The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2018 Edition

The Swimming Pool Party ^{Robert Shearman}

Once in a while a memory of Max will pop into her head, and she won’t quite know what to do with it. Totally unbidden, and triggered by nothing in particular, and sometimes she won’t mind, she’ll let the memory play out like a little movie. That time, one Christmas, when they’d given Max his first bike—it had taken Tom ages to wrap it up, and once it was done it was just so obvious, the wrapping paper did nothing to disguise what was underneath at all; “We’ll have to do it again,” she’d said, “but this time we’ll put lumps and bumps in,” and Tom hadn’t minded, they’d done it again, together, and in the end the present for Max under the tree looked like nothing on earth, and certainly nothing like a bicycle; that Christmas morning they told him to save that present for last though he was itching to open it, and he wasn’t disappointed. Oh, she still remembers that exquisite look of joy and surprise on his face when he realized Santa had brought him the bike he wanted after all. Or—there was that memory of when they were on holiday, where was it, Cornwall? It was warm, anyway. And they were all sitting out in the beer garden, Max had a lemonade. There was a wasp. It landed on Max. They shooed it off, and the wasp went onto the table, and Tom upturned his empty pint glass and put it on top. And Max was crying, and she was suddenly so frightened—had he been stung? Where was he stung? Would he have an allergic reaction? But he wasn’t stung at all—“The poor buzzie,” he kept saying, “the poor buzzie.” The poor buzzie was trapped, flying around its beery prison looking for some way out, bashing its body against the sides of the glass. Max was howling now, he said, “Please let the buzzie out, it’s so scared,” and Tom took the glass away, and the wasp didn’t sting anyone, it flew off, and Max laughed, all tears forgotten, and went back to his lemonade.

Or, of course—there was that memory, the first memory. The doctor putting Max into her arms. And her realizing that it was really all over, the whole giving birth thing, and it hadn’t been quite as difficult or painful as she’d feared. And Tom was grinning. And she’d spend so long privately worrying about this very moment—but when I’m actually there with it, with my own child, what happens if I don’t like it? Don’t want it? Can feel nothing for it? Max crying, and she crying herself with relief, that this tiny human being in her arms that had come from inside her and was a part of her was something she loved with all her heart, and she would love it forever, until the day she died.

Sometimes she’s so moved by the memories that it takes her a little while to realize that nothing is wrong, nothing is lost—that it’s Tom who’s moved out, and Max is still there, and alive, and well, and probably playing computer games in his bedroom. And it would only take a moment to go and see him, and look at him, and give him a hug. And she might even do this. And she might not.

Max is in trouble at school again. It isn’t his fault. (Oh, it is never his fault.) She shouldn’t be too concerned, but would she mind coming in some time and having a little chat with the head of year? This Tuesday? Wonderful.

The head of year, a decidedly ugly woman called Mrs. Trent, invites her to sit down, and asks her if she’d like a cup of tea.

Max is being bullied. Yes, that little spate of bullying that had taken place in the spring term had been dealt with; this was a different spate of bullying altogether. Mrs. Trent is just wondering if something at home is the matter. She knows there’s been problems, Max isn’t very forthcoming, but… Would she like some sugar? Here, she’ll pass the sugar. There you are.

“He still sees his father every other weekend,” she says. “That’s quite a lot. That’s more than some kids get when their fathers live at home.”

“How long has it been since you and your husband separated?” asks Mrs. Trent. She tells her. “And was it amicable?” Are they ever amicable, really?

“We just worry,” says Mrs. Trent. “Because Max is a good boy. But we just think. That with the amount of bullying he gets. We just wonder. Is he in some way inviting it?”

Of course he’s inviting it, she thinks. He’s weak. He’s weak, just like his father is. He’s one of life’s fuckups. You can see it written all over his face. Like his father, he’s never going to be anyone, or achieve anything. It’s like he’s got a sign on his back saying “Kick Hard Here.” What she says is, “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Trent gives a cautious smile. “Max doesn’t seem to have any friends. Not a single friend at all. Does he have friends at home?”

She thinks, I want the bullies to go after him. I want them to hurt him. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him, make him grow up a bit. Is it wrong that I take the side of the bullies over my own child? Of course it is. This is the position he puts me in. He makes me into a bad mother. He makes me into a bad person. The little shit. She says, “He has friends. He has me.”

Mrs. Trent doesn’t seem very convinced by that. That cautious smile looks even more watery. She wonders if Mrs. Trent has children of her own. She guesses that she doesn’t.

What they agree is, they’ll both monitor Max more carefully from now on. In the classroom, and at home. Because maybe there’s nothing to be worried about. But no one wants this to become a situation anyone has to worry about. It all feels rather inconclusive, and she supposes Mrs. Trent thinks the same, and she realizes that Mrs. Trent probably only called this meeting because it was part of her job, she doesn’t really care what happens to her weak little son either. They shake hands.

