Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tim Bowler has written seven novels for teenagers and is one of the most prominent authors currently writing for this age group. His first novel, Midget, established him as a thrilling new voice in young adult literature. His third novel, River Boy, won the prestigious Carnegie Medal, and his books have also won numerous other prizes. His most recent novels are Storm Catchers and the highly acclaimed Firmament.
Mr. Bowler lives with his wife in Devon, England, and is a full-time writer.

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River Boy

Simon Pulse

Chapter One

It didn't start with the river boy. It started, as so many things started, with Grandpa, and with swimming. It was only later, when she came to think things over, that she realized that in a strange way the river boy had been part of her all along, like the figment of a dream.

And the dream was her life.

Half-past nine in the morning and the pool was crowded already. That was the downside to summer holidays, especially hot ones like this, but she knew she shouldn't grumble: she'd been here since six-thirty, together with the usual hard-core group of serious swimmers, and she'd managed a leisurely four miles without interruption.

But she did grumble; the mere sight of all these people flopping in like lemmings made her want to shout with frustration. She wasn't ready to stop yet, not by a long shot. She had energy left and she planned to use it.

She stuck to her lane, doggedly plowing length after length, trying to ignore the splash of other swimmers. Sometimes she'd found that if she just forced herself to keep on swimming up and down her lane without stopping or swerving, the other users of the pool seemed by some collective telepathy to accept that space as hers, and leave it to her. But that wouldn't work today: they seemed to be jumping in by the score. Another quarter of an hour and it would be unbearable.

She locked into her stroke and drove herself on, her breath beating its practiced rhythm in time with the strokes, as even as the chime of a clock. In for a gulp of oxygen, her mouth twisted upward to snap its life from the air, then facedown again and the long exhalation to a slow, steady count, bubbles teasing her lips like tiny fish.

She loved this rhythm; she needed it. It kept her thoughts on track when they started to wander. Sometimes, when things were going well and she was feeling secure in herself and had something pleasant to think about, she was happy to let them wander; but if she was tiring or feeling vulnerable or worrying about Grandpa again, she focused on that rhythm and it settled her, sometimes even when she wasn't swimming.

But she was always swimming. She needed to swim. To be deprived of swimming would be like a perverse kind of drowning. She loved the sensation of power and speed, the feeling of glistening in a bed of foam, even the strange isolation of mind in this watery cocoon. Distance swimming was as much about will as about technique; and she knew she was strong in both. All she needed now, to set that will alight, was a big swimming challenge; something to test herself against. Something she could one day be proud of.

She heard Grandpa's voice calling her.

"Keep going, Jess!"

She glanced up at him as she flashed by, and smiled to herself. She knew what "keep going" meant. Dear old Grandpa: he'd only been here twenty minutes and he was bored already. He ought to know by now that he could never fool her, of all people. His concentration span had always been short, except when he was painting, and his temper shorter still. Yet for some reason he always liked to come and watch her swimming.

She reached the far end of the pool, turned and kicked off the wall, and looked for Grandpa again. He'd wandered around to the shallow end and was standing there, watching some children. He was ready to go; but maybe she could squeeze in a couple more lengths to finish off. She plunged down toward him, feeling for some reason slightly apprehensive. The children in the shallow end blocked her lane but they broke apart as she approached, and she slipped in between them, wondering whether she should stop.

Grandpa called out again.

"Everything's fine, Jess. Keep going."

She kicked off the wall and headed back down the pool, suddenly desperately uneasy. Something was wrong but she couldn't figure out what it was. His words rang in her head: everything's fine, everything's fine. And yet there was something in the very contrariness of Grandpa that told her he was trying to conceal something. He was such a stubborn, prickly old man, he would always say everything was fine.

Especially when it wasn't.

She broke out of her stroke and stopped, treading water, and searched for Grandpa. There he was, still standing at the shallow end, watching the children. He looked all right; no different from before. Just bored. Perhaps she was imagining all this. He saw her and raised a hand to wave.

Then, to her horror, he clutched it over his heart and crashed into the pool.

The hospital managed to keep him three days. He was meant to have stayed much longer but, being Grandpa, as soon as he'd decided he was feeling better, he phoned for a taxi and, to the consternation of doctors, nurses, and a protesting taxi driver who was convinced his cab was about to turn into a hearse, discharged himself. As he informed the exasperated doctor, the family was going on vacation on August 20th and, as this was the 19th, he needed to get home to pack.

So he was home again.

She knew it was a mistake. Much as she'd been yearning to see him back, she knew the moment he arrived that this time even his independent spirit had misled him. He'd turned up at the door looking like a skeleton, and they'd put him straight to bed. He seemed barely well enough to move, let alone go on vacation.

The next morning, at Grandpa's insistence, they started packing, though only after Dad had forced him to agree to let them call out Dr. Phelps. Jess liked Dr. Phelps but went up to her room when she heard him at the door. She knew what the outcome would be: once Grandpa had set his mind on something, that was that, and if he'd decided he was going on vacation, nothing anyone could say or do would change his plans. So Dr. Phelps, pleasant man though he was, would get short shrift.

She sat down at the desk and stared at the swimming medals on the shelf with her birthday cards propped up among them, the big, jokey one from Grandpa most prominent of all. But neither swimming medals or being fifteen seemed relevant right now.

She frowned and let her gaze wander out of the window into the street, already clogged with cars and buses and taxis struggling toward the city center. The omens for a good vacation seemed remote indeed.

Some time later she heard a tap at the door.

"Come in, Mom," she said, not looking around.

"Do you recognize all our knocks?"

Jess glanced up at her and tried to smile.

"Suppose so. Has Dr. Phelps gone?"

"Yes."

"And was Grandpa horrible to him?"

"Not horrible. Just...you know..."

"Grandpa-rish."

Mom laughed.

"Yes. Grandpa-rish."

"So we're still going on vacation?"

"Yes."

Jess sighed.

"He shouldn't be home. And we shouldn't be going on vacation. He's not well enough."

"I know. But let's not think the worst. He's such a stubborn character, he'll probably pull through out of sheer bloody-mindedness just to prove us all wrong."

Jess scowled down at the desk.

"I still think he should be in the hospital."

"Well, you won't change him," said Mom. "You know what he's like. Dad and I aren't happy about it either. If he has another turn where we're going, it might not be easy to get him to a hospital. It's a very isolated place, apparently. But he's set on going, so let's just hope it does him some good."

"He needs rest. Lots of rest."

"Try telling him that. Anyway, are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good." Mom leaned forward suddenly. "Jess, give your dad plenty of support. I know you will anyway, but remember,...