Submersion Read online

  I nodded.

  ‘Good, good. Then I need something in return. I need a secret from you. Something that nobody knows, or only a few know. Something that could land you in trouble if it gets out. Do you follow me? Do you have something?’

  As odd as the request seems now, looking back, at the time I was swept along with the necessity that Old Man Merlin made of it.

  Yes, I nodded again. Yes, I had something.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  And so I did. With a huge serving of apprehension, I served him the truth about my father.

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell a soul. So, please, you mustn’t tell anyone,’ I pleaded. ‘I wasn’t supposed to see. Wasn’t supposed to be looking.’

  The old man nodded, still somber.

  ‘I won’t. All the time you keep what goes on in this house to yourself, your secret stays with me. Well, well,’ he reflected, as he considered what I had revealed. ‘What a thing! I never would have guessed that. Not in a million years. Secret is a safe for now, boy,’ he reassured me, before turning away and heading back to his kitchen-laboratory. It was business as usual.

  I went to leave, in search of my usual pleasures in the upper quarters, but Merlin turned back and spoke again.

  ‘Let me share another secret with you,’ he said, his face suddenly lit with a smile, vanishing the serious nature of our previous exchange. ‘Yes, let me indulge you,’ he added, as if this was simply a bit of fun, a parlor game, Great-Aunt Penny would have called it. ‘Can you guess my name?’

  I shrugged. Until that moment, I hadn’t considered it. I knew Merlin wasn’t really his name, but it was enough. I thought of an old fairy story I’d come across in the library upstairs and was tempted to reply with Rumplestiltskin, in the spirit of this sport. Instead, I went for an obvious choice: ‘Mr Cadley?’

  Old Man Merlin shook his head and then gave his answer.

  It meant nothing to me.

  He repeated himself, in case a second hearing would help me see the light.

  Still nothing.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve not heard of you before,’ I told him, instantly struck by the oddness of my line.

  ‘You will,’ he foresaw, still smiling, enjoying this amusement. ‘Listen out for me. That storytelling pal of yours is bound to mention me sooner or later. My name and your father – well, what a morning for sharing secrets,’ he added, shaking his head at the apparent pleasure of it all, finally heading back to his pottering for good, leaving me to ascend.

  I headed for the music room, retrieving my copy of the Dumas on the way, but I didn’t read a word and simply sat in silence for a long time.

  Thinking.

  Thinking about what he had told me, thinking back through Tristan’s stories – had there been any mention of such a fellow; had I missed something because I wasn’t really listening out? Then the other: the secret about Father. What if he did tell someone? The fact I heard him listening in to the authorities or something similar, the fact I knew his true name – they paled in comparison to what I had shared, surely? What if he really did let it slip? He was an old man, after all; old men could be careless, forgetful, even.

  My thoughts tortured me for most of the day, until early afternoon, when I decided it was time to leave.

  As if sensing my anxiety, Old Man Merlin sought me out in his hallway, as I redressed for the outside.

  ‘We have a bargain, you and me,’ he reassured. ‘You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours. I might be an old man, but I’ve got it all up here.’ He tapped his head.

  Rowing back to my aunt’s, I felt my worries lessen. I could believe him, I told myself. I could trust him. And what was the worst that could happen if he spoke out about Father? Mother would be mad with me, yes, and I would be in serious trouble with her for talking about family business outside of the home, but it would go no further. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong.

  Yet, as one worry diminished, another replaced it.

  Something was in the water.

  Something I kept knocking against with one of my oars.

  Something that stopped me from rowing any further.

  ‘Mother!’ I cried, hollering at the top of my voice, ripping off my protective mask when I realised my muffled cry would not carry. ‘Mother! Tristan! TRISTAN!’

  Within minutes, neighbours filled doorways and windows, staring out at the frantic child, who had foolishly exposed himself to who knows what by ripping off his mask. Watching as that woman’s crazy lodger waded through the water, completely unprotected, to grab said boy. Then, still as statues, when they saw the cause of the fuss.