Max is waiting for his mother on a bench in the corridor outside. He gets up when he sees her. “Well then,” she says. She knows she’ll have to come up with something better than that eventually. But right now it’s the best that she’s got.

“Are you cross with me?” he asks.

“No.”

To prove she’s not cross, on the way home she takes him to MacDonald’s as a treat. She watches him as he joylessly dips French fries into a little tub of barbeque sauce, the sauce drips onto the table. “Any good?” she says, and he nods. Then she takes him home.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asks, and it’s right before his bedtime, and she supposes she ought to have asked earlier, but she’s asking him now, isn’t she? He shrugs, and it’s such an ugly little gesture. Then he drags his heels upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door. And she thinks: remember the bike. Remember the wasp. Remember when he came out of you, shiny and brand new.

She recognizes it as the exact same shrug Tom gives her a couple of days later when he comes to pick up Max for the weekend. She thinks she should tell him what had happened at school, about the teacher’s concern their son has no one to play with; and there it is, that shrug, that’s where Max has got it from. She should have known.

“I’m sure he’s okay,” says Tom.

“And that’s it, is it? That you’re sure he’s okay?”

The shrug.

“What will you boys be getting up to this weekend?” She wonders if Tom is trying to grow a moustache or if he simply hasn’t shaved. But there’s no stubble on his chin, so he’s shaving the chin, and that means he’s deliberately not shaving under nose. Probably. She wonders whether it’s to impress some other woman. Probably.

“I don’t think we’ll do anything,” says Tom. “We’ll just hang. We’ll just chill. You know? Hey, superstar”—for Max has now appeared, and Tom has started calling him “superstar,” and she guesses Tom’s picked that up from a TV show—“Hey, you got your bag, you got your things? I was just telling your mum, we’ll just hang and chill this weekend, okay?”

She bends down to give Max a hug. She doesn’t really need to bend, he’s nearly as tall as she is now, she hopes the bending to hug him makes the act look more endearing. “You be a good boy for your dad, yeah?” He grunts, he hugs back. She doesn’t know why they’re hugging, she supposes it’s mostly for Tom’s benefit.

“And, you know, don’t worry,” says Tom. “It’s part of growing up. Being a boy. I know. I was a boy once!”

“Yes,” she says to that.

“And you,” he says suddenly, “You have a good weekend too. You’re okay, you’re doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” he says. “Good. Well. Bye, then.” She never knows whether he’s going to try for a hug himself or not. Three months ago he’d knocked on the door, he’d been in tears. His girlfriend had thrown him out, and she could have seen that coming, she was practically half his age. (“Two thirds!” he’d protested. “She’s two thirds my age!”) “I’ve made such a terrible mistake,” he said, “you are the love of my life! I wish you could find some way to forgive me.”

“But I do forgive you,” she’d said, and she did, for the silly affair, at least, she did—“I do forgive you, which is why I’m not punching you in your fucking face.” And she’d closed the door on him. He’s never mentioned the incident since, and sometimes when he comes round to pick up Max he seems hurt and snippy, bristling with passive aggression, sometimes he just bounces about and makes jokes like they’re cool sophisticated adults and it’s easy and it’s fun to ignore all the betrayal and all the waste. In the last three months he’s never tried for a hug, but she knows it’ll happen, one of these days it’s coming.

And that’s it, Max’s gone, now starts her little fortnightly break. She gets Max on Saturday mornings, and he’ll be back for Sunday evening, but otherwise she has practically the whole weekend to herself. She feels lighter already. And she feels guilty too. What will she do with her new won freedom? She doesn’t know. She never knows. Maybe she’ll do some shopping this afternoon, maybe she’ll tidy Max’s room. She goes into the kitchen and has some cold cuts from the fridge, there doesn’t seem much point cooking when it’s only for her.

A week or so later she asks Max, “Are things any better at school?” and Max manages a smile and says thank you, everything now is fine. That’s just two days before he comes home with his face bruised and bleeding. Max insists it’s nothing, but she sees red—she demands to speak to Mrs. Trent about the matter, but for some reason Mrs. Trent is now so much busier and cannot see any parents at all about anything, maybe phone ahead and see if she’s available next week? And for three whole afternoons she pulls a sickie at work, and she sits in her car outside the playground, and watches the children when they are let out to play, and she doesn’t get out of the car for fear that Max will see her, but she sees him—and she watches all the kids, and wonders which of them are hurting her son, and what she will do when she finds out. Will she climb the fence and go and protect her boy? Will she find the bully and track him down and beat him herself? What she won’t do—what she doesn’t need to do—she won’t ask the bully why.

