kept shouting his name, but I could hardly hear myself over the thunder of the waves that kept breaking just beyond us. We rose and fell, carried by the enormous energy below. I held him against my chest and he seemed weightless as I started backstroking towards the beach. He made no move, didnât resist but lay limp against my body. I knew it meant he was unconscious.
When my feet touched ground again, I stood and lifted him in my arms and waded through the water. When I reached dry sand I ran. I put him down and started working. His lips were cold and he lay still with his arms outstretched as they had fallen, but I could feel his heartbeat under my hands. I put my lips against his and continued to fill his lungs with my breath, until finally his chest contracted in a spasm and he drew a first rasping breath and coughed. I turned him on his side and watched as seawater poured from his mouth. I waited till it subsided, then turned him onto his back again and kneeled waiting for a moment, my hands resting on his chest. His eyes remained closed. When his breathing was even I wrapped him in my jacket, slung my camera over my shoulder, lifted him up and hurried back to my house.
I could hear myself weep and moan as I went.
Inside, I put him down on the sofa in the living room. He looked so small, much younger now with his eyes closed and his body limp, than in his normal active state. I hesitated a moment before I began to remove his wet clothes. From the early stages of our relationship I had instinctively realised he didnât like to be touched. Only a few times â when I had had to treat his hair for lice, or dress a cut â had I ever been allowed to touch him, and I had been very careful to make him understand that I respected his need for distance. He shied away from even the most casual touch.
But here I was gently pulling off his T-shirt and exposing his skinny chest. I could count the ribs. I pulled the shirt over his head and gently laid his head to rest on the cushion, then I stopped abruptly and my hands fell into my lap.
I looked down on the small child.
And I began to cry again. Unable to stop myself, I kept whispering under my breath, âNo, oh no.â I squeezed the balled-up T-shirt in my hands.
There were dark bruises underneath his arms, as if someone had lifted him violently. Around his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him. I bent forwards and gently turned him onto one side. There was a large dark bruise on the torso, over the kidney. And there were faint older bruises beside the fresh ones.
I had seen such bruises before, and I knew these had not happened in the sea. Nor were they a result of my resuscitation efforts. No, these were the marks of adult hands, an adult foot. Intentional abuse of the small body.
I stood up and went to fetch the camera. Turned on the floor-lamp by the sofa. My hands shook as I took off the lens cap. But as I lifted the camera a strange calmness filled me, and I carefully took all the pictures I knew I had to take. I had turned on the date feature, ensuring that all the pictures would be dated.
As soon as I finished and turned off the light I began to cry again. By now it was almost dark. I pulled the blanket up over him and watched his face. He looked peaceful and his breathing was calm. I was overcome by a strong impulse to put my lips against his forehead and whisper that all would be fine. That I would make it so. But all I did was run my finger slowly along the arm that rested on the blanket. His skin was dry and cool and crusted with salt. A shudder rocked my body and I realised I was very cold myself. I needed to change too, but I didnât want to leave him. I stood and lifted him in my arms, carried him into my bedroom and tucked him in. I watched him for a moment. He lay still, eyes closed. His hair had dried in spikes that stuck out from his head. Somehow the sight made me upset again. It was as if this added further to the look
When my feet touched ground again, I stood and lifted him in my arms and waded through the water. When I reached dry sand I ran. I put him down and started working. His lips were cold and he lay still with his arms outstretched as they had fallen, but I could feel his heartbeat under my hands. I put my lips against his and continued to fill his lungs with my breath, until finally his chest contracted in a spasm and he drew a first rasping breath and coughed. I turned him on his side and watched as seawater poured from his mouth. I waited till it subsided, then turned him onto his back again and kneeled waiting for a moment, my hands resting on his chest. His eyes remained closed. When his breathing was even I wrapped him in my jacket, slung my camera over my shoulder, lifted him up and hurried back to my house.
I could hear myself weep and moan as I went.
Inside, I put him down on the sofa in the living room. He looked so small, much younger now with his eyes closed and his body limp, than in his normal active state. I hesitated a moment before I began to remove his wet clothes. From the early stages of our relationship I had instinctively realised he didnât like to be touched. Only a few times â when I had had to treat his hair for lice, or dress a cut â had I ever been allowed to touch him, and I had been very careful to make him understand that I respected his need for distance. He shied away from even the most casual touch.
But here I was gently pulling off his T-shirt and exposing his skinny chest. I could count the ribs. I pulled the shirt over his head and gently laid his head to rest on the cushion, then I stopped abruptly and my hands fell into my lap.
I looked down on the small child.
And I began to cry again. Unable to stop myself, I kept whispering under my breath, âNo, oh no.â I squeezed the balled-up T-shirt in my hands.
There were dark bruises underneath his arms, as if someone had lifted him violently. Around his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him. I bent forwards and gently turned him onto one side. There was a large dark bruise on the torso, over the kidney. And there were faint older bruises beside the fresh ones.
I had seen such bruises before, and I knew these had not happened in the sea. Nor were they a result of my resuscitation efforts. No, these were the marks of adult hands, an adult foot. Intentional abuse of the small body.
I stood up and went to fetch the camera. Turned on the floor-lamp by the sofa. My hands shook as I took off the lens cap. But as I lifted the camera a strange calmness filled me, and I carefully took all the pictures I knew I had to take. I had turned on the date feature, ensuring that all the pictures would be dated.
As soon as I finished and turned off the light I began to cry again. By now it was almost dark. I pulled the blanket up over him and watched his face. He looked peaceful and his breathing was calm. I was overcome by a strong impulse to put my lips against his forehead and whisper that all would be fine. That I would make it so. But all I did was run my finger slowly along the arm that rested on the blanket. His skin was dry and cool and crusted with salt. A shudder rocked my body and I realised I was very cold myself. I needed to change too, but I didnât want to leave him. I stood and lifted him in my arms, carried him into my bedroom and tucked him in. I watched him for a moment. He lay still, eyes closed. His hair had dried in spikes that stuck out from his head. Somehow the sight made me upset again. It was as if this added further to the look
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