The Watersprites Chapter 11 – Loose ends
Jay went back to the leisure centre alone. He logged into the back-office server and deleted all club training footage. Cleared the CCTV archives. Even the GoPro files from the underwater cameras. Gone.
Beth scheduled two resignation letters for midnight. Hers—succinct, polite, and final. His—slightly longer, citing “health reasons.” She wept when she finished typing hers, but not for long.
And then Kai delivered the final blow.
“Subject flagged for welfare safeguarding review.
Assigned officer: DS Alan Mordant.
Visit scheduled: Friday, 4:00 p.m.”
Beth looked up from the sofa. “That’s tomorrow.”
Jay nodded. “We leave tonight.”
But Freya wasn’t well. She hadn’t drunk anything in 12 hours. Her lips were dry. Her fingertips peeled. She curled on the sofa, wrapped in towels, shivering in the summer air.
“Environmental mismatch is accelerating,” Kai reported. “Native waters required for full recovery.”
Jay pressed his forehead to hers. She didn’t move.
That afternoon, under heavy skies, the children made their own goodbyes.
Hersch gathered garden twigs, fashioned them into a tiny hut, and tucked his plastic gold medal inside it. Then he sang softly—riverbird mimicry, mostly clicks and notes, almost too high to hear.
Freya slipped into the garden quietly. She buried a small waterproof pouch near the fence. Inside: a single photograph of her and Beth in matching swim caps, a lock of hair, and a note that simply said: So they don’t forget us.
Jay stood by the window and watched them both.
Then he saw it.
A shadow—partially obscured behind the neighbour’s shed.
A man in a grey suit. Notebook in hand. Watching. But not approaching.
Jay didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply whispered: “Beth. It’s time.”
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