Just between us, p.31
Just Between Us, page 31
She kneels next to the rucksack and digs about for Seb’s clothes, then wrestles him into everything she has packed, which she can see now is not much. Not enough. The thought of starting all over again, a new life in France, scares her. They will need clothes, a house, food. His limbs are unyielding and it’s an awkward process dressing him. She recalls helping him dress as a little boy when they all went swimming together in the local pool, or when he’d spilt something down himself; little kids seemed to eternally be in need of a fresh change of clothes. Then he would wriggle and chatter as she popped a T-shirt over his head; now, his silent, stiff state is unnerving.
As soon as she is in France, she will need to move her money from her high street bank to an offshore account, before the police freeze her assets. She has no idea how to open an offshore account. She’ll have to google it. Of course, she can get a job, but doing what? Her French is passable, but not fluent. She’ll probably have to work in a restaurant or clean. It doesn’t matter what she does, anything to pay rent. They will be OK. In the absence of a conscious companion, she has to answer the questions she asks herself. Her mind bounces from bravado to doubt and back again every few minutes. She closes her eyes for a moment, tries to steady her thoughts, but it’s impossible to think clearly. She’s cold and hungry too.
What will Seb do while she is at work?
Well, he’ll be at school.
New schools are always hell.
He’s a nice kid, he’ll make friends.
How will he make friends? He doesn’t speak French.
She’ll get him lessons.
How will she pay for lessons?
She’ll teach him herself. She will be solely responsible for him, so they’ll find a way. People do.
Still, it’s a lot. Is it too much?
That thought surprises her. She has been desperate for someone to take care of for years now. That’s all she’s ever wanted, and now she has it. She has Seb. It is frustrating, frankly, how couples and people with families have no idea, no conception as to what it is like to be someone like her. They blithely go about their business – no, that’s not right. Blithely suggests happily. In Fiona’s experience, all these people do is whine. First about the expense of weddings, the inflated price tags on flowers and champagne, and then the difficulty of getting reliable childcare; next they are grumbling that they have to invite the in-laws for Christmas, moaning that an extended family is so much work. They are forever complaining that they are exhausted balancing everything – running a home, looking after kids, pleasing a husband, succeeding in a career. On and on they grumble. Instead of seeing that having everything is the dream.
Of course, Fiona knows women who are one hundred per cent happy with being partnerless and childless. They call it partner-free and child-free. They usually have a lot of friends, pets and interests. They often have great careers. She has a great career. She should have got a cat. Of course she can see the value in their worlds, these partner-free, child-free women. She admires them. Envies them a tiny bit for their self-reliance and contentment. But it just isn’t what she wants for herself. She wants connections.
The sea is a lonely place. She is never good when she’s on her own; she thinks too much. She pinches Seb’s ear in the hope of rousing him, but it doesn’t help. She longs for his eyelids to flutter.
So when she notices that the old man’s boat is getting closer, she welcomes it. She has nothing to fear from being spotted by the salty old sea dog. He won’t be able to see Seb lying on the floor of the boat; just in case, though, she covers him with the blanket again.
‘Hello,’ he yells, waving one arm high in the air.
She waves back. ‘Hello.’
‘You’re quite some distance out.’
‘As are you, in that case,’ she says with a laugh, but it’s a little forced. Having welcomed his company, she is almost immediately irritated by it. People are always in each other’s business now, especially since COVID. It’s annoyingly intrusive. He’d be shocked, no doubt, if he knew she was planning on going to France. Over these past few months, people have been reporting one another for going to the park for more than an hour.
‘I’m turning back now,’ he says. ‘You?’
‘I think I’ll push on a little further.’
He nods. Apparently willing to accept that she is free to do as she pleases. She’s glad. Just what she needed, a brief polite encounter and not an overbearing busybody after all. But then, she can’t believe her eyes. For a moment she thinks she must have fallen asleep and is dreaming, or that she’s hallucinating because she’s under such pressure and hungry. Her eyes are playing tricks on her. Because right here in front of her, Kylie rises like a kraken out of the hull of his boat. Back from the dead. Loud and living. Vicious and vital.
