Noah’s Bucket List Item No. 1: Don’t tell anybody else I’m dying. Not even Abdi.
“Are you sure about that?” Dad asked me.
“Completely sure.” I wanted to spend my last few weeks doing things my way, and you can’t do that if everybody’s sobbing or being funny around you.
Dad had stubble on his chin that night. I always wanted to have stubble one day, but that wasn’t going to happen now.
Cancer’s a big fat thief, we agreed when we talked that night. It had taken so many things from me since my diagnosis—things I wanted to do, friends I wanted to make, experiences I didn’t want to miss out on, normal stuff—and now that it had decided to ink its signature onto my death warrant, it was going to take my future away, too.
I’m aware of a weight on my hand and I think someone’s holding it. It must be Dad, because he’s talking to me again, or trying to. I can’t feel the temperature of them today, but I know that his hands are always warmer than my mother’s.
“I wish we could have taught you to swim properly,” he says. His voice cracks.
I had some swimming lessons before my diagnosis, but they put a permanent line into your chest when treatment starts. It’s called a central line. It’s designed so they can shoot the toxic drugs into you and drag blood out of you whenever they want without sticking you with needles.
Here’s a cool thing Sasha did when I freaked out about one of the drugs they were giving me, because I overheard a nurse saying it burns your skin. She showed me a photo on her phone of a little purple flower.
“Firstly,” she said, “this drug can’t burn your skin because you have a line in, so it’s not possible because we’ll inject it down the line. Secondly, look hard at this flower. It’s called vinca, and it’s what your chemo drug’s made from. When you get home, go and look in your garden and see if you can spot some growing there. If you do, you need to give it a little salute because it might look like nothing, but it’s going to do a grand job of fighting the cancer cells. It’s your friend, right now.”
No-shit Sasha. That’s what my dad calls her, and he’s right. I liked her straight talk even when I was little.
Anyway, whatever good stuff the line did, it was also a big pain. I wasn’t allowed to get it wet. Swimming lessons ended before I learned to swim strongly for more than one width of the pool. Pathetic.
Dad’s repeating himself in the sort of self-flagellating way that drives my mum crazy: “We should have made sure you could swim better.”
When he starts to cycle on the we should have’s, it means he’s going to lose it big-time, and he does.
A machine begins to beep.
“Oh, crap. I’ve set you off,” Dad says. He does this all the time. Mum knows how to slink carefully around my bed like a cat, but he blunders, snagging tubes or bumping machinery.
I hear the metallic swoosh of curtain rings being whisked back.
“Sorry,” Dad says, “I think that was my fault.”
A nurse must be there. They’re very quick to come on PICU. I’m impressed, though I guess it figures.
“I’m not sure it was you,” says the nurse. “I’m going to call the registrar.”
Pressure grows and intensifies in my head.
“What’s happening?” Dad asks.
“Give us some room, sir, please.” A new voice.
“Noah!” Dad shouts. “Noah!”
“Stand back, sir!”
“Charging. Clear!”
A hammerblow to my chest.
In my mind, water closes in over me and drags me away. There’s fire in my lungs. Above the surface of the water I see Abdi. He’s blurred. He’s no more substantial than an eliding set of shadows. He’s something and nothing.
As I sink, he watches.
Detective Constable Woodley and I find the witness in one of the cabins at the scrapyard. She’s sitting with a uniformed constable who’s made himself a bit more comfortable than he should have. He gets to his feet quickly when we step in, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
A fan heater pumps sickeningly hot air into the tiny space, powered from a socket that’s half hanging off the wall. Invoices and purchase orders cover a desk that fills most of the space. A stack of yellow hard hats and fluorescent vests hang off a coatrack, alongside a row of keys on hooks, a dog lead, and a calendar featuring pictures of sports cars.
The witness isn’t what I expected from an industrial neighborhood like this one. She’s young, late twenties at a guess, attractive, and, apart from the dark circles under her eyes that have doubtless emerged over a long night, well-groomed.
She stands up to shake my hand when we’re introduced, and it’s a confident gesture. Under a tailored jacket she’s wearing only a thin blouse, and I understand why the fan heater is on full blast. Skintight jeans and a pair of very high heels complete the outfit. I thank her for waiting around to speak to us.
“I was collecting from my lockup, over there.” She points in the direction of some low buildings that are behind the scrapyard. “It was just after midnight.” She’s in control; her voice is calm.
“What were you collecting?”
“Stock. I own a lingerie shop. Upmarket, before you jump to conclusions, Detective. It’s in Clifton.”
My own flat is located in a building on the edge of Clifton, and it’s also the neighborhood that the parents of the boy who nearly drowned live in. Clifton’s made up mostly of wide, leafy streets with Victorian mansions, many of which have chic mews houses hidden behind them. Some very pretty parkland and the city’s famous suspension bridge complete the picture, making its real estate some of the most expensive in Bristol. The shops are mostly small, smart, and pricey. I think I know which is hers. Only one has a window display of mannequins dressed in tiny scraps of lace with extraordinarily high price tags.
As if she can read my thoughts, the witness flashes me a smile that’s both sweet and knowing, and I have to fight to stop myself returning it instinctively. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Woodley smirking.
“Do you normally collect stock in the middle of the night?”
“Not normally, no, but I was out last night and I didn’t see a text saying we needed more stock until I was on my way home.”
“Can you describe what you saw?”
“It was more what I heard. I was loading my car when I heard shouting. I wasn’t too bothered at first because it sounded like somebody calling somebody else, but it got rougher.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Not exactly, but it sounded like a name, like they were calling out to somebody. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but I thought it was probably the scrapyard.”
“Could you see anything happening at all?”
“Not at that point. I locked up because I felt a bit nervous, and got in my car. As I drove past the scrapyard I could see two figures by the edge of the canal. Looked like two young lads.”
“Did you see this from your car?”