The Drowning Read Free

just stop. One door’s got three holes in it. For a moment, I’m staring at them, wondering how they got there, but then I hear the noise from when Rob punched them there. One, two, three — fists balled up tight and him in a total fury. Then, in a flash, he turns back to me and his fist flies into my face.
    I turn around, sit down, and take a swig from the can that I’ve still got in my hand.
    What was he so mad about?
    Another mouthful. And another. It’s me and the beer and the stairs and the dark. I sit and drink until it’s all gone. The liquid’s heavy in my stomach but it’s doing its job. I feel softer around the edges. I feel tired, too, could do with a lie-down. Come on, Carl. I leave my empty can on the step, swing onto my feet, and head upstairs, trailing my hands on the walls on either side. The surface is bobbly under my fingers. There’s something comforting about the wood chip lumps and bumps. How many times have I done this, felt these walls? Is this what I do when I walk upstairs?
    I go along the landing, past the first door. It’s open. There’s a double bed, women’s clothes strewn around the floor, bottles and tubes and all sorts of makeup littering the top of a scruffychest of drawers. The next door is the bathroom. I move on and stop in front of the final door. I close my fingers and put my fist in one of the holes in the door. There’s space around it. He was bigger than me. My big brother.
    I push the door open and go in.

T he stale smell fills my head. I can’t tell what it smells of, but it floods me with feelings, things half-remembered. There are two mattresses lying parallel to each other along the walls, with a few feet in between. And not much else. Clothes lying about. Some magazines. Empty cans. A couple of fishing rods propped in a corner.
    Two mattresses, no pillows, no sheets like in the hospital, just sleeping bags on the top. One orange and one green. The green one’s mine. How do I know that? I sit down on top of it, then, with nothing else to do, I climb inside, shoes on and everything. I pull the nylon edges up with both hands, so that I’ve just got my eyes and nose sticking out. I’m lying on my side, looking across the room and at Rob’s mattress, his orange sleeping bag crumpled up in a heap.
    And now I can hear the zipper ripping up past his face and over the top of his head. See his face, streaked with mud — there one minute, gone the next. Sealed in.
    I close my eyes and I’m underwater. There’s a tangle of arms and legs, thrashing in front of me. The water’s pressing down, my lungs are hurting, an ache that’s turning into a pain. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get some air. I’ve got to …
    I open my eyes and it’s just me in this dirty jumble of a room. I’m breathing hard, and the air coming in and out of me feels like it’s secondhand. It leaves a sour taste on my tongue. I think back to my hospital room — how bright, white, and clean it was. It smelled of antiseptic. Now I push my nose into the fabric of the sleeping bag and inhale. It’s the stale smell of old sweat. It disgusts me, but there’s something reassuring about it, too. This is me. It must be — it’s my sleeping bag. This is how I smell.
    But who am I? And who was my brother? Did I like him? Did he like me? Not if the memory on the stairs was anything to go by.
    I think about what they told me: “Your brother’s dead. There was an accident. He drowned.” Why don’t I feel a thing? I must be a monster, not to feel sad.
    I lie still for a while. It’s dark now, but there’s light from the landing coming in through the open door. I look and listen, trying to take it all in — this place. Home. The apartment is quiet, no noise from downstairs, but I can hear the TV going next door, and people walking in the street outside, cars coming and going, doors slamming. There’s a dark patch on the ceiling in the corner above Rob’s mattress. There’s scribble on the