Swimmer (6 page)

Eventually, Medlar Tree lifted up both hands so that they covered his face. Jim thought: Where have I seen this before? Then, very slowly, Medlar Tree opened his face, like a book opening. For one moment, so brief that Jim couldn't be sure if he had really seen it or not, Medlar Tree's face looked exactly like that of the spirit-girl that he had seen climbing out of the pool. The hairs on the back of Jim's neck fizzed with shock.

‘Clever, isn't it?' laughed Susan. ‘But it's only a party trick. Hypnotic suggestion. He's very good at it, aren't you, my dearest Medlar Tree?'

Jim raised his glass. ‘Okay … I'll drink to that particular trick. And I'll drink to you, Susan. At least you showed Jennie that she wasn't imagining things.'

They spent over an hour together, before Susan had to go off for her orchard-therapy session. They talked and drank wine and laughed. Medlar Tree still brought him close to committing mimicide, but Susan seemed to think so much of him that it was hard for Jim to be openly hostile. It took strength, though, especially when Medlar Tree scowled at him from behind Susan's back, and pushed his fingers up his nostrils to make himself look like Lon Chaney in
The Phantom of the Opera
.

‘When did you first realize you were sensitive?' he asked Susan.

‘When I was six. I was walking with my mom along Hollywood Boulevard when I heard this woman screaming. I looked around, and there she was, a middle-aged woman in a beige flowery dress, standing by the side of the road, screaming. Except that her face looked completely calm and her mouth was closed.

‘About two seconds later, she stepped out into the road, right in front of a bus. It hit her and she went flying through the air like she was showing everybody how good she was at cartwheels. She was dead, of course.

‘At first I couldn't understand why nobody had heard her screaming. It was only two or three years later that I had a similar experience and I realized that nobody had heard her because she hadn't made a sound. The only person who had heard her was me.'

She hesitated for a moment, and then she looked at him with narrowed eyes. In this light she was really quite beautiful, in a strangely dated way. Black hair, white face, like a publicity photograph for a 1940s movie star.

‘You believe me, don't you?' she said. ‘And you're relieved, too, that somebody else has to carry a burden like yours. You're not alone, Jim; and now you never will be.'

Medlar Tree looked daggers at him, the kind of daggers with decorated handles that come out of people's eyes in cartoons. Jim sniffed, and smiled, and said, ‘How about another glass of that Sauvignon, Mr Tree?'

T
hat night, after his shower, Jim hung the psychic necklace around his neck, along with the silver St Christopher medal that his mother had given him only two hours before she died. He didn't really know why he wanted to wear it. Maybe he wanted to step just a little nearer to the edge. Maybe he wanted to look into the darkness, face to face.

‘I hope you realize this isn't going to work,' he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His reflection looked oddly unimpressed. ‘I hope you also realize that you don't
want
it to work. Supposing it tells you you're going to meet your maker at lunchtime tomorrow, choking on a cheese and alfalfa sandwich?'

In truth, he didn't seriously believe that the necklace would reveal the exact date he was going to die. But ever since he had discovered that he could see almost every kind of spirit that walked through the world of the living, he had become fascinated by occult paraphernalia such as crystal balls and Ouija boards and Tarot cards, as well as voodoo fetishes and Native American sundolls. After all, they were all attempts by mystics of varying cultures to see through to the other side – and, if he could ever find one that actually worked, he would be able to share his visions with other people. He could show them that spirits are everywhere, close beside us. He could show them that their dead relatives are still close at hand. More than that, he wouldn't feel so different, so alone.

Before he went to bed, he sat on the couch with his scraped-clean spaghetti plate still on the coffee table in front of him, and called up Karen.

‘Karen – it's Jim. I want you to know that I'm deeply, deeply sorry about today. Deeper than deeply. Bathyscaphically.'

‘That's okay, Jim. You're forgiven. And it was all in a good cause, wasn't it?'

‘Well, yes it was. The spirit-trace worked, believe it or not. It worked! We saw the spirit! Well,
I
saw the spirit. And at least Jennie doesn't blame herself for Mikey's death any more.'

