The Art of Drowning, page 1
The Art of Drowning
Frances Fyfield
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
About the Author
Also by Frances Fyfield
Copyright
About the Publisher
Dedication
For Robert Acton
Acknowledgments
With thanks to Ken, for showing me a farm quite different from the one of my childhood, and the one in this book. All mistakes are my own.
PROLOGUE
Someone wants to kill me.
It was the first time he had got this far, and he toyed with it in a thoughtful way, because he had reached this conclusion logically. Carl was always thoughtful. He only wrote something down when it was true. SOMEONE WANTS TO KILL ME.
He looked at the words he had typed on the screen, typed instead, SOMEONE WISHES I WAS DEAD. This did not have the same impact. Wish was different to want. Wishes were easier to misplace; they could be substituted by instance, by another wish, like saying to a child, you cannot have that sweet, but you can have this piece of chocolate instead. The more assertive words still sounded louder in the silence of his room. He made a correction.
SOMEBODY wants to kill me.
He shivered, typed in, How do you know? And then his own answer, Perfectly obvious. Then, Why? He sat back.
Because he could feel it. Because someone had invaded his sacrosanct office space two miles from the safety of here, accessed his computer to send him the image which sat on his desk now in printed form. A black-and-white drawing of a hanged man on a gibbet, suspended over water with his feet kicking and his hands clawing at the rope round his neck, embellished with a crudely written caption, Even the judge is judged.
He knew someone wished him dead, because of that, because of the car and the rubbish. Because of the violence which was out there all the time, the formless desire to kill. None of that, not even the image, was nearly enough to threaten the composure of someone who lived as he did in an apartment overlooking the Thames at Canary Wharf. It defied logic to be afraid. He did not have enough money to attract pointless murder, or a sufficiently great profile to woo his own terrorist, no known affiliations to any cause or religion which excited extremes, nor enough power to excite envy. He was no more or less than an Englishman of mixed heritage who had done rather well. Not popular, yes, but that went with his territory. The weekly threats of the present and the recent past were all merely verbal and spontaneous, as harmless as shaking a fist at a passing train.
Somebody wants to kill me
He looked at the image of the hanged man, questioned it as if it could speak. Why do you want me dead, since there is nothing to survive me which is of any use to you? I have nothing to treasure except the son who does not resemble me, and once he is older, he will be free. Someone will profit from my premature death, but no one who would do this, and surely him least of all. Who wants me to feel this malice, creeping up from the river like a mist? I am not worth kidnap, let alone murder.
Who am I? he typed in, along with his own answer, It doesn’t matter. And alongside that, So, it’s only a feeling that someone wishes you were dead? Only a feeling?
Feelings are ephemeral. There are only passions. No one tried to push you under the train; it was crowded; we all pushed one another. There are thousands of blonde women in this city. You did not see her. Someone is playing jokes on you and your boy. You are maudlin and overimaginative because today is the tenth anniversary of your disgrace, and you are dreaming of what she would be like now.
Anniversaries have that effect.
So that was that, then. The past was past, the future what it would be, and the screen was full of the gobbledegook of legal text. He closed it down, and found the photographs long since scanned into the memory of the machine, etched into his own. He needed to dwell on them to gain perspective, to honour the dead, consult his conscience and be made humble. Mourn.
Ten years ago, and it felt like yesterday. Vivid snapshots, glowing with summer. The first one showed an aerial overview of the landscape, crisscrossed with narrow roads leading to distant huddles of buildings, which looked insignificant against the rest. There was one such huddle in the foreground, nearest to the pale patch which was the lake. The buildings seemed small and colourless against the vast expanse of gold-and-green fields, and the broad, dark bands of trees which littered the scene into the distance, the real landmarks. The lake was shrouded by trees on one side. A track led into these woods. The view encompassed miles, to where the land petered out into a blue line of sea at the top of the picture.
He went on to the next. This featured the lake itself, looking larger once in focus, the vehicles parked by the edge like tiny toys. A large piece of still water, reflecting the sun from a slate-grey surface, showing a spit of brown land protruding into the grey and another track leading away from it. The next shot was earthbound, taken from the edge of the lake, as if the camera had closed in. A lyrical picture of a hot summer day, with the trees on the far side reflecting vivid greens into the mirror of the water, through which four majestic swans – two adults followed by two cygnets – swam in a military line, leaving an elegant ripple in their combined wake. Grey summer willows encroached in the water, and a paler object drifted beneath, attached to the bank, blurred by sunlight and reflection.
The camera changed tack for the next shot, taken from behind the posse of men standing around the object, but leaving a clear view of the white body, sprawled on the bank, feet still in the water. Then a shot of the head and neck of a yellow-haired girl, beautiful in sleep, half-profile, with sandy eyebrows and soft down on her cheek, the calm loveliness of her marred only by the livid patches of red on her chin, the watery blood which had seeped from her nose into her mouth, staining her lips a deeper red, and the mark on her neck. Death by drowning had not otherwise disfigured her. She was still his daughter, before the brutality of a postmortem changed her.
