14 February 1988
"Are you all packed for your… uh… event?" Eva Moriarty was already half out of the front door when Jim dragged his large satchel down the stairs. It banged on each step and she thought it sounded oddly metallic but didn't say anything: it wasn't her place. She was going to be late if she didn't leave soon, but she felt obliged to fill her motherly role and ask.
Jim made a non-committal grunting noise and bent down beside his bag, righting and unzipping it. He reeled a little and even from her distance Eva could smell it: mould and the same stench that had hung around his room for the last few weeks. She frowned but didn't move closer as he nodded once and closed the bag.
"What have you got in there?" She asked, to which Jim shrugged.
"School project." A smile flickered on his mouth for a split second, but it was strange. A word sprang to her mind, and she was shocked: empty. As awful as it was, she knew she was right: her son's smile was missing something fundamental. But, as with every encounter, Eva suppressed her confusion and just nodded in response, as if"school project" was an adequate reply. As if it really answered her question.
"Alright, well," she started out of the door and called over her shoulder, "Have a nice day!" With that Eva put her strange son out of her mind and replaced him with her schedule. She couldn't let herself dwell on his smile which was devoid of happiness, and his funny-smelling bag and his lies. She couldn't let herself because she was terrified about what she would realise.
As she left Jim was already turning away and picking his bag up, his mouth a straight line, his eyes glittering a little with tears that he didn't allow to fall.
The school were going to travel down to London, to the same pool they used for swimming lessons. It would take several coaches to ferry them all there. The students congregated in the bus bay and divided themselves into year groups. The early morning sun streamed through the clouds dimly, almost apologising for being slightly warmer than usual, and all around students were puffing their cheeks out and removing jumpers.
Carl had tied his jumper around his waist and several of his mates had followed suit because that was what they did: copied Carl. Jim was boiling but didn't want to risk putting his bag down to remove his jumper in case his can fell out. His heart was thudding and his skin prickled – the can seemed ten times heavier than usual and he was painfully aware of his strap pressing diagonally across his chest. Was his face betraying his giddiness? What if they did bag searches when they got to the pool? How would he get it to Carl?
The ring of emptiness around Jim was wider than normal because he smelled a little strange – like rotten vegetables and must. Sure it was hard to detect, under the heavy smell of cologne which he'd obviously worn to mask the scent of rotting, but it was still there. Besides, the other kids silently agreed, it was a hot day and the freak hadn't removed his jumper: he must stink of sweat too.
"Powers, Carl!" The shrill call of Mrs Lynch rang out and the quiet mutterings among the students stopped abruptly. Roll-call demanded their entire attention, everyone knew that. Jim shifted his weight from one foot to the other and swallowed thickly. He hadn't been able to look at Carl properly all day for fear that the other boy would see something in his expression: medieval texts spoke about Death leaving a mark on those it affected. Would Carl look at Jim and see his plan scrawled across his face?
"Yes Miss?" Carl's voice was an octave higher than normal, unlike when he addressed Jim and his pitch shifted to several octaves deeper. He undid his jumper from around his waist and hung it over his forearm: the head swimmer couldn't be seen misbehaving. Everyone knew Carl was the best, and their only chance of winning was if he swam. The other children competing for their school were more for show, because the championship demanded that four students take part.
"You will be sitting at the front of the coach, as you need to get off quickly. But you'll be alphabetised which means you'll be sitting next to…" She paused and glanced down at her clipboard. In his hyper-aware state, Jim could've sworn he saw her tense a little before speaking: "James Moriarty."
James Moriarty. You will be sitting next to Jim Moriarty.
The world blurred and for a few terrifying seconds Jim thought he would collapse – the heat was making his skin itch and the can was weighing his shoulder down and his head was reeling. His knees felt weak and he couldn't breathe because he had to sit next to Carl who, in a few hours, would be dead. After everything, every jibe and shove and hit, this was where it ended: in a swimming pool on an unusually hot day. But first, oh, but first they had to get there. Together.
He managed to stay upright but stumbled a little which caused a few snickers – how could they not see that he was screaming? They thought he'd just lost balance. They had no idea. Nobody knew anything. He was completely alone.
"Aw, but Miss that's not fair!" Carl cried, his voice now becoming a petulant whine. He folded his arms and puffed out his chest a little. If Jim hadn't been on the verge of throwing up he'd have found it funny. Did Carl honestly think he was going to threaten a teacher? His self-confidence had taken on the quality of arrogant pig-headedness, and Mrs Lynch was clearly not impressed.
"Life's not fair Mister Powers," she replied curtly. Jim found himself agreeing.