The invitation comes in the post. It’s addressed to Max, but it’s also addressed to her, in parenthesis—it says, “To Maxwell Williamson! (and also to Mrs. Williamson!!)”; either way, she doesn’t feel bad about opening it first. “It’s Nicky’s Birthday!” the card says inside. “Come And Celebrate at Our Swimming Pool Party! (bring trunks).” And there’s a little picture of a smiling fish, presumably because fish can swim, even if they rarely do so in chlorinated water. The envelope is scented, and that’s an odd choice of stationery for a boy, she supposes the invitations were sent out by Nicky’s mother.

She shows Max the invitation when he gets home. “Who’s Nicky?” she asks.

“Just someone at school.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“He’s not even in my class.”

“Do you want to go to his party?”

Shrug.

“You’d better go, mister.” Lately she’s been calling him “mister” whenever she wants to sounds stern—she doesn’t know why, maybe she picked it up from a TV show. “The school says you need some friends, mister. You’re going to that party.”

The party is the coming Sunday. That’s a weekend Max is supposed to spend with Tom; she phones Tom and asks him to reschedule. Tom whines about it, he says he’s already got plans the following week. So she says it’s up to him then—Tom can be the one to take their son to his best friend’s birthday party if he wants, she’s more than happy not to have to bother with it. Tom agrees to reschedule after all.

“Shall we get Nicky a birthday present? Shall we go shopping for a birthday present? What do you think Nicky might like?” Max says he has no idea. He’s barely spoken to Nicky, he says, he doesn’t know why Nicky’s invited him, Nicky must have invited everyone. She supposes that is probably true—but she reminds herself Nicky’s mother went to the effort of sending a postal invitation, and finding their address to do so, it can’t be as random as all that. On the Saturday they go out to buy Nicky a present, all she knows is he must like the water, she buys him an inflatable Donald Duck for the pool—she also buys a card, which she’ll get Max to sign—and she buys Max some new swimming trunks.

Sunday morning, and it’s raining. Not the gentle sort either—it falls as mean sharp strips, no one would want to be out in this.

“What a shame,” she says. Max brightens—does that mean he won’t have to go to the party after all? She is having none of that. She tells him to get into the car, and he’s sulking now, positively sulking, he’s twelve years old and he should know better. He slams the car door and won’t speak to her all the way there. She brings the birthday present and the birthday card, and she brings Max’s swimming trunks too, just in case. The rain is thick and nasty as they drive, but as they reach the other side of town the weather starts to lift, and once they reach Nicky’s house the clouds are gone and the sun is shining hot and warm, it’s a beautiful summer’s day.

“Come on,” she says. “And for Christ’s sake, smile a bit.”

They ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers, neatly dressed, and beaming happily. “Nicky?” she asks, and he says—“Yes, yes!” He says to Max, “Maxwell, it is so very good of you to come.” And he offers her his hand, “Mrs. Williamson, my mother will be thrilled that you’re here. Please, come through, both of you. Everyone’s out back in the garden!”

There must be about twenty children standing by the swimming pool, all of them boys, all of them in their bathing costumes. She thought there would be more of them, and she feels a weird thrill of pride for her son—now he’s the twenty-first most wanted child at the party, and not, as she had feared, the hundredth. The water in the pool looks so blue and warm, it looks good enough to sleep in, good enough to drink. She says to Nicky, but why aren’t you all swimming? And Nicky looks genuinely shocked and says, “We wouldn’t start until Maxwell got here! That would be rude!”

The boys don’t seem impatient or annoyed that Max has kept them waiting; they smile, a couple of them standing by the far end of the pool wave in greeting.

“Well,” she says to Max. “Do you want to run along and play?” Max says, “I don’t know these boys.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re not at my school. I don’t know any of them.”

“Don’t worry, Max,” says Nicky. “These are my friends, and that means they’re your friends too. I’ll introduce you, and we’re going to have such fun! Did you bring your trunks? You did? Let’s go inside and get changed. I haven’t got changed either yet; I waited for you.” And he holds out his hand, and that seems such a peculiar thing—but Nicky is smiling so warmly, there is no malice in it, or sarcasm, or even just dutiful politeness—and when Max hesitates for a moment Nicky doesn’t take offense, he smiles even more widely and gives his outstretched hand a little flutter of encouragement. And Max takes it. And they hurry indoors.

She feels suddenly awkward now, left all alone, alone except for the twenty little boys all staring at her. “Hello,” she says, but they don’t reply. She becomes aware that she is still holding a birthday card and a birthday present with Disney wrapping; she puts them down upon the poolside table.

