Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

James Broad finally told Rohan what had happened with Becky Shaw. They were up at Reservoir no. 9 in Sophie’s car, hotboxing. James had driven and Sophie was already pale and shimmering in the back seat, and although she seemed half asleep she kept joining in with what he was saying. The car was milky with smoke. Lynsey was asleep beside her, but she kept waking up and talking about going to university. Rohan hadn’t asked about Becky but James had decided it was time to tell. They’d all met her the summer before she disappeared, he said. Her family had come up for a fortnight and they’d started hanging out together. Not doing much. Kid stuff. Building dens. Swimming in the river. Going into the caves. She’d always wanted to do a bit more, push things further. She wasn’t much older than they were but she’d seemed a lot more mature. She was so pretty, Sophie said, lighting the pipe again. Wasn’t she pretty, James? James glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. He looked at Rohan, and nodded. They’d all fancied her, he said, even if they hadn’t admitted it at the time. There was something exciting about her, he said. She talked us into climbing the fence round the quarry, and she was the first one to jump off the rope-swing. She was hardcore. And she was smart, Sophie added, from the back seat. Lynsey sat up straight again. We should all go to the same uni, she said. Shouldn’t we? We could live in the same halls and everything. James passed her the pipe, and they listened to the click and draw as she smoked it, the long pause before she sighed out the smoke. James and Sophie were both picturing Becky launching out from the rope-swing, this girl who none of them really knew, the light catching on her long bare legs as she fell through the air and something new stirred in them all. I was the only one who kept in touch with her, James said, after she went back to London. Emails, postcards, nothing much. I didn’t have a phone and there was no Facebook in those days. But we kept in touch. We — fuck it. We liked each other, okay? We liked each other. He turned round and took the pipe from Lynsey, who was falling asleep again. He thumbed it full of skunk from the bag on the dashboard. Becky was the one who talked her parents into coming here again for New Year, is what she reckoned. He toked hard on the pipe, and coughed as he let the smoke go. So there’s that for a start. Rohan took the pipe. And then when she was here we all met up and hung out for a bit, except it was cold and there wasn’t really anywhere to hang out. It was nice seeing her though. We had a little bit of a connection or something. And she’d grown up a lot since the summer. He’s talking about her being physically mature, Sophie said, sleepily. Don’t be coy, James. You mean she had tits, yeah? Me and Lynsey were well jealous, weren’t we, Lyns? Lynsey opened her eyes and looked at Sophie. Edinburgh, she said. We’ll all go to Edinburgh. I’ll do English, you guys do whatever. It’s cheap up there. Sophie stroked her arm and said yes, we’ll definitely all go to Edinburgh, we’ll all go together, if we get in, we’ll be a gang up there. Lynsey closed her eyes. I didn’t just mean that, James said. But it was part of it, Sophie murmured. The car was quiet for a moment. When they talked about Becky now it was hard to actually picture her face. The photo on the news had never looked right, but it had replaced the image of her they’d held. She was being lost all over again. Outside the car the evening was still and the light was softening over the reservoir. Anyway, James said, we were all heading home one time and she held me back and we like kissed or whatever and then we arranged to meet up just the two of us, the next afternoon. Rohan looked at him. Sophie asked if she’d been a good kisser. James said he couldn’t remember. That wasn’t really the point. You mean no, then, Sophie said. Rohan asked what had happened, when they met, whether anything had happened. Sophie sat forward and put her hand on James’s shoulder. She never turned up, James said. That was it. That was when she went missing. She must have been on her way over to meet me. Something must have happened. I was waiting for her at the old water-board buildings by Reservoir no. 7, and she never turned up. There was a silence in the car and then the long sigh of smoke streaming out of Rohan’s lungs. The car was fogging and the windows were wet with condensation. Outside the wind was picking up and the rain was moving in. Sophie was turning her hand in front of her face, looking puzzled. I think we should go now, she whispered. Rohan lowered the window and the smoke poured out into the night and was gone.

