Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (11 page)

The balloon bumped against my head again. With a good-humoured swipe of my hand I knocked it away. It tore free of Ruby’s wrist and sailed on the breeze away from us. “My balloon!” she wailed. “Oh, Philip, it’s going to catch on something and burst!”

I fully recognised the symbolic importance of the balloon. It might indeed burst, and the night might burst along with it. I ran after it, rather gallantly, I thought, confidently telling her not to worry. But the drink and the fresh air were having a combined effect on me. Though I might have wished to pursue the balloon in a straight direction my legs appeared to want to take me elsewhere, and I found it took an immense amount of concentration to maintain the floating shape in my swimming vision. I bounced against a tree like a human pinball, and would only feel the pain in my leg the following day. In the end I had to stop, breathless, hands on knees and gulping in mouthfuls of that frigid night air. The balloon, I thought, was the Devil himself taunting me, for it swept back into sight not more than ten tantalising yards away, and as soon as I made a move towards it the breeze took the thing up in the air and I was racing across waste ground yet again with my hands outstretched, cursing with all the force of a piqued miner.

With my eyes fixed solidly on the ghost-like blob held aloft before me, I didn’t even register the canal in front of me.

One minute there was ground beneath me, the next I was floating in the air like the balloon. For one crazy, fleeting second I thought I might fly up and snatch it out of the night sky. But its shape blurred into a streak as I fell headlong into a pit of total darkness. It wasn’t until I hit the water that a vague realisation of what I’d done seeped into my addled brain. The effect of the icy water on my body was akin to that of a huge electric shock; a thousand needles pushed simultaneously into my flesh, and reds and green flashed before my eyes. I sank quickly, sounds of rushing water and bubbles filling my ears, just as my nose and open mouth filled instantly with foul-tasting canal water, forcing to swallow, my eyes clamped shut, my arms and legs flailing and thrashing furiously to regain the surface. Panic took over. I was driven by the pure instinct for survival.

Thankfully I broke the surface, gulping in a welcome lungful. The problem was I wasn’t a good swimmer, and in my present condition – fully clothed, freezing and head fuzzed by drink – the best I could do was splash about in a vague dog paddle and scream. But my words were choked as I went down in spite of my efforts. I had only been in the water a few seconds, but already I felt my strength ebbing, being sucked out of me and into the frigid black liquid. Nevertheless I clawed and kicked frantically till, mercifully, my head bobbed on the surface long enough for me to grab another mouthful of air. I was aware of myself crying, blubbering pathetically, my words escaping poorly formed and in staccato because of my shivering, because I knew that if I could not grab a hold of something soon – and there was nothing ahead but a brick wall – I would sink under forever.

I saw Max. At least, I thought I saw him, standing perfectly still on the bank and staring down into the water at me. It might have been a shadow or a trick of the light, for there was no reason for him to be there. Whatever, I yelled out at this slim hope of salvation: “Max! Help me! Can’t swim!”

The inky water lapped over my head again, my hand waving feebly above the surface. Though I felt completely drained, I kicked out again, and sure enough I saw the stars above me and would have yelped with joy had I not so desperately needed the breath. I also had the terrifying idea that if I went under again it would be for the last time. As my head turned in the water I made out the figure again, and, convincing myself it was Max, cried out imploringly to him. The figure remained unmoving, and I thought that it was so cruel to be tricked by the light like this. Till I saw the figure had something in its hands. A long twisted branch, dead and silver in the starlight.

As the figure crouched onto its haunches and thrust the branch out, I knew for certain it was indeed Max, though why he remained silent I did not know. The branch’s tip hovered about six inches or so from my pale, frozen fingers. I reached out and made a grab for it, but the branch was whipped away only to return to the same position moments later. I reached out again, emitting a shriek of desperation as I did so; but the branch’s tip thumped me square in the shoulder and I was ducked under the water briefly. Again I surfaced, and the branch jabbed into my chest. I yelped out, “Hold it still!” but it cracked me across the head with such force that I was sent under again.