And then, suddenly—“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, what must you think of me!” Nicky’s mother is not a prepossessing woman. She’s short, and a little plump, and she doesn’t wear any makeup; her hair is sort of brown and tied into an efficient bob. And yet it’s curious—there’s nothing drab about her, she looks comforting, she looks mumsy. And Max’s mum feels a short stab of jealousy that anyone can look as mumsy as that, the kindly mother of children’s books and fairy tales, the mother she’d hoped she’d be for Max. A stab of jealousy, just for a moment, then it’s gone.

“Thank you for inviting us,” she says to her.

“Max is so excited!”

“I hope you’re excited too,” says Nicky’s mum, “Just a little bit! The invitation was for both of you! You will stay?”

“Oh. Because my car is outside…”

“Please. Have a glass of wine.”

“And I’ll have to drive back.”

“Not for hours yet. Please. Everyone else stayed. Please.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Williamson, you must stay! Everyone’s welcome to my party!” Because Nicky is outside again, and he has brought Max with him.

Both boys are in swimming trunks. And it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen Max’s bare body, not in years. She’d always supposed that he was rather a plain boy, the way he carries himself as he slouches about the house made her think he was running to fat. But that isn’t fair. He’s not fat. There’s a bit of extra flesh, maybe, but it looks sweet and ripe. The skin isn’t quite smooth—there are a few scab marks where Max has no doubt scratched away spots—and there’s a little downy fur on his chest that can’t yet decide whether it wants to be hair or not. But she’s surprised by her son—he looks good, he looks attractive.

He is not as attractive as Nicky, standing beside him, and showing off muscles and tanned skin. But that’s fine, that’s not a slur on Max, she rather suspects that in the years to come no one will compete with Nicky.

“Please stay,” Nicky says one more time.

“Yes, all right.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“We got you a card and a present. They’re on the table.”

“Thank you. Well, Maxwell! Are you ready for the pool?”

“Yes,” says Max.

“Oh, watch this,” says Nicky’s mother. “This is good, you’ll like this.”

The boys all take their positions around the perimeter of the pool. Nicky leads Max to the edge; he shows him where to stand, next to him. Max looks apprehensive, but Nicky touches him on the shoulder and smiles; Max looks reassured. Then, at the other side of the pool, one of the boys raises his arms high above his head, tilts his body, and dives in. And as he dives, the boy next to him raises his arms likewise, diving as well. It’s like watching domino toppling, she thinks, as the actions of one boy precipitate the actions of the next—or, no, more like one of those old black and white Hollywood musicals, weren’t there lots of movies like that once upon a time? Because it feels perfectly choreographed, each boy hitting the water a matter of seconds after the last one has jumped, and entering it so cleanly, there’s barely a splash.

And she’s frightened for Max now, as the Mexican wave of diving boys fans its way around the poolside to where he stands waiting. Don’t fuck it up now, she thinks. Don’t fuck it up. Three boys to go, two boys, Nicky himself. Max jumps. He doesn’t dive, he jumps. His splash is loud and explosive and throws water over the side. He fucks it up.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Max’s not much of a swimmer.”

“Oh, but he’s charming,” says Nicky’s mother. “And he’ll learn.” She taps at her arm lightly with a fingernail. “Come inside. Swimming for the children, and for the grownups there’s wine and cigarettes and fresh fruit.”

“Don’t you think we should watch them?”

“Oh, we’ll watch them. Indoors.” That tap with the fingernail again, and then she turns and leaves. Max’s mum follows her.

“Oh, this is a nice house,” she says. “I like your house, it’s nice, isn’t it?’ In truth, it’s as unprepossessing as its owner—but it also feels homely, and warm, it feels safe. “Have you lived here long, Mrs. …?” She remembers, ridiculously, she has no idea what this woman’s name is. “Are you new to the area?”

“Have some wine,” says Nicky’s mother.

“Well, a glass of white, maybe.”

“I’m sorry, I only have red.” And she does sound sorry too. “But I think you’ll like it, it’s very good.” She pours two glasses of red; she’s right, it’s smooth. “And a cigarette?”

“Oh, no, I’ve given up.”

“So have I! Many times!” Laughter. And out from a plain wooden box on the table two cigarettes, and they are the whitest Max’s mother has ever seen. She knows as she accepts a light that it’s a mistake, she hasn’t smoked in years—how long, not since Max was born, she gave up when she was pregnant! She used to enjoy smoking, that’s something else Max has taken away from her. She prepares to cough. The cigarette is just as smooth as the wine. She recognizes the smell, where does she know that from? It smells like the scent on the birthday invitation.

And she stands there, drinking and puffing away, and on she babbles. “So, do you live here all alone, Mrs. …? I mean, with Nicky, all alone. Is there a Mr. …?”

“How is Maxwell getting on at school?”

“Oh. You know.”

“Tell me.”

