Water Born (18 page)

Council officials confirmed that they are investigating a suspected outbreak of legionnaires' disease at Narrowbridge Swimming Pool, after several members of a girls' swimming team fell ill. The council has confirmed that the pool will be closed until investigations have been completed, and will also undergo a thorough industrial clean as an additional precaution. In an official statement released earlier today, the council stressed that ‘the health and safety of our customers is our first priority.'

A spokesman from South Birmingham General Hospital said that in total seven girls had been admitted, two of whom were in intensive care. A further statement is due to be issued later tonight
.

The air conditioning is blowing straight down from the vent above me, and I'm shivering violently. Two in intensive care. How many of the girls will end up on Dad's spreadsheet? And will I be the last entry?

‘You buying that?' The girl on the till is looking at the paper in my hands.

‘Yes. No.' I put the paper back. ‘Just the water, and these, thanks.'

I pay, put my things in my bag, then head back to the coach. The heat outside is intense – it's shimmering off the tarmac. I clamber back on to the coach. The air's no cooler, but it's a little fresher after a quarter of an hour with the door open.

I check my phone again. More messages coming in all the time. I put it into silent mode.

The sun's climbing higher in the sky as we draw into Bristol. At the coach station I ask for the bus to Kingsleigh and get straight on it.

THIRTY-ONE

I
t's not easy to find Kerry Adams. I managed to get a postcode for the address from the court reports and I plug it into the direction finder on my phone, but when I get there, the tiny terraced house is boarded up. I knock on the door even so, and eventually there's a shout from down the road. A young woman, with a fag trailing out of her mouth, is peering out of her front door.

‘Give it a rest. She's not there. Went away a month ago.'

‘Do you know where she went?'

‘One of the flats on Hunter Street.'

‘Have you got the number?'

‘Nah. Sorry.'

The door closes again. I find Hunter Street on the map and set off again. When I get there, I ask for help in a rundown corner shop that seems to sell any type of booze a
person could want. The man behind the till knows her. He sends me to number 11, a ground floor flat in an unappetising block.

I ring the doorbell.

‘Can't you read? I don't buy door-to-door. I've got a sign up.'

The woman who squints through the gap is only small, her eyes just above the level of the chain that's pulled taut, keeping me out.

‘I'm not selling anything,' I say. ‘I've come to see you. If you're Kerry Adams, that is.'

The eyes narrow.

‘Who wants her?'

‘Me! I'm her granddaughter. My name's Nic. Nicola Adams. My dad's Carl – calls himself Clarke these days.'

The door shuts. For a moment I'm wondering whether I should start knocking again or give up and go away, then I hear the rattle of the chain and the door swings open. The woman stands in full view, looking me up and down. I guess I'm doing the same to her. She's tiny. Her hair is thin and ratty, just below shoulder length. She's wearing a crumpled sundress with shoelace straps. There's nothing on her feet.

Our eyes meet, and now there's the recognition I was hoping for. Her eyes are Rob's eyes, Dad's eyes. There's no mistaking the likeness.

‘Nicola,' she says. ‘Little Nicola.'

‘Not so little,' I say.

‘You were when I last saw you. You were this high.' She holds her hand out in front of her, indicating the height
of a tot, then peers past me. ‘Is Carl with you?' I shake my head. ‘No? What are you doing here? You should have told me you were coming. I would've . . . well, I would've . . . oh, you'd better come in.'

She stands aside and I walk into the hallway. There are four doors leading off it.

‘Go through to the kitchen. Second door on the right, that's it.'

The kitchen is a mess. The worktops are littered with empty packets and cans, cups used as ashtrays. The sink has a layer of cans floating in scummy grey water. There's an empty food bowl on the floor, next to a full water bowl, both sitting on a rectangle of newspaper that's scuffed up at the corners and dotted with old food. She sees me looking.

‘They're Ella's. Seem to have got myself a cat. She's out somewhere. Do you want a drink?'

‘Um, no thanks.' I'd rather die of thirst than drink anything from this kitchen.

‘Well, I could do with one. Settle me nerves a bit. Having you turn up out of the blue, it's a shock. A good sort of one, don't get me wrong. Still a shock, though. There's some cans in the fridge.'

I take the hint and open the fridge door. There's an open tin of cat food in one of the door pockets, and rows and rows of lager cans. That's all. I pass her a can.

‘Go on,' Kerry says, ‘help yourself.'

‘Um, no thanks. I don't really . . . I haven't . . . it's okay.'