I heard muffled splashes and knew that the branch was striking the water above me. I reached up to where I thought the surface was, but there was only the icy water above my head this time. I knew I was sinking. I had no strength left to fight my way upward again. But I wasn’t afraid. A curious, comforting warmth began to seep through my body, into my legs, into my arms, percolating upwards through my chest and into my head. I was no longer cold. In fact I was so comfortable that I wanted to turn over, as if in my bed, and go to sleep. Go ahead, a voice told me, release your scorching lungs, take a deep breath and sleep.

And when I awoke, I told myself, I would ask Max what on earth he was up to, hitting me like that. I felt myself drifting off, no past life flashing before me, no terror, just the overwhelming urge to sleep. I felt my mind, my being, fading away, dissolving, becoming one with the water…

*  *  *  *

I floated in the warm void for an eternity, with vague dreams, shapes and colours flitting through my thoughts like myriad cars on a motorway; one blur followed by another blur, no real substance to them, no common thread. Then I heard a sound, faraway like whispers on the wind. Voices. Lots of them intruding on my cosy blackness. They were getting closer, but strain as I might I could not penetrate the heavy shroud before my eyes. Then it struck me. Should there be voices under the canal? Was I dead? And if I was, to whom did the voices belong?

Awareness gradually trickled in with syrup-like slowness. My eyes were glued shut so I tried to prise them open. They didn’t respond straight away, but my lids parted enough to let in a burst of light. I shut them again. And all the while the voices grew louder, and I heard music playing. I became aware of my body again, feeling something warm and heavy bearing down on it, on my arms, my legs and my torso. I felt the heat of it. But there was no sense to it all yet, just a jumble of sensations that had been liquidised and poured into my skull.

I let the light in again. I could see colour. Green, mainly. And movement. All viewed as if through a smudged piece of warped glass. My vision settled. There was a woman staring down at me, a woman in a light-blue uniform and wearing a silly little white cap perched on her tight ginger curls. There was a familiar smell. Like the cupboard at home where my mother kept her little army of medicines and tablets.

“He’s with us at last,” I heard her say. “Hello, young man. 
Hello
, young man!”

There was pressure on my hand, and I realised she was squeezing it. I blinked, not fully comprehending. An angel?

Then I started, sat bolt upright and gasped loudly, sucking in air. My arms thrashed frantically on the bedcovers. The nurse grabbed me, pinning my arms to my body. “I…can’t…
breathe!
” I wanted to yell, but it came out as a pathetic little croak. “Max! Help me, Max!”

“You’re ok,” she said. “You’re fine now.”

I calmed down, smelling her freshness, feeling the softness of her sturdy, comforting embrace. At which point I burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. 

*  *  *  *

They stood around the bed, on all sides, staring at me with wide grateful eyes, and each wearing wide grateful grins. My mother and my father, one on each side of me; Connie Stone and her partner Bernard grinning. He now sported a wonderful handlebar moustache, long hair and sideburns; my Uncle Jack who’d sneaked a day off work; and my old Auntie Lulu who’d travelled sixty miles on a bus just to be here with her brown paper bag full of grapes, a Mars Bar and a dog-eared copy of Hotspur, which I hadn’t read for years but for which I pretended to be extremely grateful.

“You came pretty close,” Lulu said in her squeaky little voice that I miss so dreadfully now on recalling it. “We all thought you were a gonner. But Albert an’ me prayed like crazy, an’ it seems to have worked, ‘cause here you are as good as new and all cleaned up!” She thrust the Mars Bar into my hand. It was soft and melting. I put it with the other presents and cards lined up on the tiny cupboard by my hospital bed. Then she cuddled me tightly, as everyone had done before her, smearing me with her scented lipstick and wiping her perfume off onto my bedcovers; I reeked of it for hours. But it was a pleasant reek, smelling of love, of family, of those I thought I’d never see again. Later, when they’d all left me I pulled the blankets up to my face and breathed it in, smiling at it. “God bless the lad that pulled you out. Deserves a bloody medal,” she continued. “Mind you, damn foolish thing you did, falling into the canal like that, you great lump!”

