Free Submersion by Guy A Johnson Page A

in place of gardens. At my house and at my aunt’s, we had simply lost our gardens to the river.
    Old Man Merlin peeled off the lid and revealed inside the corpse of a rat. Dead, it looked smaller, its long tail curled underneath its body. Whilst Merlin had placed it carefully in the plastic coffin, the cause of death was clear to see – it had been bitten in two, its head torn from the body.
    ‘Why would someone do that?’ I asked.
    ‘ What would do it, is the right question, boy,’ Merlin responded, putting the lid back on quickly, lest the small creature escape. ‘You must take this to Tristan, you understand? Tristan. No one else, just him. Is he home today?’
    ‘He should be, yes, he should be by now,’ I answered, suddenly caught up in Merlin’s urgency, sensing a little fear creep under my skin; a fear I also sensed in the old man’s voice.
    ‘Then take it to him now, and tell him where I found it. He’ll know what to do. But only him. Is that clear?’
    Yes, I told him. It was very clear.
    ‘Good, on your way then.’
    But it didn’t happen quite like that.
    When I reached my aunt’s, Tristan wasn’t there to start with. He was out with Jessie again – Mother’s words, finding as much disapproval in his absence as she did in his presence. This was quickly followed by: And what have you got there?
    I had placed the plastic box containing the rat on floor whilst I’d removed my mask and outdoor garments.
    ‘It’s for Tristan,’ I began, but she was onto to it before I had a chance to stop her. Not that you could really stop Mother doing anything, once she put her mind to something.
    Whilst Mother was disturbed and cross with what I had brought across the threshold – a threshold she had been scrubbing and polishing for the last three days with ceaseless vigour – it was Aunt Agnes’ limitless fury that shattered us. She wanted us all gone! All of us! She was sick of the interference, suffocated by having so many people milling around her. And this! she had hissed, pointing at the rat, this! Do you think I need to be reminded of death? You stupid, stupid child!
    In the midst of my mother’s packing, my aunt’s fury and my slow tears, ignored by everyone, Tristan finally returned and restored some calm. My aunt still wanted us all gone – including him – but Tristan helped reduce the sting her words and anger had unleashed. He did simple things – helped Mother with her bags, put the lid on the plastic box and took it from our sight, reassured Aunt Agnes that everyone understood and would comply with her wishes. And, whilst he instructed me to stop crying and help my mother, he took a moment to dry my tears with a rag from his pocket.
    Within an hour, it was over. Mother and I were back in our boat, with my great-aunt and -uncle following behind, rowing ourselves along the two streets until we reached our home again.
    Tristan was the last to leave, the gatekeeper of Aunt Agnes’ demands, ensuring we all kept to our word. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a mask, and I asked Mother why.
    ‘Because he’s a fool,’ she had replied.
    I also noticed he had the rat box in one of his hands.
    ‘I’ll just be next door,’ he called back to my aunt, closing her door.
    Then, he hopped from Aunt Agnes’ doorstep to Papa Harold’s, inside the old hermit’s house in seconds.
     
    It was a while before I went back to Old Man Merlin’s. He had set me the simplest of errands and I had failed. I feared his disappointment; maybe I had lost his respect, his trust. Mother visited Aunt Agnes, as did my great-aunt, but I was left at home. We don’t want a repeat of that business, Mother had scolded. Your aunt could do without that, clearly.
    But something drew us all back one day, a month after Elinor had first gone missing: the prospect of a memorial service for Elinor. It wasn’t something my aunt had requested or suggested in any way, I’m certain. No, Mother and Great-Aunt Penny had conspired to