  When they saw what was in the water.

  PLAY

  ‘I worry about her, you know. Going out for long days. I want her to have her freedom, but what if something happens to her?’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to her. She’s a good girl. And it’s safe.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There’s nothing out there but water.’

  ‘What if she drowns?’

  ‘She’s a strong swimmer. And you could what if all day.’

  ‘But what if there is something in the water, something hidden we can’t see?’

  ‘And what if we just stayed tucked away, inside, never venturing out. Never looking beyond our own front door, like our neighbour? You don’t want that what if for her, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t want that at all.’

  PAUSE

  3. Agnes

  It has been two weeks since Billy’s screams drew us all from our houses. Two weeks since Tristan threw all caution aside and exposed himself to the elements, as he rushed to my terrified nephew’s rescue. Two weeks since my drenched lover hauled the boat back to its mooring, lifted Billy back inside. Two weeks since Tristan then went back in for the body.

  Two weeks.

  That’s all it’s been – two weeks - and my life here has been turned upside down yet again.

  Nearly seven weeks since the first time. Since. Yes – since. That’s as far as I can get, I’m afraid. Since. At since, my mind freezes, refuses to comment; can’t comment. So if you expected a narrative from me beyond since, you’ll be disappointed. Listen to other voices if you want news of that.

  They are still here – Billy and Esther. The former convalescing, if my sister can be believed; the latter still cleaning, like there was anything left that she hadn’t scrubbed and scrubbed to an inch of its former self.

  ‘You should never, ever be too careful, Agnes,’ she tells me, as if I am mad to question her compulsive, paranoid scouring of my home. ‘Especially after they both got exposed. Who knows what they brought back in with them! I’m sure Billy’s skin is not right. And as for that Tristan. What was the fool thinking? Going out into the water like that!’

  ‘I think he was rescuing your screaming baby,’ I reply and it silences and halts her momentarily. She doesn’t know what to say.

  We are in the kitchen. I have my back to her, leaning against the table in the centre of the room. Esther is at the sink. I consider speaking, apologising: I went too far, didn’t mean to imply… But, whilst she keeps her mouth still, the scrubbing is quickly resumed, so I assume I haven’t insulted her as much as I feared, if at all.

  Besides, given the circumstances, she’s hardly going to return an insult about her child with one about mine – I might not let her finish cleaning my house.

  Tomorrow, I go back to work. It’s been far too long already, but Tristan thinks it’s too soon. I need to earn money again, I tell him. Still need to keep this roof over my head. What if? (Whilst my story telling stops at since, I am happy to entertain what-ifs.) That is, I add, unless you can afford to keep this roof over our heads, whilst I stay at home and make more mess to give my sister’s life meaning? It was him, after all, not me, who kept on insisting that we needed the money, that I needed to be careful about my opinions and not upset anyone, particularly those in authority, in case it cost me my job.

 
; Tristan laughs. This isn’t the first time I’d joked recently about the housewife suggestion. First time I mentioned it, he took it seriously. Yes, he could, he said; he was earning enough. But when I pursued this angle with more questions: how much and how exactly? Well, that came to nothing. He had a job on with Jessie – a big job, that was clear. Yet it was also a secret job: he couldn’t tell me any of the details, on a need-to-know basis. I needed to know, I said, if I was to feel comfortable staying at home doing nothing. He ignored that and continued: even he didn’t know the exact destination. Jessie blindfolded him each time and, much as he tried to orientate in the dark, he wasn’t confident he could trace the route.

  So, all future suggestions that I might give up my job were simply met with a chuckle from Tristan, and no further pursuit. He cannot – will not – satisfy my curiosity about his current prospects, and that is the end of that.

  I could tell that Tristan worried his secret job was adding to my woes.

  ‘I promise you it’s safe,’ he reassured me, but unnecessarily.

  I trust Tristan implicitly; and if that wasn’t enough, he’s with Jessie. Another man I’d give my heart and soul to without a single worry. Like Tristan, Jessie would put his own life on the line before sacrificing me. And I’ve known him nearly all my life, too.

