The Flood

‘Steph, I’m at the old house.’ Daniela’s voice sounded loud and panicky in the close confines of the waterlogged house. ‘Something’s happened to Auryn.’

She tried to say more but the words jammed in her throat. Her eyes stung with tears. She shut the phone off and held it gripped tight in her hand.

Turning away, she stared into the front room. It was difficult to tell when the house had flooded. Water lapped the big oak dining table. The table was strewn with papers and magazines, their edges curling. Already the wallpaper was beginning to peel. The threadbare sofa was saturated, and a low coffee table was now an island. Several empty cups sat on the table. Some effort had been made here to move books and magazines to the higher bookcase shelves, and there was a conspicuous empty spot on an entertainment stand where a television and DVD player had been removed. A sodden cushion wallowed in the water like a half-sunk iceberg. The water had an oily sheen.

There was also a lot of rubbish. Cigarette ends and empty beer cans bobbed on the waves. A pair of whisky bottles nestled together in the corner. One was still half-full and rode low in the water.

Auryn … what happened to you?

Looking into the sitting room, Daniela’s gaze flitted from one irrelevant object to the next, searching for something solid. The dusty mirror above the fireplace reflected her pale, shocked face, almost unrecognisable. The semi-opaque glass made her look drowned. Daniela stared at the ornaments on the mantel, at scraps of paper and postcards, at the books on the shelves next to framed photographs that’d belonged to Dad. Some of the items were hers. A carved wooden bear brought back from a school trip. The shell casing from a Second World War mortar that she’d dug up in the woods. Small, meaningless things that she’d left behind without a thought, and which had long since vanished from her memory, yet remained here, awaiting her return.

Daniela took a few stumbling steps back to the stairs. Eddies of greasy water followed her. She sat down on the third step before her legs gave out. Her mind sloshed and tilted in her skull. Her jeans and socks were soaked with dirty water. She lifted her wet feet out of the flood.

Again, she tried Stephanie’s number. Listened to it ring.

Dad died here as well, Daniela remembered with a jolt. She raised her eyes to the upstairs landing where, three years ago, her father had stumbled, drunk, and tipped headfirst over the banisters. Broke his neck on impact then lay for twelve hours until the postman found him.

Is that what’d happened to Auryn as well? From where Daniela sat, she could see one of the empty bottles that bobbed about in the sitting room. Had Auryn fallen?

Her phone bipped as the call went to voicemail again. Daniela hung up and immediately redialled.

Closer to the water, the bad-drain smell was stronger. Daniela wondered whether the smell and the oily glaze had leaked out of Auryn. The thought made her stomach roil so badly she had to close her eyes.

Voicemail again. Daniela swore. It came out as a sob.

You don’t even know if Stephanie’s using the same number, Daniela realised. That hadn’t occurred to her. Likewise, it hadn’t occurred to her to call 999. Despite the years, she’d reached instinctively for Stephanie.

Daniela leant back against the stairs. Her arm brushed something solid and wrapped in plastic. The package of money. She picked it up and let it sit heavy on her lap.

She was about to redial when her phone burst into life, the ringtone loud enough to make her jump. Stephanie’s number appeared on the screen, so familiar even after all those years.

5 (#ulink_777cf2b4-0e8d-50b9-83d5-4299d4249e5d)

When the police arrived, Daniela was sat on the wall at the bottom of the front garden, her knees pulled up so her booted feet were clear of the water. She was shivering and red-eyed, not just from the cold.

She heard the police before she saw them. They’d commandeered a tractor – the best way of traversing the flooded roadways – from a local farmer. The steady chug-chug-chug was audible long before the vehicle popped into view.

Daniela didn’t recognise the thickset woman driving the tractor. Her wind-burned cheeks and earth-coloured clothes suggested she was either the farmer or the farmer’s wife. It stood to reason she wouldn’t trust the local bobbies to drive the vehicle themselves. Stephanie stood on the footplate, stony-faced, hanging on with both hands.

The tractor stopped in the flooded turning circle, and Stephanie jumped down with a splash. Daniela took one look at her sister’s face then dropped her gaze. She didn’t know what she’d hoped for. Sympathy? Forgiveness? Some human emotion, at least. But Stephanie could’ve been arriving at a train station for all the sentiment she showed. She started up the path with barely a glance at Daniela.

‘You’ll have to go around the back,’ Daniela called after her. ‘Front door’s blocked. I’ve opened the kitchen door.’

Daniela didn’t follow Stephanie. The idea of going inside again made her stomach churn. Instead, she remained on the wall, lit another cigarette, and watched the tractor perform a six-point turn. The farmer tipped her cap and set off back along the road. Daniela waited.

Within a few minutes, sloshing footsteps indicated Stephanie’s return. Daniela studied her cigarette, which had burned down to the filter. She cringed at having to face her sister.

‘Dani, what happened?’ Stephanie asked. There was a raw edge to her voice that Daniela had never heard before.

Daniela rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. ‘I told you on the phone,’ she said. ‘I found her like that.’

‘What were you doing here?’

‘I wanted to see the old house.’

‘What for?’

Daniela discarded her cigarette into the water, where it bobbed about with the dead leaves and twigs. ‘It’s still my home,’ she said. ‘It belongs to me, at least a little.’

‘So, you broke in.’ Not really a question.

‘I couldn’t get in the front, and the back door was locked. I climbed through the upstairs window. Look at the state of the place, for God’s sake. Of course, I went inside.’

Stephanie let the silence stretch. Daniela felt the police-stare burning the back of her neck, but didn’t look up. She was wise to that trick.

‘Where did you go when you got inside?’ Stephanie asked.

‘Through the junk room, down the stairs, into the hall. That’s when I saw Auryn.’

‘And then?’

‘I called you.’

‘Did you move her?’

‘No. I … I tried to sit her up. Before I realised.’

‘But did you move her? Is she still where you found her?’

‘I—’ Daniela couldn’t shift the memory of Auryn’s dead weight under her hands. ‘What the hell should I’ve done? She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Daniela rubbed her eyes again. Her hands were cold. ‘I knew I had to call someone.’

‘So, you called me.’

‘You’re the police. I figured it’d be quickest. I mean, if I’d called the control room I would’ve got put through to Hackett, and God knows how long it’d take them to get here with the bridge closed. Have you called anyone?’

Stephanie grunted, which could’ve meant anything. Daniela noted she wasn’t writing this down like she was supposed to. She wondered whether Stephanie was doing any of the things she should’ve. Shock was hitting her hard as well; Daniela could tell. There was a stricken look on Stephanie’s face. She had all the police training to deal with awful, stressful situations, but this had blindsided her.

‘I’ve called a doctor,’ Stephanie said. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘Is that Abrams?’ Doctor Abrams was the local GP and, by Daniela’s estimation, had to be a hundred years old.

‘Abrams is in Hackett. There’s a doctor in town who’s coming to examine the body.’

Daniela studied her hands again. The body. Already Auryn had ceased to be a person.

‘Did you go anywhere else in the house?’ Stephanie asked.

‘No. Wait, I went into the kitchen on the way out. To unlock the back door. Rather than climbing out through the window, y’know.’