Chapter 32
It’s three in the morning, and I’m lying in bed with the sheets kicked off, torn between making a proper attempt at sleep or going in search of the last Sesame Snap. If I don’t nab it tonight, Yan will beat me to it tomorrow morning. Just as I decide in favour of shut-eye, I hear a car.
An engine idles, a door slams, and then the whine of reverse gear. It’s probably Mark, but he took his own car, and this sounds like someone being dropped off. Plus, he’s not due back until tomorrow night.
I listen for the front door, anxiety prickling my skin. But there’s no sound of locks turning or hinges swinging and, instead, footsteps crunching on the gravel path leading to the pool.
I sit up, fully alert. I mean, it’s probably not someone here to murder us in our beds with an axe, but I’m on the ground floor and would be first in line for the chop, so it might be wise to check.
Mark/Crazed Axe-Murderer isn’t being particularly stealthy. There’s a thump, and an exclaimed expletive, followed by an alarming sound of grinding.
I get out of bed, throw on my shorts and a T-shirt, and peer behind the curtain.
The only lights are the deep blue ones coming from inside the pool.
They cast a ghostly glow over the garden, but it’s enough to see the outline of a man lying on a sun lounger.
I slide open the door just enough to slip through it.
I half expect him to hear, but he doesn’t move.
I wait, my back leaning against the cool glass.
Once I know it’s definitely Mark, I’ll go back to bed, but if it’s some rando, I’ll go and get someone.
I see the orange glow of a cigarette, and my uneasiness cranks up.
Mark doesn’t smoke.
I’m about to go and wake up Yan when the figure sits up. He’s in profile, but it’s recognisably Mark, who I guess has acquired a nicotine habit.
I hear a clank of glass. And he’s drinking a bottle of beer? When he leans over to put the bottle down again, his whole body tips to the side, and he kicks out his legs to right himself. It’s an uncoordinated, slow movement. Obviously not his first beer of the evening, then.
He’s cast off his shoes and I can just make out the form of his toes; the big one is shorter than the second one.
He takes another deep inhale of the cigarette, and it pulses orange.
He leaves it hanging from his lips and pulls his T-shirt over his head.
For a beat or two, it’s stuck, and I’m caught between worrying about the cotton catching fire and appreciating how broad his ribcage is.
Never knew I was a ribcage girl.
The T-shirt is freed – flame free – and tossed aside.
He sucks on his cigarette and stands, his hands going to the belt around his jeans.
I spin round and jump back into my room. A bit of torso is okay, but if he’s about to get stark bollock naked, he doesn’t deserve someone creepily watching from the shadows. Unless, of course, he’s about to piss in the pool, in which case he’s going to get a piece of my mind.
I stand stock still, alert to every noise.
Another clink from the bottle. He’s obviously drunk, and leaving him by himself near water isn’t a good idea. If it were anyone else, I would have been out there by now, checking they were okay. But I don’t because it’s Mark, and I’m too tired to deal with him.
Chances are he’ll just fall asleep on a sunbed. He might get bitten by a mosquito or two, but what’s the worst that could happen?
I don’t have a chance to wonder because there’s the sound of a body hitting water. I freeze. Was that him diving into the water on purpose or an accidental stumble?
It’s deathly silent – even the cicadas have stopped.
I feel my heartbeat in my throat, and that’s when I know I have to act. The next second, I’m tearing at the door handle and running across the scratchy grass.
Please. Please. Please.
He’s lying face down in the middle of the pool, still in his jeans, and blood is seeping from his temple.
I don’t remember deciding to do it; all I know is that I’ve jumped into the pool, and the chlorine is stinging my eyes.
I can still touch the bottom here, but Mark has drifted towards the deep end. I push with my feet, praying it’s enough to grab hold of him, but my momentum only takes me halfway. I thrash about trying to reach him, but he’s floating away, propelled by the water I’m churning.
Fuck.
I’m trembling from the adrenaline. My hands shake as I front crawl towards him, but I’m dimly aware I need to cause as few waves as possible, so I switch to breast stroke.
Please, please, please.
Then, at last, my outstretched hand snags the hem of his jeans.
