The Drowning by Rachel Ward Page B

open my eyes and sit bolt upright. I’ve got to tell someone what I remember. Get it off my chest. It’s eating me up.
    “Mum, are you awake?”
    She stirs a little and her eyes flicker open.
    “Just about,” she says.
    “Mum, I do remember more.”
    She opens her eyes fully now, leans forward.
    “You do?”
    “Yeah, not much. But we were fighting. In the lake. Me and Rob, we were fighting.”
    She frowns.
    “What were you fighting about?”
    “I dunno. I can’t remember that.”
    She lets out another big sigh and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling.
    “Always fighting. I don’t know how many times I had to tell you two.”
    “Mum, what if I … what if I …” I can’t say it. “Mum, what if … ?”
    She knows what I’m trying to get out, and she doesn’t want to hear it any more than I want to say it. She holds her index finger up to her lips.
    “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t. It was an accident. That’s what it was. An accident.”
    “I can hear him, Mum. I can see him.”
    I’m almost certain. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. It’s true. The figure in the rain, the face in the sink, and the voice in my head — they’re his. Rob’s.
    She gets up from the sofa and perches on the arm of my chair, putting her arm around my shoulders.
    “Of course you can,” she says. “It’s only natural. You’ve been through a lot, Carl. You’re grieving. It’s going to take time.”
    “Do you see him, too?”
    “Everywhere,” she says. “He’s everywhere, isn’t he? Especially here. I keep expecting him to walk through that door …”
    She sighs and squeezes my shoulder. And I want to believe it’s the same for both of us — a normal part of grieving. But from across the hallway, I can hear a noise from the kitchen. The plip, plip, plip of a tap dripping onto the metal of the sink. And it makes me feel sick.

I n my bedroom, I retrieve Rob’s phone from the jacket pocket and dial Neisha’s number. We were there, at the lake, all three of us — Rob, Neisha, and me. I need to find out what she knows. I need her to fill in the gaps.
    After half a dozen rings, someone answers.
    “Hello?”
    A girl’s voice. It’s her. Neisha. Somehow I wasn’t expecting her to actually answer. I haven’t worked out what to say.
    “Um … hello?” I can hardly speak.
    “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” she says, her voice shaking.
    “Is that Neisha? Neisha Gupta?”
    “Yes, this is Neisha. Who is it?”
    “It’s me. Carl.”
    “Carl?”
    “I need to talk to you. I need —”
    The phone’s cut off. She’s gone.
    I redial. This time it rings for ages, then goes to an answering machine.
    “Hi, this is Neisha. I can’t get to the phone right now, so leave a message after the tone and I’ll get right back atcha!” She signs off with a kiss, and now I’m thinking of her lips, pouting, in the photo. I’m thinking about her bare shoulders, her …
    The phone beeps in my ear and, startled, I start rambling.
    “Neisha, it’s me, Carl. I really need to talk to you. I’ve got so many questions. I can’t remember much. I can’t remember what happened. You were there. You’re the only person who can …”
    There’s a fumbling noise and then she’s back, cutting across me.
    “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Leave me alone, Carl. Leave me alone!”
    And then blank again. Nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the crackle of static.
    She doesn’t want anything to do with me, that much is obvious. But why? What have I done to her? She sat next to me in the park, relaxed and happy in the sunshine. What happened? What changed?
    The suspicion that’s been bugging me is turning into something more solid. I remember fighting Rob in the water. I survived. He didn’t.
    Did I kill him?
    Did I kill my brother?
    Is that why Neisha hates me? Is that why she’s so scared?
    But that’s not what she told the police. She told them she didn’t know how he died, that we were just mucking about. I