‘Give me Seb, Fiona. You can’t have him. He doesn’t belong with you.’
58
Kylie
I just couldn’t stay concealed in the hull of the boat. I’ve been hidden and lost for too long now. It’s a great moment, even in among all this fear and chaos, I take pleasure in seeing the shock on her face as I stand up.
‘What’s the matter, Fiona? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
She stares at me in shock and awe. ‘How is this possible?’ she asks. ‘How are you alive?’ Then she throws back her head and lets out an almighty howl of frustration. Her face is taut and twisted. I’ve seen Fiona angry on a fair few occasions – irate with ex-boyfriends, or bosses, or even a shop assistant who refused to exchange a dress with a faulty zip – but I’ve never witnessed anything like this. She is consumed with anger; her entire body is wracked and writhing in crude fury. Her loathing towards me is palpable; I can touch it, taste it. ‘You should be dead!’ she screams. ‘You should be dead. You should be dead.’
I want to yell at her that no, I should not be dead. I want to taunt her and point out that I’m not that easy to kill, but I resist. I keep my voice low and try to stay calm so I can reason with her. ‘Please, Fiona, give me Seb.’
‘You are not getting him,’ she spits. ‘You can’t always have your own way. You can’t always have everything.’
‘OK, not for me. Think of Mark and Oli,’ I plead. ‘It’s dangerous out here. You won’t make it to France. And even if you do, what then? The authorities will be waiting for you. It would be better if you give up now.’
Our boats are very close. While I’ve been talking and holding her focus, Kenneth has quietly edged towards her. We are now near enough that I can see the shape of Seb’s body on the floor. He’s covered by a blanket and not moving. The sight catapults any sense of calm I was trying to cling to far out of reach.
‘Oh my God. Seb! My God, Seb!’ I yell. ‘What have you done to him?’ I lurch forward, ready to leap into her boat and snatch him out of her grasp.
I feel the impact before I understand what has happened. While I was caught up in the horror of seeing Seb’s still and lifeless body, Fiona jumped to start her engine again. Wham. The sound is loud and echoes through this empty expanse. Changing everything. She has rammed her boat against ours. I don’t know if her act is one of thoughtless frustration, malice or desperation, but it’s ill-considered, as she’s risked both boats.
It is the longest moment of my life. The two small craft seem to jump into the air, nose to nose. Fiona’s boat flips, ours lurches. I am knocked off my feet, as is Kenneth. As I slam into the side of the boat, I see him fall forwards over the stern, slip over the edge into the water. I reach for him, but roll backwards, further from him. Dizzy, I quickly scrabble to right myself. My head is bleeding, or maybe just wet. It’s not clear. It doesn’t matter.
Fiona’s boat is smaller than ours, and her stupid act of aggression has backfired. I watch as Seb is flung out of the boat and up into the air. Up, up, too high, he flies, as though he is bouncing on a trampoline. I expect him to react, to move, to dive. He doesn’t. He soars in an arc and then drops like a stone. He splashes into the sea and is swallowed. He doesn’t gasp and start to swim as I know he can. He doesn’t push up to the surface. He simply sinks down. I watch in horror as his head disappears, then his hand. Then there is nothing. Nothing.
I yank off my life jacket and immediately leap in after him. With the jacket, I wouldn’t be able to follow him underwater. I dive down. The water is black and freezing. I gasp. My instinct is to push back up to the top. I remember the nightmares about drowning that have haunted me these past months; nightmares that I now know are memories. Everything is blurred and blunted. Once again my clothes are heavy and bloated. I kick hard, but this time I need to go deeper and not head for the surface. My lungs scream in protest; survival instincts instruct my body that this is counter-intuitive, but maternal instincts rule my heart and soul, and there isn’t a moment’s hesitation.
