The Drowning Read Online Free PDF Page B

struggling for breath again, coughing, choking, bending forward to try and spit my airways clear. Still leaning forward, I drop the cigarette and grind it into the ground. Two boys by the lake , I think wryly. Only one of them smoking and it wasn’t me.
    So this is Rob’s pack of cigarettes. His jacket.
    I feel inside again and this time I draw out a phone. It’s a cheap-looking touch screen. I turn it over in my hand, press one of the buttons at the end, and the screen flares into life.
    I feel guilty. A guilty thrill. Phones hold names, numbers, messages, pictures. Phones hold people’s lives.
    I scroll through the address book. There aren’t many names — a dozen, no more than that. Neisha Gupta is one of them.
    Next, texts: Inbox and Sent. The most recent messages are at the top of the screen.
    Sent to Neisha Gupta, 13:29: Will u b there? 3:30
    Inbox from Neisha Gupta, 13:32: I said so, dint I?
    I look up, switching my focus from the bright square in my hands to the dark, wet world beyond the porch. Before my eyes properly adjust I think I glimpse a pale figure in the rain — maybe forty or fifty feet away from me. I squint and look harder, but it’s gone.
    He knows I’ve got his phone , I think. But that’s nuts. He’s dead. Rob’s dead.
    The screen’s gone to standby, a faint image of itself, hardly there. I press the power button to bring it back, and look through the menu.
    Gallery: The first picture is a bit like the one I’ve got torn up in my pocket. Neisha, pouting for the camera. It’s more vivid on the screen than on paper, more real. My stomach flips as I look into her eyes again. She’s beautiful. Sexy. But now I can’t have any doubt — she was looking into this lens, this phone, when that photo was taken. She was looking at Rob.
    Neisha Gupta. Rob’s girl.
    I drag my finger across the screen to find the next picture. It’s not just her face this time. It’s a wider shot, taken in a bedroom, not ours. She’s in her panties and bra, sitting onthe bed, leaning forward toward the camera. One of the straps is hanging off her shoulder. She’s not pouting anymore, but she’s not smiling, either. Her expression is uncertain, like she doesn’t know what to do with her face. But it’s not her face I’m looking at.
    My fingers are sweaty as I scroll to the next shot. She’s smiling now but only with the edges of her mouth, the rest of her face is scared. Her left cheekbone is redder than the other one and I can’t help reliving what it felt like when Mum slapped me in the taxi. Her eyes are pleading with the camera. Pleading for what? I feel dirty looking at her, but I don’t, can’t, stop looking. My eyes drink in her soft curves, the warm honey tones of her skin. She’s still wearing her necklace. A heart-shaped locket dangles at the end of the silver chain, resting dead center between her naked breasts.
    “Just give me your necklace and I’ll go.”
    Rob’s voice is in my head, a memory’s forming that I can’t quite get hold of. He wasn’t talking to Neisha. Who was it?
    I hear a noise behind me. I jab at the button again to turn the power off, and quickly stuff the phone back in my pocket. A light’s come on in the bungalow behind me. Shit!
    The rain’s eased off a little. I turn the collar up farther on my jacket and make a run for it. My head is full of the hot guilt of seeing the pictures on the phone. It’s only when I’m halfway across the rec that I think about the light, the rows of bungalows facing each other around a scrubby grass square, and it triggers another memory.
    Rob’s in front of me in a dark house; I can hear barking. Then there’s a yelp and the barking stops. Rob’s heading into the front room … I can see something on the floor between me and him, a mound, a still, dog-shaped heap.
    “What is it, Winston?” A woman’s voice, old, quavering.
    “Rob, get out! Get out now!” I hiss.
    And then a light flicks on.
    I’ve stopped walking. I’m