: oil. The effect of the two facial visors combined was sufficiently disorientating; there was no way my senses would be able to map out the route in my mind.

  ‘You’ve put a dirt rag across my face?’ I protested, lightly, trying to break through the darkness with a little humour.

  ‘Put your hands out front, where I can see them,’ he instructed, avoiding an answer and, when I complied, the unexpected happened. I felt and heard cold steel crunch around my wrists.

  ‘What the-.’

  ‘I’m taking no chances, old pal. None. It’s not worth either of our lives.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I just need you to trust me for this one. I don’t need yours in return – I’ll just cover my arse with a bit of security.’ I heard him move back to the engine and pause. ‘Do I have your trust, or do you wanna go back?’

  Thirty minutes later, the engine stalled again and cuffs and the scarf were removed. We had arrived at our secret destination.

  ‘Okay, brace yourself,’ Jessie instructed, as I gazed ahead, blinking, taking in the sight before me. ‘See why I had to blindfold you?’

  Oh yes, I said inside, nodding as my external response. Oh yes I do.

  It was dark when we were done, darker still once I was back in the boat, hands secured, eyes covered by the oily silk rag. Jessie didn’t bother to remove either until we were moored outside his place again. Before I went, he insisted on handing me an envelope.

  ‘I’ll pay you more once the job is complete, but here’s a little something for now.’

  This was out of the ordinary. I knew the deal with Jessie – you only got your cut when Jessie got his. But this time was different; he was still safeguarding his back. The handcuffs and the improvised mask were not enough to replace his trust after all – he felt the need to buy my silence as well.

  I took the envelope, nodded and stepped back into my boat.

  ‘Tris, not a word to anyone, or we could be in more trouble than you can imagine,’ he warned, untying my boat for me and flinging the rope into its shell. ‘I’d not have gone ahead with it if you hadn’t agreed. Wouldn’t have trusted the others.’

  I rowed away, pointing north to Agnes’ house, thinking how he had redefined trust by making me his captive for the day.

  When I reached Agnes’, it was immediately evident that something was up. There were three – not one – small boats moored out the front. We had visitors and, if I recognised the boats correctly, family visitors. Inside, there was no buzz to accompany the increase in numbers; just a dull murmur of somber voices that confirmed the visit was one of seriousness.

  Agnes’ local family consisted of a band of five: Jimmy and Penny, her uncle and aunt, Esther and Billy, her sister and nephew, and Ronan. Ronan wasn’t a blood relative, but the last partner her mother had before she died. Like many of the men in Agnes’ loosely connected family, he was a father figure but a father to no one in particular, all the same.

  All five were present that evening.

  Once moored, I unlocked the front door with my key and waded through the waters of our ground floor. Ascending the stairs, I was met by Ronan at the top. His solemn expression gave the silence inside an extra chill.

  ‘It’s Elinor,’ he told me, but somehow I knew already.

  ‘And Agnes?’ I asked, accelerating my steps to a gallop up the stairs, my velocity hampered by bulky protective outdoor gear.

  ‘In here,’ she called out to me and I turned left at the top, into the front room that served as our kitchen and living room. There was a square table in the centre of the room, at which Agnes was seated. Her sister, Esther, was next to her, holding her hands. Esther had a purposeful look about her face, I’m performing a duty, it said, whilst Agnes’ expression was cold and calm. Whatever had happened had left her in shock.

  I entered the room, but kept my distance. Agnes and I were not open about our relationship. At 31 Cedar Street, I had my own room and paid rent. The family may have thought otherwise but for all intents and purposes, I was a bona fide lodger. It kept things simpler.

  My eyes searched the room: her Uncle Jimmy was at the stove, cooking something up and her Aunt Penny was by the sink, washing up, looking out through the front window onto the street. The nephew, Billy, was not in the roo
m, but I heard footsteps from the room directly above us: Elinor’s room. He’d be playing up there.

  That evening, I didn’t give Billy much thought, but he was a good boy. Naïve, and a little too easily bossed around by his older cousin, but – being only-children - they had developed the bond of siblings. He must have been missing her, rattling around in the echo of her empty room, wondering, like the rest of us, what the hell had happened to her. Unlike the adults, however, he wouldn’t have suffered the knowledge of the past and the crimes enacted against children of his age. He wouldn’t have been able to indulge his imagination that vividly. But we all were.

  ‘Will someone tell me?’ I asked, feeling sudden sickness in my gut. Something bad had happened to Elinor; something bad had happened after I left her to board the speedboat. You should have stayed with her, I told myself, as a hand touched my right elbow. It was Ronan’s.

  ‘Come on, let’s leave these four,’ he told me, signaling that we should exit the room. ‘Up to yours?’ he suggested and I complied with a nod.

  I occupied one of three rooms on the top floor. The others were Elinor and Agnes’, although most nights Agnes sneaked into my room, into my bed, or vice versa. But that wouldn’t happen on this night; Agnes wouldn’t want to be with me in that way. I knew that even before Ronan confirmed what had happened.

  Ronan gestured for me to sit down on my bed and he took the chair that accompanied the desk in the corner of the room. Dragged it to closer to my bed, leant in to make our exchange intimate.

  ‘Elinor has been missing all day. Didn’t make it to school. Hasn’t made it home, either.’ Ronan paused, letting the facts simply sink in. ‘I know you took her to the drop off point. The police have been by. They may want to talk to you. Been trying to get hold of you all day. Were you with Jessie?’

  I nodded; I hoped the police wouldn’t want to know exactly where I was when they eventually caught up with me. I wouldn’t be able to tell them.