She gestured to the open door to the coach with the tip of her pen and looked down at the clipboard again, hardly sparing them a glance. Perhaps, if she'd looked up for a few more seconds, she would have seen Jim readjust his satchel and wondered why it seemed to be dragging him down to a slight stoop. Maybe she would have asked why he seemed so anxious, and emptied the bag. The carefully-packaged open can of beans would have been regarded with disgust and confusion, but ultimately thrown away. And the murderer would have been without a murder weapon. But Mrs Lynch didn't offer up anything more than a curt nod and utter dismissal.
So Jim sidled past her, shaking violently, and stood at the bottom of the coach steps. Carl had walked up them two at a time and was already sitting in the window seat, swinging his legs casually. He looked resigned to spending a few hours next to Irish, but Jim could imagine that he was relieved that he'd been forced to do so: Nah, I didn't wanna sit next to that loser. Lynch made me. Jim wondered how he'd look if he knew he was going to die soon.
"Go on James," Someone shoved him roughly from behind and Jim's calves hit the bottom step sharply. He tripped his way up the stairs without turning around to see who it had been. Their tone was sharp and their push was harsh – did it matter who it was? They were all the same. He hated each and every single one of them.
Keeping his eyes fixed to the floor, Jim shuffled to his seat and swung his bag off, setting it down cautiously. He put his hands together on his lap and linked his fingers together, twisting them and sending small twinges through his nerves. Anything to distract him from Carl, who was glaring at the front of the coach with a stoic expression of quiet anger. Oh God – they weren't going to talk, were they?
Jim shifted in his seat and bent down to his bag, carefully extracting She and Allan and leaning back slowly. He felt as though every move he made was being watched by a predator, and every one of his actions was calculated and precise to compensate for it. He opened the book to where he'd marked and began reading, hardly focusing on the words, so as to deter Carl from any attempts at a conversation or attack.
Jim could feel Carl's eyes burning into him as the engine rumbled and a low chatter started up among the students. He didn't want to look up and hoped that the other boy would stop staring but, as they started on their way, he felt the gaze staying fast. Minutes past and Jim realised he'd read a whole page and not taken a word in. Slamming the book shut he looked up sharply.
"What?" He snapped. "What do you want?"
Carl looked shocked for a moment, and glanced around. He clearly thought that he could hide behind the general voices, mask the fact that he was talking to the pariah. But why did he even care? Jim couldn't help but think he had some malicious ulterior motive, but couldn't for the life of him work out what it was. After a few moments he replied: "What're you reading?"
Jim blinked at him and considered not replying and returning to his book. But there was that look in Carl's eyes again – the same one that had been there at the bench: curiosity. Genuine, open, almost child-like questioning. He seemed to honestly want to know and, for a moment, Jim could forget the years of bullying. It was as if Carl was two people, but he was only nice when nobody was around. And couldn't Jim give him this, just this small mercy, before he killed him?
"She and Allan. You remember that book I was reading the other day?" He hardly paused for a response, and Carl didn't offer any reply. "It's the sequel. Allan Quartermain wants to contact ghosts so he meets with this weird witch-doctor but then they get involved with a bunch of cannibals. I just got to the good bit." He glanced pointedly down at the cover, but Carl didn't get the hint. He looked out of the window but addressed Jim.
"D'you reckon all that's real? Ghosts and stuff?" His voice was quiet.
"Dunno. Maybe." Jim shrugged. He didn't like to think about life after death, because the idea of Carl as a ghost was awful. Carl would be dead and therefore he'd be gone – there was nothing beyond that. There couldn't be, or this would all be pointless.
"I hope it is." Carl continued pensively. There was a pause. "'Cause I want my mum to be happy."
"Oh." Jim drew a blank and watched Carl as his mouth twisted awkwardly, pressing his lips together hard. He was still staring out of the window stubbornly. "I'm, uh, sorry."
"Nah, don't be." His rough tone suggested something opposed to his careless words. "It happened ages ago – I was just a kid. Like, five or six." He raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "Cancer. My dad said she'd've been okay if it hadn't got into her blood." Jim wanted to interrupt – tell him that it was okay, he didn't have to say anything, but Carl was continuing. "He took it pretty hard; my dad. Never the same afterwards." A hollow chuckle. "Guess that's why he…" But that seemed to be the cut-off point, and his voice trailed off. Jim's curiosity was aroused: that was why he what?
"I don't know my dad." Jim said, almost as if to console his enemy. "He used to hang around and knock my mum about, but he scarpered after she threatened him with the police. Tosser."
Carl turned away from the window and looked at him. "Yeah? Did he ever hit you?"
Jim shuffled awkwardly and cocked his head to the side. "Sometimes. S'why mum made him leave. She said he could beat her to a pulp if he wanted, but she didn't want him hurting me." He smiled a little, to break the tension, and they lapsed into silence.
Jim returned to his book but, as he looked down, he frowned. Carl's arms were bare, his jumper discarded on the floor, and to the untrained eye his skin was pale. But Jim recognised the slight discolouring of healing bruises – he'd had to see it on his own skin enough times. There were various patches on his arm of grey and purple, hardly noticeable. And suddenly Carl's unfinished sentence made sense.
