Cold Water Page 3

  “I’m sorry…” the whisper breaks the peaceful quiet and I internally cringe. Here it comes. The pitying looks, the fake comforting words, the false promises that things are going to turn out okay that no one really believes but cling to for hope anyway. She doesn’t understand.

  She opens her mouth to speak again, but I cut her off before she can even start. “Just don’t say anything, please.” I don’t want to hear it. Shakily I stand, the chair scraping noisily backwards and I hear a distant thud as something – oww, on second thoughts my leg – knocks the table. For a moment, my gaze accidentally raises. Jenny’s eyes are pained, wearied by age. I leave the kitchen as quickly as possible.

  It’s not a matter of why you’re running away, it’s how long you can keep running for.

  *****

  Breakfast is an awkward ordeal. I have no choice but to come downstairs and pretend everything is fine and that my conversation with Jenny only a few hours ago never happened. She acts her usual self; checking my temperature, frowning a lot and prodding me in various places asking if it hurts or not. I can see it easily though – the tightness around her eyes, the glance she shoots me when she thinks I’m not looking. Maybe he’s just unobservant, but it is a wonder that Ash does not notice it as well.

  I escape the kitchen as soon as possible and try to make a daring escape up the stairs, feeling traumatised by the recent events and unwilling to talk to anybody. However it seems whenever I’m at my most antisocial, someone always comes along with no respect for my privacy and bursts my personal space bubble. Ash catches me before I can dart up the stairs and insists on walking with me. He seems to take my silence as a ‘yes’.

  “Well,” I start, trying to get away but failing miserably. “I’m sick. It looks like we can’t go out today, what a pity.” Maybe he’ll take offense from my blatant lack of enthusiasm.

  “Oh, but we can’t just give up that easily,” he says in a voice that is clearly mocking. “Haven’t you ever broken the rules before?”

  ‘Miscreant’ my head screams. I ignore it, too used to voices inside my head, and instead mutter: “We should listen to Jenny and stay inside,” like the ‘good’ little girl I am.

  And he laughs, because apparently the idea of obeying rules is something unheard of. I wonder briefly if this boy has a criminal record.

  “You’re no fun!” he cries.

  “You hardly know me.”

  “Well you won’t tell me anything about yourself! And I was okay with that, so won’t you at least just let me show you around?”

  “Are you trying to guilt me into sneaking out of the house with you?”

  “No. Technically, you owe me. I saved your life, remember?”

  “Oh, so it’s blackmail.”

  “No. It’s settling the score.”

  And, although my aching limbs protest, I realise that he’s not going to give up easily. A look out of the window also proves that it is a nice, sunny day. “Fine,” I sigh in exasperation. “But, how are we going to sneak out?”

  “Through the front door.”

  A little while later I find myself standing outside on the street, mummified in a large, borrowed coat despite the fact that it’s summer. No one had stopped us as we simply walked out of the front door; very anticlimactic in my opinion. It seems breaking rules is overrated, like most things.

  Ash ambles up to me casually and says: “Well, I told you so didn’t I? Simple.”

  I bite back a smart remark. “Let’s just go,” I say, while trying hard not to grit my teeth in aggravation.

  “Ok, fine.” He waves me off and, not bothering to wait for me, begins to walk.

  I grudgingly follow. As strange as it is, I’m suddenly reminded of all the desperate girls at my school who would have paid to have this chance. And then there’s me, who had to be forced into it. Oh the irony, I chuckle.

  “Is something funny?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Fine, be difficult.” He rolls his eyes. “So where do you go to school?”

  “It’s not a big school, or a good one. You won’t have heard of it.”

  He laughs. “I assumed you went to some sort of posh, snooty private school.”

  “And I figured you just dropped out of school completely,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  I fake an innocent, rather transparent smile. “Nope, nothing at all. Now, where are we going?”

  He turns right sharply. “You’ll see,” is all he says. And then the rows of dollhouses, the clean, neat street with its tidy front gardens, small shrubs and parked, shiny toy cars end abruptly. And where the road ends, the field starts.

  The grass is brittle and dry, crunching beneath our shoes like fractured bones as we trample across it and leave the street, and reality, behind us. Wildflowers flourish everywhere in clumps, creating a green and yellow carpet. The sides of the meadow are enclosed by thick foliage which thin at one end into a vaguely distinguishable path. It is a perfect day. Above us the sun escapes the wispy clouds and shines brightly while a light breeze plays with our hair.

  “This field,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

  “On days like this,” he replies softly. “It really is.”

