Cover

About the Author

Kerry Andrew is a London-based author and musician, whose debut novel Swansong was described as a ‘darkly captivating tale of myth, magic and sinister secrets’ by the Mail on Sunday, and whose ‘To Belong To’ was shortlisted for the 2018 BBC National Short Story Award. Kerry is the winner of four British Composer Awards, and best known for experimental vocal, choral and music-theatre work, often based around themes of community, landscape and myth. Kerry has released two albums with the band You Are Wolf: Hawk to the Hunting Gone (2014), a collection of avian folk-songs re-interpreted, and Keld (2018), inspired by freshwater folklore. ‘One Swallow’ was Kerry’s short story debut on BBC Radio 4 in 2014.

By the Same Author

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Swansong

Dedication

To Andy, my darling, for everything

Epigraph

The water sustains me without even trying

The water can’t drown me

I’m done with my dying

Johnny Flynn, ‘The Water’

Water, is taught by thirst.

Emily Dickinson

Part One

1985

Chapter 1

Matty’s dad was missing.

He’d gone out in the morning, same as always, on the last ever day of primary school. Half a piece of toast eaten. A hand on Matty’s head, Marmitey crumbs getting in the curls, and a peck to Mamma’s cheek. Door going. And he hadn’t come back.

After school, it had been home to their maisonette above the supermarket for tea, shirt covered in scribbles from the entire class. Mamma turned Matty round like a card carousel, frowning at the scrawled farewells: ‘NEVER CROSS THE STREAMS’; ‘Call this number if you want sexing’; ‘Luv U Matty’. Tea. Telly. Matty had waited up to tell Dad about the football match with the teachers and how they’d played the Fame song in assembly and the class had danced around on the stage, but he must have stayed out really late. Bed.

Next morning, still no Dad. Mamma’s voice had been carefully stretched. She’d said that maybe he had gone out for a drink with a friend, it had got late, he’d stayed with them. But why would he have to do that when he could catch a bus or two back? You could get anywhere in London, anytime. It was easy.

The next morning. Mamma was angry. Repeating I don’t know, the pauses between the words getting heavier as she saw to things that didn’t need doing, glasses that had already been dried, bread already spread with Vitalite twice over. They didn’t go to church. That afternoon, she sat in the hallway, one leg crossed over the other, holding onto the phone very carefully with both hands as if it would come apart otherwise.