They lapsed into silence: Carl stared avidly at the motorway, and Jim read but didn't really take in what he was looking at. His mind was focused on getting the mould to Carl – he couldn't very well pin him down and shove it down his throat. It needed to get into his bloodstream, and Jim had no idea how.
The silence was broken momentarily by a rapid scratching sound, and he looked up. Carl was scratching the inside of his marked arm and flakes of skin were coming off: he had eczema. The smile that spread across Jim's face was too wide and his eyes sparkled. Perfect.
They didn't speak again until the coach came to a halt.
"I have to –" Carl began, not finishing.
"It's alright." Jim said, coldly, packing his book away gently so as not to disturb the can. "I get it." They couldn't be seen talking, or even spending more than the necessary amount of time with each other. Besides, Jim needed space to be able to get the mould to Carl. If he had eczema, then he had to have cream for it. And a small pinch of mould was all that was needed.
Jim got to his feet and exited the bus quickly. He didn't need to go into the changing rooms – that was only for the competitors – but he could always fake needing the toilet and slip into the main changing room. Carl would need to put more cream on midway through the championship, because the water would wash it off. That gave Jim an hour window in which he could get the mould into the cream. Simple.
"Mrs Lynch, can I use the toilet?" Jim asked as the teacher exited the coach. She had hardly gotten to the bottom of the steps and she sighed exaggeratedly.
"Alright James, but meet us at the viewing seats afterwards. You don't want to miss anything." She said to his back – he'd already turned away. If she'd had the energy, she'd have scolded him for leaving before she'd finished talking. But, in truth, it was James Moriarty and she despised talking to him. The less contact she had with him the better.
As Mrs Lynch explained to the protesting receptionist that the small skinny boy was with the school for the championship, Jim stormed to the changing rooms and locked himself in the nearest cubicle, huddling in the corner of the small space and waiting. Someone had graffiti-ed Kenneth sux! on the wall, and Jim couldn't help but wonder if Kenneth had used this toilet and seen it. As the door to the changing room swung open and raised voices and laughter rang out, he gripped the strap on his bag so tightly that his nails dug a little into his skin. And waited.
"You nervous?" That was Ben Russell, Jim recognised his slight lisp. Never one to instigate bullying, Ben had always sniggered when Jim was pushed over and laughed out loud as Carl and his friends chased him. He was a mindless sheep, but nothing more.
"Nah," Jim froze at Carl's arrogant voice. "S'gonna be easy. They're a bunch of idiots, this lot. I've swum against St. Mary's before. They're spastics."
Ben laughed and they went quiet. There was the rustling of clothes and the unzipping of trousers. Jim swallowed thickly – if they found him in there now they'd accuse him of being a queer and spying. And there were two of them. It wasn't until there was the snap of waistbands and patter of bare feet that he breathed out a little, and the door which led to the pool swung open and banged shut. Jim counted to fifty before coming out. They were gone.
Carl's bag was instantly recognisable: a large black rucksack hung on the farthest peg. His clothes were folded underneath it and Jim had the sudden childish urge to mess them up. But he left them untouched and put his satchel down to open the bag. He was careful to rifle through the contents, paranoid that Carl would notice a single thing out of place. An extra pair of socks, a towel, a pair of goggles, a lunch box. Eventually, buried at the bottom, Jim's hand gripped a cylinder piece of plastic. He withdrew it and found himself looking at a small tub of white cream.
Taking a deep breath he unscrewed the lid. It was unmarked but what else could it be? He bent down and put the cream on the floor beside him, reaching into his own bag for the mouldy can. It stank when he opened it – the smell hit him with full force – and he pressed his lips together tightly to stop himself from inhaling it. Dipping his hand into the plastic bag, he scraped some of the mould from the edge of the can and it sat on the end of his finger, a grey-green lump of fuzz. Wrinkling his nose, Jim rubbed it onto the edge of Carl's cream and mixed it with his finger until the mould was hidden by whiteness.
At lightning speed, he screwed the lid of the cream back on, put it into Carl's rucksack and hung the rucksack up. Then he closed his Ziploc plastic bag and put it into his satchel. His heart was hammering and he swayed when he got to his feet.
A glance at his watch told him that he'd only taken five minutes: the competition was just about to start. Carl was going to put the cream on in fifty-five minutes. In about an hour and a half, he would be dead.
The changing room spun and Jim stumbled to the toilet again and gripped the edge of the bowl as he threw up a thin stream of stringy bile – he hadn't eaten anything to warrant vomit. He closed his watering eyes as his throat burned and he retched again and again. After taking a few shuddering breaths, he managed to stand and walk to the mirror. He was pale and sickly-looking – his dark eyes were sunken and his black hair was messy and windswept. He blinked and looked away from his reflection, taking a long drink from the tap and spitting the water out into the sink.