  That’s one reason why I don’t believe any of that bullshit the police tried to pin on them. The business with the rotting platform. Whatever happened there – and I’m not going into the details, I’ve made that clear to you – it wasn’t due to anything they did, or neglected to do.

  He’s out with him on this day – Tristan. Left early in his boat and by now he’ll be with Jessie, his blind journey over, getting on with whatever their job entails. I have things of my own to pursue – stepping around my sister as she leaves everything sparkling and shiny, I have to get myself ready for my return to work tomorrow.

  You are probably wondering about the body. I wouldn’t blame you. You’re only human after all, I’m guessing. I could make you wait, could keep you guessing. But I won’t. That would be cruel and there has been enough cruelty of late.

  It’s not the obvious. It’s not that which I won’t speak of. Of course it isn’t. As I’ve said: it was a body, dead. And, that which I won’t speak of is alive. There, I’ve said enough, got too close. Let me get back to my tale. The body? Here you go…

  When I think about that day, I wonder just how smart my sister and aunt actually are. I also consider how stupid they think I might actually be. Or blind – maybe they just think I have very limited vision, in every interpretation of the word. Because, it was as clear as day from the very outset what their visit that day was about.

  Hints were dropped and suggestions made from almost the minute they sailed up to my front door and moored.

  Esther started-off subtly enough – for Esther, that is.

  ‘It’s been a while since we had a formal family gathering, something to bring us together,’ she began, positioned at the sink, wiping the bowl with a cloth. ‘Aunt Penny?’

  Aunt Penny was sat at the table, opposite me. She had long, grey needles in her hand, and was knitting grey and brown wool into what looked like a scarf. At her feet was an orange plastic bag, filled with assorted balls of dull coloured, recycled wool and a pattern or two. I remembered her doing that when I was a child and searching through her bag of wool, admiring the different colours and pulling out the patterns, choosing my favourites. There had been a small shop in town that simply sold wool and other knitting materials. Long gone. The wool in Aunt Penny’s bag that day was ancient leftovers she had somehow preserved.

  ‘Yes, I always like a family gathering,’ my aunt said, answering Esther’s question. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  I wasn’t paying them too much attention. I had a mug of coffee in front of me – the coffee courtesy of Jessie, who suddenly had a plentiful supply. Jessie was useful – he knew people. But, despite the strong links of our past, he didn’t usually share his luxuries with me. He usually kept them for business – to win favour, to reward his workers. I knew what the gesture stood for: sympathy, some kind of compensation. It had made me cross – had he no hope? did he think this luxury item would make a difference? – but I had taken the gift all the same. Stirring the drink as my aunt and sister wittered on, I let it go cold on purpose. What did it matter?

  Yet, it was a certain word that piqued my interest: service.

  ‘Of course, you can’t have what you used to be able to have, you can’t have a church,’ Aunt Penny said, her needle clack-clacking, the grubby coloured scarf gradually extending. ‘Such a tragedy. Some of them stood for centuries, you know. Then, a bit of water and that’s that. Ruined.’

  ‘They’ve built halls, though – to replace them. On stilts, like the Cadley house, Agnes,’ Esther added, dragging me in, hoping that they hadn’t reached the dizzy heights of too-bleeding-obvious quite yet. They hadn’t – not quite yet, but they were very close.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening,’ I said and, without realising it, I had given them permission. Permission to move in – which they did, Aunt Penny casting aside her knitting and giving me an earnest, full-eyed look, my sister abandoning the sink, wiping hands dry on her pinny and taking a seat next to my aunt. Permission to speak, too; permission to address their concerns and position their agenda directly.

  ‘Miles away, my love?’ my aunt said, in response to my own, empty comment, reading depth there.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied, keeping neutral in my reaction.

  There was part of me that knew Aunt Penny meant well; there was another part of me that knew she had an idea about what should be done, what was proper. And it was the latter that dominated what she did and said.

