the gloom, heading straight for us.
Neisha turns her head to face me. “What is it?” she says.
The shape is human. It’s only half there, but I know who it is. And he’s angry. Really angry.
“Run!” I shout. “Quick, back to the flat!”
I start to drag Neisha back along the walkway. I’ve got to get her inside.
She’s screaming, “What’s going on? What is it?”
We blast in through the front door, staggering into the hall. Mum’s not there anymore. I grab a dish towel from the kitchen and rub my hair, my face.
“It’s the rain. The rain …”
I hold the towel out to Neisha. She’s hovering by the open door, wide-eyed. Rob isn’t there. He hasn’t followed us in. We’re safe.
“No, it’s all right,” she says. “I hardly got wet. What’s wrong? You’re frightening me.”
What’s wrong? What is wrong? She doesn’t know; she can’t see what I see. I think I know what’s going on now, but I need to be sure before I tell — if …
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just jumpy about rain, ever since … you know.”
“Stay in, then. Stay here. I’ll be all right.”
“Well, at least take an umbrella. Don’t get wet, Neisha.” I can’t believe I’m letting her go out alone.
She squints her eyes a little, like she’s going to ask me something else, then she decides against it. “Calm down, I’ve got one,” she says, patting her shoulder bag. “Will you ring me later?”
“Yeah. I will.” I need to know she gets home safe.
“You’ve got … you’ve got his phone? It confused me when you rang the first time, it —”
“Yeah, I can’t find mine. Maybe it’s at the bottom of the lake.”
She’s coloring up and then I do, too. I can feel the blood surging into my face as I think of the photos. The photos of her.
She looks like she wants to say something more, but then she bites her lip, mutters, “Later, then.” And she slips out of the flat. I hear her walking away, her boots slapping on the wet concrete. I close the door and lean against it for a minute or two, trying to catch my breath, trying to get the kaleidoscope of voices and pictures in my head to settle into some sort of pattern. Something that makes sense.
What Neisha’s told me has stunned me. I should be with her — there’s so much I want to ask. But she’s right: I need to talk to Mum.
“Mum? Where are you?”
“I’m in here.” Her voice is dull, a monotone. She’s in the living room, sitting on the sofa.
The magazines are on the coffee table. She’s got something else in her hands now — the old school photo, me and Rob in matching shirts and ties and slicked-down hair. She’s muttering under her breath — I can only just catch what she says.
“So young. So young …”
Her son, dead at seventeen. And I killed him.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t seem to have heard me.
“… You think it just goes over their heads, but it doesn’t. They take it in, even when they’re tots. I should’ve got out earlier. Left the bastard. I never thought … never thought …”
She puts the photo down and now she’s clasping her hands together, rubbing the end of her short finger with her thumb.
“Mum … ?”
She looks up, sees me framed in the doorway.
“Rob?” she says. “Oh, Rob, what have you done?” She struggles to her feet and steps toward me, frowning, shielding her eyes.
“No, Mum, it’s me. Carl.”
I move toward her and we meet in the middle of the room.
“Carl,” she says, like she’s trying to remember. “Carl.” Then her face clears. “Carl,” she says. She takes both my hands in hers, and now it feels like she’s back with me. “Has the girl gone?” She looks past me, into the hall.
“Yes, she’s gone home. How much did you hear?” I ask.
She looks at me, brimming over with confusion.
“Enough,” she says.
“Are you going to turn me in? Are you going to tell anyone? The police?”
“What for?” she says.
“You know what
Neisha turns her head to face me. “What is it?” she says.
The shape is human. It’s only half there, but I know who it is. And he’s angry. Really angry.
“Run!” I shout. “Quick, back to the flat!”
I start to drag Neisha back along the walkway. I’ve got to get her inside.
She’s screaming, “What’s going on? What is it?”
We blast in through the front door, staggering into the hall. Mum’s not there anymore. I grab a dish towel from the kitchen and rub my hair, my face.
“It’s the rain. The rain …”
I hold the towel out to Neisha. She’s hovering by the open door, wide-eyed. Rob isn’t there. He hasn’t followed us in. We’re safe.
“No, it’s all right,” she says. “I hardly got wet. What’s wrong? You’re frightening me.”
What’s wrong? What is wrong? She doesn’t know; she can’t see what I see. I think I know what’s going on now, but I need to be sure before I tell — if …
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just jumpy about rain, ever since … you know.”
“Stay in, then. Stay here. I’ll be all right.”
“Well, at least take an umbrella. Don’t get wet, Neisha.” I can’t believe I’m letting her go out alone.
She squints her eyes a little, like she’s going to ask me something else, then she decides against it. “Calm down, I’ve got one,” she says, patting her shoulder bag. “Will you ring me later?”
“Yeah. I will.” I need to know she gets home safe.
“You’ve got … you’ve got his phone? It confused me when you rang the first time, it —”
“Yeah, I can’t find mine. Maybe it’s at the bottom of the lake.”
She’s coloring up and then I do, too. I can feel the blood surging into my face as I think of the photos. The photos of her.
She looks like she wants to say something more, but then she bites her lip, mutters, “Later, then.” And she slips out of the flat. I hear her walking away, her boots slapping on the wet concrete. I close the door and lean against it for a minute or two, trying to catch my breath, trying to get the kaleidoscope of voices and pictures in my head to settle into some sort of pattern. Something that makes sense.
What Neisha’s told me has stunned me. I should be with her — there’s so much I want to ask. But she’s right: I need to talk to Mum.
“Mum? Where are you?”
“I’m in here.” Her voice is dull, a monotone. She’s in the living room, sitting on the sofa.
The magazines are on the coffee table. She’s got something else in her hands now — the old school photo, me and Rob in matching shirts and ties and slicked-down hair. She’s muttering under her breath — I can only just catch what she says.
“So young. So young …”
Her son, dead at seventeen. And I killed him.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t seem to have heard me.
“… You think it just goes over their heads, but it doesn’t. They take it in, even when they’re tots. I should’ve got out earlier. Left the bastard. I never thought … never thought …”
She puts the photo down and now she’s clasping her hands together, rubbing the end of her short finger with her thumb.
“Mum … ?”
She looks up, sees me framed in the doorway.
“Rob?” she says. “Oh, Rob, what have you done?” She struggles to her feet and steps toward me, frowning, shielding her eyes.
“No, Mum, it’s me. Carl.”
I move toward her and we meet in the middle of the room.
“Carl,” she says, like she’s trying to remember. “Carl.” Then her face clears. “Carl,” she says. She takes both my hands in hers, and now it feels like she’s back with me. “Has the girl gone?” She looks past me, into the hall.
“Yes, she’s gone home. How much did you hear?” I ask.
She looks at me, brimming over with confusion.
“Enough,” she says.
“Are you going to turn me in? Are you going to tell anyone? The police?”
“What for?” she says.
“You know what
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