“Good at some subjects. Bad at others! You know!”

“Yes.”

She’s somehow finished her glass. She’s poured another one. “He’s not an unkind boy,” she says. “He never was. There’s nothing wrong with him. I think. I just wish. I just wish he could be a bit more likeable.”

“Likeable, yes.”

“The way your son is likeable. Nicky, I mean, he’s obviously very likeable.”

“Nicky has always had a certain charm.”

“You see, you’re lucky! If it is luck. I don’t know, maybe likeable is something you can work at. Maybe being better is just something you can make yourself be. I don’t know. I just look at Max sometimes and think… You had such promise. Right at the beginning. Right when you were born. And then you just got worse and worse. What’s that about? Like something went wrong, and I never noticed, and I didn’t fix it in time, and now it’s too late. But maybe it’ll sort itself out! Kids. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“They grow up just as quickly as it takes.”

“Yes. Sorry. Of course. Yes. Do you think? Do you think we should check up on them?”

“Nicky’s very responsible. But we’ll check on them. Come upstairs. We can see better from there.”

In the bedroom there is a sliding door that leads onto a thin little balcony. There are two chairs out there, and a table. On the table there are fresh cigarettes, fresh wine. There is a basket of strawberries. “Sit down,” says Nicky’s mother. “Make yourself at home.” From the balcony they can both clearly see the pool, and hear the squeals of pleasure as the children splash about in it. Max sees his mother, waves up at her. He is smiling. It is good to see him smile.

“I like to watch them from above,” says Nicky’s mother. She has a pair of binoculars. Surely she doesn’t need binoculars; the boys are only a few feet away? She peers at the children through them; she helps herself to strawberries as she does so.

It suddenly occurs to Max’s mum: “Where are the other mothers?”

“There are no other mothers.”

“But, I thought you said…”

“It’s just me. And you.” Nicky’s mother takes the binoculars from her face and gives such a lovely smile. “And all my lovely children.”

Max’s mother thinks the smoke in her mouth tastes soft and warming, it tickles her nostrils as she puffs it out her nose, it tickles her tongue as she puffs through her mouth. Both ways are good, both are nice. “Try the binoculars,” she is told, and so she does—she is startled at first by how close the boys in the pool now seem to her, she can see the very pores on their skin, she can see every sweet blemish. They’re so close they’re just flesh and hair, she can’t tell them apart any more. “Try the strawberries too, they taste better with the binoculars,” and that seems silly, but somehow it’s true.

“I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying. “For what I said. I’m sorry.”

Maybe she was expecting some sort of reassurance. “Well,” says Nicky’s mother, “we’re all sorry, aren’t we?”

Nicky claps his hands, and all his fellows stop what they’re doing. He’s got a new game for them to play.

Nicky’s mother says suddenly, “I mean, what about Jesus?”

She doesn’t know what she means by that.

“Jesus turned out well, didn’t he?” says Nicky’s mother. “Or so some say. And he got off to a promising start. The stable was a bit uncomfortable, but the Nativity, and all the attention of the Nativity, kings coming to pay homage, angels, shepherds, stars leading the way. Well, maybe not so much the shepherds. But that’s a great start for a little boy in a desert. And then what? The Bible doesn’t tell us. It passes over his childhood in silence. Nothing for years. The next time we pick up the story, Jesus is a grown man, he’s suddenly out there preaching, telling parables and healing the sick. At last! his parents would have thought. At last, he’s finally making a name for himself. Because all that early promise seemed just squandered, you know? Get off your arse and do something with your life!”

For some reason, Max’s mother finds all this very funny, and she laughs and laughs. Nicky’s mother smiles at her curiously. Nicky’s mother then says, “Do you think you’re the first mother who couldn’t love her child?”

“What?” And suddenly she feels so cold. “What?”

“The children are having such fun,” says her new friend. “Look.” Max’s mother watches. “But what are they doing?”

“One of Nicky’s favorites. And he’s so good at it! They’re playing the Drowning Game.”

The rules to the Drowning Game are very simple. A boy dives under the water. He stays there for as long as possible. Whilst he does so, the other boys stand around the poolside in a circle and clap and chant.

“Shouldn’t we help them?” she says.

“I think they’re playing it very well without us, don’t you think?” And so it seems. They watch in silence as one child stays beneath the water for four minutes, the next very nearly five. They pass the binoculars back and forth, they smoke and drink and eat strawberries.

“Ah,” says Nicky’s mother. “Let’s now see whether your son is better than any of mine.”

Max turns to look up at the balcony. He calls out to his mother, but she can’t hear what he says above the chanting. She waves at him, she tries to get him to stop. He seems to misunderstand—he waves too, he grins, he gives her a thumbs up. He gets into the pool. He looks so frail and lonely now he’s in there on his own. He takes a deep breath, then pops his head under.

