Fat Boy Swim (6 page)

SUGAR

He reached for the sugar jar without needing to look for it
. . .

But his hands clutched air. And the pantry doors swung closed behind him. There was no smell of dried food in his nostrils.

Only chlorine.

Jimmy was back at the swimming pool of his dream.

There was Aunt Pol, waving anxiously from the gallery. She was jabbing her finger towards the deep end. Jimmy scrunched his eyes, tried to see what she was on about. He could only make out a blurred shadow in the distance.

‘What?’

He shouted at Aunt Pol in frustration.

‘Who is it? Tell me.’

Then he had a brainwave. Eureka! Why did he have to swim to the end of the pool when he could walk around its perimeter?

He moved off, still in his chequered chef’s trousers. One step, two steps. Excitement beating a pulse in his throat. At last, the answer to his dream quest: Shadow Shape, who are you?

He took another step, foot raised in mid-air, ready to surge forwards.

‘Jim. What are you doing to yourself, man? Stop. You’ll drown.’

GI Joe’s features, slick on the head of a seal, emerged from the water millimetres from Jimmy’s foot. He blew through the ref’s whistle in his mouth as he spoke.

‘Stop.’

The pool had widened, completely filling Jimmy’s dreamscape. Any pathway to the deep end of the pool had vanished. There was only one way for Jimmy to reach his Shadow Shape.

‘Go and get changed,’ said GI Joe. ‘I’ll help you swim.’

Chapter
10

Tough love

Jimmy didn’t feel he’d been asleep, but must have been. His mouth was thick with the aftertaste of too much chocolate. There were great ridges down one side of his face where he’d lain on crumpled wrappers. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

He felt awful. Heavier than ever staggering into the hall, bulk compressing his lungs, denying him breath in this airless afternoon.

He leaned his head on the cool wood outside the kitchen, wheezing. On the other side of the door, Mum was shouting:

‘– you think Jimmy should be out gallivanting, do you? Meeting girls? You of all people. You’ve a short memory, Pauline. A very short memory.’

There was a long, long pause. Something hanging, thought Jimmy. Unsaid.

‘It’s not the same for Jimmy, and you know that.’ When Aunt Pol spoke, her voice was minute. ‘I just wish he was – you know,
normal.
I mean – he’s pathetic. Bingeing because he’s so flipping miserable. No pals. What existence is that for a teenager?’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting it’s
my
fault –’ Mum’s voice quavered in indignation.

‘– You
know
I’m not saying that,’ Aunt Pol interrupted. ‘I know what you’ve done. And I’m grateful. It’s just – I look at Jimmy, and it cracks me up inside. He’s enormous, and we’re letting him get that way.’

Jimmy winced at what came next:

‘Our Jim’s fat. Obese.’

‘He is
not.
’

‘Gross.’

‘He is NOT!’

‘And he’s getting worse. Where did I put that article?’

Jimmy heard objects clattering on the table as Aunt Pol tipped her handbag out.

Pathetic,
Aunt Pol had just called him.
Fat. Obese.

How could she? Aunt Pol. Who never seemed to notice his size. Jimmy didn’t even feel fat around her.

‘Here it is. Fat Farm. Somewhere in Yorkshire. You get the GP to refer him –’

Mum’s voice quaked as she cut in. ‘Why are you saying this, Pauline? Jimmy’s fine here. He’s going nowhere. I watch his diet.’

‘Ach, you never make him stick to anything. Buy him junk. Let him comfort eat. You’re too soft. Jim needs tough love.’ Aunt Pol sighed then added so quietly that Jimmy had to strain his ears. ‘You should know.’

‘Pauline.’

There was silence. Jimmy could hear the kitchen clock ticking on the mantlepiece. A chair scraped.

‘Sorry,’ whispered Aunt Pol.

She was crying. Aunt Pol, who never, ever cried. ‘He breaks my heart,’ she said.

Not since Victor, Maddo and Dog-Breath chased Jimmy with knives and forks, chanting
Kill the Pig
had Jimmy moved so fast.

The knowledge that Aunt Pol thought the same things about him as everyone else twisted Jimmy’s stomach like a dose of indigestion after a dodgy pudding supper. It hurt.

Chapter
11

Help

Out in the street, Jimmy felt vulnerable. Exposed. Everyone second-glanced him: from the bloke lovingly waxing his car, whose bonnet darkened with Jimmy’s passing reflection and who turned to gawp at the real thing, to the old dear sitting in her deck chair lost in the
Sunday Post.
She lowered her reading glasses, stared and stared until Jimmy was out of sight.