“We owe Max a lot,” said mother. “We don’t know how to thank him.” I could see she was about to start crying again, and her rough motherly hand clamped around my scrawny wrist like a parental handcuff. She lifted a crumpled handkerchief was to her nose and she blew loudly. “I’m going to give him a party or something to say thank you,” she said to Connie as she wiped and sniffed then blew again. “I’ll bake him a special cake with real cream and everything.”

“He loves plain ones,” Connie beamed. “Nothing too fancy, but sometimes he’ll eat icing. I love chocolate, but he doesn’t,” she shrugged.”

“Then I’ll make you a chocolate cake, Connie,” mother enthused, grinning, “with chocolate cream inside.”

“Would you, Mrs Calder?” Connie’s eyes sparkled. I’m sure Bernard’s eyes did as well.

“And I’ll mix in a few chocolate chips too,” she said, nodding seriously.

Connie clapped her hands together. “That would be
so
nice, Mrs Calder. I can’t wait!”

“Max could have been killed as well, you know,” my father blurted, as if he’d been contemplating this for some considerable time, his arms folded, his back straight. He’d never been one for showing much emotion, but I could read love and relief in his ruddy features.

My Uncle Jack bent forward, wagging his finger. “Too true,” he agreed sagely. “When I was a kid, these two lads went swimming – good swimmers as well – and they both got into difficulty. It was a sunny day, the water was as calm as anything, but they got into difficulties all the same. We’d been warned by the teachers not to go swimming in the river. Anyhow, this bloke, a good swimmer himself – out walking his dog, I think, a poodle…” he chuckled at this “– well he dives in to rescue them. Only he’s the one that drowns and the two kids scramble to shore anyway. I think it was a bloke out fishing that found his body, all bloated-like, a couple of days later two miles downstream. The current, you see. Fast bugger. He said it was the biggest thing he’d caught all day!” he chortled, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

He stopped laughing, scratched his nose self consciously, and sat back in his chair, suddenly aware that all the others were looking fixedly at him, my mother’s mouth wide open in horror at what might have been, her eyes about to fill again. “Shut your trap, Jack!” Auntie Lulu hissed. “That’s tactless, that is. They’ve all been through a lot, you know!”

“It’s the truth though,” he defended. “It was in all the local papers.”

“Still,” Connie mused, “it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect to find on your fishing line, is it?”

And so I discovered that Max had indeed saved me from drowning. He’d risked his own life in that frozen canal to rescue me, and all my earlier doubts took flight. One moment my mind was filled with the image of him standing there uncaring, then hitting me with the branch, then striking the water to make sure I never surfaced again; the next it had been sponged away, and I imagined an Errol Flynn dive, his arm grabbing me, a desperate paddle to the side with his lips and jaw set, a look of steeled determination in his narrowed eyes; and Ruby waiting there on the canal bank, looking fretful, tearful and almost swooning with relief when Max hauled me to safety, and she helping to haul me clear. A mad rubbing and pushing followed to empty my lungs of liquid then Ruby sitting herself astride me (now that
was
a thought) and giving me the kiss of life as she’d been taught in school. And finally my head cradled in her lap when I coughed and drew in a thankful gulp of frigid air, her fingers combing lovingly through my drenched hair.

I have a feeling the truth wasn’t quite so dramatic, but the story had grown in true
Boy’s Own
heroics with every telling and I wasn’t about to argue, for it was a miracle I was still alive, and miracles deserve elaboration.

Later that day when everyone else had gone home, Ruby and Max wandered in accompanied by the ward sister. It surprised me as visiting hour had long gone. Yet I was pleased to see them. Ruby almost ran over to me, sat on the bed and flung her arms around my neck. She gave me a deep and protracted kiss.

“Now then,” said the sister disapprovingly, “don’t eat him all at once!”

“I thought you were dead, Philip,” Ruby murmured into my ear. “Thank God you’re alive! And all over a stupid balloon. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you. Never.”

I cannot deny that I basked in her attention. I smiled at Max who stood behind her. “Thanks, Max,” I said, my throat sore and the words not coming out with any strength of conviction. But his face was quite grave, apart from a flicker of a smile back at me.