‘So she came through? The busty mystic in the low-cut dress?'

‘Susan? She's interesting. A very interesting young woman. And very, genuinely sensitive. And interesting.'

‘And busty.'

‘Yes, busty. Okay. That's a natural attribute. But that's not what makes her interesting.'

‘All the same, you like her.'

‘Sure I like her. I'm not going to deny it. I like lots of women. No, I didn't say that right. I like lots of women, not
lots
of women. For God's sake. But I still want you to come to Washington with me. I mean, this is why I'm calling. This is a genuine repeat offer for a limited time only. I've thought very seriously about your color-coded sweaters and I've thought about your step aerobics and your logical mind and your tofu; and I've come to the conclusion that I could easily adapt. Easily. Do you know what I did this evening, when I came home?
I rearranged my spice rack
. It's all in alphabetical order, starting with Allspice and ending with Wasabi. Then I tidied my sock drawer. I swear to God. All of my socks are matching and they're all rolled together and they're all in rows. They look like a passing-out parade at West Point. Well, except for seven or eight of them that don't seem to have a friend.'

‘Maybe your busty mystic in the low-cut dress could help. If she can do orchard therapy I'm sure she can manage sock treatment.'

‘Karen, it's
you
I'm asking to come to Washington. Nobody else. Marry me.'

‘No, Jim. I'm sorry. What we have together … it's good. Occasionally it's nearly wonderful. But it's not enough.'

‘It's not enough?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘
You're
sorry. How do you think I feel?'

‘I don't want to hurt you, Jim. But it could never work out, alphabetical spices or not.'

‘I see. Well, I guess I can take a hint.'

‘I'll see you tomorrow, at college.'

‘Sure.'

‘Don't be angry, Jim. You know it wouldn't work. There's more to marriage than a tidy sock drawer.'

From where he was sitting on the couch, Jim caught sight of a pair of shorts that he had kicked under the armchair about five days ago. Candy-striped, faded and crumpled. He was beginning to feel very sorry for himself, but he dropped his head in mock-resignation, like a marionette with its strings cut.

He fell asleep within five or ten minutes, which was unusual after a day in which he had been involved in so much psychic activity. Most days, a supernatural experience would leave him nervy and sweating, and he would roll about in bed for hour after hour while all kinds of mysterious images danced and flickered in his head like black-and-white movies. Pale, featureless faces, staring, half hidden behind misted-up windows. Monk-like figures in hoods and habits, rushing silently around corners before he could reach them. Sometimes he heard music, somebody playing a discordant piano in an echoing upstairs room. Sometimes he heard women weeping, ‘
Don't, don't, don't
…' over and over.

But tonight he slid down that long dark shelf into unconsciousness almost immediately, and when he opened his eyes he was caught up in a dream so sharp and detailed that it was even more realistic than life itself.

He was walking along a wide gray seashore, with the wind fluffing in his ears. The sky was overcast, and the beach was so flat that the waves were only inches deep. The waves poured over the sides of his shoes and soaked his socks, and then retreated.

As he walked along, he became aware that somebody was walking far up ahead of him – a woman, it looked like, with her hair streaming in the wind and her shoulders bowed. He tried to walk faster, to catch her up, but she always seemed to remain out of reach. He had the urgent feeling that he needed to talk to her, or else something was going to go seriously wrong. The wind was rising now, and very much colder, and the waves began to splash against the legs of his pants, soaking him up to his knees.

Without warning he was hit by a huge, overwhelming wave. It was freezing cold, and it dropped on top of him like a ton of wet cement, forcing him down to his knees. He tried to stand up, but the undertow dragged his feet away from him, and the next thing he knew he was floundering in nine or ten feet of salty water, his arms waving and his legs thrashing, completely helpless.

Desperately, he tried to swim to the surface. But no matter how hard he kicked his legs and paddled his arms, he couldn't seem to rise any higher. There was something clutching his ankle … something dragging him back down again.