“But of course Jesus had a childhood,” says Nicky’s mother. “Whether the Bible chooses to ignore it or not. And some of the stories got out.”

She watches the surface of the water. There is not a ripple on it. And she can’t help it, she steals a look at her watch.

“The stories aren’t very nice ones. Maybe that’s why the Bible didn’t want them? Jesus killing children who so much as bump into him, blinding the parents who complain. I suppose you can’t blame him. Having all those great powers, must be very confusing for an infant.”

She checks her watch. A full ninety seconds has passed.

“This is my favorite story. Is it true or not? Who can tell? Jesus liked to play with his friends from school. One day he thought that the most fun would be to play on the moon. It was a crescent moon that evening and it was so close, he knew if he jumped high enough from the cliff he could reach it. And so he did. There he was, now he was the man in the moon, sitting back within that crescent as if it were a comfy chair. Come and join me, he called to his friends. Come and jump. Don’t be frightened. Don’t you trust me?”

Three minutes now. She tries to get out of her chair. She has to get down to the pool. She can’t. Nicky’s mother has got her arm. Nicky’s mother has a story to tell.

“The children all fell to their deaths. Their little bodies smashed to pieces at the bottom of the cliff. Jesus was angry about that. He wanted his friends! If he didn’t have friends, who could he play his games with? Who did he have left to impress? So he brought them all back from the dead, every last one of them.” Five minutes. Max’s beaten the high score now. He’s beaten the target Nicky set. Surely they’ll let him come to the surface now? Surely they’ll stop their chanting, their cat calling, their hallelujahs and hosannas?

“Their bodies were broken, of course. And they couldn’t speak any more. But what of that? He didn’t need friends who could speak. His parents were angry. They knew he had to be stopped. The father spoke to him. Hey, superstar. We can’t go around killing our friends and resurrecting them, can we? Then where would we all be? All right? Promise you won’t do it again. But fathers are so weak, aren’t they? They may love the child, but it’s easy to love something when it’s not been inside of you eating away for nine months. It’s down to the mother, always, to discipline it. It’s the mother who knows it, understands it, and can be disgusted by it.”

Eight minutes. Even the children look worried now. They’ve stopped clapping. They’ve stopped their songs. All except Nicky, he sings his heart out, and how his eyes gleam.

“It’s left to the mother. As always. She says, you let those children die right now. You put an end to this, or it’s straight to bed with a smacked bottom. How Jesus sulks! He threatens her. He’ll drown her. He’ll curse her. She’ll never die, she’ll just suffer, she’ll be made to walk the earth forever. But he does what he is told. The children collapse. Their hearts all burst at once, and their faces look so grateful, they fall to the ground and there they rot.”

And now—yes—she sees Max’s body. And for a moment she thinks it’s just the corpse bobbing to the surface, and it’ll be full and bloated—but no, no, up he comes, and he’s laughing, he’s splashing out of the water in triumph! Nine minutes twenty! Nine minutes twenty, and all the boys by the side of the pool are clapping him on the back, and none of them with greater gusto that Nicky, and Max looks so proud.

She wants to cry out she’s proud of him too. She wants to cry out she loves him. She wants him to know he’s her little champion.

“The point I’m making,” says Nicky’s mother. “Is there a point? The point I’m making. If your child is a somebody, or if your child is a nobody. If they have potential, or are a waste of space. If they’re Jesus themselves. If they’re Jesus. Then there’s still only so much a mother can do with them. Were screwed either way.” She gets to her feet. She claps her hands, just the once, and all her children fall silent, and look up to her. Max too, all the children wait to do whatever she says.

“Nicky,” she says. “That’s enough now. Time we all put our playthings away.” Nicky’s face clouds over. He looks like he’ll throw a tantrum. His mouth twists, and he suddenly looks so ugly. But his mother is having none of it. She stands her ground. He gives in.

Once again, all the boys take their places around the perimeter of the swimming pool. Max takes his place too. Maybe he thinks they’re all going to dive in like last time. Maybe he thinks it’ll all be some Busby Berkeley number, and that he’ll get it right this time. And maybe, given the chance, he would.

The first child doesn’t dive. He merely steps into the water, and on contact he dissolves, the remains of his body look thick and granular in the water.

Nicky’s mother watches with her binoculars as each of her children step into the pool and break apart like fine sand. She eats a strawberry. She licks her lips.

It does not take long before it’s Max’s turn. He looks up. He is smiling. He is happy.

“No,” says his mother.

“No?” says the woman.

“Yes,” she replies. It comes out in a whisper.

Max seems to take longer to dissolve, but maybe she’s biased, maybe he’s no more special than any of the other kids.

The swimming pool now seems thick and meaty, like gravy.

