The spills began on the first day of August, the start of the summer holidays, but we didn’t find out until weeks later.
As soon as she finished school, Keira was at the lake every day, arrowing through the water, rainbow droplets spraying off the spears of her hand. I watched her through the kitchen window while doing the dishes, wondering if I’d ever had the same grace. My beautiful daughter. My world.
At first, it just seemed like a stomach bug; not enough to stop her training.
Then, strands of golden hair clogging the plughole, our bath filling with scummy water.
By the time she was in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, the news began to filter through. Insincere-sounding apologies issued. A clean-up operation started. A helpline number provided. Hours listening to hold music, picking my fingers to shreds before finally a click, then a robotic voice answering.
I hung up the phone and ran to the lake and along the jetty, my bare feet slapping the wooden slats, barely noticing the splinters. Watching dying fish flopping at the water’s surface, I heaved in a lungful of sulphurous air and screamed into the smothering mist.
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