Water Born by Rachel Ward Page B

on the stairs. I open my eyes. It takes me a minute to work out where I am. The light is still on above me, and there’s a piece of paper on the floor next to me. Not just any piece of paper. I snatch it up and stuff it under my T-shirt, with the end tucked into the top of my knickers. I cross my arms and Misty hops off the sofa, as the door opens and Mum comes in. Neisha.
    â€˜Nic? She’s in here, Clarke. What are you doing down here, and why’s the dog here? What was she doing on the sofa?’
    â€˜I . . . I couldn’t sleep. It was a bit cooler down here. I must have fallen asleep.’
    â€˜You’ll be late for training if you’re not careful.’
    Training. Right.
    I swing my legs on to the floor and, keeping my arms crossed, scuttle out of the room and up the stairs. I put the certificate in my school bag. I’ll find Milton after school, chew it over with him.

FOURTEEN
    H ave you seen this? It’s all over the internet .
    The message from Milton flashes up on my phone when I switch on as I’m coming out of school.
    I click on the link and stare at the screen. It’s a thread on some sort of forum. I try to take in the words.
    The thread’s been started by someone called kingsleighlad, who posts: Too many deaths by drowning in 2030 to be accidental. There’s evil out there. Evil in the water. Stay away from ponds, pools, tanks, lakes. Stay safe. Keep your daughters where you can see them. Don’t let them be next. #evilinthewater
    There are thirty or more replies. Some arguing about the pleasures of wild swimming and linking to swimming sites, others picking up on the paranoid vibe:
    Water’s gonna get you .
    only swim with friends in broad daylight
    I never drink water, dude. Beer’s much safer .
    Kingsleighlad pops up again, responding to some of the comments and adding a link.
    Don’t believe me? Check this out .
    I click on it and it’s a chart listing names, dates, deaths. A chart called Drowning Girls .
    Dad. It’s got to be.
    I go through the other links Milton’s sent. They’re all the same sort of thing. Warnings posted up in as many places as Dad could find.
    I message Milton back.
    Can I come over?
    Yeah, course. Right now?
    I’ll call in at home first. Twenty mins .
    I check in. Dad’s in the kitchen, pouring his madness into the internet. He closes his laptop as he hears me approaching along the hall, and looks over his shoulder.
    â€˜All right, Princess?’ The casual tone rings so false now, it’s laughable. How can I be all right, with a dad who’s hidden his identity from me for years, whose every waking minute is taken up with a weird obsession that he’s now sharing with the world . . .
    â€˜Yeah, I’m just going out, Dad.’
    â€˜Out?’ He looks at his watch.
    â€˜There’s no training tonight, remember? I’m only popping down the road. To Milton’s.’
    â€˜Look, if he’s bothering you, I can have a word.’
    â€˜He isn’t. I asked to go and see him. It’s a homework thing. He did the same topic last year.’
    â€˜Oh. Okay. Have you got your phone?’
    â€˜It’s two doors down, Dad, but, yes, I’ve got my phone.’
    I’m halfway down the hall when he calls out, ‘And don’t drink the water there, okay? Have you got your bottle?’
    â€˜Got it!’ I shout back and I’m out of the door before he can check anything else. Clean underwear? Hanky? Some emergency money?
    It’s still blisteringly hot outside.
    I ring the doorbell at number 12. After a brief pause, Milton opens up and invites me in. The house is dark and stifling. I can hardly make out where to tread as my eyes try to adjust to the difference. All the curtains are drawn, cutting out most of the daylight, but there’s a blue-white glow of a TV coming from the front room doorway.
    â€˜Mum’s in there,’ Milton