Swim Until You Can't See Land (36 page)
Everyone wanted to stare at the freak. With her boy’s haircut and her gaunt face. Good job she’d thought to hide her hands. One glimpse of those fingertips and Cath would run screaming for the door.
It’s all true, it’s true. I’ve seen her for myself.
No.
Stop Marièle.
Stop it.
So hateful and cruel.
So unfair to her best friend.
To her (almost) sister.
To her…
- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.
Cath wasn’t there to stare, or to gossip about what she’d seen.
But then, today of all days, I thought…
Today?
What was today?
Marièle had lost track of time in France, in the camp, on the
step step step step step step
She’d not managed to find it again.
‘Cath, what’s today?’
Her words stuck in her throat, came out as a croak.
‘It’s George’s birthday, remember?’ Cath took a step forward.
Marièle felt herself sink deeper into the armchair.
Oh God.
She’d been sitting there all day. Getting annoyed with Mama. Snapping at her for not bringing soup when it was lunchtime. Wondering why Father had gone out so early.
Oh, God.
She was so arrogant. So selfish. She thought they were upset because of what had happened to her. How could she have forgotten today?
Forgotten George.
What was wrong with her? Was she ever going to get better?
She thought she’d kept her brain active, she’d tried, tried so hard.
.-
-...
-.-.
-..
But she’d forgotten, she’d forgotten what day it was.
‘Darling, are you okay? You’ve gone so white.’
Cath knelt in front of the armchair. She reached in under the blanket, took Marièle’s hand. Stroked it. Didn’t flinch at the deformed fingernails which scratched and grew at a strange angle.
‘I forgot. I forgot what day it was.’
‘But you know now, dear, and now you know what today is, then you know what yesterday was and what tomorrow is and the day after that and the day after that.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, I’m Lee Webster, Lucy’s husband.’
Marièle was caught off guard. Lucy Webster?
Who was Lucy Webster?
Then she remembered.
‘
Oui
, of course.’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s Cath. I’m afraid she passed away this morning. Lucy said you and her mum were good friends, went back a long way.’
Marièle felt the air rush out of her and she steadied herself against the telephone table.
Oh Cath, her Cath.
- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.
‘
I brought you something. Remember I said I would, you thought I’d been ripped off, ye of little faith.’
Cath opened her handbag, took out a brown envelope and handed it to Marièle.
‘What it is?’ Marièle slid a finger into the opening of the envelope.
She could control her fingers again. Could grip the contents between thumb and forefinger, slip it out. Her nails were still shorter than they should be, came about halfway up the tips of her fingers. Dimples had formed in the base of them, down near the cuticle. If she held her hand vertically at eye level and looked along the line of fingernails, she could see the clear depression in each one.
They’ll fade but never disappear, the doctor said, like a scar.
Marièle preferred to think of them as dimples. That’s what Cath called them.
George always called me dimples, but now you’re the one with that nickname.
A photograph.
‘God, I’d forgotten about this,’ Marièle said, holding the photo of them both.
Caught as they walked along the pavement, arm in arm. Marièle in uniform. Cath in her polka-dot sundress, smiling, dimples on display. Not for the photographer though.
For her, Marièle.
What had she said to make Cath smile like that?
Marièle couldn’t remember.
Home on leave. Hair intact. Nails intact.
Sanity intact.
Pre-France.
‘God, that feels like such a long time ago now.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a good photo, I like it.’ Marièle slipped it back inside the envelope, handed it to Cath.
‘No, it’s yours. I want you to have it. I said I’d give it to you when you came back and, well, here you are, dear. You came back.’
Also published by
LUATH PRESS
Trackman
Catriona Child
ISBN 9781908373434 PBK £7.99
Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman
Davie was about to leave the MP3 player lying on the pavement when something stopped him. A voice in his head. You'll regret it if you leave it. You'll only come back for it later.
C
an a song change your life? Can a song bring people, places and moments in time alive again? Davie Watts is the Trackman. He knows what song to play to you and he knows exactly when you need to hear it. Davie seeks out strangers in need and helps them using the power of music.
In her debut novel, Catriona Child has all the makings of a cult hit… She handles the tension between the fantastical premise and the raw and sensitive matter of a dead schoolboy tastefully, and the book's sense of place makes it a delight for lovers of Edinburgh.
THE HERALD
Turn the page if you would like to read the first three chapters...
Details of this and other books published by Luath Press can be found at
1
Davie dropped the orange juice.
THE SINGING ECHOES around me and bounces off the walls of the underpass like a rubber ball; I flinch as it whizzes past my face. There's a group of lads standing in the centre of the walkway. The lights in the ceiling are red and give a pink tinge to their hair and faces. One of them's got a guitar which he strums away on. Another is banging out the beat on the wall with a couple of drum sticks. He tap, tap, taps against the brickwork. Another three lads are singing, while a tall guy films them all on his mobile; he shouts directions like he's fucking Steven Spielberg or someone.
