Water For Drowning Read online

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR

  WATER FOR DROWNING

  “Haunting in its plausibility... Water for Drowning will immerse you in a sea of inescapable, personal darkness.”

  DREAD CENTRAL

  “Real life and legend collide in Cluley’s haunting tale. By turn tragic and beautiful, the emotions ebb and flow like the tide. Water For Drowning is heartbreaking. It plays on your mind and leaves questions unanswered, as all good horror should. Recommended.”

  DAVID MOODY

  “A wonderful story of contemporary life meets folklore and fairy tale. The characters are fascinating and the plot beautifully woven – I loved it. Highly recommended!”

  ALISON LITTLEWOOD

  “I loved every harsh, bitter word of it.”

  BLACK STATIC

  “With this, Ray Cluley takes​ us to the water’s edge and holds our faces under until we can see as he does. And it’s beautiful under there. Dark and funny and amazing. And don’t worry that you can’t breathe. Breathing is secondary, when you’ve got writing like this.”

  STEPHEN GRAHAM JONES

  “A mesmerising tale of a man and his mermaid.”

  SHADOWLOCKED

  “A vital read!”

  RJ BAYLEY, POPCORN HORROR

  A This Is Horror Publication

  www.ThisIsHorror.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-0-9575481-7-6

  Copyright © Ray Cluley 2014

  All rights reserved

  The right of Ray Cluley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by This Is Horror

  Editor-in-Chief: Michael Wilson

  Cover & Design: Pye Parr

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  WATER FOR DROWNING

  Praise for Water For Drowning

  Author’s Introduction

  Water For Drowning

  Bonus Story: “Shark! Shark!”

  About the Author

  Also by This Is Horror

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  I STARTED ‘WATER For Drowning’ around the end of 2013 as a way of dealing with a mermaid obsession that began in my teens. I blame my college lecturer. He told me that in literature the mermaid is often a symbol of sexual frustration and this had quite an impact on me (I was a teenager at the time, remember; I could relate). So that’s where it started. This was followed by discovering a very non-Disney version of Andersen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ which developed my interest thanks to the poor girl’s all-consuming desire and willingness to suffer for someone she loves. I got over that pretty quick and moved on to mermaids as femme fatales. Much sexier. As siren seductress of the sea, mermaids now held a very strong, very different (and very complicated) appeal for me. ‘Water For Drowning’ is meant to be the story that gets it all out of my system.

  The story began life as a single image that came to me in the bath (too much information?), an image which gave me a scene to use in the story and, more importantly, introduced me to Genna. You’ll know the scene when you get to it, I expect. It’s often this way for me, the story beginning as a single idea or visual image which either connects with other ideas I’ve had or shapes itself into something on the page as I write draft zero (the draft no one ever sees but me). And come to think of it, these ideas and images will often arrive while I’m in the bath or shower; perhaps the water has some special creative power...

  Initially I intended to write from Genna’s perspective but it didn’t quite work. Her story was too familiar when told directly, and besides, I wanted her to remain distant as a character. I also wanted to try something a little different so that instead of the usual ‘bad stuff happening to good people’ approach typical of the genre, I had something good happen to someone bad. Well, maybe ‘bad’ is too strong. Unpleasant. I didn’t like Josh much, not at first, but as unpleasant as he can be I had a lot of fun with his voice. He’s not me. He’s definitely not me. But he is kinda someone I know. In fact, I know (or rather knew) a few people like the ones you’ll meet here, so I suppose some thanks should go to them for the inspiration. Not by name, though. I didn’t like them that much.

  While I’m on the subject of thanks, there are a few others who deserve a mention.

  The most important is V. H. Leslie. She deserves an ocean of gratitude for always being my first reader (and sometimes a second as well) and for being such a positive influence in my life and on my writing. When life gives you lemons, she’ll do tequila shots with you. So thanks, Tori. As always.

  Thanks also go to Pye Parr for some absolutely stunning artwork. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Personally I’d buy this book just for the cover. He’s done great work on other This is Horror chapbooks too, by the way, and each is well worth reading.

  When I started ‘Water For Drowning’ it was entirely with This is Horror in mind, but during the writing process I discovered the chapbook series was coming to an end. Still, I carried on (the story had a firm hold by then) and, as fate would have it, an invite came out of the blue to contribute to the chapbook line anyway. I was delighted to be able to say, “I have just the thing” without, you know, lying, just as I am delighted to be a part of such a strong series of stories. So this is me, landing the one I thought got away. All of which is a rather long-winded way of saying thanks, as well, to This is Horror.

  Regarding my influences and inspirations, ‘Water For Drowning’ follows in the wake of various sources. ‘The Little Mermaid’, of course, as I’ve mentioned. Thanks Mr Andersen. I’ve upset many a student in telling them the ‘true’ story and now I get to write my own anti-Disney version of the mermaid myth. A stanza from T.S. Eliot’s masterpiece ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ was also important. It gave me the title for a previous story, ‘I Have Heard the Mermaids Singing’, but I’ve not stolen any lines this time. I can’t say the same thing for Josh. Speaking of Josh, a wonderful poem called ‘Anchor Baby’ by Tim Burton was a hugely important inspiration here. It comes from a great collection called The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy which I thoroughly recommend. Add to these the film Splash, numerous wonderful paintings, and even an old leaflet about ‘Mr Harry Phillips’ Mermaid’ at the Brighton Aquarium, and you have all the grit I tried to form a pearl around.

