Fat Boy Swim (13 page)

Jimmy, eye to eye with Maddo, didn’t feel like laughing. He could taste his own blood running from his nose into his mouth.

Oh, no, Jimmy didn’t feel like laughing.

‘I’m sick of you wasters noising me up.’

Jimmy heaved himself out the pool just as the beefiest pool attendant reached the scene. But Jimmy didn’t need handers.

‘Don’t bother hassling me any more. Right?’ Jimmy’s order burbled red through his lips, flecking Maddo and Dog Breath. He shook them, not hard, but firmly. A pair of scrapping mongrels that needed a lesson.

Inside Jimmy’s chest a furnace roared:

‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘Tell Victor it’s over.’

Harry, the beefy attendant didn’t let Jimmy leave the Leisure Centre until a first aider looked at his eye.

‘He’s racing butterfly for the swimathon,’ Harry told her. ‘Hope it’s not going to need a stitch.’

‘My old man’ll crack up if you don’t swim tomorrow,’ Harry pumped Jimmy’s hand so firmly his eye throbbed. ‘I’m Barry Dyer’s son, by the way. My old boy never stops talking about what a natural you are. Says you swim like your dad.’

Mixing me up with someone else, thought Jimmy, recalling Barry’s puzzlement when they were first introduced. ‘My dad never swam.’

Harry found Jimmy a decent set of goggles from lost property, then offered to drive Jimmy home. ‘Reassure your mum those two neds are barred.’ He didn’t mention Victor who, Jimmy realised, must have slipped away unseen. Unpunished. Slimeball!

‘I’m fine thanks, Harry,’ said Jimmy, and left the medical room to get changed.

The pool was empty now as Jimmy walked around it. Unlit, the water looked inkier than the night sky, fathoms deep beneath a veneer silvered by tiny spotlights in the rafters. Jimmy paused, slightly dizzy as he stared into the still water. Suddenly, its mirrored surface rippled as though someone on the other side had blown across it to catch his attention, rendering the surface molten, like silk. Jimmy blinked. Glanced up, the quick movement making his injured eye stoun. Fingers probing the wound, Jimmy recalled the similar effect of Harry Dyer’s handshake. Or maybe his pain was the result of Harry’s weird remark nipping his head:
You swim like your dad.

Jimmy scanned the darkness. Caught a movement at the deep end. He’d swear to it. The Shadow Shape reaching a hand out to him across the yawning water before it disappeared.

Chapter
23

Secrets

Aunt Pol was waiting when Jimmy came home.

‘Who the heck gave you that keeker? Not that poultice Swift?’

‘Caught my eye on a cupboard in the kitchen.’ Jimmy squeezed the lie into Aunt Pol with his hug. Added quickly, ‘You look brown. Meet any nice Spanish men?’

Aunt Pol gave a sad little laugh. ‘You look different,’ she said, eyes narrow. ‘And you’re away out swimming on a Friday night. You
are
different.’

‘I’m racing in the swimathon tomorrow as well as doing the cooking.’

Aunt Pol didn’t comment. Twisted her spaghetti round and round her fork until it all unravelled and fell off. She’d hardly touched it. Shook her head at the tiramisu. Must have Spanish tum, thought Jimmy.

He tried to cheer her up.

‘I’ve lost a stone and a half,’ he said, ‘and I’m swimming every day. Didn’t ever think I’d do that,’ he went on, ‘but d’you know the weird thing
. . .
?’

Jimmy paused. Wanted to make sure Aunt Pol was actually listening before he ran the Shadow Shape business by her. After all, he’d never told anyone this. Not even Ellie.

‘I’ve always felt I
had
to swim. I’ve dreamed about it. For years. Cos there’s someone I’m going to meet, or something I’m going to find when I swi
. . .
’

‘What’s this, Jim?’

Aunt Pol definitely wasn’t right. All her Spanish colour draining away. Lucky Mum’s key rattled the lock.

‘Cooeee? Anybody home?’

‘Visitor in the hall for you, Jimmy,’ called Mum much too brightly. She burst into the kitchen, smiling, but through gritted teeth. ‘Here’s me the daftie thinking you’ve been down St Jude’s helping Father Joseph raise money for those poor wee children in Africa –’ Now she bared her teeth. ‘But you lied: you’ve been away swimming to yourself instead.’

Jimmy could tell by the phoney fixed smile on Mum’s face that she was raging with GI Joe right now. But she would never show it. You couldn’t argue with a priest. It would be like arguing with God.

She was beeling with Jimmy too, the simmering anger in her eyes transmitting a telepathic warning:
How dare you go swimming and not tell me. I’ll see you later, boy. Swimming
?
I’ll swim you
!

