Free The Drowning by Rachel Ward Page B

spotty memory. I’m Harry, remember? The school sent you. You and your mates. Community service or something — Idon’t know what they call it — but you were a big help to me. I can’t do the things I used to, you know.”
    It’s not quite there, but the memory’s not far away, either. I stand in the doorway while he turns away, heading inside.
    In the hall facing the door are two rows of coat hooks, a dog leash and a collar hanging on the lower row. My hands reach forward, picking up the collar off the hook, turning it around in my hands, and my mind spins back to a dark night, a bungalow that we thought was empty.
    We don’t even have to break in — the back door isn’t locked. Rob’s in front of me. I can hear barking.
    “Winston?” A woman’s voice.
    “Rob, get out! Get out now!”
    It was here. This was the bungalow. The dog that barked — this was his collar.
    “Close the door behind you,” Harry says, reappearing from the kitchen at the back. He stops as he sees me with the collar in my hands. “Put that back, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me do what he says, quick.
    “I’m … I’m sorry.”
    He keeps looking at me, and I’m starting to sweat. I can feel a confession trying to elbow its way out of me.
    “I … I …”
    “All right, son,” he says. “Don’t touch it again, that’s all. It’s not yours. Have you still got that book I gave you?”
    “Book?”
    “ Of Mice and Men , wasn’t it? That’s a good one. I loved that book when I was your age.”
    I breathe out. So it was him. In a flash of memory I remember being here before, seeing it on his shelf, picking it up because we were studying it at school. I told him someone had nicked mine and he said, “You can have that one. I don’t need it anymore.”
    I couldn’t believe someone would just give me something like that.
    “Yeah,” I say, “I’ve still got it. I love it, too.”
    He smiles and I wish I could smile back, but this is cutting me in two, because of that other time, the time Rob and me came back here.
    “Now, come into the light, in the kitchen,” he says. “I’ll be able to see that scrape better.”
    Not the kitchen. Not where …
    “Come on,” he says, “don’t just stand there.”
    He shuffles down the hallway. I could cut and run now, but I don’t. He’s got his back to me, rummaging in a cupboard. I stand just outside the doorway scanning the floor. What did I expect? Two painted outlines highlighting where the bodies lay, a woman and a dog? The rotting remains still in a heap? There’s nothing here. No marks, no dents, no smears, no spatters. It’s linoleum, pretending to be black and white tiles.
    “Come in,” he says, “I won’t bite.”
    His voice is drowned out by the voice of his wife in my head. “You bastard. You thieving, cowardly bastard.”
    “I should go,” I say.
    “Yes, all right. After I’ve fixed you up a bit. Come here.” He beckons me toward him. “Get under this light.”
    I move forward until I’m standing on the exact spot where the dog was lying. It feels like the floor is moving underneath my feet, like there’s a paw or an ear or something trapped under there. I shift a little bit to the side.
    “Here, stop moving about. Stand still.”
    He’s close now, and the smell of his minty breath mixes with the sharp tang of the disinfectant that’s soaking the cotton ball in his hands. He brings it up toward me. Close up, I can see all the wear and tear in his skin, the way the whites of his eyes aren’t white but yellow. I close my eyes and flinch as the rubbing alcohol makes contact with my raw cut.
    “All right,” he says. “Nearly done. There, you can open your eyes now. I’m finished. Do you want a cup of tea?”
    I should go. I shouldn’t be here. Despite this, I nod.
    “Go and sit down in the lounge, son.”
    I walk through. It’s tiny, neat and tidy … and familiar. A patterned carpet. Wood paneling on the