Nicky is the last to go in. He refuses to look at his mother, and as he drops down into oblivion with a petulant splash, he’s still having his sulk.

Max’s mother doesn’t know what to say. She puts down her wine glass, she stubs out her cigarette.

The woman turns to her, gently taking her chin by her hand. Kisses her, just once, very softly, on the lips. And says:

“Listen to me. You are not the only mother who cannot love her child. It is all right. It is all right. And this can be your home now, for as long as you like. This can be your home, forever.”

And the woman goes on, “This bedroom is yours. Enjoy.” And leaves her, with a balcony to watch the setting sun from, and some wine to finish, and all of the cigarettes, and all of the delicious strawberries.

She lies in bed. She half expects the woman will come and join her. She half hopes she will. She doesn’t. So, in the very dead of night, she gets up. She feels a little giddy. She cannot tell whether she is drunk or not, maybe she’s in shock, maybe she’s just very tired. She goes downstairs. She thinks the doors might be locked, but they aren’t, she’s free to leave at any time. She finds a discarded bottle of wine, she pours out the dregs, and rinses it clean from the tap. Then into the garden she goes. It is dark, and the swimming pool looks dark too, you’d think it was just water in there if you didn’t know better. She stops down by the pool- side, right at the point where Max went in—it was here, wasn’t it, or hereabouts? She holds the wine bottle under the surface, and lets the water run in. and the water runs over her hands too, and it feels like grit. The bottle is full. She’ll take it home. It is the best she can do.

She sees, too, the birthday card and the birthday present, both unopened, still standing on the table where she left them. On a whim she takes the inflatable Donald Duck in its Disney wrapping paper. She doesn’t bother with the birthday card.

She drives home, holding the bottle careful between her legs, being sure not to spill a drop.

She goes up to Max’s bedroom. The bedroom is a mess, it’s always a mess. Max hasn’t even made the bed. She makes the bed for him, she smooths down the sheets and straightens the pillows. It looks nice. Then—she takes the bottle. She doesn’t know what to do with it. In the light it looks like dirty water—mostly clear, but there are bits of grime floating about in it, you wouldn’t dare drink it. She knows it isn’t Max, but bits of it are probably Max, aren’t they, most likely? She pours it slowly over the bed—the length of it, from the pillow on which Max’s head would lie, down to where his feet would reach. The water just seems to rest on the surface, it doesn’t soak through. She bends close to it. It smells sweet.

She doesn’t know why on Earth she took the Donald Duck, and leaves it on his bedside table.

In the morning she checks on the damp patch on Max’s bed, and she thinks that something is growing there.

She goes to the supermarket and she buys lots of bottles of red wine, and lots of packs of cigarettes. But no matter what grape she drinks, what brand she smokes, she finds nothing as smooth or as satisfying as what she tasted at Nicky’s party.

She calls work to tell them she’s sick. She calls school too. Tells them Max isn’t well enough to come in for a while, and no one seems to care.

One morning she drinks too much wine and smokes too many cigarettes and pukes them all out, and, sadly, she realizes enough is enough, and she’ll never find that happiness again, and puts the rest in the bin.

Is she too old to have another child? She might be. Online it suggests she is “on the turn.” What does that mean? What a thing, to be on the turn. She wishes she hadn’t thrown away all the wine and fags.

The smell from Max’s bedroom is still sweet, but there’s a meaty tang to it too.

And once in a while a memory of Max pops into her head, and she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. That Christmas with his bike. And Tom took ages to wrap it up, and it did nothing to disguise what it was at all, the wheels, the handlebars, it was just so bloody obvious. She said to Tom, “I bloody told you not to leave it till last thing on Christmas Eve! Now what are we going to do?” She thinks she cried. Tom told her not to worry—it didn’t matter—he’d wrap it up again. And it was fun, she wasn’t expecting that, to be kneeling together under the Christmas tree, and be trying to bend the wrapping out of shape, put in all these little lumps and bumps so that no one could tell what was really hiding underneath. And in the morning—in the morning, Max got up early, it was Christmas day and he came into their room and he jumped on their bed, he couldn’t wait any longer! What it was to be so excited by something, she had forgotten what it was like! She and Tom both groaned, but Tom said, let’s just hang onto this because he’ll grow up fast, it won’t last forever—and how strange it was that Tom said something wise. They went downstairs to the Christmas tree. What on earth had Santa left him? What was that strange misshapen thing? Max wanted to open it right away, but no, they said, leave that one till last. Let that be the special one. And Max liked his other presents just fine, the board game, the anorak, the book of fairy tales from his grandma—but he couldn’t wait to tear into that bicycle! Off came the wrapping paper, and he made a whooping noise as he tore into it, and Tom whooped too, and she joined in—there they were, all whooping! And there was the bike. A sudden flash like panic. What if all the build-up was for nothing? What if it was the wrong bike? What if he’d gone off bikes altogether? Kids could be so fickle. Max stared at the bike. Then he ran to it, and he hugged it, as if it were a new friend. As if it were his best friend in the world. And then he turned around, and he threw his arms around his father, thank you, thank you, he said—and he hugged his mum too. Thank you, it’s perfect. And his face. The joy. The surprise. It was exquisite. And yet. And yet, as the memory pops into her head. As it plays there, like a movie, totally unbidden, and triggered by nothing in particular. She can’t quite recall the face. She can’t recall what it really looked like.