I duck as I pass by: don't want to ruin the shot.
'Cheers mate,' Spielberg gives me the thumbs up.
I nod, and carry on through the underpass.
A gutter runs along the edge of the wall; it's full of manky water, pish and dog shite. A syringe lies amongst the crisp bags and the empty cans. Graffiti slides down the anti-vandalism varnish, like trying to paint over crayon.
Co
ck a
nd ba
lls
Fuc
k th
e h
ibs
P
ole
s go h
ome
Davie saw his parents at the far end of the corridor; they sat with their backs against the wall. It looked like they were waiting outside the headmaster's office.
I leave the underpass and smell freshly-made pizza as it wafts from the vents of Domino's on the corner. It smells good, but I carry on. I can't stop. Got to keep moving. Keep moving. One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg. I head along Dalry towards Haymarket station. As I get nearer I can hear the muffled voice of the tannoy, and the sound of the trains as they approach the platforms.
Hello, goodbye.
People leaving Edinburgh, people arriving.
I'm going to Australia, Davie, I don't know for how long.
The streets are busy and it's not even hit peak tourist-time yet. I get stuck behind a couple holding hands who take up the whole pavement. I walk on their shoulders, skulk right behind them, but they don't take any notice. In the end I jump down onto the road, jog past them and hop back up onto the pavement. I'm all nervous energy tonight: got to keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
As I near Princes Street, I can hear the piped shortbread music blaring out from the tourist shops. It's almost ten for fuck sake; who needs towels that look like a kilt at this time of the night? Who needs them at all?
The lights are on in the castle and it hangs above everything, like someone was playing pin the castle on the city.
Then it disappeared in the mist.
It looks out of place compared to the shitty, breeze-block shops down here at street level. The shops shrink in embarrassment; faced with the castle in all its glory.
I'm not ready to stand still yet, so I take a detour onto George Street: walk round the block first. I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. Maybe I've absorbed some of Lewis's excitement. Tonight feels like a big deal all of a sudden.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
I pretend I'm Pacman as I follow the block round.
Forward, forward, forward.
Right turn.
Forward, forward, forward, eat annoying tourist.
Right turn.
Forward, forward, forward.
Back onto Princes Street and the queue from Waterstone's is already snaking round the corner and out of sight. There's still two hours to go. Two hours of standing still in a queue. One finger, one thumb.
I better go join it though; don't want to let him down.
I follow the queue round onto the cobbles of Rose Street, past the dingy pubs and the independent shops. The queue stops outside Dirty Dick's and I'm tempted to go in for a pint. I think of my promise to Lewey though and I join the queue. He's the reason I'm here after all.
There's a few folk outside the pub smoking. I can hear the murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses from inside. A hen party walks past. They're dressed in identical pink t-shirts; a photo of the bride-to-be pulled panoramic across their chests. The cobbled street is causing them some problems and they totter in their heels, swaying from side to side and clutching on to each other for support as they scream and laugh.
I step from one foot to the other. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
Don't think about why you're here on your own.
Don't think about why you're here on your own.
One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
The queue grows as I wait. I stand on my tiptoes and strain my neck to peer over the folk behind me, but I can't see where the end is anymore. A lot of people in the queue have really made an effort: turned up in costumes and fancy dress. I feel totally out of place here. On my own. Fidgeting. Lewis would have loved it.
He should be here, not me.
Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, one finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head.
In a parallel universe, Lewis is queuing up to get his own book.
There's a couple of women behind me, wearing witch costumes, who keep blowing cigarette smoke into my face. It's making me want a fag even though I quit ages ago. I want to tell them to stop being so fucking ignorant, stop exhaling in my face, but I'm enjoying the second-hand smoke and I breathe it in.
Hold it inside me.
There are breathing exercises you can try, they should help you to relax if you find it's all becoming too much.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Breathe out.
They've got a wee lassie with them who doesn't even look old enough to be able to read. She's all dressed up in a school uniform, complete with bushy wig and magic wand. Another hen party stops when they see her.
'Aaawwww, look at the wee lassie.'
'Oh my God, she's gorgeous.'
'Hey, Annie, she should be your flower girl, imagine, eh?'
The wee girl points the plastic wand at them, makes them all laugh. I can see it in her eyes though: she's cursing them all.
'Hi, I'm Andy from the
Evening News
. Do you mind if I take a few photos for the paper?'
A guy stops in front of 'Hermione' and the chain-smoking witches. He's carrying a fancy looking camera and pulls an identity card out from underneath his jacket. The card hangs on a cord around his neck, tangled up in his camera strap. I glance at the photo on the card, hope it's not an example of his photography skills.