‘I haven't drunk tap water for years, and now they're saying it's not safe anyway. Just goes to show, doesn't it?'

‘Um, yes, I suppose . . .'

Would it be rude to make my excuses and leave now? I know the answer, so I let her lead me into the lounge. It's a bit cleaner in here. A few cans lying on the floor, some heaps of free newspapers. There are hardly any decorations or personal touches, though. Just a couple of saggy couches, an ancient electric fire and some photos on the mantelpiece, one of them the old school one that I've already seen. Her two boys in their school uniform.

She sits on one sofa, I sit on the other, at the end nearest to her.

‘Your mum and dad know where you are?'

I shake my head.

‘Like that, is it? That's how my boys were. I never knew where they were from one day to the next. That was one of my mistakes. I should've known. If I'd made them tell me every time they went out, then maybe they wouldn't have got into so much trouble. Maybe Rob wouldn't have . . . maybe he'd still be . . . '

‘I'm not like that,' I say quickly. ‘Not normally. Dad keeps tabs on me. He always knows where I am.'

‘Ah, that's good. He's better at this than I ever was, then. Is that him?' She can hear my phone buzzing in my bag.

‘Probably.'

‘Get it out, then. Tell him you're here. Your poor mum and dad must be going spare.'

‘I . . . I don't want to. I want a bit of . . . a bit of space.'

‘Just tell him you're safe, then. You can do that at least, can't you?'

‘Yeah, I s'pose.'

There are thirty new messages now, from Mum, Dad and Milton. And now I realise how selfish I've been. Kerry – Nan – is right. Mum and Dad are probably going out of their minds with worry. And Milton's been a true friend.

I've been wrong to leave them all hanging.

So I send them each a quick text while Kerry watches and swigs from her can –
I'm okay. Safe and sound. Taking some time out. See you soon
. That sort of thing.

Of course, my phone goes even crazier then, but I put it back in my bag.

‘That's better,' Kerry says. ‘Save them worrying.'

She takes another long drink, watching me all the time. I feel like I'm being put on the spot, like it's up to me to make all the running.

‘It's very . . . nice . . . here,' I say.

‘It'll do. It's a lot nicer than the flat I had when the boys were at home. Got condemned in the end. Damp right through, and mould, something terrible. Not fit for human habitation, that's what they said.'

‘So this isn't like where Dad grew up?'

‘No, love. It was a dump – and, to be honest, I didn't help. Didn't keep it nice. Wasn't a very good . . . never have been . . . ' She clears her throat. ‘When I got this place I tried to, you know, turn over a new leaf. Clean. Tidy. Respectable.'

Oh, God. I can't imagine what her previous places were like if this is clean and tidy. I don't say anything, but maybe my face has given my feelings away. She leans forward, resting her forearms on her thighs.

‘I do my best, Nicola. My doctor used to call me a functioning alcoholic, see.' Again, I can't think of anything to say. I'm picturing the two little boys in the photograph, left in the care of this shambolic woman in a flat that got condemned. ‘Functioning alcoholic, yeah, but to be honest, I'm not functioning all that well these days.' She starts laughing to herself, but soon stops. ‘It's not funny, is it? Not really.'

It's impossible to talk to her. I can't find the right words. I can't find any words. She's so different to anyone I know. But she's my gran.

‘You never said what you're doing here,' she reminds me. ‘Why would you come all this way to see me?'

‘I found out about . . . Uncle Rob . . . and about Mum and Dad changing their names, and I wanted to find out more. You said I was this high when you last saw me,' I say, holding my hand out level in front of me. ‘So when was that? Why did we stop seeing each other?'

She takes another swig from the can.

‘You were only three or thereabouts. You moved away, that's when it all stopped. Your mum and dad went up to Birmingham, changed their names and all.'

‘My dad said they wanted to make a fresh start.'

‘He wanted to get away from here. This place. Me, maybe.'

‘Why, though?'

‘I nearly lost you, Nicola. That's what drove them away.'

‘You nearly lost me . . . when I was three, in 2017?' I remember the words on the envelope.

‘Yeah, that's right. It would have been 2017. January.'

‘You nearly lost me, but you found me again – and you found this with me?'

I reach into my pocket and bring out the locket.

She gasps, leans further forward and takes the silver pendant in her palm.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘God, this necklace . . .'

‘Where? Where did you find me?'

She looks up at me, her eyes threaded with sore-looking red veins.

‘Can you tell me about it? Please.'