Ashleigh Wright was seen up at her mother’s allotment, hoeing along the rows the way Clive had shown her a few weeks earlier. When she was done she earthed up the potatoes, pulled slugs off the courgettes, and planted out some potted winter vegetables Clive had said were going spare. Afterwards she headed down to the cricket ground, nodding briefly at Clive on the way. Clive acknowledged, and went back to his watering. He hadn’t wanted to meddle. But the girl had looked as though she’d listen. In the long margins around the cricket field a golden skipper worked her way down a stem of dead grass until she found an opening in which to lay her eggs. The young blackbirds had put on their adult feathers. Most days after school now Tom Jackson spent a couple of hours with his grandparents. Occasionally Maisie could persuade him to sit at the kitchen table and do some schoolwork, but most times he would chase after whatever she was doing, offering to help but just getting in the way, talking about school or television or the long games he’d been playing with his friends. He always included Jackson in these conversations, running in and out of the front room if Jackson was back in his bed. There’d been a time Jackson would have affected impatience with visits like these, but she was sure they were the highlight of his day. Hers too, if she was honest. Tom was one of the few people who could understand Jackson’s halting, slurred speech, and just about the only person who could talk to him without making allowances. The speech had improved a lot over the last few years but he was reluctant to say much. His frustration at the way he sounded was obvious. But with Tom he seemed prepared to rabbit on, and she’d even heard him say things that sounded awfully close to bugger, or bollocks, which had Tom in fits of giggles. It even made Maisie smile, when she knew Tom wasn’t looking. The thought of Jackson’s reaction if he’d heard the boys say anything similar when they were young. So much discipline in the house, in those days. There’d had to be. Five of them in ten years, and the house not all that big. Five of them to be fed and cleaned and dressed and herded around. Five sets of clothes to be mended and patched and handed down. Ten muddy boots to be kept out of the house. Always so much noise. Jackson not thinking that what went on in the house was his business, unless one of the boys overstepped some mark or other. And her keeping them out of his line of fire and holding them together when they fell foul. Her back ached with the memory of it. She hoped Claire would have the sense to think one more was enough. She wondered whether it might be a girl. She wondered when they might tell anyone.

The last days of August were heavy with heat and the hedgerows turned brittle beneath it. The reservoir levels fell quickly and there was talk the flooded villages might be seen again. The cricket pitch was hard and cracked and made for some sharp bowling spells when Cardwell came over for the annual match. There were children from the campsite playing Pooh sticks on the footbridge by the tea rooms, and there was a fright when their parents couldn’t be found. In the final innings of the cricket James Broad was placed out at long off. He was talking to Lynsey Smith, who was sitting just past the boundary rope with the last of a lunchtime’s bottle of wine. Cardwell were settled in for a defensive spell and James had little to do beyond look like he was paying attention. I didn’t think you were all that interested in cricket, he told Lynsey at one point, talking over his shoulder with his eyes on the bowling. I don’t think I am, she said, and though he kept still a rush of alertness came through him as if he were diving for a catch. The game was lost, and in the evening the pair of them were seen leaving the pavilion early and walking through the square. Cooper ran a piece in the Valley Echo about the protest camp at the Stone Sisters. It had been there for a year now, and seemed well established. Word was they had their own compost toilet. It wasn’t clear what they did up there all day, although drumming was sometimes heard. There were rumours of tunnels. The heather was thick with butterflies — skippers and fritillaries and coppers — and Sally Fletcher spent most of the afternoon making a count for the National Park. In the beech wood the foxes ran through the night. The cubs were now as big as the adults and were striking out on their own. They would soon be seen as competition. There was play but it took on a fierce edge and there were fights that ended in blood. The edges of the territory were understood. In the evenings now the noise of people talking outside the Gladstone was louder on account of the smoking ban, and no matter how many notices Tony put up he still had complaints from the parish council. Some people had no idea how their voices carried. There was a new woman working at the bar and Gordon had been talking to her. Her name was Philippa and she was only around for the summer. She was volunteering at the visitor centre to get some conservation experience. She was staying with a friend in the city and driving out each day. There was a tattoo of a kingfisher on her shoulder, the size of Gordon’s thumb. On her lower back there was a finely drawn bluebell, placed in such a way that the bulb and root system could only be seen once her pants were down. He liked to look at it and she liked him to look at it and for a time this was enough. Each night when she drove back to the city Philippa assumed she would tell her friend about this man she’d met, and each time something stopped her. She wondered why she kept these things from people. Her friend didn’t even know about the bluebell tattoo, nor about the man she’d been with when she had it done.