  Anyway, the short version is I like mermaids and I’m thankful to various people, but enough of all that. I can hear the surf rolling in, and with it a distant voice, singing.

  On with the story...

  Ray Cluley,

  June 2014

  I FIRST SAW Genna at one of our Isle of Wight gigs. She seemed normal. Gothed-up to fuck and off her face, but normal. We were playing cover stuff, nothing wild, Stereophonics at the time, I think, me doing my best to add a bit of Kelly gravel and wondering where the fuck the rest of my beer had gone because my throat was gonna need it. Genna, who I didn’t know was Genna yet, was bouncing around at the front of the crowd and any minute now her tits were going to come up out of her top. I didn’t have a fucking clue then how screwed up she was, and at the time I wouldn’t have cared anyway. You could’ve said Josh, mate, she’s a fucking loon, wants to be a mermaid one day, and I’d have said so what, as long as she doesn’t stink of fish.

  We finished ‘My Own Worst Enemy’ and went into some Oasis bollocks and then we got dark
er with Nirvana and some old school Stones. Same shit everybody knows but it paid the bills, sort of, and girls love whatever you play. And that’s what it was all about – the girls. Anyone in a band who says different is bullshitting you because you’re a girl and they wanna stick their dick in you somewhere. Bands play and girls drool in their knickers and that’s how it was, except for Hench who I’m still pretty sure is gay even if he did fuck Beth’s sister.

  “You’re serenading that ginger bit,” he yelled during the break. I could barely hear him over the Zeppelin, which was a bit mum and dad for me but good enough for a beer break.

  “She ain’t ginger,” I said, “that’s some bottled stop-light colour.”

  He shrugged and I swear he checked out the barman.

  “She with anybody?” I asked him.

  Hench cupped his hand around his ear so I leant over, spilling my pint, and shouted, “She with anyone? The ginger?”

  He looked around for her so I punched his chest to get his attention again. If it hadn’t been so rammed in there he’d have probably fallen over because I think I was a bit enthusiastic about it. “Not now, you fuckin’ idiot. I don’t mean is she with anybody now. Is she a band aid?”

  Hench shrugged. “Don’t think so.” Then he nudged me and said, “Not yet,” and winked, which only confirmed he was a gaylord.

  Genna wasn’t a groupie, as it happens. She was fit and all that, nice tits, like I said, tights that were all ladders where it mattered (which was around the thighs), but she didn’t hang about after the gig. Not that first one, anyway.

  First one I saw her at, I mean, not first one we ever played. We were pretty good by then, getting regular work, a decent fan base. Break N’ Wave, you might’ve heard of us? I wanted to call us Breaking Wave, be a bit less Guns N’ Roses, but Tommy said no so all the other fuckwit followers said no as well in case he quit or something. He’s a fucking cock, but there you go.

  “Redhead?” he asked as I shrugged back into my guitar. He nodded without me answering and said her name was Genna because Tommy fucking knows everybody in the world apparently.

  “Good shag?” I asked him, just in case. If the cunt had been there already I would’ve left her well alone. I didn’t want his sloppy seconds.

  But the bastard started in with a ‘Tainted Love’ that was more Manson than Soft Cell and I had to get to the mic without knowing the answer.

  She was gone by the time we packed up.

  ABOUT A WEEK after that gig, one of Kate’s friends was having a party – Selina or Semelina or fucking Xena or something – and we were all there and more than a bit wasted. It was a tame one really, lots of drinking and lots of pot but only Muse and Snow Patrol, shit like that. Nothing wrist-slittin’ like Coldplay, thank fuck, but I was sure that if I waited around long enough we’d get some. That, or fucking Damien Rice or something. Good stuff, all right, okay, but not exactly party material. If it turned into Portishead I was fucking leaving.

  Anyway, Tommy had his tongue down Kate’s throat, trying to suck out her larynx or something with one hand under her skirt as if it might try to escape that way. Vince had his arms around two birds on the sofa, saying something wise and profound no doubt, being as neither of them was much older than sixteen. One girl, Sam, was making Hench uncomfortable by putting her hand where his cock should’ve been. I was so stoned I nearly told her she had the right name (and the right chest actually) but nothing between the legs he’d like, spluttering a laugh even though I hadn’t actually said it.

  “What’s so funny?” asked the blonde who’d been trying to get my attention. She was wearing a top too short for her, the kind designed to show off the midriff which is only sexy if you don’t have a belt of blubber instead of a waist. She’d pressed her tits against my arm too many times to count but I knew from Tommy that she didn’t so much have the clap as the whole fucking applause. She probably got it from Vince who thought safe sex was scanning for viruses after downloading porn.

