Authors: Max China
Two hours later they pulled the first body out, clothes heavy, skin pale against the black waters that left trails and traces of silt as it drained off. Even through all the dirt and filth, his bright copper coloured hair marked him out in death as unmistakably as it did in life.
It was Brookes . . . The last one to drown had become the first one out.
The boy sat staring out at the scene playing out before him.
Kirk eyed the fifteen-year-old youth crouched beneath a red blanket draped over his head and shoulders, a corner of it extended to a point just below his haunches, almost touching the top of the trampled grass.
It hasn't hit him yet.
Two teachers and a paramedic were trying to coax him away. He brushed their hands from his arms and shoulders without saying a word, becoming increasingly agitated; his demeanour suggested he might explode at any moment.
Unable to persuade him to leave, the teachers shrugged at each other, at a loss for what to do next.
Kirk marched over. "What's his name?"
"It's Bruce Milowski," the PE teacher said.
The ex-army officer nodded and tried to repeat the surname without success. Anti-communist sentiment, a throwback to his military days, would not allow him to get beyond the first three letters before his tongue felt tied and alien to him. It might have been appropriate, in the circumstances, to call him by his Christian name, but given his background, he struggled with that, too.
He lowered his voice, almost sounding gentle. "Listen, boy, I'm going to stay with you, all right?"
The water seemed to hold a continuing fascination for him. He didn't answer.
"All right?" Kirk said again and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Milowski nodded without looking round.
Kirk squatted down next to him. With his broken nose, beady eyes and square jaw, his face was at odds with this newly found gentleness, and he managed a lop-sided grin that showed off his chipped teeth. His eyes didn't miss a trick. A veteran of the Korean War, he'd seen this sort of thing before; the boy was suffering from shock. On the battlefield, he'd have put himself in danger just sitting there, but not here.
The paramedic leaned down and spoke quietly in Kirk's ear.
"We need to get him out of here."
Kirk stood up; he and the medic were the same height, but the former soldier's bearing commanded respect, something the other man resented.
"The boy is already in shock - if we try to take him now - under duress, we may do more harm than good."
"I'm sorry," said the ambulance man, "I don't agree. He needs medical attention…"
Kirk put a halting hand up, stopping him short. "Yes, he is in shock, but I believe he should be allowed to see the recovery of the bodies. It's what he wants. Then we'll take him out of here."
"He's a young boy, and we are not in the army now,
Mr
Kirk."
The men eyed each other, the medic angry, Kirk indifferent.
The younger man broke contact first, "Well, he's your responsibility . . ."
"I know that, son," Kirk said quietly. "And it's just Kirk, not mister . . . okay?"
A fresh belch of sulphur invaded their nostrils; the medic pulled a face, and burying his nose into the crook of his arm, marched across to the nearest policeman. The officer listened, looked over and then started making his way towards them.
"Can I speak with you, sir?" The Constable addressed Kirk, but looked closely at Milowski, who hadn't taken his eyes off the waters, watching as the frogmen surfaced, dived and resurfaced repeatedly. "Over there, if you don't mind." He motioned with his head.
Kirk pressed his lips firmly together and shook his head. He indicated the boy with a flick of his eyes. "Can't leave him . . . talk to me here."
"This isn't a rescue operation, sir, this is a recovery situation."
"I know that, officer," Kirk said, leaning in close to him, speaking in a low voice. "You see, I myself, was an officer in the British Army, served in Korea, 1951. I think I know a thing or two about the way young men react when they see their friends die right in front of them . . ."
"Sir, with respect, that isn't the point here. There's no hope of finding the other two alive. The operation may go on for hours - might even have to resume in the morning. You can't stay here all night. The paramedic told me you felt the boy might get some sort of closure from seeing the last two boys recovered."
"He might resent allowing himself to be persuaded otherwise, another emotion to deal with after the guilt and grief. Believe you me; I've seen the after effects too many times . . ." Kirk continued, "I take full responsibility."
The policeman reflected on what he'd said, and looked over at Milowski, then back to the former soldier. "Just keep him out of the way."
Kirk returned to the boy's side. "You sure you want to stay?"
He nodded without taking his eyes from the waters, he wanted to see them all recovered.
Kirk lit a cigarette, pulled deeply, holding the smoke for a few seconds, before blowing it out of the corner of his mouth, away from the boy. He cupped it inside his hand, protecting it from the soft rain that had started to fall.
The next body, hauled out a few minutes later, looked as if it came from under the mud, coated all over as it was with a thick, tarry substance. Milowski got onto his feet, peering at the body apprehensively. He couldn't tell who it was.
The frogmen heaved the body onto a tarpaulin, ready to haul it up the bank.
One of them held up a short, slimy and blackened branch. Horror dawned in his expression; he dropped it down in front of him.
Someone screamed, "Jesus!"
Kirk stared open mouthed in disbelief. Part putrefied, and part skeletonised; it was a forearm dislocated at the elbow, with the hand intact.
The diver fell to his knees, retching and muttering curses in between.
Still unable to pronounce Milowski's surname, he said simply, "Look away, kid."
The rain increased, falling with a vengeance, and then the heavens fully opened, forming a veil of obscurity in front of them, dampening the noise of the men calling out with a steady sissing sound.
He realised with horror that this tragic accident had become something else.
The police officer was striding their way, his face grimacing as the water ran off it, dripping from his eyebrows and nose.
Kirk guessed from his expression what he would say. "Come on kid," he stood before the policeman reached them. Tapping the unresponsive boy's shoulder, he shouted above the noise of the rain, "We'd better go!"