She has no idea what to feed the creature that is growing on Max’s bed, so leaves it odds and sods from the fridge, and it takes what it wants and leaves the rest. It isn’t really Max, she knows that—but there’s Max in it. She’s pretty sure she can identify bits of him, here and there.

Tom phones to ask whether he should pick up Max the usual time on Saturday. “I don’t see why not,” she says.

She answers the door to him. “Hello, hello!” he says. “How are you? You all right? Where’s my superstar?” He’s in a bouncy mood, that’ll make it easier.

The moustache is full grown now, and when she kisses him, she feels it bristle, she can taste the sweat that’s got caught in the hairs. “I’ve missed you,” she says.

He looks properly poleaxed, he looks like he’s having a stroke. She’d be laughing if this weren’t so important. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“Come on,” she says, and she takes his hand, and pulls him in over the threshold, “Come on.”

“Where’s Max?”

“He’s in his bedroom. Don’t worry about him. Come on.” They go upstairs. Tom hasn’t been upstairs in nearly a year; he’s never been allowed to stray further than the hallway and the downstairs toilet. Even now, he still isn’t sure he’s got permission to enter what used to be their bedroom. She smiles at him, pulls open the door.

“Wow,” he says.

There are candles everywhere and there’s soft lighting, and she’s found something pretty to drape over the sheets, she thinks it might be a scarf or something, but it looks nice. There’s a bottle of wine on the dressing table. “Do you want some?” she asks. “Get you in the mood?”

She can see he’s already in the mood, he’s been that way ever since the kiss on the doorstep. And she supposes she should be a little flattered by that, but really, does he have to be this easy? He makes one last attempt to sound responsible. “But what about Max? I mean, is he…?”

“I told you,” she says. “Don’t you worry about him for now.” She lies down upon the bed.

He pours himself some wine. He asks whether she wants. She doesn’t, no, not any more.

She takes off her clothes, it doesn’t take her long, she is ready. He takes his off too. Seeing his naked body for the first time in ages, she still feels a rush of the over-familiar. There’s nothing new to be gleaned here. Well, she thinks, that’s Max’s genes right there.

He says, “I’ve missed you. Look. I wasn’t prepared. I haven’t brought any protection? Do you have any protection?”

“Oh, come on, Tom,” she says. “You think I can still get pregnant at my age?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I’m still on the pill. Of course I’m still on the pill. Hurry up, and get inside me. I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s on top of her, he’s excited, it doesn’t take long.

He rolls off her. “Thank you,” he says.

“That’s perfectly all right.”

“I love you.”

They lie there for a bit. She wonders, if she says nothing at all, whether that will make him get up sooner. She starts to count the seconds go by in her head. It’s the like the Drowning Game. How long till Tom gives up and breaks to the surface?

He gets up. He drains his glass of wine. She watches him, he’s so sweaty and limp. “Listen,” he says. “Listen.” She raises her eyebrows, just to show that she’s listening. “That was… I don’t know what that was. But I should tell you. I’m with someone. It’s early days, but I like her.” So, the moustache was for a girl, what funny taste she must have. “And I don’t know. I mean, is this just a thing? Or is this something?”

It’s almost amusing. She says, “It’s just a thing, Tom.”

“Right. Because it doesn’t have to be.”

“No.”

“I mean, I’d break up with her. If you’d like.”

“No,” she says. “That really won’t be necessary.”

“Right,” he says. “Right.” And he puts on his clothes.

She actually feels sorry for him. Up to the point where, now dressed, he stoops over her awkwardly, and tries to give her a kiss. She turns her head away.

“I’ll go and find Max then,” he says. “He’s in his room? I’ll go and find him.” And he tries to give her a sort of smile, and then thinks better of it, and he leaves.

Now he’s gone, at last he’s gone. She can put up her hand to her belly, she can stroke it and nuzzle it, and she likes to think how soon—please God, soon—the belly might grow, it’ll warp and distend. She gives her body a playful little shake, and she fancies she can hear new life sloshing around inside. And she listens out to hear what sort of scream will come from Max’s bedroom.