The Drowning by Rachel Ward Read Free Book Online Page B

It’s stupid, but I can’t help it.
    “No,” Mum says, “a real drink.” She flips her fingers toward the fridge. Breathing out, I set the kettle back on the stovetop, reach into the fridge for a can, and put it on the table in front of her. She cradles it with both hands, but she doesn’t do anything else. I lean across and crack it open.
    “Ta,” she says, and takes a sip. “I got lots of leaflets and stuff,” she says. “Have a look.” She digs in her handbag and hands me a heap of papers. “When a Child Dies.” “Bereavement Benefits.” “Guide to Hayfield Cemetery.” “Children and Funerals.”
    I start reading one, but it just makes me feel sick. I push it away, across the table.
    “Have you decided what’s gonna happen, then?”
    She knows what I’m asking, but she doesn’t answer straightaway. She purses her lips and sucks on the inside of her mouth. I think she’s going to cry, but she doesn’t. After a while she says, “He’ll be cremated and then we’ll have the ashes here. It doesn’t seem right to have them buried or anything. We’ll bring him home.”
    “Cremated?” Burned up. That can’t be right. It’s so … so final.
    “Yeah. Is that all right with you? I didn’t know what to do, Carl. I had to make a decision. But we could change it, if you’re not happy.”
    “Happy.” The word sits like ash in my mouth.
    “I don’t mean happy ,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean …” Her eyes are filling up now.
    “It’s all right,” I say, trying to stop it before it starts. “It’s all right. What you said, it’s okay. We’ll do that.”
    “Okay,” she says. “It’s next Tuesday. The funeral.”
    Her hand’s resting on the leaflet. She’s stroking the paper gently.
    “You wouldn’t believe how much this all costs. The funeral lady said Rob’s half price because he’s only seventeen, was only seventeen … It’s free if you’re under five.”
    There’s nowhere to go with that. I let it hang in the air for a bit. It’s still hanging when a phone starts ringing. Mum looks panicked.
    “It’s yours, Mum,” I say. “Is it in your bag?”
    “Who is it?” she says, as if I would know.
    “It’s your phone, Mum.”
    “You get it. I … I can’t.”
    She reaches into her bag and hands the phone to me. “Caller Unknown.” I press the green button and answer.
    It’s the policewoman I saw earlier. My guts turn to jelly.
    Her name’s Officer Sally Underwood. She asks to talk to Mum, but Mum just shakes her head.
    “I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now.”
    “But she’s there? She’s at home?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Is it all right if I call round with a colleague in about a quarter of an hour?”
    “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t want her to come and I don’t know if it’s all right with Mum. I’ve just got a gut feeling that saying no would make everything worse.
    She hangs up.
    “Who was it?” Mum asks.
    “The cops.”
    I can see her jawbone through her skin as she clenches her teeth.
    “They want to come round in a few minutes. Interview me. I saw one of them earlier.”
    She looks down at the table. She’s crumpling the bereavement leaflet in her hand, but I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it.
    “What’s wrong, Mum? Why wouldn’t you answer your phone?”
    “That’s how they told me,” she says quietly. “The police called and told me that Rob was … in trouble. I was still on the phone when someone ran into the pub and said he was dead. And you were on your way to the hospital.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mum.” I’m doing it now — saying sorry for things that aren’t my fault, like the policewoman did.
    Fifteen minutes. She’s coming here in fifteen minutes. I look at the floor — the grill pan, the bits of black toast, flowers and plastic. I think of the beer cans scattered around the sofa. I can’t let her see the place like this.
    “Look,” I say,