‘Get a load of that, Darren,’ Jimmy heard a man tell his son as they suspended a garden kick-around.

‘Who ate all the pies, eh, Da?’

I’m fat, not deaf.

Miserable as he’d ever been, Jimmmy walked on. He didn’t even know where he was going, having walked blindly from his row of tenements into a nearby housing scheme, taking unfamiliar side streets and crescents. Only the occasional flash of an orange bus hurtling along the main road assured him he wouldn’t get completely lost.

Crikey, was Jimmy bushed walking! Heart going like the clappers, t-shirt stuck to his back. He was breathless. Parched. Would never make it home on foot. Fumbling among the sweetie papers in his pockets for change he made for the main road.

‘Jim! Isn’t it too good to be inside this weather? I was gonna come and see you later. Now we can walk and talk.’

GI Joe, in his Bruce Willis get-up, bounded from nowhere like a supercharged pit-bull. Gave Jimmy’s shoulder the old paw clamp, steered him away from the stop, as a bus – Jimmy’s bus – hurtled past.

‘Guess what, Jim?’

‘What?’ Jimmy’s voice was as heavy as his heart.
That was my bus
he wanted to say. Instead, he found himself lurching alongside GI Joe: Frankenstein’s monster without the neck bolts.

‘It’s brilliant! I’ve got the Leisure Centre for a whole day and night the month after next. Gonna run that swimathon right enough and have a big party after. Music, dancing. What d’you think, Jim? Fancy running the catering side for me?’

Jimmy just about managed a grunt of agreement, although he didn’t see how he could look ahead to next month on this, the longest walk. He didn’t think he’d even make it to the next block! Deep within the flesh of his thighs, which chaffed, sweaty-raw against each other, untried muscles quivered in spasm. Every few steps, one or other of his legs jerked a warning:
I can’t go on.
If both legs jerked simultaneously, Jimmy would drop like a very large boulder on the pavement.

His nostrils, possibly the fittest part of his anatomy after his jaw, worked overtime to suck oxygen into his lungs. A pointless exercise. The more Jimmy inhaled, the more exhausted he became. His fingertips tingled and his head buzzed as though it was going to burst from the strain of matching GI Joe’s walking pace.

He was dizzy.

Felt sick.

Had a stitch.

Was knackered.

But still they walked, and GI Joe talked. Yak, yak, yak. All the way home.

Only when Jimmy sank on the steps of his close did GI Joe zip it. Arms folded across his chest, legs astride, he stared, watching the sweat run from Jimmy’s pores. Down his arms, over his heaving chest, through his hair.

‘Look at you, man,’ GI Joe said at last.

He hunkered down, bringing himself eye-level with Jimmy. Grabbed the back of his neck. Shook him like a dog.

‘What you doing to yourself, man?’

Those words were
déjà vu,
thought Jimmy. Dream words.

‘That was only a couple of miles we walked, Jim. What a state you’re in. I’ll help you.’

Hadn’t he said those very words in the dream? The swimming pool dream where the Shadow Shape lay forever out of reach
. . .

‘C’mon, Jim. Tell me how I can help you.’

Of his own accord, Jimmy met GI Joe’s gaze. What if
. . .
? he was thinking as he blinked sweat from his eyes. And aloud he whispered the rest of what he was thinking.

‘
. . .
you could teach me to swim?’

‘Where were you, Jimmy?’

Two worried faces peered through the steam of the bathroom watching Jimmy emerge wrapped in an enormous bath sheet; a corpulent Roman emperor.

‘Pauline said Father Joseph brought you home.’ Mum took Jimmy’s elbow in her hand, cradled it as if he might break. ‘I went out looking everywhere, son. Are you all right?’

Over Mum’s shoulder, Aunt Pol was frowning deeply at Jimmy.

‘Why were you with that priest again?’ Aunt Pol said ‘priest’ as though it tasted foul.

Jimmy took his time answering, looking from one face to another. Mum’s cheeks were tight, and pale. She was just glad that Jimmy was back and safe. No more questions. But Aunt Pol, she was acting well weird, looking at Jimmy through narrowed eyes as though he’d done something wrong.

‘Went for a walk,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m going to have some of that soup now.’

‘And you just
bumped
into St Action Man by chance.’

‘Pauline!’ whispered Mum.

‘Something like that,’ said Jimmy.

The women crowded him at the cooker.

‘Something like what? What’s he been saying?’ Aunt Pol practically spat the words out. It wasn’t like Jimmy to play games, even mind games.