The muscles in my arm burn, but I ignore the pain and haul him towards me.
A wave of displaced water crashes into my face, and lukewarm water gushes down my throat.
I feel it pooling in my stomach, making me heavier and igniting my panic.
He’s in front of me now. I just need to flip him over. I still can’t touch the bottom, so when I try to turn him face up, I find myself sinking. I swallow more water. This time, it makes me retch.
I haven’t come this far to fail now. A steely calm steadies me, and with burning arm muscles, I drag the hem of his jeans in a wide arc, sending him to the shallow end.
Here, I can stand, so with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip I heave him up.
He flips over, and my legs almost give out in relief.
But then, a new panic hits me. Is he breathing?
‘Mark!’ I shove him, trying to get a response, but he’s lying here lifeless. I feel like I’m standing outside myself, watching as I wade through the water, pulling him with me. It’s at my waist now, and every laboured step takes me closer to getting him out.
But there are five broad steps to climb up, and he’s less buoyant in the shallow water, and I’m not sure I have the strength to lift him. He must be close to a hundred kilos in his wet clothes. I want to cry with frustration.
I keep calling his name, praying he might somehow come to, but he’s like a dead weight.
I stand behind him, dig my hands into his armpits and heave. I get up the first step, and the second, but then my hands slip from his wet skin, and I land heavily on the tiled surface. The impact makes my jaw snap.
He falls between my knees, but his head stays above the water, thank God, resting against my chest.
I could try to pull him out by his arms, but I need to keep his head supported. I am already terrified that he’s got some sort of neck injury that I’m making worse, but I’ve got no choice.
I don’t know where I find the strength but I finally drag him up the steps. Should I put him on his side in the recovery position, or should I be doing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth?
Panic rises like bile in my throat.
I’ve been so fixated on getting him out, it’s only now that I realise I don’t know what the fuck to do.
‘Help!’ I scream, praying it’s enough to wake the others.
I stare at his chest, but it’s not moving. Before I can second-guess myself, I pull his chin to open his mouth, pinch his nose and lean down to breathe air into his lungs.
His lips are cold, but they’re still pink. I try again and again, and in between, I shout for help so loudly that I crack my voice.
There’s still blood oozing from his left temple. And when I look down, my T-shirt is stained red, too.
After what feels like an eternity, Yan arrives holding his mobile. His eyes are wild. ‘Nella – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Call an ambulance.’
He immediately starts punching numbers.
Theo is next on the scene. He kneels down next to me.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘He was face down in the water. He must have hit his head, and he’s been drinking.’
‘You keep doing that, and I’ll start chest compressions.’
‘Ambulance is on the way,’ says Yan.
‘Good,’ says Theo. He takes off his T-shirt and gives it to Yan. ‘Hold this against his head where he’s bleeding.’
With three of us crouched down around him, there’s less room for me to keep pressing my mouth to Mark’s. But I twist sideways and breathe into him once more. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and I gasp in relief. He’s alive.
A second later he’s spluttering and heaving for air. I turn away, too distressed to see him fighting for breath.
‘Easy does it, mate,’ says Theo. ‘Small breaths.’
He asks Yan for his phone and shines a light in both of Mark’s eyes. He seems satisfied with what he sees.
‘You’re shivering, Nella,’ says Yan gently. ‘Let’s go inside to get you dry and warm.’
He wraps his arms around me, but I resist as he tries to pull me away.
I can’t leave Mark, not when he looks so fragile. His eyes have fluttered shut, and his breathing is ragged. His face is ashen, spent, as if all his strength has been sapped away.
It’s not just his body that seems broken, but his spirit, too.
Anger – primal and fierce – swells inside me, squeezing the air from my lungs, making me dizzy.
A thousand what-ifs crowd my thoughts.
What if I’d been asleep and hadn’t heard him? What if I hadn’t been able to get him out? What if there’s some hidden injury?
Yan tugs me again. ‘Theo’s looking after Mark. Let me look after you.’
I’m rigid and frozen to the spot.
‘Nell, you’re shivering. We need to get you warm.’
It’s only when I look into Yan’s eyes and see a reflection of the same terror I felt with Mark that I relent and let him guide me into the house.