She sniffs and sits back down on her sofa. She's cradling her can, turning it round and round. Her mouth is working, but she's not saying anything.

‘Please, I need to know.'

I tuck my legs up underneath me and lean on the arm of the sofa. Kerry responds, leaning back a little and turning towards me.

‘It was just after Christmas. Your mum was at the hospital, just finishing her training, and your dad was doing a shift at the factory site, demolishing it. They asked me to look after you. I was sober then, had been for a while. It was a beautiful day, very cold but clear. I wrapped you up properly, made sure you'd be warm enough, and we walked to the park. You loved it, running around, playing in the snow. We got to the lake and it was frozen right over.'

‘The lake? The same lake as . . .?'

She nods.

‘I like to go there. It helps me to think about him. My boy. He was only seventeen. I miss him, you know.'

‘Of course.'

‘Anyway, it was getting close to dinnertime and I thought, I'll just have a smoke and a little rest and then we'll head back up to the High Street, share a bag of chips. I must have only taken my eyes off you for a minute. I looked around and you weren't there. And then I saw you, out on the ice, and you turned to wave and then you . . . disappeared. Went right through. And I couldn't do anything, couldn't move. I just stood there, watching the place where you'd been. Other people weren't so . . . they rescued you, went out on to the ice. One man got in the water and got you out. They brought you back to me. You looked like a little doll, a frozen little doll, but you were alive. I held you, close, and rocked you backwards and forwards. Backwards and forwards.'

‘And the locket?' How do I know what she's going to say before she says it?

‘The chain was all wrapped around your fingers.'

‘That's so weird.'

‘Yes. Especially as I'd seen it before. Seen your mum wearing it.'

The photo in the locket. The glimpse of chain round Mum's neck. So this is this the same one? It must be.

‘So how come I had it? How could that possibly happen?'

She shrugs.

‘I don't know, darlin'. Sometimes I think it was a gift. My boy gave it to you. He saved you and he was trying to let me know what he'd done. Sometimes I wonder if . . . '

‘If what?'

Her voice is very quiet now, hardly more than a whisper. ‘ . . . if he wanted to keep you there.'

Saved me . . . or pulled me under. His voice.
Got you
. Thirteen years and now I'm nearly back where it started. The lake. He
has
to be at the lake.

I shiver, try to focus on Kerry.

‘What was he like? Rob?'

‘People said all kinds of things about him, and he wasn't no angel. I'm not daft, I know he did things he shouldn't have done. But nobody knows a boy like his mother does. And I know he was a good boy deep down. It's just that people hardly ever saw that. Saw what I saw.'

He was a good boy
. Maybe he was once. But he's killed and killed again since then. He'll keep killing unless I stop him.

‘If you could see him again, see him now, what would you say to him?'

She sighs, and puts her can down on the floor next to her.

‘I talk to him all the time, love. I go to the lake and I can see him, like he used to be. My little boy.'

‘You see him?'

She nods, reaches for her packet of cigarettes and takes one out. It trembles between her fingers, unlit.

‘He's never gone away. Not for me. He's still here, with me. He always will be.'

I watch as she manages to light the fag and draws the smoke deep into her lungs. She turns her head to blow the smoke away from me.

‘I see him, too,' I say.

She looks back at me, mouth open. The cigarette falls from her fingers on to the carpet.

‘Kerry! Nan! Look out!'

She keeps staring, oblivious. I dart forward and pick up the cigarette. The carpet is smouldering. I stamp on it, grind my foot round on the spot.

‘I think that's got it,' I say. I'm still holding the fag. I put it in the nearest ashtray and sit down again. Kerry's still frozen, like she's in some sort of trance. I reach over and touch her hand.

‘Kerry? Nan?'

She looks down at her hand and mine, then back up at me.

‘You see him,' she murmurs. ‘Rob. My Rob. So he's not dead . . .'

I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb.

‘He
is
dead, Kerry. It's just . . . he's just . . . a sort of ghost, I think.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I can see him sometimes, talk to him. But he comes and goes. He lives through water. The thing is—' How can I say this? How can tell her Rob's a serial killer? ‘ The thing is, he's not happy. He's . . . restless.'

She gives a sob and her free hand goes up to her mouth.

‘My boy!'

I don't know if I can carry on, but I must.

‘He's . . . he's been hurting people. Girls.'

She wrenches her other hand from under mine.

‘You're just like the others,' she says, her eyes narrow
and hard. ‘Spreading lies about my boy. Telling tales.'