  The grass reaches up to my ankles and I like how it feels brushing across my jean-clad legs. We wade through the green sea and somewhere nearby there’s birds chirping in jubilance. A lush hill looms up ahead. Strangely the grass there is trimmed short, as if the person doing the mowing simply got bored and left. I used to wonder if I could do that with school, simply wake up one day and decide not to go anymore. At the time, I had been accustomed to missing most of my classes anyway. It had been in the ‘after-era’ when frankly, everything had seemed pointless. I had only stopped my routine of skipping class when one of my teachers had threatened me with the mortifying possibility of weekly appointments with the school counsellor.

  Poke.

  I snap out of my thoughts abruptly and swivel around. “What’s up with you?” he asks. We stop at the base of the hill.

  “There’s nothing ‘up’ with me.”

  “What were you thinking about just now?”

  “Broken mowers and missing class,” I reply honestly.

  “You missing class?” he raises an eyebrow patronisingly. “I thought you didn’t break rules.”

  “I used to skive all the time, you know.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he jeers. I feel insulted.

  “You really don’t give me much credit.”

  “And I get the feeling that you don’t like me very much.” He smirks that infuriating, cocky smirk and as much as I would love to agree with his observation, my pride refuses to.

  So instead I say: “Don’t smirk at me like that” and in reply he asks:

  “Why not?”

  I suppose you could say it’s the beginning of war. Well, not war exactly, it’s more just a competition. Like a chess game, except in real life. One false move and everything comes tumbling down.

  He starts walking again when I simply glare holes into the ground and don’t answer. I follow, making sure to walk beside him rather than behind him and I can tell that he has noticed.

  “So,” he says. “Are you still feeling okay?”

  “Fine.” I ignore the angry protest of my limbs and their pleas for more aspirin.

  “That’s good, because technically I’m responsible for you.”

  “I don’t need a baby sitter. I told you I’m fine.”

  He waves a hand lazily in my direction. “Good for you. Now, how long did you say you’ll be staying here, again?”

  I feel slightly insulted by the obvious implication that he wants me to leave, but I suppose I should have expected it. “Don’t worry, as soon as possible,” I say. Yes, back to books and dark bedrooms and days spent staring at the ceiling hiding from my sisters. Can’t wait.

  But then he surprises me. “Oh,” he says in that casual, laid back
tone of his. “I didn’t mean you had to leave. If you want, the offer’s still open to stay here if you don’t want to go back to…wherever you came from.”

  “Really?” I question warily. “I thought we didn’t like each other.”

  “You don’t like me, not the other way around,” he says. Damn him. It makes me sound like a bad person when he puts it like that.

  “I never said I didn’t like you,” I try to salvage the remains of my dignity. “I mean, I suppose I might owe you my life.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  I grimace. “Maybe it is.”

  A look of confusion passes across his face. “You wanted to die?” he asks carefully. This time there is concern in his eyes coupled with apprehension. It makes me feel powerful.

  “No, of course not.”

  “What was your plan then?”

  “To become a hermit and live off squirrels.”

  He snorts before bursting into loud, open laughter and it sounds kind of nice. Then before I know it, I’m chuckling quietly too which is something miraculous yet strange in itself. My own laugh sounds odd, alien and uncertain in my ears and it’s even worse because I think I must be laughing at my own joke, which wasn’t even that funny, but it also feels nice because I haven’t laughed properly in so long.

  “Good one,” he says to me with a grin once he has calmed down, and I smile a little too.

  “Thanks, I guess. So, does this mean we’re friends?”

  “I thought we’d already gone over all of this yesterday.”

  I think for a moment, before sticking out my hand. “Do you think we could just start all over again?”

  “Sure,” he smiles, shaking it. “Hi, I’m Ash, nice to meet you.”

  “Hope, nice to meet you too.”

  Ah, much less confusing. He leads me across and past the hill, past the colonies of yellow dandelion flowers and the occasional family of buttercups. I can hear crickets chirping from the long grass. Someone once said to me ‘the more crickets chirp, the younger they die.’ It’s a morbid saying, one of my favourites.

  We walk for a few more minutes and I still don’t even know where we are going. It doesn’t matter much. These are my few days of freedom and I want to enjoy them. I miss being happy. And it almost feels nice to be sharing this silence with somebody else for once, even if it’s not the ideal somebody. Even if this freedom is only temporary, I can make the most of it.

  He leads me to the very end of the meadow, until we reach the fringe of trees that border it. They thin in one area and a manmade path can be seen carved clearly through them. “Stop here,” Ash tells me. In a moment, he has vanished from my side and I can sense him standing directly behind me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in confusion.

