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 probablynotsomeone 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, buthe 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 wereanyone 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.