It’s hard to see anything underwater. I’ve always been the sort of person who closes their eyes when swimming below the surface, and it feels unnatural prising them open, but how else will I find him? Something floats down next to me, and for one glorious fleeting second I think I have him, but as I reach out and grab at the object, I realise it’s just a rucksack. I panic and gasp, take in water. I swim up to the surface, coughing and spluttering. I fill my lungs once again. I hear Fiona and Kenneth shouting. I don’t care, I don’t listen to what they have to say. I have one job. I dive down again.
Then, I see him. Drifting, unconscious. I stretch towards him, propel my body in his direction; my fingers briefly touch his hoodie. With every ounce of physical and mental strength I have, I reach to grab him and haul him upwards with me. Kicking and spluttering I break the surface for a second time. I hold Seb’s head above water and half swimming, half drowning, drag his limp body back towards the boat. Suddenly Kenneth is next to me. He takes part of Seb’s weight from me, and somehow, between us, we manage to manhandle him back onto the boat. Kenneth shoves me from behind so that I can get a purchase to clamber on board too. I turn and hold out my hand to him.
‘See to the boy,’ he instructs.
I take hold of Seb’s shoulders and vigorously shake him to see if I can rouse him. Nothing. So I lie him on his back and tilt his chin and head to help clear his airway. I lean over him and place my cheek near his mouth, hoping with every fibre of my soul to feel his breath. Nothing. I look along his chest, longing to see it rise and fall. Nothing. I pinch his nose, and keeping his head tilted back, I breathe into his mouth. I do this five times. Still nothing. I put both hands together, one on top of the other, and firmly push down right in the centre of his chest. I press and I pray.
59
DC Clements
‘There they are, over there, to the right.’
Of course it is bloody action hero Daan who spots the boats first. It’s a good job Tanner isn’t on the chopper; he’d be very narked. Clements is just so bloody relieved. ‘Can you get lower?’ she asks the pilot. Her stomach is in her mouth as the helicopter immediately drops. She doesn’t acknowledge the lurch; at least the pilot recognises her authority. The sea below quakes in response to the gusts made by the whirling propeller, although the water is already agitated, because there has been an incident between the craft. That much is obvious; one boat is upturned.
‘Whose boat has flipped?’ asks Daan, obviously alarmed. None of us know.
The light is beginning to fade, but the helicopter is equipped with search beams. Clements quickly assesses the scene. She needs a count of four. One child, two women, one old man. ‘Someone is in the sea,’ she reports.
‘Is it Kai?’ Daan demands.
The DC sort of likes it that he can’t keep his cool, that he shows how much he cares. She must keep her cool, though. That’s her job. ‘It’s a woman,’ she confirms.
They watch as the woman tries to right the upturned boat. She makes a number of attempts; again and again she heaves and strives, but to no avail: the boat slaps back onto the water, still the wrong way up. She must hear the helicopter approach, but this doesn’t seem to reassure her as Clements would expect. She seems more frantic, not less, and starts to swim away from the boat. An irrational move.
‘Fiona,’ says the DC with a sigh. ‘She can’t think she’s going to outswim us when we’re in a helicopter, can she?’ She watches the woman flail about in the sea. A woman who fell into hate and horror, self-righteousness and entitlement. She’s seen so many criminals who’ve basically stamped their feet at the world and yelled it’s not fair, then tried to make it fair by stealing, fighting, cheating or killing. Idiots.
‘Where’s Seb? Where’s Kai?’ Daan demands.
‘Are they in the other boat?’ suggests the DC, pointing to the second boat, which is drifting further from the upturned craft.
‘Get more light on the other boat!’ Daan yells.
The pilot turns the chopper to shine the search beam into the second craft. There is a woman crouched in the hull, but she doesn’t look up and start signalling to them; instead she is focusing all her energy on something underneath her.
‘That’s her, isn’t it?’ Clements can’t believe she is finally clapping eyes on the infamous, elusive Kylie Gillingham. Her heart lifts for a fraction of a second, and then plummets. ‘She’s trying to revive him.’
‘Who, Seb?’
She nods sadly.