Bursting for breath, he twisted himself around to see what it was. With a cold shock of recognition, he saw that it was the same liquid figure he had seen climbing out of Jennie's pool – a sinuous shape with long, fluent hair, fashioned entirely out of water. Her skin rippled like a fast-flowing current, and her eyes gleamed like glass, without pupils or irises. Her expression alone was enough to terrify him: she was furious-faced, and obviously intent on drowning him.

He kicked and kicked, but he couldn't break her grip. His lungs felt as if they were just about to detonate. His head throbbed and it took every ounce of strength not to open his mouth and breathe in a huge lungful of icy cold seawater. He heaved himself around, and gave a desperate double kick with both feet. The figure seemed to scatter apart, like beads of liquid mercury. He kicked again, and again, propelling himself upward.

He broke the surface, screaming for air. ‘
Hah! Hah! Hah!
' He thrashed his arms, trying to keep himself afloat. And then looked around the ocean, and found that it wasn't an ocean at all, but a bedroom, with a bedside clock, and a bureau, and a pair of khaki Dockers hanging over the back of a basketwork chair. He was still lying on his bed, his sheets twisted like the Indian rope trick and his T-shirt soaked in icy cold sweat. He sat up, wiped his face with his hands, and drank a large mouthful of tepid water. Outside his apartment, he could hear distant samba music and the sound of automobiles swishing along the street. He checked his bedside clock. It read 13:06:01.

This was ridiculous. It wasn't six minutes past one in the afternoon: it was more like quarter past two in the morning. He picked up the clock and stared at it. Last year's class had given it to him, and on the back were engraved the words:
JIM ROOK, BECAUSE HE OPENED OUR EYES
.

It was then that TT padded into the room, and let out the faintest mewling sound.

‘What? What is it now?'

TT jumped up on to the bed beside him and nuzzled the clock.

‘What are you trying to say to me, you witch of darkness? My alarm clock's gone on the fritz, that's all. Probably a brown-out.'

But TT mewled again, and almost head-butted the clock, and then laid her paw on top of it.

‘You're trying to tell me something, right? I know. But you obviously don't understand that you're trying to communicate with a higher species of vastly superior intellect. When cats start writing rhyming couplets and sending each other e-mails, then I'll worry. But right now, all of this mewling and scratching and head-banging … I'm sorry, you've lost me.'

TT didn't give up. She jumped off the bed, trotted into the living-room and jumped up on the back of the chair in front of the calendar. Jim followed her, and stared at her uncomprehendingly for a very long time. Impatient, she jumped up and swatted at the calendar with her paw.

‘I don't get it,' said Jim. But then TT ran back to the bedroom and nuzzled the clock.

‘Clock … calendar. Calendar … clock. What's going on here, TT?'

TT came back, and again she was carrying the Grimaud death card in between her teeth. She dropped it in front of Jim's feet and stood there staring at him, almost willing him to understand.

‘Clock – calendar – death card. Oh, hold up a minute. This is beginning to make sense. The clock is wrong, right? So these numbers on the clock … these aren't the
time
, they're the
date
… thirteen, six, oh one. The thirteenth of June 2001. Which is … let's take a look … precisely nine days from now.'

Jim slowly reached up and felt the psychic necklace that was dangling on his chest.
Wear it when you go to sleep tonight, and you'll dream the day you're going to die
.

‘No way, José,' he told TT. ‘I believe in seeing the past, but I don't believe in seeing the future. It hasn't happened yet. How can anybody know?' TT remained where she was, staring at him implacably. ‘How can anybody know, TT? Especially a cat? Just because the Egyptians thought the sun shone out of your litter trays.'

All the same, he went back into the bedroom and looked at the clock lying on the bed, and it was still reading 13:06:01. He had a cold, helpless feeling, like Ebenezer Scrooge must have felt when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showed him his own tombstone.

He went into the kitchen, put on the kettle and made himself a mug of hot chocolate. He had been putting on a little weight lately – not much, but Karen had always told him that he looked underfed, ‘like a refugee from something that the rest of us don't even want to think about'.