Chapter 18
In the school the morning after, rumours circulated about a tragic accident. Everyone had gathered in the main hall. The air was heavy with expectation as the Headmaster approached the centre of the stage. In his hand, he carried a sheaf of notes, which he placed on the lectern and shuffling the papers, the sound rumbled, seeming to echo from the high walls. All eyes were on him as he switched off the sound system and stood immobile, looking down, collecting his thoughts. Then he straightened and looked out over the assembly.
"You will by now have heard about the tragic events of yesterday afternoon," His voice, loud and clear, projected without the aid of a microphone. He spoke highly of all the boys. "Christopher Brookes, the champion swimmer who proudly represented his school at County level. David Jones hated cross-country running when he first joined the school, but he blossomed into a keen long distance runner. And finally, Kenneth Walker, stalwart of the debating society . . . he had the career makings of a barrister or politician." The Head put aside his notes and continued.
"Let us be quite clear, this is a tragedy, the likes of which have never before been experienced by this school. Three young lives snuffed out, taken from us all," he snapped his fingers to make the point, "like that."
He watched the clock high on the wall opposite him. A few seconds before the red second hand reached the twelve o'clock position, the Headmaster said, "Let us pause and reflect. We will observe a minute's silence."
When the hand had completed its three hundred and sixty degree sweep, the Head waited for a further moment before speaking again.
"Some of you may hear rumours concerning the unrelated, coincidental discovery of further bodies. This is the subject of an ongoing police investigation, and it is important we keep those events entirely separate in our minds. Apart from location, there's nothing to link them at all." He turned the page over and placed it at the bottom of the sheaf. "This tragedy came about because extremely hot temperatures led to a desire to swim in unsafe and unfamiliar waters that were wholly unsuitable for any sort of bathing. It serves as a warning to us all, of the dangers of swimming outdoors, in ponds, rivers or lakes . . ."
"Finally, let us not forget the surviving boy . . . In the forthcoming weeks and months, we must ensure he has the weight of our support behind him. He is currently undergoing therapy that will assist him in coping and coming to terms with this tragedy. I ask all of you, unequivocally, to help him in every way you can."
Kirk stood at the back of the hall; head bowed. With assembly over, he followed the Headmaster into his office.
Chapter 19
Ryan's intercom buzzed. "I have your next appointment for you, Dr Ryan, it's Bruce Milowski."
"Thank you, Penny, and, by the way, it's 'Miloffski' and not, 'owski'."
"Shall I send them in?"
Penny was still holding the receiver, awaiting his answer, when the psychiatrist came out to greet them.
"Miss Milowski . . . Bruce. I hadn't expected to see either of you again." Shaking their hands in turn, he placed a hand in the small of her back as he steered them into his office. Mrs Milowski coloured up red.
It's not Miss.
She concluded that correcting the doctor would only increase the potential for further embarrassment.
Penny seethed. He never came out to greet anyone. What was so special about those two? It wasn't the boy.
The way the bitch just blushed up as if she's in heat; she's trying to get something going on.
She'd not tolerate it, not right under her nose.
He'd last seen Milowski eight years before while still a medical doctor. The boy had fallen and banged his head on a rock after becoming lost. It had been enough to trigger a mild post-traumatic stress reaction in the seven-year-old, and the boy had had trouble sleeping. After a brief examination, he'd assured Bruce's mother he would recover with no long-term effects. The boy had been one of his last patients prior to his Irish sojourn. It seemed odd to be treating him again. He'd grown into a young man with a troubled look on his face. Rebellion, defiance and denial, all those things were there, not altogether hidden behind the mask he wore. Ryan disarmed him with a warm smile; he had the confident bearing of a teacher about to take a class, the expression on his face sympathetic and priest-like.
The young man before him could have passed for older than his fifteen years; already there were signs of stubble on his flat cheeks and jawline. The boyhood features had gone, his face more pronounced and square, but the eyes were the same, pale blue and defiant. He now possessed broad shoulders and muscular arms that strained against the fabric of his sleeves. The tightness of his clothes gave him the appearance of a hillbilly kid, whose parents had dressed him in hand-me-downs because they couldn't afford to buy new ones. Miserably self-conscious about such things, she noticed the doctor eyeing what her son was wearing. Their eyes met. He responded with a vague smile.
Quickly, she turned away, embarrassed. "We can't keep up with him, he's growing so fast. I'm sure he's grown an inch since the accid—"
Bruce shot her a glance, and she stopped herself mid flow. They never talked about the accident. He would block any attempt by flying into a rage, and she didn't want that in front of the doctor. She moved a step closer to her son, measuring her own height against his. "I'm sure it's about an inch in the last two weeks."
The awkwardness of the moment was not lost on Ryan. "Mm-m . . . Please sit down."
She sat; her son remained standing.
"You, too, young man if you don't mind?"
The boy was reluctant to do as he was asked, exhibiting the sort of oppositional defiance that is common in adolescents. He was about to repeat his request, when the boy suddenly shuffled his feet and sat. So far, he'd not made eye contact with Ryan at all.
He explained briefly that he practiced certain pioneering aspects of psychiatry, which he felt appropriate for Bruce's particular problems. When he'd finished, he opened a file and took out the consent forms Penny had prepared earlier. "I'd prefer it if we left any questions we may have, until after our initial consultation. Time is a precious commodity, and I often find any queries - well, most of them anyway - are dealt with during the first session with me. Are we okay with that?" His eyebrows rose, corresponding with the question. Neither of them answered.