‘Let down the rope ladder,’ Daan instructs.
‘Are you going to shimmy down, then fling them both over your shoulders and climb back up again?’ Clements asks with a note of sarcastic incredulity.
‘If I have to,’ he says firmly, his mouth set.
60
Daan
He’s seen this stuff in movies, but now he’s discovering that it’s a lot harder in real life than they make it look. It’s terrifying. Not because of the sway of the lightweight rope ladder, or the thunderous roar of the propellers, or even the fact that the stable webbing of the ladder, designed to aid climbing, is slick with spray from the waves and therefore hideously perilous – it’s terrifying because he might not succeed. He might not save the child’s life, or his wife’s life, and that thought is horrific.
He has spoken to her. Well, yelled instructions, gestured for her to climb the ladder, but Kai has refused to leave Seb in the boat alone. She can’t carry him; she’s not strong enough. He knows that the DC was being sarcastic when she suggested he fling one of them over each shoulder, but he was totally serious: he’ll do anything he has to. Everything he can. Obviously he can’t carry them both at once, but he descends the ladder with the intention of persuading Kai to ascend first if he follows with Seb.
Their reunion is a strangely sharp, practical exchange. He tells her that the pilot assured him that the ladder is designed so that just about anyone with any ability can use it to ascend or descend from a helicopter.
‘I’m not scared of climbing the ladder, Daan. I’m just not going to leave him alone. You carry him up first and I’ll follow when I know he’s safe. We have to get him to safety. He has to be OK.’
Daan doesn’t argue with that.
61
Mark
The nurses like Mark; he can sense as much and he basks in it. It’s nice to feel approved of, after everything. Considering everything. They have been so gentle and sympathetic towards him this past week as he’s sat on the skinny hardback chair by Seb’s bedside, surrounded by tubes, trolleys and a faint smell of disinfectant. He tried to be self-contained and self-controlled as Seb lay unconscious because of the near-fatal amount of drugs Fiona had administered and suffering from hypothermia, as well as the effects of nearly drowning. He never once gave in to hysteria or depression. He held his son’s hand and silently and sincerely put all his energy into willing him to get better, as well as reassuring Oli that that would happen. He listened to his child’s breath rasp and lumber through his small chest, his skin waxy, the same colour as the bedsheets, his eyes closed. Mark was oblivious to the other sounds of the hospital: a nurse’s feet clip-clopping along the corridor; an orderly talking to a patient in a squeaking wheelchair; the teen girl in the bed opposite occasionally laughing at the podcast she was listening to. He was deaf to everything other than the ping and hum of Seb’s machines. He didn’t allow himself to roar, or blame, or catastrophise. He simply hoped.
And it worked. Seb is on the mend; he will make a full recovery. He will be going home soon. He’ll be back to shouting excitedly at his video game kills, moaning that Mark’s cooking is pretty awful, and leaving muddy football boots in the kitchen. Mark can’t wait; he’s never been happier. He finds himself being boisterous and playful; after months of feeling doomed and depressed, he luxuriates in feeling effortlessly up. One or two of the nurses have commented that he’s nice to have around, that he lifts the mood of the ward, cheers up the other sick kids. He’s talked to the teenage girl about her podcast now, as has Oli, at length. It seems Oli quite fancies her, which Seb is delighted by, as he considers himself an official matchmaker.
‘It isn’t always easy for parents to shake off their kids’ ill health, even after they’ve been lucky and recovered,’ comments his favourite nurse, Dawn. ‘Many are left with heightened anxiety. You are doing really well.’
‘Life is for living. I’m not going to waste another moment,’ replies Mark.
The nurses don’t like Leigh much, though. That’s apparent. Mark has seen the faces they pull when she calls the ward to ask how Seb is. She isn’t here at his bedside as much as he is, although that’s not her fault. Due to COVID rules, they only allow one visitor in at a time. He and Oli take the lion’s share of the available slots, naturally. Anyway, she has spent a fair amount of this past week answering police questions, giving statements, explaining where she’s been these last few months.
