26 TURNING TIDES
26
TURNING TIDES
The tube smells like sick mixed with deodorant. And weed.
The man opposite me reeks of it, and I’m so tired I could almost vomit myself. I pull my hood over my head, clutching my bag on my lap, making myself as small as I can. I close my eyes and replay the memory montage over and over in my brain, running my finger over the inside of my wrist, tracing the m-shaped line of the bird tattoo.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was there, underneath, hiding, all along.
Kindness. Gentleness. Perhaps, love.
Maybe a version of it. A version in its early stages, excitable and free, ready to grow into something brighter. Fiercer.
‘ The next station is Brixton .’
But as the tube pulls to a stop, I think that ’ s not true . I did know. Because that longing, it never left. It was all for him.
It was so good. The way I felt was so good . And they tried to cut it all out of me. Of both of us.
I make my way out of the tube, and up the escalator. As I step out of the station, pulling my bag on to my back, I feel dizzy. I’m now running entirely off two Red Bulls, a packet of Quavers and pure adrenaline. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a bus window as it drives past. I look absolutely trashed. Like I’ve been punched in each eye and my skin is melting.
It’s late afternoon now, the sun low in the sky. I fell asleep while rewatching the montage and woke much later than I’d planned. And then I had things to do (I’ll get to that).
My family were already out. They think I’m at work.
I check my phone. No messages. I’ll hear from my parents if they’re worried. I always do.
I open Google Maps and type in the postcode from the website. Seven minutes’ walk. I quickly message Nisha.
I found where he is
Turning Tides Supported Living
Brixton
I see the dots appear as she replies.
Be safe. If he’s dangerous, call me.
See you at 10 out the back.
If you come in through the front
they might recognise you
Remember to dress up
I pause, wondering if I should tell her what I watched on the headset. I decide against it.
10 it is.
Stay safe too.
I get up Maps again and begin to follow the blue line towards Brockwell Park. The air is ice-cold and bitter, but the sky is bright. It’s one of those rare January days where the sun is out, but the frost still clings to the shadows. I pull my hoodie around me as I weave through the shoppers. Just before the park my phone tells me to take a left.
What did Jack notice in the photograph? Who did he recognise?
The smell of petrol fumes and noise of car horns disintegrate around me as my thoughts begin to race. There’s no way they did this to protect me from him. He wasn’t bad – he was the opposite… The voice on my phone suddenly chimes.
‘ You have reached your destination .’
I look up to see I’m on a quiet residential street, directly outside a large house. It’s more rundown than the ones surrounding it. The window frames peeling and rotting, the metal handrail next to the steps leading up to the porch rusted.
A pang of nervous heat radiates inside me. It’s the house from the picture on the website, the broken sign hanging above the door.
Beneath it, a girl is standing on the top step of the porch, hood up, with an open packet of tobacco and a Rizla in her hands. Our eyes meet.
She can’t be any older than fourteen. ‘Are you just gonna stand there and stare or what?’ she barks.
I jump. ‘Um, no…’ I say. Quick. Try to be normal. ‘Sorry, I was looking at the sign. I didn’t mean to stare.’
She keeps rolling her cigarette. ‘What do you want, then?’ she says. Then under her breath, but loud enough so I can still hear, ‘Posh twat.’
Nice.
‘Um…’ I try to sound a little less posh twat. ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’
She pulls a face, amused. ‘Nah, mate, sorry. I don’t have any more cigs.’
‘No… It’s not that.’
She pulls another face. This one says right, and?
‘I’m actually looking for someone.’
She licks the edge of the Rizla, then expertly rolls the tobacco into a perfect cylinder. ‘Oh, yeah? Who?’
‘Um… His name is Jack. Jack Quinn.’ She looks up at me. ‘Do you know him? Is he here?’
The girl puts the cigarette to her lips and takes a lighter from her pocket. As she clicks it and moves the flame towards it, she inhales deeply. ‘There’s no one called Jack in here.’
