Christopher Fowler - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 10

All I could see was the swimming pool itself.

No more glittering water. No more sparkling blue and white tiles.

The surface of the pool was a black mass, undulating and shifting as if there was something alive beneath it. Rubble, shattered spars of wood and tangled ironwork had been dumped into that pool, but it was impossible to make anything out clearly. Hundreds of gallons of the Edda Dell’Orso’s crude oil had been sucked in through the sea-sluices and had coated the entire surface. But it was not this that made the sight so obscene. It was what the tanker’s spilled load had brought with it. The tide and the clinging oil had sucked more than one seabird in through that sluice. There were birds all over that undulating mass. Maybe a hundred, maybe more. It was impossible to tell. Most of them were dead, and the only flash of white feathers I could see was down by the sluice itself, where the bird had been sucked in. It flapped and struggled as it was carried further into that seabird’s graveyard on the rippling ebony surface.

I ran forward, knowing that there was no way I could wade into that pool. I’d have to find something to pull the gull into the side. I glanced at the abandoned changing rooms as I ran alongside the pool to where the bird was struggling. The echoing sounds of kids laughing and of bare feet slapping on cold tile floors somehow seemed very real to me. Now, I didn’t know whether I was doing the right thing by coming in here, or whether I was just going to make the dreams and the memories even worse than they already were. It was replaying in my head now, the day when Amy died. I didn’t want it to, but just being in this place brought it back with a horrifying intensity.

It had been my birthday party the day before, and Amy had stolen all the attention as usual. It was supposed to be my day. A special day when Mam and Dad could show me that they loved me just as much as her. But sure enough, just when it seemed that everything was going well-, when the kids were all playing and I was feeling really good — the party was brought to a halt when Amy told everyone that she wanted to sing her song and do her dance. And I remember looking at Mam and thinking: “They won’t let her do it. They won’t let her spoil the party. Any other time, any other day. But not now. Not atmy birthday party. ”

And Mam had told everyone to be quiet and had picked Amy up and put her on the table, and even though the other kids had seen it all before, they were made to be quiet, and Amy was asked. was asked… to do her song and her dance. I could have cried and begged and ranted, in the way that a nine-year-old will, but I was just so hurt. So hurt, that I couldn’t say a thing. My throat was constricted as I stood there and watched Amy be made the centre of attention as she sang.

I tried to push those memories out of my mind, but it was impossible. The seagull’s movements had become weaker. It raised one oil-covered wing as if it was trying to wave at me. In another moment, it must succumb.

And Amy began to sing:

“Ain’t she sweet? I ask you, ain’t she neat? Now I ask you very con-fi-dentially: Ain’t! She! Sweet!”

Her little feet began to pound out that tap-dance rhythm on the table and the kids shuffled and watched and God how I wanted that table to collapse beneath her, or for her to miss a step and fall and begin crying and.

There was a broken spar of wood lying by the side of the pool. I picked it up. The wood was so rotten that it was crumbling in my hands even as I hoisted it out over the surface of the oil.

The next day we had gone to the beach. The sun was shining and there were lots of families all encamped on the same stretch of sand that I’d just come from. But inside, I was feeling overshadowed in a way that I’d often felt. I wanted to be alone, that’s why I asked Mam and Dad if I could go on up to the swimming pool. Dad had insisted that I take Amy with me. After all, I was the older brother and it was my job to look after my little sister. That constricted feeling was in my throat again. Couldn’t I do anything without having her along in tow? Didn’t they realise that I wanted some time for myself? I sulked, but they made me take her. We were already in swimming costumes, so there was no need to use the changing facilities.

“Keep in the shallow end,” Mam had said.

I was able to reach the seagull with the spar, but the bird began to panic, even though I was being as gentle as I possibly could. Its one free wing began to flap and splatter the oil, and I began to make shushing noises as if I was dealing with a small child.

“Easy. easy. ”

I didn’t want to take her. They shouldn’t have made me take her. What the hell were they thinking about, Mam and Dad? I was only nine years old, Amy was seven. What did they think I was? Amy’s nursemaid?

Slowly and gradually, I drew the seagull in to the side. Its wing ceased to flap. It looked at me with one blank eye, giving in to its fate.

There were other kids there. Kids my own age. Amy wanted to play, began to cry when I said she had to stay there in the shallow end while I went to play with those others. I knew why she wanted to come. She just wanted to be the centre of attention, as usual-, would probably sing that bloody song again and just embarrass me. So I left her there while I made new friends. And the first I knew that something had gone wrong was when that woman screamed.

Still making that shushing sound, I reached out and gently took the bird by its wing. It didn’t resist. It just kept looking at me as if it knew that I was going to rend it apart and devour it. I let go of the spar and it slid soundlessly beneath the surface of the oil. I had the bird now and lifted it to the side; long tacky threads of oil spattered and flurried in the sea breeze.

. and when I looked back down to the shallow end, I could see three men ploughing through the water; could see one of them lunging down and dragging something from the bottom and the woman was just screaming and screaming, making the other kids down there begin crying too, as..

The seagull was dead. Its head lolled on its neck. Its one eye was still blank and staring. I could feel that constriction in my throat again; just as if I was nine years old once more. What had I done by coming into this place again? How could I have been so stupid as to believe that I could exorcise those memories? I lay the bird at the poolside and crouched down on my haunches, looking back to the shallow end.

And then, about six feet out from where I sat, something moved beneath the oil.

I saw it from the corner of my eye. At first, I thought it might be sunlight reflecting on that ebony surface. I stared at the place where I thought I’d seen movement. It came again. Something that flapped out of the oil, smaller than a seagull’s wing, but with the same kind of movement. Another sea bird, trapped beneath the surface and trying to rise. I looked for the spar, then remembered that I’d let it drop into the pool. Frantically, I searched around for something else. Now, it seemed as if there was a chance to make good on my failure. If I could save even one bird from this morass, then somehow it seemed that my desperation need not be so intense. There was nothing at hand. Perhaps back there in the changing rooms.?

But then there was new movement, something so strange and graceful and eerie that I could only sit there and watch.

A swan was rising from the oil.

What I had at first assumed to be a wing was a swan’s head breaking the surface. Because now that swan’s head was rising and I could see its long and graceful black-coated neck as it emerged slow and dripping from the pool. But there was something wrong with that neck now. It had been broken in the middle. It was bending at an impossible angle as the neck emerged from the oil and.