Swim Until You Can't See Land (34 page)

And she knew.

She knew they were right.

Eliza was dead.

She let the men carry her to the lorry, lift her in beside the other women. The ones who had made it. The lucky few.

They handed her a blanket and a square of chocolate. She let the chocolate melt on her tongue as she watched the men. Men carrying spades.

They lifted Eliza, put her in a pile with the other bodies.

There were so many of them.

So many who hadn’t survived the

Step.

    Step.

        Step.

           Step.

           Step.

               Step.

March
2009

Swimming Star Sunk by Shoulder Injury

Scottish swimming star and British record holder Hannah Wright yesterday announced her retirement from the sport.

Hannah, 20, has been suffering from a shoulder injury for the past eighteen months and has had to endure painful surgery and weeks of rehabilitation.

‘The operation was my final chance,’ said Hannah, ‘and unfortunately it hasn’t worked out the way I’d hoped. I’m absolutely devastated to give up my swimming career.

I thought I’d have a few more years to enjoy it. The decision to retire hasn’t been easy, but it’s been taken out of my hands. I’ve been in pain for months and the doctors have told me I risk permanent damage and disability if I continue with the intensive training that I need to do to compete at my best. I’m struggling to come to terms with it and it’s going to take me a while to get my head around things. I’d like to thank my coach, Greg Candy, for everything he’s done for me.’

23

THE WHISTLE BLOWS
, signalling the start of the race.

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

Three short blasts followed by one long.

Only I’m not ready.

Not ready to get up on the starting block.

I don’t have my cap and goggles on yet. I’ve still got my tracksuit on over my costume. I’m not ready.

They’re going to start without me. I’m not ready.

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

I’m not ready, my goggles have snapped, I try to unzip my tracksuit top but the zip’s stuck.

I’m not ready.

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

notreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynot

I sit upright. Where am I? It’s dark, takes my eyes a while to get accustomed.

I’m still on Marièle’s sofa, the blanket’s tangled around me, I can’t get my arms free. The wool itchy and hot.

The book lies open on the carpet, must have fallen. One of the pages is bent and I smooth it down. Slide the author’s note back inside.

What time is it?

It’s dark outside. It must be late.

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

Why can I still hear the whistle from my dream?

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

I’m disorientated, half asleep, trying to catch up with what’s going on.

________    ________    ________    ____________________ 

Idiot, it’s not the whistle, it’s the phone.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

I put my hands out in front of me, shuffle towards the ringing.

It’s dark and it’s not my house, I can’t see where the fuck I’m going.

‘Shit.’

I bash my shin off the coffee table. That was sore. I rub at it.

I’m never going to get to the phone on time.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

Wait.

Why am I going to answer the phone? It’s not my house, it could be anyone. Who the hell’s ringing at this time anyway? Whatever time it is.

Foggy, middle-of-the-night brain. Doesn’t work properly, makes decisions that don’t make sense to wide-awake-middle-of-the-day brain.

I reach for the living room door, pull it open. I can see shapes and shadows now. Street light shines in through the frosted glass of the front door.

The phone stops.

The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks.

I flick the hall light on.

Half three.

Shit, half three. I should have gone home hours ago.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

I jump as the phone starts to ring again.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

Half three.

Nobody rings at half three in the morning with good news.

I’m still holding the book. Why am I still holding the book?

I put it down, stand with my hand over the phone, grip the receiver, but don’t lift.

It buzzes against my palm, the ring vibrating up my arm.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

I don’t want to pick up. I know who’s on the other end. I know what they’re going to say to me.

If I pick up.

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

________  ________          ________  ________          ________  ________

It’s so loud. I look for a volume control. An off switch.

What if I pull the cord out of the wall?

Just ignore the ringing. If I don’t answer then…

Then what?

(she’s not really dead)

‘Hello?’

My voice is a croak, a whisper. My mouth’s dry. I cough, clear my throat.

‘Hello?’ I repeat.

My hand’s shaking and I have to squeeze tight on the receiver to keep it steady against my ear.

‘I’m phoning from the
PRI
, it’s about Marièle Downie.’

I nod my head, remember I’m on the phone.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to call you so late, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

‘Uh-huh.’

I’m not pretending anymore. My throat’s thick and I can’t speak. I don’t want her to be dead. She can’t be. Not now.

‘I’m very sorry, but Marièle passed away this morning. It was very peaceful. She never regained consciousness.’

‘Oh,’ I try to say okay but only manage the first part.