The brunt of Mum’s fury, however, was hurled at Aunt Pol.

‘I suppose you knew all about this?’

‘Only that he was taking a few lessons again. Thought he’d drop out the same as all the other times
. . .
’ Aunt Pol’s voice tailed to a whisper. She winced from Mum’s anger as if she’d been slapped.

‘Aunt Pol doesn’t know anything about my training, Mum,’ Jimmy interrupted. He was shocked at the state of Aunt Pol when Mum turned on her. Never seen her look so crumpled, so pale.

‘I wanted to swim myself. Nobody made me, and anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘what’s the big deal?’

He studied the faces around him. Mum: drawn tight with anger. Aunt Pol: chewing colour to her pale lip. GI Joe: hovering in the background, decidedly uncomfortable.

‘What the heck, you lot? All I’ve done is learn to swim.’

Jimmy grinned. Straightened to his full height. Slapped his pecs. Even contemplated giving them a twirl. You should be chuffed, he was thinking. Look at me. I’m different. I’m happy. I’m changing.

But something was going on here. Lurking in the lack of eye contact between Mum and Aunt Pol. Loitering in the sheepish shuffle of GI Joe who looked as though he’d rather be listening to one of Father Patrick’s everlasting sermons than standing here.

This isn’t about swimming, realised Jimmy. It’s about secrets.

‘So you’re a swimmer after all, Jim,’ said Aunt Pol. Her voice was faraway.

‘What goes around comes around, eh?’ snapped Mum, bitter. ‘
And
he’s got some daft girl on the go, never off the phone to her. Like father like
. . .
’

Aunt Pol cut Mum off before she could continue.

‘You taught him, Joey?’

GI Joe, stepping out from the safe haven of the kitchen doorway, spread his hands apologetically.

‘Jim asked me, Polly. Well, I told him I’d only let him help me if I could do something for him. Never thought he’d say swim, but what could I do when he asked? And I swear, he’s gifted. Just like
. . .
I’m sorry, Polly.’

Mum’s eyes were out on stalks.

‘You know each other?’ she and Jimmy asked together.

Joey
? thought Jimmy. Aunt Pol had called the dog-collar dude
Joey.
And what the heck was Joey sorry about? In fact, what the heck was going on? Three people Jimmy thought he knew pretty well seemed to have some alternative existence in a parallel universe all of a sudden. They were talking in riddles, and it was doing his head in!

Jimmy looked from one solemn face to the other. The answers were all here, coiled in the silences between Mum and Aunt Pol, curled in the secrets that GI Joe seemed to know.

‘What’s the big deal doing the swimathon, Mum?’ Jimmy’s tone was as light as one of his meringues. ‘I’m well fit for it and I’ve only to do two serious lengths. The rest is just training.’

‘Don’t want you swimming.’ Mum shook the notion from her head, adding lamely, ‘With your chest and your skin, and your ears.’

‘Can hardly swim without them,’ said Jimmy, trying to inject the situation with a bit of levity. ‘Anyway, look at me.’

He thumped his pecs again. ‘Haven’t used my inhaler for weeks. I’m losing weight. You can see
muscles.
I’m feeling brilliant. Why can’t I swim? This is nothing to do with my health, is it?’

Jimmy looked to Aunt Pol for support. The hand covering her mouth was shaking.

‘Aunt Pol, why shouldn’t I swim?’

GI Joe was no help either. He was frowning hard at Aunt Pol, knuckles clamped to his teeth as though he was scared he’d blurt out something he shouldn’t.

‘I’ll let Barry Dyer know Jimmy can’t make it if you think that’s best,’ he shrugged.

There was a beat of silence before Aunt Pol spoke.

‘No,’ she said. Her voice was strong.

‘No,’ she repeated. She was looking at Mum. ‘Jim’s going to swim. But I’m telling him the truth first.’

They put Jimmy out of the kitchen, to have a powwow before they would reveal why they were all acting like characters from some dire daytime soap. He flicked aimlessly through the TV channels.

His stomach gurgled loudly. Nerves. He squashed his fist into his belly. It didn’t sink in so far any more; he could detect the contours of his ribcage.

‘I’m heading, Jim. Let you folks talk.’

Concern burned in GI Joe’s eyes. He looked small tonight, thought Jimmy, who felt he towered over Coach when he rose to walk him out. Maybe it was seeing him in the dog-collar. He even sounded like a priest, voice quiet; compassionate.

‘Look,’ GI Joe said, laying his hand on Jimmy’s forearm. Gentle. No punches.

‘If you need to talk – later. Anytime. If there’s things you
. . .
and you don’t fancy swimming tomorrow, just
. . .
well, I’m here, Jim.’

