Swim Until You Can't See Land (6 page)

‘No, don’t feel bad,’ she squeezed his arm, ‘I’m glad you told me. I already knew, deep down.’

‘I’m not very good at this. I’m ruining it. I kept thinking over how I’d tell you, and it wasn’t like this.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she wiped her eyes and nose.

‘He gave me something for you.’

Arthur rummaged in the inside pocket of his tunic, pulled out a silver cross on a chain.

‘He said a French lady had given it to him – he’d sheltered in her barn.’

Arthur stood behind Marièle, fastened it round her neck. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. She slipped the cross under her blouse, felt it nestle between her breasts.

Was it meant for her? She couldn’t help thinking George had said her name when he meant to say Cath’s.

‘
Merci
.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I was in France there. Thank you. For bringing it back, for staying with him.’

‘Well, here we are,’ George stopped outside their garden gate.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ Marièle held out a hand and George pulled her up from the sledge.

‘Did you notice we were being spied on?’ She asked.

‘No, who?’

‘Mrs Walker, who else?’

‘Old busybody, I’ll give her something to spy on,’ George said and, without warning, grabbed Marièle and slung her over his shoulder.

‘George, stop it, put me down.’ Marièle kicked her legs but he held them firm against his chest.

‘Can’t have you getting your feet wet at this late stage in the journey,’ he replied and carried Marièle towards the house.

She hung upside down, hair falling in her face, as she looked back along the garden path towards where the sledge lay discarded on the pavement.

J
uly
2004

Life Bright For Wright

Success for Swimming Star at European Junior Championships

Hannah Wright’s successful year continues apace. Hannah (15) has won gold in the 100m Butterfly at the European Junior Championships in Lisbon. Hannah, who qualified in second place for the final following the heats, powered to gold, taking half a second off her PB in the process.

‘It was a really gutsy performance,’ said coach Greg Candy. ‘She wanted that gold medal and she took the race out from the start. It’s the first time she’s had to deal with heats and semi-finals and she has risen to the occasion brilliantly.’

5

I CYCLE FASTER
, faster
, faster, trying to get the day off me, leave it behind. I feel like some of that old woman got sucked into me when I gave h
er
CPR
. Some of the d
eath and decay, stale and drying me up from the inside. I’m sorry for her, Ms Marièle Downie, but I don’t want her on me any longer.

I’m young, still young.

(over the hill at twenty-one)

I stand tall on the pedals, let the cold air blast my face. My eyes water and my nose runs. It helps, reminds me I’m still alive.

I kick the garden gate open without slowing, don’t hit the brakes until the last possible moment, until I’m almost in the shed. I shove my bike in, next to the rusty lawn mower, then let myself into the house.

‘Dad?’ I dump my bag on top of the glass cabinet in the hall. Swimming medals and engraved cups rattle inside, dusty and in need of a polish.

No answer.

A small part of me thought he’d be here. That he’d hear about what happened, come home to see if I was okay.

I push open the living room door. Dad’s ashtray overflows on the coffee table. It stinks in here. Stale fags and no fresh air. He hasn’t even opened the curtains. I pull them wide, open the window.

I pick up my bag and head upstairs. I need to change, shower. There’s blood on my jeans and I can feel her clinging to me.

I peer in Dad’s room as I head past on my way to the bathroom. It stinks worse than downstairs, dirty clothes, slept in sheets, another ashtray, glass of water on the bedside table with a rim of scum around the top of the glass. I open the window in here too. Waft the duvet up and down, make the bed.

I strip off in the bathroom, turn the shower on, hot, hotter. Let the steam fill the room, scrub myself clean, don’t get out until my skin’s bright pink. Condensation drips down the tiles, off the porcelain of the sink and toilet, down the mirror.

Back in my bedroom with a towel wrapped round me, I unzip my bag.  It stinks of chlorine, I lean my face closer to the smell of it. Clean and comforting.

Something falls out of my bag as I pull at the towel and costume inside. It’s heavy, thumps to the floor.

Purse.

The old woman’s purse.

Shit, I totally forgot to drop it off like I’d planned.

I pick it up, can feel it contaminate me as soon as I touch it. This piece of her, bringing back what happened. I have to get rid of it. No reminders.

Another thought pushes through, irrational, like a superstition.

(my lucky costume)

It takes hold of me and I know I have to go back out, put the purse through her letterbox tonight. Her life depends on it. We’re connected now.  Me and that old woman.

She won’t last the night unless I take her purse back.

I’ll run. By the time I get my bike out again, I could be halfway there. I chuck on some clothes, grab my keys and leave the house. As I run, I pass her purse from hand to hand, feel the weight of it. My wet hair cold against my head.

I slow to a walk when I get to her street. Out of breath as I scan the house numbers.

There it is.

Her house.

Where she lives.

(lived?)

Do her neighbours know what happened? Have they noticed that she went out and never came back? Maybe family members have turned up?

As I walk up the path, I expect someone to shout on me, ask if I know anything, what I’m doing here.

I open her purse to double check I’ve got the right address. As I’m sliding out her driving licence, a scrap of paper flutters to the ground.

It’s her lottery numbers, scribbled in black ink.

5   16  21  26  32  44
I slip the piece of paper in my pocket, read the address on the driving licence.

