The Drowning by Rachel Ward Read Free Book Online Page A

shame.”
    I kind of nod, and start walking again. Got to get out of here.
    “I’ll see you later, right?”
    “Right, okay,” I say.
    I start running toward the flat but have to stop. I feel almost sick, unpleasantly full. Running and Coke don’t mix.
    The flat’s still empty. I take a few deep breaths like they showed me at the hospital, try to put everything out of my mind — Mum, Rob, the police, Neisha. God, Neisha. I’m itching to get the phone out, look at the photos again, but my stomach starts rumbling and I realize I can’t remember the last time I ate something. I think about that rather than the growing panic inside me, and set about cooking up a storm. I put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and press the lever down, but nothing happens. It just pops up again. There’s no heat or anything. Okay, I’ll do it under the grill. It’s all electric, so all I have to do is find the right knob and turn it on. How frickin’ hard can it be? I get the grill going — four slices lined up now, nice and neat — and turn my attention to the beans. I fetch a pan out of the cupboard, slam it onto the stovetop, turn on the coiled burner, and empty the can into it.
    I wander into the living room and flick on the TV to keep my mind off the policewoman. It’s some sort of cooking program. Iwatch as the guy on screen chops up a load of vegetables and then starts to fry it. He’s already got some meat sizzling in the pan. He’s stirring it around, adding more stuff, squirting some sort of sauce on it — to be honest, it looks pretty tasty. I can’t take my eyes away. I can almost smell it, and the pain in my stomach is really going for it now, stabbing me from the inside. He tips the food onto a big square white plate and bends over to smell his creation.
    I breathe in with him, expecting meat and onion and I don’t know what else. I get smoke, bitter and choking in the back of my throat. Shit! I jump back into the kitchen. Gray smoke is streaming up and out of the grill. I grab the pan. It burns my fingers as I yank it clear and let it drop onto the floor, onto the heap of wilting flowers. Their plastic wrappings hiss and shrivel in the heat. The toast is black and the beans in the saucepan have almost disappeared. What’s wrong with me? I just wanted some food. I’m so bloody hungry. The tears that were threatening to burst out earlier are back.
    Why isn’t Mum here to do this? Why didn’t she teach me what to do? Where the hell is she?
    I stand in the middle of the kitchen, hands hanging by my sides, crying like a baby.
    “Carl?”
    She’s there, in the doorway, looking at the mayhem.
    “What’s going on here? Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

I was hungry, Mum. There was no food and you weren’t here. What am I supposed to do?” My voice goes higher as I rant on. “Where were you? Where were you, Mum?”
    She says nothing, does nothing. She’s just standing there and now I notice that she’s got a shopping bag in each hand, blue-and-white Tesco bags bulging full of stuff. Her face looks thinner than ever, the creases deeper. Her hair’s lank and greasy. She’s tied it back, but some of it has escaped. She’s in her thirties but she looks about fifty.
    “Where’ve you been?” I ask again. My throat is sore from shouting.
    “I went to see about the funeral,” she says.
    The funeral. I’d forgotten there’d have to be a funeral.
    I step over the grill pan, avoiding the plastic flower wrappers, take her shopping bags, and put them on the table. On the stovetop the saucepan’s still making a horrible noise. I switch off the burner and the grill, and open a window.
    Mum just stands there, looking lost in her own kitchen.
    “Do you want to sit down?” I say. She stumbles to the kitchen table and lowers herself slowly onto a chair. “Do you want a drink?”
    She nods and I grab the kettle. I turn toward the sink and stop, suddenly nervous about turning on the tap.