‘Why wouldn’t I feel like swimming tomorrow?’ Jimmy called after him cheerfully as GI Joe ran downstairs. ‘And, hey. How come you know Aunt Pol?’

‘School.’ GI Joe shouted back. ‘Should’ve been my girlfriend.’

So you’d a thing with GI Joey
?

The words were on the tip of Jimmy’s tongue but when he saw the state of Aunt Pol he was glad he kept shtoom.

She was even more peely-wally than before; apart from her eyes. They were ringed red from crying.

‘What’s up?’

Suddenly panicky, Jimmy looked from Aunt Pol to Mum. From her sniffs, Jimmy knew that even Mum – who hadn’t shed a tear at Dad’s funeral – had also been bubbling.

‘Mum? Wait.’

But Mum didn’t wait. She pushed past Jimmy gesturing with a flap of her hand that he should stay with Aunt Pol.

‘Look at this, Jim,’ said Aunt Pol in a tiny voice. She was holding out a small green notebook.

Chapter
24

Frankie

It was a night when Jimmy teetered on the tighrope of sleep without ever slipping properly into unconsciousness. His mind kept him awake, turning cartwheels, spinning from the chandeliers, tapping out a noisy
Riverdance
on his skull.

No wonder.

The inside of his brain was like one of those plastic snowstorm ornaments that you shake, sending particles spiralling through a liquid medium. In Jimmy’s case, each particle was a fragment of truth, slipping through his reason as he tried to make sense of it.

Mum’s not my mum.

Aunt Pol’s not my aunt.

Dad wasn’t my dad.

My dad was a swimmer.

Like I am.

That was the nub of what Aunt Pol had revealed, tumble-turning Jimmy’s world upside down in a few bald sentences. Jimmy barely had his head round any of it when the final particles of the crazy snowstorm settled.

‘I’m your mum, Jim, and he’s your dad.’

The green notebook lay beside Jimmy on the duvet as he tried to sleep. Photographs. Not many. Newspaper cuttings mostly. They were grainy, ink smudged, paper curled at the edges, yellowing. Old glue discoloured the newsprint, making the articles difficult to read. But the headlines had been clear enough:

Fallon to the Final

Big Frankie Fallon:
New Swimming Hope

CHAMP QUITS

‘Frankie Fallon. That’s his name, is it?’

Jimmy had been surprised at his outward calm as he flicked back and forth over his ancestry. Inside he was too churned up to read anything properly.

‘These are all from before I met him,’ Aunt Pol explained as Jimmy turned the pages. ‘Your dad swam for Ireland in his teens.’

The same muddy photograph was used on the ‘Fallon to the Final’ and ‘New Swimming Hope’ pieces. It showed a line-up of swimmers poised for a dive. One person was unmistakable.

‘He could be my twin.’

Hours later, in half-sleep, Jimmy heard himself repeat what he had exclaimed when he first saw his father. That black and white newspaper picture had only hinted at the resemblance between him and Frankie, however. The single colour photograph of him towering over Aunt Pol, arms round her, was unbelievable.

First, the hair. Frankie’s if anything, looked even redder than Jimmy’s. And longer. Frankie was freckly, even at twenty he was still freckly. Brown eyed, broad-shouldered, beefy, very tall.

And good fun, Jimmy thought, with a pang. There was a twinkle in his dad’s eyes.

‘He was six two, Jim,’ Aunt Pol said. She ran her finger the length of the photograph. ‘Foot taller than I am.’

You’re not my Aunt Pol any more. What do I call you
?

Four in the morning, and Jimmy wondered if, like him, Aunt Pol, who was sleeping over on the saggy settee, was staring into the dawn.

‘What am I supposed to call you now?’ Jimmy whispered, wishing he could phone Ellie for advice. ‘I can’t call you mum. Mum’s my mum.’

Jimmy was tempted to slip into Mum’s room right now. Wanted to hear himself say to her, ‘Y’all right Mum?’ Because she’d been the most upset of the three of them about this whole business.

She’d given Jimmy a big hug – not like her – and then she’d cried. Told Jimmy she was sorry. Could hardly get the words out, she was so upset. Horrible, thought Jimmy, the replay forcing tears through his own lashes.

‘You know me and your dad were only doing what we thought was best, Pauline,’ she’d said to Aunt Pol. Or rather, Pauline. Her only daughter, not her wee sister. No wonder Mum’s heart was breaking under the weight of a secret like that, wept Jimmy. No wonder she’d shut herself in her room.

Jimmy heard her sniffing for ages before the house grew quiet, but when he knocked her door her voice was back to normal.