“You’re famous,” said the sister, and pointed with a thumb over her shoulder to the man coming through the door. “He’s from the local paper. Wants to interview you and take your photo.” The man came up to the bed, taking the lens cap off a camera. “And don’t be long, mind,” the sister warned the reporter. “I’m sticking my neck out allowing visiting outside the proper hours.”

“You’re a good ‘un sister,” the man winked, winding on the film. He didn’t look like a reporter. He was too plain and ordinary, I thought; and he wore a striped jumper. “Now then, lad, what have we been up to?” He didn’t wait for a reply and moved Max into position on the other side of the bed to Ruby. “That’s good, that is. Closer, everyone. How about putting your arm around him, lass? That’s fine. Hang on a second…” The flash blinded us all. “Now how about one with just the two lads, eh?” he said mechanically, winding on the film as he spoke, adjusting the dial on the flashgun and refocusing the lens as he took up a different angle.

Ruby stepped to the side, her hands behind her back, grinning widely. Max reluctantly smiled for the camera, a smile that disappeared from his face the moment the camera shutter had finished clicking. He moved away to sit on the plastic and chrome chair at the side of the bed. The reporter then whipped a tattered writing pad out of his coat pocket and the smallest stub of a pencil you’re ever likely to see in action. He licked the tip and proceeded to interview us one by one, nodding at us, prompting us, saying “uh, uh,” every now and again. It was over in minutes. “It’ll be in the
Chronicle
this Friday,” he assured us.

“That’s a decent camera,” I said as he stowed it away.

“My old Canon? Been with me years. Seen all sorts of wars.”

“Really?” I said.

“He laughed. “I don’t mean real wars with bullets and bodies, son. I mean it’s seen all kinds of action. Other action. Local action. Fires, funerals, petty theft, that kind of thing.” He rose to leave.

“Is it an interesting job?” I asked. “Reporting and all that?”

He shut one eye and thought hard about it. “I guess you’d call it interesting. What’re you gonna be when you leave school, eh? Thought about that yet? That’s if you can keep from falling into canals.”

Ruby chuckled. The truth was I had been thinking hard about work, it being only a matter of months before I left school. A careers advisor had seen us all, one by one, and was taken aback when I told him that I didn’t fancy either the mines or the police force, both of which seemed to be not only the favourite options of all the others who preceded me, but the only options available. “What else do you want?” the advisor had asked incredulously. “More to the point, what else is there around here?” I’d shrugged in my ignorance, and he’d scratched his head. “There’s good money in the police force,” he advised me eventually, obviously puzzled and glancing helplessly at the papers on the desk in front of him. “I wouldn’t drop the idea. And think about the pension. If I were you, starting out as you are, I’d be looking in the direction of good money with job security. Now the mines are ideal – plenty of cash to be earned and a job for life. They’ll always want coal, won’t they?” he’d said, probably dismissing me as some kind of crank. I knew I loved to write, but that was about as far as I got as regards a definite career. I didn’t have the guts to say this to him; it sounding sort of effeminate like it did, not at all as masculine as being a police officer or miner. What I was to say now cemented my future, albeit a weak cement mix.

“I’d thought about becoming a reporter,” I babbled too quickly. The more I thought about it the more I convinced myself.

“Like me, eh? I’m flattered. Look, when you get your GCEs and leave school, give me a call.” He reached into his pocket and took out a creased card, handing it to me. “Who knows, maybe we can use you. They’re all old farts in the office anyhow. Need more young blood on the
Chronicle
. My name’s on the bottom – King, that’s me. Jimmy King – ‘king tired, ‘king fed up, ‘king hungry, ‘king off!” and he nodded his hasty goodbye, informing us he had to interview the manager of a supermarket who’d been terrified by the ghost of a pensioner doing her weekly shop near the cold meats section. The atmosphere had turned cold, apparently. What do you expect standing next to a bloody fridge, the reporter sneered as he waved goodbye.

I lay there in bed clutching the card to my chest. I wondered at Fate’s mysterious mechanism that could so easily throw you into the arms of a beautiful young woman one moment, then throw you into a canal the next, and, not content with that, it throws you at your future career, all in the space of a few days. Though I’d narrowly escaped death, I never felt happier.

As they say, ignorance is bliss.

*  *  *  *