  But he never answers. Instead he puts his hands on my shoulders, leans in and mutters: “Close your eyes,” in my ear.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a surprise,” is the only answer he gives. I’m cautious at first, but I know he has no motive to harm me and comply with a defeated sigh. “Good,” he says. “Now we walk. I’ll guide you, just keep your eyes closed or you’ll ruin it.” I feel his hands guiding me forwards. I take a few steps and hesitate. He seems to sense my apprehension and I can imagine him rolling his eyes. “Trust me,” he says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

  I search blindly in the darkness for something to cling onto and find there’s nothing there. I feel his hands on my shoulders nudging me forwards again and this time I obey them, almost expecting to walk into a tree. I never do. He leads me forwards like this for several minutes and I can hear the twigs and the rotting leaves cracking and crunching beneath our shoes. I put my hands out in front of me, trying in vain to feel any obstructions. A few times I almost trip and I’m scared that he’ll get distracted and accidentally let go, sending me tumbling into the dirt, but he never does.

  And then I feel a slight wind whistling through my hair and the crunching beneath my feet suddenly sounds different – it’s the crunching of grass. He continues to lead me forwards and I keep my eyes closed, listening intently. There’s birds chirping somewhere. The sound of the crickets is suddenly more distant and I can also hear something else; something quiet, gentle, serene. Water.

  We both stop. I open my eyes and my breath catches.

  The scene before me is stunning.

  Stretching out in a vast expansion of blue is a lake. The water is a deep azure, shimmering and glinting under the sun. I can see gentle ripples lapping at the grassy bank in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Right in the middle of the lake is a small island, two large trees hanging over the edge of the land.

  “It’s…wow, it’s pretty amazing,” I breathe, causing him to grin beside me. We are standing on the grassy bank, our shoes inches away from the water lapping gently at the family of rounded pebbles that make up the bank.

  “It’s called Cleadon Creek,” he informs me. “It’s named after the village.” In my opinion, it should be the other way around. I stare out over the water, watching in fascination as it glistens.

  “Do you come here often?”

  He nods. “Sure, especially in the summer. Sometimes you can see swans here.”

  I drag my fingers gingerly across the surface, feeling the prickle of cold water. “It’s a natural lake, right?”

  “Yup. In fact, you can even swim in it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, and it’s a good fishing spot.”

  The water is pretty and pure and untainted, I think to myself. It’s something I used to wish I could be. It reminds me of legends, myths with grand castles sporting numerous turrets and moats like giant, coiled serpents. Every great castle has a lake, or a moat at least.

  “Ash?” I point towards the middle of the lake, at the small, sheltered island with its shrubs and oddly shaped trees. “What’s that?”

  “That island’s been there as long as the lake,” he explains. “But I have no idea where it came from or why it’s there.” Compared to the rest of the lake, the island looks out of place. Its trees are bare, all except for the biggest one which hangs, or rather droops, sullenly over its own banks while it’s maze of roots provide homes for moorhens and ducks.

  “It looks a little bare,” I comment and he nods in agreement.

  “Look,” he points at something. “See those? They’re stepping stones.” I follow his gaze and notice the small, mossy surfaces of rocks that protrude from the water like flat turtle shells.

  “Stepping stones?” I question. “For what?”

  “To get to the island. I used to go there all the time with my father when I was young. It’s actually quite a peaceful place.”

  “They’re not natural as well, are they?”

  “No, they’re not. Someone put them in a long time ago.” He takes a step forward and bends down, fingers ghosting over the water. “It’s not too cold today,” he decides, then turns to peer up at me. “If you like, we could go there now.”

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

  “Scared, are you?”

  “No way!” Damn pride. It gets me into these sorts of situations and then leaves me stranded to fend for myself.

  “Right, of course you’re not,” he grins deviously and it’s obvious he can see through my bluff. I fold my arms in indignation.

  “Just show me what to do and I’ll try it,” I say.

  He straightens up, running his fingers through his messy hair. “Fine. In that case, I’ll be giving you your first lesson in stone-hopping.”

  “Stone-hopping?”

  He shrugs sheepishly. “Well, we had to name it something.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t worry,” he adds. “It’s perfectly safe. Even if you fall off, the water’s not too deep and besides, I think I’ve got some experience in saving your life,” he winks at me and it’s infuriating to no end. But before I can contradict him he bends his knees, pushes off h
ard and springs up, making quite an impressive jump onto the first stone. He repeats the process and lands on the second stone, leaving the first one open. He spins gracefully and looks back at me smugly. “Your turn.”

  It can’t be too hard if he managed to do it, I try to comfort myself. ‘But’ my traitorous common sense decides to point out, ‘there’s a difference between him and someone like you who can’t even get a C grade in PE.’ Screw common sense. It gives terrible advice. With a sigh I bend my knees and try to focus on the stepping stone. It’s not that far away, really. Anyone with basic coordination and relatively long legs could reach it. And so, with that thought, I push off from the pebbly ground and I fling myself through the air.