Water Born by Rachel Ward

‘With the police?’
    â€˜I don’t know. They didn’t say, just took a statement and told him they’d get back to him. But we’ll stick together. We’ll help Dad through this. They might need to talk to you.’
    â€˜Yeah, ’course,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want to — I mean, I don’t know what I should tell them.’
    Mum strokes my hair, like she did when I was little.
    â€˜It’s fine. I’ll be there. They can’t interview you without a chaperone. Just tell them the truth. Telling the truth is always best.’ She walks to the foot of the stairs, then turns round. ‘There’s nothing else I should know, is there?’
    Dad hesitates.
    â€˜No,’ he says. ‘’Course not.’ He pulls a face and holds up three fingers. ‘Scout’s honour.’
    Mum smiles and carries on up the stairs. But I’m not so easily reassured. It was the Scout’s honour thing. Two words too many.
    *
    Back in my room, I open up my laptop. I don’t believe this OCD story. Why hasn’t it come up before? It just doesn’t ring true. I find the email I sent to myself and open the attachment. Death by Drowning .
    Let’s start again, look at it with fresh eyes.
    I read from the top, trying to take it all in, to see some patterns in the information. Name, Age, Date, Location, Death. I scan down each column. There’s something about the ages. I thought they were all mixed up, but now I see that’s only the boys. I highlight the girls’ rows in turquoise, and it stands out, as clear as day: the figure in the age column is the same. All the girls are, were , sixteen.
    Okay, that’s something. I set up a second page, copy the table and delete all the boys’ rows. Now I’ve got a list of thirteen girls, from all over the UK, who have died this year. I start doing what Dad must have done. Typing their names into Google, reading the articles about them. And suddenly, there it is – the names, the faces. They’re all Asian, or mixed race. Just like me.
    Thirteen girls.
    And they’ve all drowned.
    I click on Dad’s map and look again. The map pins are labelled with dates. They’re converging on this city. The drownings are getting closer.
    I’ve got a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. This whole thing is sick – Dad collecting these stories about girls like me. Me looking at them.
    I look away from the screen. This is crazy. These are all accidents, aren’t they? Horrible, unfortunate, desperatelysad accidents.
    But Dad doesn’t think so.
    I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t want to.
    I slam the lid shut.

SEVEN
    I t’s quiet in the changing room. Everyone’s focused on the business of getting ready for the trials. I’m trying to keep my nerves under control, but I’m buzzing with excitement. I’m pretty sure of my place in the freestyle relay team, but what I really want is the spot in the individual 400 metres freestyle. I was level with Christie last time. I need to go one better.
    Christie’s face is set hard. I can’t see any sign of nerves as she tucks her hair into her swimming cap. I take my place next to her by the mirror. There’s plenty of space, but she bumps my arm with her elbow as she turns to head to the pool.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I say, like it was my fault for taking up too much space. I’m expecting her to say sorry too – for us both to smile, for everything to be normal – but she doesn’t.
    â€˜I was off it the other day,’ she says. ‘Cursed with the curse, but I’m fine now. There’s no way you’ll come near me.’
    She doesn’t wait for a comeback, just walks purposefully out of the changing room, leaving me open-mouthed. The other girls heard her, but no one says anything. No one even meets my eye. God, what have I done? We’re all here for the same thing,