‘He’s gonna teach me to swim. Says I’ve got swimmer’s shoulders.’

‘What?’ Aunt Pol’s tone made Jimmy glance up from the soup he was stirring. He frowned.

She had turned whiter than a slab of buffalo mozzarella.

MAIN
COURSES

Chapter
12

I don’t like Mondays

Two minutes to nine.

He was going to be late.

Jimmy stumbled from the bus – already pulling off while one leg was still on – and groaned.

He should have taken a chance. Alighted with the other kids from St Jude’s. Who knows? Monday morning. Folk might not have been in slagging mode yet.

Now Jimmy would join the Latecomer’s Line outside the Heedie’s office. The Usual Suspects in the line up would tease him as per:

Jumbo Jimmy Fifty Bellies.

Piggy in a blazer.

Everyone passing the Heedie’s door would gawp as though Jimmy was on temporary loan from the Museum of the Revolting. Cheeky wee first years doing impressions to amuse their mates, puffing out their cheeks and chests, holding their breath until they turned beetroot, waddling from side to side, belly-bumping anyone coming the other way up the corridor.

Why was he late today? Not today. All the classes in third year were having an assessment first period to sort out English sets for next term. If Jimmy made the top set he’d have Mrs Hughes again next term, a fantastic teacher. To give himself a fighting chance he’d had an early night to make sure he didn’t sleep in. And he’d actually had a great sleep. No bad dream last night. No Hungry Hole this morning. But now the day was going downhill even though it was uphill all the way to St Jude’s. A steep, steady rise. Jimmy’s legs felt stiff, jerky. He pecked. Heard the bell ring.

How tempting, how very tempting for him to about turn and retreat into the peace and comfort of his own bedroom.

Mum wouldn’t mind.
Quite right to come home, son. Shouldn’t overexert yourself.

No!

The hand of responsibility settled in the small of Jimmy’s back and pushed him onwards.

‘No!’ Jimmy swore he heard a real-life female voice echo. Jimmy froze.

Up ahead, in the bin alley by the school gates, several girls formed a tight huddle.

Jimmy’s blood ran cold as he homed in on the scorpion ankle tattoo and platinum perm of Senga McGuiness.

‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ he implored.

Last time this coven had pressed him up against a wall, Senga had made Chantal unbutton Jimmy’s trousers to see if he wore a corset. Too late. He’d been clocked. Chantal McGrory already nudging Senga.

Jimmy shuffled onwards, bracing his shoulders against the first attack.

‘Ith it twinth ow twiplets?’ Chantal lisped. Senga, the ringleader, seemed otherwise engaged. She had someone trapped in the middle of the huddle.

‘I said
no
! Leave me alone,’ cried the same voice Jimmy had heard a moment ago. This time he recognised it.

‘
Leave me alone,
’ Senga repeated in a wheedling voice. ‘Posh, in’t she? Gonny make me?’ she added with a snarl.

With a flick of her wrist, Senga sent Ellie McPherson’s spectacles skiting along the ground. They landed near Jimmy’s feet.

‘Stop it. I
need
them.’

‘
I need them
,’ voices cackled back, as Senga lunged for the spectacles, one foot raised to smash them.

And at that moment, two remarkable things happened.

First, Jimmy beat Senga to the quarry, bending with a grunt to snatch Ellie’s specs before Senga’s trainer squished them. Second, from the deepest recesses of Jimmy’s chest, a voice yelled:

‘Leave her alone.’

Jimmy launched himself at the two henchgirls who held the struggling Ellie in their grip. They were so taken aback when Jimmy butted in that they let Ellie’s arms go and she plunged like a missile from a catapult head first into Jimmy’s chest.

‘Would you look at the state of they two,’ Senga cawed as she and the coven linked arms and moved away.

‘She’s blind and he’s desperate. They were made for each other.’

‘Y’awright?’

Jimmy couldn’t see where Ellie was because he didn’t dare look up, and she couldn’t see because she just couldn’t see, so they both stabbed blindly in mid-air until their fingers jabbed into each other and Ellie took her glasses. At her touch even Jimmy’s fingers blushed.

‘Thanks.’

Speechless, Jimmy waved Ellie and her thanks away.

But he stayed put in the bin alley. Needed a few moments. To collect himself. Things were happening in his body. Started happening when Ellie McPherson headbutted him in the chest; intensified when she touched his fingers. Made him feel well weird, but didn’t hurt. Made him want to punch the air, sing out the first line of all his favourite songs, and at the same time stick his head down a hole so no one could see how luminously he was blushing.