He had wanted to see how that was done, indeed, had wanted at the time to supervise it. He had wanted no one to touch his daughter’s body but himself. If she was to be brutalised by the scalpel of some forensic surgeon, he wanted to be there, guiding his hand, making sure they did not play her false. But there is no property in a body; it belongs to no one. He had no rights, and in the end he was glad he had not seen. Better not to know what was done. They had mended her nicely for her cremation and arranged her golden hair to hide the missing portion of skin they had excised from her neck. He had asked for this to be returned to him. Reluctantly, they had done so. He never told anyone about that. He kept it, like others keep a relic, a small piece of skin desiccated into hard brown leather, in a box, somewhere.
Carl played back the photographs to the beginning, pausing at the one of the swans in their regal progress, ignoring the body they sailed past. They were all dead now. Ten years ago he had been a good shot, even with such an old rifle. He turned away from the screen and wiped his eyes.
Then had nothing to do with now and anyone wanting him dead now, except to inflame his imagination and make him worry about the boy. The death of his ten-year-old daughter had been nothing but a freakish accident. The lake was not deep; she could move like an eel; the water had been her natural element as soon as she had learned to swim in the sea with her mother. Water babes, both of them. The problem had been that Cassie loved the water so much she would not come out, and her father could not make her obey orders from the bank. Nor could he have fetched her out, or even threatened it, because, to his deep and abiding chagrin, he could not swim.
The thought of this ridiculous omission in his otherwise comprehensive education made him ashamed, even now. Athletic on land, unable to swim, like any child of his striving back-street background, where any such knowledge was redundant. He had learned only to study, plus the other skills acquired on those summer days, such as the handling of a gun and the making of hay. There was something self-indulgent about immersing the body in water without any particular purpose. No one passed exams that way. But in the end it was this knack with the water and the love of it which gave them the power. It was the one thing she could do which he could not, and she flaunted it.
He looked out of the window, thinking what a terrible irony it was that he lived with this urban view of the water, and wondered why he had done it. Because it was desirable, good for the boy and therefore valuable. If someone wants me dead, all they would have to do is push me into deep water. I would sink like a stone and die. Maybe Cassie would want to watch me drown, as I watched her, poor brave child. Maybe it would be better to believe she had not died, but simply turned into another creature instead. That was what her mother believed.
The tyres of his car had been deflated whilst it had been parked in the u
And yet it was true. Somebody wanted him dead, or if not dead, suffering. His bones ached; that was how he knew. He could feel the eyes on him all the time, and that was how he knew. He could feel the knife in his chest, in his back, and the water closing over his head. That was how he knew.
There was a timid knock at the door of his apartment. He moved towards it without hurry, pausing to comb back his hair with his fingers. Then stopped abruptly. There was no reason to knock; there was a video screen to reveal any legitimate visitor, provided they pressed the bell, alienating security that he detested. Who the hell … The cleaner, the caretaker, the man about the car? There was a spyhole in the door; he was not going to stoop to looking through spyholes, so he opened the door, yelling ‘Yes!’
There was a pitter-patter of distant footsteps along the laminate floor of Level Five. The footsteps were light as mice and then grew silent.
A dead rat lay on the floor, so freshly dead there was bright blood in its nostrils.
He laughed with sheer relief.
He was not squeamish. He picked it up, as it was, shut the door behind him, marched across the floor, flung open the balcony door and hurled the rat overarm into the river beyond.
Judge not, he told himself, that you may not be judged.
He would have to do something, for the sake of his son, but the relief was enormous. He knew now who it was not.
Ivy would never, ever go anywhere near a rat.
His name was Joe, aged twenty-six. Worked in IT.
He had not really wanted to go for a drive to the sea, and had not even imagined the prospect of a swim in the dark after an evening in the pub, but the whole project was infectious. He was, after all, well and truly chilled out, buoyed up by night after night of good, loud company, and still illuminated by the entirely novel experience of five days in a farmhouse. Yup, that was him, city slicker living on a fucking farm for a week; wait till he told them at work. You bastards go snorkelling and deep-sea diving, he would tell them. I had a ball. Before this, he could scarcely manage a short cut across a park. Now he could walk for ever. The whole experience had worked better than he could ever have imagined. It had healed one of the rifts in his broken heart, and the ongoing welcome, the seductive sense of belonging, culminated in the last night. He really felt as if he belonged in that house, in the front room of this pub, with that family, and the girl who had walked out on him, cancelling the holiday for which this had been a last-minute substitution, would be jealous of that. Nothing like country air, and nothing as good as a real country pub. For a start, it was the men who ruled it. You could squeeze a girl’s tit and put your hand up her skirt, no one minded and everyone laughed.