  Someone handed me a joint, though I could’ve sworn I’d just passed it, and Vince said, “Josh wants to fuck a ginger, that’s pretty funny.” He was squeezing at one of the sofa girls, turning his body so the other couldn’t see, keeping his options open.

  “Twat,” I said, and threw something at him which turned out to be a bottle which turned out to miss, smashing somewhere in the kitchen. Still, herpes girl backed off. Probably wondering where she could get a ginger wig or something.

  “She’s not ginger,” said Hench, “she’s traffic-light bottle.” Which everyone seemed to find hysterical.

  “Isle of Wight gig?” Kate asked. Tommy tried to pull her face back around but she held him off for a minute.

  “Genna,” Tommy said for me. “Yeah.” He was probably hoping that would end it and he could get back to sucking up Kate’s insides, but she laughed and turned away from him even more.

  “She’s fucking nuts, mate,” she told me. “Tried to drown herself.”

  “Right.”

  “No shit.”

  She must’ve meant it because she was pulling a strap back up and hiding the lacy bra we’d all seen already. She took a puff on the joint coming around and said in a voice of held breath, “In a bowl of fucking cornflakes or something,” before releasing the smoke.

  “It was a bowl of water,” Tommy said. “She put salt in it.”

  “How do you know that?” Kate asked.

  Tommy shrugged. “Just do.”

  “Anyway, she’s not right,” Kate said. “I’ve talked to her a few times and she sounds like a fucking Tori Amos song.”

  “She looks like a Tori Amos song,” Tommy said, and Kate slapped his arm, though I don’t think even Tommy knew what he meant.

  “You don’t know shit,” Kate said.

  “I know she didn’t drown in her fucking breakfast cereal.”

  “And how do you know what she has for breakfast?”

  Which wasn’t exactly the logical next question but we were drunk and stoned and Kate’s a woman so what the fuck’s logic got to do, got to do with it? But then Hench started singing, “Never was a cornflake girl,” and suddenly we were all laughing and forgetting what we were talking about.

  Kate put Tommy’s hands on her tits again to show him everything was okay and then chased his tongue with hers for a minute before dragging him away. Must’ve been one of those rare occasions when they wanted privacy, so they went upstairs. She waved at me as they went.

  A little bit about Kate and Tommy. Kate’s a very good looking girl but she’s only playing at grungy; smoky grey eye shadow and a pierced tongue but that’s it. She talks about getting her clit done but never does. Talks about tats, doesn’t get any. She’s also one of those pretty girls that doesn’t like other pretty girls. Anyway, she’s as much a part of the band as you can be without playing a fucking instrument, unless sucking Tommy’s cock counts. Usually her idea of privacy is to close her eyes if others are around but sometimes she’ll take Tommy to a different room. Even then they rarely shut the door.

  I saw them fucking once. Kate was riding him hard in reverse cowgirl and didn’t seem to care that I saw. She even moved her hair away so I could see her tits. I fucked her myself not long after that. Tommy had been doing her and then he went out to fetch a takeaway or whatever and I went into his room pretending to look for something. Kate was still panting from their session and made some joke about seconds, so I swept the quilt back to call her bluff. She was completely naked but all she did was laugh so what was I supposed to do? Tommy never found out, best I can tell. Not that any of us treat a girl like she’s going to meet the parents or anything. Plenty more fish in the sea and all that. We were pretty fucking good together, Kate and me, but sometimes I think she only did it to get one over on Tommy. Sometimes I think I did, too.

  It’s not that I hate Tommy, it’s just the guy’s a complete prick. He thinks he’s fucking God’s gift because he knows everyone and they all seem to like him. Plus he has this annoying ha
bit of calling music legends by their first names, like they’re his best buddies or something. David instead of Bowie, Mick instead of Jagger, can you believe that shit? True even if you don’t. And Kurt. Fuckin’ Kurt, all the time. I never really got the Cobain thing myself. Jagger, yeah – there’s a guy who’s put his dick in some good looking girls – but Cobain? We got Tommy a ‘What Would Kurt Do?’ t-shirt once to take the piss but he loved it. He laughed and said, “Shoot himself,” and we pretty much pissed our pants. The joke’s old now but he still wears it to every gig. He changes afterwards though, like he’s only playing at being in a band. Puts glasses on and a fresh shirt like he’s Clark Kent or something. Clark Cunt.

  Anyway, he was upstairs fucking Kate and I was downstairs sitting in a haze of dope-smoke wondering, ‘What would Kurt do?’ and thinking ‘Shoot himself’ and asking, “Anyone got the ginger’s number?”

  IN THE END, I got it from Vince. I didn’t want to know how he had it, but he must’ve guessed my concern because he said, “Never tried her myself,” adding he would if I rated her. “I’d lick the shit-grit from her dirt hole,” was his exact phrase. He has a way with words, Vince. Not a nice way, but entirely his. Anyway, I sent a text that didn’t seem too keen. Just the details of our next gig, a Portsmouth one, local. She text back saying she was already going. Didn’t ask who I was, didn’t bother with a smiley face or a kiss or anything, so I left it at that and waited for Friday.