Peaceful.

her fingernails forcibly removed 

The pressure builds, builds, builds in my chest.

Erupts.

Why am I crying? I didn’t know her. We weren’t friends.

‘I’m very sorry for your…’

I put the phone down. I can’t speak. There’s no point trying to continue the conversation. I sink to the floor, lean my head between my knees, dig in my jeans for a tissue but can’t find one, so I wipe my sleeve across my nose and eyes.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m in your house and I’m sorry for what happened to you and I’m sorry you died.’

Saying the word out loud makes it worse.

Died.

Died.

Died.

I force myself to stand, into her bedroom, take down the photo of her from the shelf.

My tears drip onto the frame, smear the glass as I try to wipe them away.

I make my way along the hall towards the kitchen. The fish is swimming back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Having one of his mad half hours, zipping from one side of the bowl to the other.

I sit at the kitchen table, stand the photo in front of me. Angle it so the fish can see it.

‘It’s bad…’

That sets me off again and I can’t speak, I can’t speak, I can’t speak. My breath comes in short gasps, shuddering and painful.

What the fuck am I doing? I need to get out of here, go home.

But what about the fish? What’ll happen to him if I leave him here? On his own.

‘I could take you with me?’

No, Hannah, wake up. Middle-of-the night-brain doesn’t talk sense. Stop listening to it and just go home. You shouldn’t be here. You should never have come here in the first place.

Someone needs to organise the funeral. And it can’t be her fake niece.

Too many lies. Too much breaking and entering.

Ex-swimmer, Hannah Wright, was arrested today…

‘I’d better feed you before I go,’ I reach for the tub of flakes, catch a flash of red.

The lottery ticket.

It could be you.

(it could be me)

The lottery ticket. I could take it. Cash it in. Nobody would ever know.

(it’s not as if I haven’t thought of it before)

£
100
,
000

£
100
,
000

Give Dad something to be happy about, make him proud of me again.

What if she’d died straight away? If she’d died before she reached the hospital? If I’d never come to her house, never looked at her photos, visited her, read about her.

I could have taken the ticket.

She would still be the old woman lying on the shop floor, the one I didn’t want to touch, to go near.

She wouldn’t be Marièle and I wouldn’t be this upset.

Jesus, the world is fucked up.

announced her retirement from the sport

her fingernails forcibly removed

Me and her just haven’t caught a break.

(except I almost have)

It could be you.

Maybe this is the universe’s way of making it up to me. Sorry we fucked around with your swimming career, but here’s something to make up for it. No hard feelings, eh?

I pull the ticket out from behind the bowl. Walk to the phone table in the hall.

Pick up the pen that’s lying there. Write the name and address on the ticket before I change my mind.

NAME:
Marièle Downie
ADDRESS:
Douglas Crescent, Kinross

The book’s still lying next to the phone. I carry it through to the kitchen.

‘I’ve got to go, fish. Don’t worry, they’ll come here first when they can’t get in touch with me. You’ll be okay.’ I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. That someone will find him, look after him, that he won’t end up floating on the top of his bowl or flushed down the toilet.

I put the book down on the kitchen table next to her photo, mark the right page with the author’s note, place the lottery ticket on top, pocket my mobile.

Chapter Fifteen: Marièle Downie, aka Sabine Valois, aka Blackbird.

Something stops me and I head back to the phone table again, tear a blank piece of paper from the notebook lying there. Leave a note beside the book and the photo.

She wasn’t just an old woman who died.
Please look after her fish.
Thank you

‘Who knows, maybe she left everything to you?’ I kneel in front of the fish bowl. I can feel tears coming again. Fuck sake, what’s wrong with me?

Saying goodbye to a goldfish has me sobbing.

I’ve got quite attached to that wee fish though.

‘Goodbye, look after yourself.’

I stand at the back door for a moment, take in Marièle’s kitchen. Exactly how she left it that day she went out and never came back.

I wave.

Close the door.

No, I can’t do it. I can’t leave him. She can have the lottery ticket, but I’m taking her fish.

I push the door open.

‘You’re coming with me, fish.’

Please look after her fish.

I lift the bowl, water sloshes over me. I decant some of it into the sink, carry the bowl towards the back door, set it down on the step as I leave Marièle’s house. Close her back door. Lock it. Drop the spare key back inside the flowerpot.

I wheel my bike out onto the street, tie it up against a lamppost. I can pick it up in the morning. I need both hands for the bowl, have to walk slowly. The fish is rocked from side to side with the movement of the water.