Joe’s bags were packed, ready for the early start home in the morning. He was like that, considered a trifle anal about his clothes and personal possessions, always prepared, but for now he was no longer a man who merely read magazines about how to spend money, but an amusing devil, sitting in a pub with his new friends, drinking another, sneaking a spliff, and then someone suggested they drive to the sea for a swim. The sea was two horizons away, even if it was only a matter of miles. It had not featured in this glorious valley, and suddenly it seemed a great idea to include it. One last experience, hey? Another first, appropriate for this freakishly hot, humid early summer evening, a suddenly good adventure to cap all the others. The simplest things were best. He could not remember which of the group had made the suggestion, only that the word went round faster than a virus. Yeah, yeah, yeah, great: only take fifteen minutes on deserted back roads. And while he had been a wimp when confronted with horses and cows this week, as well as a bit of a weakling over a ten-mile walk, he knew he was a good swimmer, and this might be his chance to excel. He could do forty lengths in the pool near the office. All nannyish thoughts about swimming when pissed got shoved to the back of his mind. They’d helped him home before, these lads, earlier in the week, and anyway, he wasn’t drunk, he was intoxicated on atmosphere, with the cosy, hot pub room and the pressure of that arm alongside his on the table and the smoky air full of other perfumes and laughter. He had walked the ten miles and his blisters had healed; he had ridden a horse and the ache of that humiliation had faded. The one thing he had not done was swim. The one thing he was any good at.
It seemed like a real crowd in the bar, full of sweaty armpits. Hot. Shiny, smiling faces. Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow, someone said. It was him who said it, and it made them laugh. Over the week he had certainly developed a talent to amuse. They didn’t laugh at him; no way, only with him. He had been mothered and brothered and loved.
So, whoopee, transformed from an ordinary computer nerd into an amusing flirt and Action Man by the simple fact of a holiday, he found himself in a car, bumping down a track, with his companion giggling beside him and driving the thing at the same time. Never been skinny-dipping, my lovely, well, there’s nothing like it. You said you were a good swimmer, didn’t you? That I have to see. Yes, I could probably do a mile. And fast. All those things he used to do, and would do again, after this. Joe could see the headlights of the car behind theirs, good that the mob were tagging along, feeling utterly safe with this crowd. Yokels he would call them when he got back to London. He would poke fun at their thick, Kentish accents when he returned home and told the tales. The person at the wheel had strong brown arms, with light hair, tanned by the sun.
The bay was as promised, lit by moonlight, calmer than the lake he had merely glimpsed, and far more inviting. The warmth of the night and the calm of the sea were ripped by banshee yelling as the posse alighted and ran down on to the sand. He was not sure it was actually sand; it felt harsher than that, like ground shingle, but sweetly cool on the feet.
First one to the Point! See that bunch of rocks? Race you. See what kind of swimmer you are. Last one buys the drinks. First one gets a shag, later. You waiting for something, or do you want to give me a start?
He was waiting. He was suddenly scared, focusing on the rocks, spot-lit by the moon, listening to the smooth hiss of little waves, nibbling. A final shuffling-off of clothes, the lithe form next to him naked, the yelling of support, and all doubts vanished. He was going to be at the rocks first, he would, he would, he would. Someone overtook him on the way across the beach and crashed into the water first. Joe ran, following the track of foam-kicking heels. He would show them.
It was shockingly cold, until after a few strokes the memory of the first exhilaration of learning to swim came back with a force of delirious warmth and wonderful weightlessness. He was plump, but in here he was slim and forceful. He spat out the first, involuntary gulp of water, developed his best crawl stroke, deviated to the side of those teasing heels, revelling in the bracing salt, and swam furiously. It was not long before he had overtaken the first swimmer; in his mind’s eye he could hear the amazement of all who followed that he had gone so far, so fast. Forty strokes crawl, forty breaststroke, forty on the side, keep the rocks in sight, he would win, and when he came back they would all know he was the winner.
When he looked up, the rocks had moved. Everyone else was far behind.
The lone figure moving out of the gentle waves, back on the sand, paused for a little while to view his progress. Then picked up Joe’s clothes and went back to the car. The only car.
Oh Lord, look at him now, still ploughing out to those rocks. Only the current will have really and truly got him now, because it isn’t a bay, it’s a treacherous piece of coast, and you can swim for the Olympics and not have a chance of beating that, and the cold gets you sooner when you’re pissed, and you were waiting for me to catch up. Only I didn’t, having more sense than to go out of my depth here. So I’m going to drive your car back, with your bags already inside it, and tomorrow or the next day, since you told me so much about yourself, I reckon I’ve got time to put it outside your house in London.