I’m in the right place.

I put the driving licence back in her purse, am about to push it through the letterbox when I stop myself.

Maybe someone’s in there?

Husband, son, daughter, granddaughter. Does she live alone?

The house is in darkness.

I slide the driving licence out again.

MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE

16 SEPTEMBER 1922

MS.

That doesn’t really give much away.

1922
.

I count up on my fingers.

32, 42, 52, 62, 72, 82, 92, 2002, 2010.

Eighty-seven.

Shit, no way. She didn’t look eighty-seven.

Certainly not before she keeled over anyway.

Eighty-seven.

To be honest, I don’t know how old she looked. She was just old. She looked like an old woman.

Enough messing about. Just put the purse through the letter box and leave. Go home. End this fucking horrible day.

I jump at a noise from inside the house, grip the purse tighter to stop my hand from shaking.

Maybe someone is in there after all?

I ring the doorbell, hear it, tinny and echoing from inside.

Nothing. No footsteps. No light turned on.

What if it’s her? Ms Marièle Downie.

(back from the dead)

My finger hovers above the doorbell. I’m too scared to press it again. There’s something about the shrillness of it, disturbing the silence like that, it gives me the shivers.

I don’t even know what I’m so afraid of. I’m just suddenly aware that I’m on my own.

Nobody else is about. One of those quiet wee cul-de-sacs. Dead end street, no traffic passing through, everyone else safe inside their homes.

I’m on my own out here. All on my own.

(the shadows on the wall as someone comes towards me along the hallway)

Stop it, stop it, Hannah. Stop freaking yourself out.

(closer, closer, the slow thud, thud, thud of approaching footsteps)

You’re doing it on purpose. Why are you trying to spook yourself?

(a pair of feet on the other side of the door)

I mean it, Hannah, stop it.

(eye at the peephole, watching me, hand moving towards the door handle, rattling it up and down up and downupanddownupanddown)

I shove the purse through the letterbox, expecting a bony hand to shoot out and grab my wrist. The purse gets caught on the black bristles lining the opening.

No, no, please, go in, go in.

I push with both hands, force it through.

It finally gives and I hear the thump as it hits the floor on the other side. Then I’m running again. Running, running, running, running, running. In the opposite direction, home, safety.

I slam the front door behind me when I get in, lock it. My chest hurts and I’ve got a stitch. I slide down the door, until I’m squatting with my back up against it. Something creaks in the house and I jump.

I move quickly, turning on lights and checking rooms. Don’t care about the stale smell anymore, I slam windows and pull curtains shut.

What’s wrong with me? I’m usually in the house on my own at night. I’ve never got myself so spooked before. I double-check all the doors, all the windows, even open cupboards, and look under the beds, behind the couch. I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m not on my own, that someone’s watching me.

Come on, Hannah. Stop being stupid. Breathe, just breathe. You’re fine. There’s nobody in the house. Relax, relax.

In my bedroom, I pull the curtains shut. Don’t allow myself to look outside. In case.

(someone’s out there, looking up at my window)

I need something to do, something to take my mind off everything that’s happened. My wet swimming stuff’s still lying on the floor. I hang my towel and costume on the radiator. The damp, chlorine smell helps.

Breathe it in, breathe it in.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

I sprinkle my swim cap with talc to keep it from sticking, talc dusts my hands, the floor, and I rub the excess into the carpet with my feet.

Something’s lying on the floor next to my goggles.

Revels.

A weight shifts in my stomach.

The old woman’s Revels.

Shit.

I forgot about them. Took the purse back but not the sweets.

Superstition or not, there’s no fucking way I’m going back there tonight. No chance. I’m not leaving this house, this bedroom. That’s how people in horror movies end up dead. Not me. I’m smart.

(Higher English C

Higher Mathematics D

Higher Biology C

Higher History C)

Just the thought of going back there makes me feel sick. I sit on the edge of my bed, the bag of Revels in my lap.

Sweat prickles up and down my back, across my forehead. I need another shower.

There’s dots in front of my eyes. The room starts to blur, go out of focus. I think I’m going to faint.

I lie back on the bed, close my eyes. Everything’s fuzzy, scribbled crayon flashes on the inside of my eyelids.

My fingers rest on the bag of Revels, the rippled edge of the bag. I can taste the chocolate in my mouth, on my tongue, anticipate the rush of sugar as it hits my bloodstream.

I have to eat them.

It’s her turn to save me.

My hands are wobbly as I peel open the bag. With my eyes still shut, I reach inside it.

Orange.

Coffee.

Peanut.

Orange.

Malteser  Coffee    Peanut    Orange  Orange  Minstrel  Minstrel  Malteser  PeanutToffeeToffeeToffeeToffee

I open my eyes, sit up, lick melted chocolate from my fingers. The red nail polish blazes.

It’s too much, too bright, too red.

I blot cotton wool with nail polish remover, wipe my fingernails and toenails clean. Replace the red with a pale blue colour.

(one that doesn’t look like blood)

Lie back on the bed, wait for it to dry.

My eyes open, awake, the light in my room seems to go out before I hear the click of the switch.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,’ Dad’s standing in the doorway. ‘All the lights in the house are on though, it’s like bloody Blackpool tower. You okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘I ran into Shirley in the Sal.’