  ‘We’re discussing a memorial service, for Elinor, dear. To acknowledge-.’

  ‘To say goodbye, Agnes,’ Esther cut in, putting her hands out on the table, as if reaching for mine. Instinctively, I put mine in my lap.

  ‘Remember when your mother passed away,’ Aunt Penny continued, but she was talking to Esther, taking the hands I had refused to hold into her own. ‘We had a beautiful service. I know it was at her house, but it was the words, how we felt. That’s what made it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Esther acknowledged, a raw edge to her voice that I couldn’t begrudge. She had taken our mother’s death badly – was still suffering in its shadow – and the service had helped her. Boy, how many times had she told me that, referring back to the comfort it had brought her whenever she tried to talk me into joining her in prayer or exploring faith. It wasn’t for me, though, a point I politely made every time she pursued it. But this was different; this wasn’t about her.

  ‘You have two choices,’ I told them, coming to my feet, my tone cold, stern, ungiving. ‘You can change the subject, or you can continue this conversation in one of your own houses. Just not mine.’

  ‘Agnes,’ my aunt pleaded softly, touching my arm. ‘We are only trying to-.’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ I retorted, sweeping from the room, seeking the solace of my own room, where I dived for my bed and crawled under the covers.

  Are you hiding under there? A voice. In the room? No, just in my head. Mother’s; my beautiful mother’s voice, coming back to me.

  Yes, I whispered back. I’m hiding.

  Is it good in there? she inquired, just as she had, all those decades ago.

  Yes, it’s good. It’s safe and warm.

  There, I came close, didn’t I? Almost verged into forbidden territory. But that’s all you are getting, okay? That’s as deep as I’m prepared to delve.

  In my bed, I slept and I dreamt.

  It’s a dream I hadn’t had for a while, but it’s a familiar one. A dream I’d come out of and think: not that one again. I’m back in my childhood, in the garden of my childhood home. I’m just with Esther to start with. She and I, playing in the garden. Sometimes we are throwing a ball, other times doing cartwheels. A pram I remember owning so
metimes features, and bubbles – sometimes we are blowing bubbles. But what is constant is that someone else joins us and changes the dynamic of our sisterly playing, and that someone is always Jessie Morton.

  On this occasion, Esther and I are sitting on the back of a wooden toy truck my father had made us. It was a ride-a-long toy, with a handle and peddles at the front. One person would sit upfront and peddle, whilst two or three could sit on the back. It didn’t go far with that many on it, unless someone really strong was in the driving seat, but there was always room to sit. Besides, we weren’t allowed to go off that far, not when we were young. There was always the threat of the dogs and our parents preferred us to play within the confines of our high walled garden.

  In the dream, when Jessie appears in the garden, I beckon him over, shift along on the seat and encourage him to sit between us. Whatever we are doing, it is always me who encourages Jessie to join our activity, be it skipping, playing house, or kicking a ball. And Jessie never denies my requests. So, he joins us and sits on the back of the truck, between Esther and me. And that’s when it happens: that’s when she bites him.

  That is the other constant: Esther always bites him, unprovoked.

  This time, she leans over and clamps her jaw around the soft tissue above his knee, cutting in sharply, releasing an unaccountable flood of red fluid.

  I woke at the bite, the shock of it still reeling inside my head, although the dream was over. There is blood, always lots of blood, despite Esther’s small child’s mouth and I don’t like the sight of blood. But several seconds out of my dream, I still felt the assault on my senses. A feeling of alarm, of shock I couldn’t shake. Still veiled by the wooziness of sleep, it took a few seconds more for my brain to connect with the fact that the source of this feeling – and what undoubtedly broke my slumber – was a rally of screaming voices below.

  If you are wondering about the dream itself, it’s not for nothing that it recurs. There was a connected incident between Esther, Jessie and I, back when we were children, but it played out differently. Jessie and I are a similar age and attended school in the same year. Esther, being one year my junior, always felt a little left out when friends called for me to play; the fact she had a silent crush on Jessie magnified this feeling whenever he chanced to call.