Free The Drowning by Rachel Ward Page A

mouth a grotesque scar across his pale face.
    “For God’s sake, go away. Leave me alone!”
    I’m shouting at something, someone, that doesn’t exist … Or does he?
    Saliva floods into my mouth and I can’t hold on any longer. I tip sideways and vomit into the flower bed. Cold water, again, with the same sour rankness as before. I spit and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, then I pick myself up and start walking. I keep my eyes firmly down.
    The rain’s still coming, but I don’t even feel it. I’m numb.

T here’s one word in my head.
    Evil.
    I don’t want to believe Neisha, but why would she lie? She’s terrified. I terrify her.
    Neisha thinks I’m evil. And I don’t know any different. There’s only one other person who could tell me if she’s right.
    The rain trickles down my face and I shiver. I look around for Rob, but for the moment I can’t see him.
    I stumble on, hardly noticing where I walk, ending up in the town center, rain bouncing in the gutters. Nearly all the shops are closed. People are hurrying home. I scan the street. He was here before. I didn’t know it was him then, but it must have been. Darting in front of me. Ducking into the doorway.
    So where is he?
    I walk past the shops and turn into the square of old people’s bungalows. There’s no one around here. Doors are closed. Curtains are shut.
    And now I see him. He’s pacing backward and forward in the middle of the path.
    My stomach lurches. There’s something sickeningly edgy about him, like he’s full of a demonic power. Backward andforward, like a tiger in a zoo. He’s muttering to himself, but I can’t hear the words.
    He turns his face to me.
    “Did we do it? Did we try to kill her?” I shout.
    Now I hear him.
    Kill her. Kill her.
    Is he repeating what I’ve said, or talking to himself? What’s going on?
    The rain spit-spots on my face. The smudges where Rob’s eyes should be narrow. Two dark slits. Soundlessly, he walks toward me, face looming up to mine. Close, closer, closer still. I back away but he’s faster. I stagger into a doorway, banging my head back on the wood behind. He’s coming. I can’t stop him.
    At the last moment I flinch and close my eyes, anticipating the crunch as he smashes into me … but feel nothing except an ice-cold draft cutting through me, penetrating my bones.
    “Jesus!”
    I open my eyes, and he’s gone.
    I look all the way down the road. No one. An empty street, tarmac glistening in the streetlight.
    “Rob!” I shout out. “I need to know!”
    But he’s gone. Suddenly the door I’m leaning on gives way and there’s a guy standing there, clasping a poker like a sword. He’s an old fella, wearing a checked shirt tucked into impressively high-waisted trousers held up with leather suspenders. There are slippers on his feet.
    “Clear off!” he says. “Get out of here!” Then he stops. “Oh, it’s you, Carl.”
    He lowers the poker. He knows me. I’m racking my brains trying to think how. What’s the connection? The paint on the door isn’t wet — the porch has protected it — but it’s shiny in the streetlight. Why am I remembering the strong, oily smell of gloss paint?
    “How’s your mum coping? Worst thing a mother can go through, losing a kid.”
    The air coming out from the open door is warm and stuffy. I shiver.
    “What’s happened to your face, son?”
    “Some lads jumped me,” I say. I hear him sigh.
    “Fighting?” he says. “Don’t you think your poor mother’s got enough to deal with right now?”
    I look at him then, and he sighs again.
    “Come on in, son. You need to clean up that cut.” He nods toward my face. I put my hand up and suck in my breath as my fingers touch a graze on my cheek that I didn’t even know was there.
    “Nah, I’ll do it at home. No worries.”
    “Come on, I owe you for that work you did in the summer. You did a good job of my front door.”
    “I did?”
    “Huh” — he chuckles — “I thought I was the one with the