"Come on now, James." He hissed to himself. "Get a grip. What are you, some sort of wuss? You have to do this." He stood there for a few moments before smoothing the front of his shirt down and exiting the changing room through the front entrance, entering the foyer again. The receptionist glared at him but he hardly glanced in her direction, instead heading for the stairs that led to the viewing seats.
The climb made his weak legs ache and he sat down with a thump on the closest seat. The competitors were already lined up on the edge of the pool and the whole place stank of chlorine, which Jim was thankful for in case someone caught a whiff of the mould. The water reflected on the roof prettily, because of the sunlight, and he watched the light dance instead of looking at Carl. The instructor was giving them a pep talk, which Jim tuned out. Not long now. The wall was half-covered with a massive clock that clicked loudly each passing minute.
A whistle shattered the anticipating silence shrilly and suddenly Jim's peers were leaping to their feet as Carl and Ben dived into the water simultaneously, along with the other competitors. The sound of splashing forced Jim's gaze down to the water and there was white froth flying everywhere – he could hardly tell where the students were, let alone which one was Carl. But, judging by his peers yells, he was winning. Go Carl go. They chanted and cheered while Jim just sat still and waited, silently.
They all completed a lap, Carl clearly streaking ahead, and his classmates were going hoarse with shouting. Five minutes passed, then ten. Three laps. A short pause. Four.
The instructor blew his whistle again to call a short break, and the breathless students clambered out of the water. Carl was ahead and the race had taken its toll: he flopped onto the side and his whole body shook with the violence of his breathing. He was soaked and shining in the light, like a fish. He struggled to his feet and glanced over at the changing room door.
Jim froze. What was he doing? He wasn't meant to go back into the changing rooms until half-time, but here he was heading for the door. The instructor called over to him and his voice was able to be heard from even their height: Where're you going? And Carl's response, I need to get some cream for my eczema, sir. Jim gripped the railing in front of him and screwed his eyes shut. His whole body was quivering and his mouth was dry.
When he opened his eyes, Carl had gone into the changing rooms. It was too late now, Jim told himself. As he was breathing, staring down at the still pool, Carl was opening his cream. As Jim was twisting and untwisting his fingers, tapping randomly on his knees, Carl was putting the cream on. And, after minutes of visualising, he finally came back out. The instructor called for the race to begin again, and everyone lined up.
Was it just Jim's imagination, or was Carl walking a little stiffly? Was he shaking? Or maybe it was Jim's own fevered mind mingling with reality as he watched the competitors leap into the water on the sound of the whistle.
At first Carl was winning again, effortlessly shooting through the water in a blur of white and sickly blue, and for a moment Jim thought it wasn't going to work. Maybe Carl had decided against putting the cream on, or he hadn't put enough mould into it for it to work, or; or; or –
But then Carl stopped. It happened suddenly and for a few seconds nobody knew what to do, until he started thrashing. The confusion was palpable in the air and the other swimmers slowed, staring. Carl's limbs were jerking uncontrollably, like a possessed marionette, and it would have been funny had it not been so awful. He was slipping under the water and back up again, gasping and coughing. At that sound, the instructor snapped out of his shock and dived in, fully clothed.
"Everyone! Out of the water!" He shouted, and the other students doggy-paddled to the side and climbed out. They stood on the side of the pool and shivered, watching silently. Save for the splashing, the entire pool was silent. Everybody was watching Carl spasm and flail as the instructor made his way to him. But, as is wont of drowning people, Carl fought him roughly – his hands and legs were hitting out randomly and the instructor grunted as Carl's hand connected with his shoulder and pushed him away. It was clear by now that he'd swallowed a lot of water, due to his retching and vomiting up sticky liquid, but nobody seemed able to do anything.
"Timothy, call the ambulance!" Mrs Lynch said, breaking out of her mesmerized stare. Timothy Jennings leapt to his feet and ran for the door, leaving everyone else to stay stock still, watching the instructor struggle with Carl. He'd managed to drag him to the edge of the pool, but was unable to get him out because of Carl's fit. In an instant, the instructor lost his grip and Carl sank, still hitting out at random. He sank fast, unable to stop himself, and the crowd held a collective breath.
Jim leaned forwards against the railing and watched Carl sink to the bottom. In that moment, he swore that they understood one another better than they ever had done before: they both saw the endless endlessness of the water, intersected with bars of light and dappled with shadows of the clouds outside. They both felt their lungs burn and ache with agony as they struggled for oxygen – starving, craving, needing. But not getting. They both understood what it was like to realise that this was better: this empty world of silence and dimness.
Sitting there, Jim smiled down at his enemy and raised a single hand. Their eyes met through fathoms of water as Jim made an L with his fingers.