I suddenly realise I hadn’t thought of this as an outcome. I had not considered this would happen, because… Because I don’t have another plan. There are no other options.
‘OK. Sorry to bother you. Thanks. Cheers.’
I look down at my phone. Think, Eli. Think .
‘Well, not right now, anyway,’ she says. ‘He just left.’
I look up. ‘Left? What do you mean?’
She points down the road, towards the park. ‘He’s in there.’
‘In there?’
‘Yeah. He’s swimming.’
‘Swimming?’
‘At the outdoor pool. The lido thing, or whatever you posh people call it.’
I feel the sting of the cold against my cheeks. It’s freezing. ‘He’s swimming in this?’
‘Yeah, he does it every day.’ Every day? The skin on the back of my neck prickles. ‘Something about the water making him feel stuff, feel alive or some shit.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s all bullshit really. He’s just tapped in the head.’ Oh my God. Does he remember? The beach? The water? ‘Anything else? Or can you please fuck off now?’
‘No, that’s it.’ I’m about to turn, when – ‘Wait. Actually, yes. There is. What’s he like?’
She scowls. ‘Like I just said, he’s messed in the head. Do you not listen or something? He’s weird. Like you.’ Weird. Like me. ‘But he’s not posh like you.’ Right. ‘So, you might have the wrong person.’
He’s swimming. To feel alive . ‘I’m pretty sure it’s the right one. Thanks so much. That’s great. You’re great. Thank you.’
She seems to have lost interest and is now typing furiously into her phone.
I turn to face the park. He’s there. Jack ’ s there .
A buzzing erupts inside me – a mix of fuzzy sleeplessness and anticipation propelling me down the street until I see the trees lining the edge of the park, a low mist still clinging to the bottom of them. I stand on the pavement, catching my breath. Directly opposite me is a red-brick building, unremarkable, easy to miss. A sign reads: Brockwell Lido .
A pang of giddiness takes hold of me.
I’m smiling. Smiling .
Excitement. This is excitement .
I can feel the good ones too.
I laugh.
I make my way up a set of steps and into the entrance so quickly that I nearly walk right past the man in reception.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Are you open?’
‘Only for the brave,’ he says. ‘It’s bloody freezing in there today.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Eight quid.’
I tap Dad’s card to pay then walk past the changing rooms and out into the open courtyard where I’m met by a huge expanse of sky, hanging above a grey frame of concrete around a rectangle of striking blue.
I scan my eyes across the surface of the water, pushing my shaking hands into my pockets. A few people are doing lengths, some in wetsuits, others braving the cold in just their swimming costumes. I pace along the side of the pool, darting my eyes between the bobbing heads. Suddenly I stop. In front of me, on the concrete, is more colour – vibrant against the grey. A pile of clothes. A red jumper, a pair of blue jeans, some knackered trainers, a yellow beanie and a tatty green towel, all neatly folded. On top of the pile, right in the centre, is a small wooden pendant.
A rose.
I look up just as his head emerges from the blue, right in front of me. He gasps for air, dispersing the mist that hangs above the water’s surface, and wipes the hair out of his face. He then pulls himself up on to the edge of the pool.
It’s strange, seeing him.
His face, his hair. Skin bristling in the breeze.
I see the m-shaped bird tattoo, right there on the inside of his wrist. And the scars. White lines across his arms.
He glances up. His eyes meet mine. Soft.
My body shudders like it’s being shaken awake. I feel a sudden burning sensation in my chest, making my eyes tingle.
Ping .
My phone. I look down at the screen.
Oh, God. Oh, God, no .
Dad:
Why are you at Brockwell Lido with my bank card, Eli?
No, no, no, no. Eli, you idiot.
Ping .
Dad:
I know you’ve been in the attic. I know what you’ve seen.
Do not speak to him.
You will be in serious danger.