Swimming Upstream (21 page)

After an hour or so of lying in the darkness, I got
up and went downstairs for a drink of water. When I passed Tim's bedroom I saw
that the door was open and I peeped inside. He was lying facing me, his tousled
dark hair curling over his forehead. The covers were pushed away from his lean
torso and his arms were wrapped protectively around a pillow. As I stood
watching him he shifted slightly on the bed and opened his eyes.

“Lizzie?” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn't sleep,” I whispered.

He blinked sleepily and glanced at the clock. He reached
out an arm. “Come here.”

I went into the room and sat down on the edge of
the bed. Tim put his arm round me and pulled me down beside him. He stroked my
hair. “Stay with me,” he said, putting his arm round me again and then he fell
straight back to sleep.

I must have drifted off because when I woke it was
light and I'd just heard the door slam. I looked at the clock. It was eight
o'clock. Then I noticed that the door to the bedroom was open and Martin was
standing there looking at me and Tim.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong door. I wanted the
bathroom.”

“Next door,” I pointed. He paused for a moment,
looking at us both, and then he disappeared.

Tim was still sleeping deeply; I could feel his
breath against my neck. I lifted his arm which was still wrapped round me and
slid out from underneath him.

Shelley was in the kitchen making tea. She looked
exhausted.

“Do you want a cup?” she offered.

“Go on then.” I sat down. “I'll have to go
straight to work from here.”

Shelley sat down beside me. “God, I need my bed,”
she said. “A quick soak in the bath. And then I’m going to sleep for England.”

“Maybe you’d better wake Zara on your way up,” I
suggested. “Hasn't she got college today?”

“I doubt she's going in,” said Shelley. “She
hasn't been in for about three weeks now.”

I looked up at her. “She didn't tell me that.”

“She's trying to catch up with her coursework,”
said Shelley. “She's got her first exams in two weeks time and she's getting
stressed out.”

“I didn’t realise,” I said.

“I found her crying the other morning when I came
home. Tim was on nights and I was at Gavin's.”

“Gavin?” I echoed. “Is that his name?”

She nodded.

“Really, Shelley,” I said. “A banker called Gavin?”

“He's not a banker,” she said, confused. “He's a
sales rep.”

“Morning,” said Martin, appearing in the doorway.

“Oh. Morning.” Shelley got up to leave. “Need sleep,”
she added.

“But Shelley...” I tailed off, as Martin sat down
next to me. “Hi,” I said to Martin.

Shelley stopped as she got to the door. “I’ll talk
to you later,” she said.

“Okay.”

“So,” said Martin. “How are you this morning?”

“Yeah, good. Tea?” I got up and fetched him a cup
from the sink and added milk.

“Thanks.” Martin took the cup from me and spooned
sugar into it from a cracked jar next to the teapot. Slivers of sunshine glanced
in through the window onto the table in front of us, though the kitchen was
largely dark and the air slightly damp.

“So, what’s going on, then? With you and him?” Martin
nodded up at the ceiling.

“Tim? Oh, nothing. Really. We’re just friends.”

“That’s not what it looked like. You were in bed
with him.”

“It’s not like that. I couldn’t sleep. It was just
a… a cuddle.”

Martin smiled and stirred his tea. “Whatever you
say.”

“It’s true,” I protested, then stopped. I couldn’t
work out if Martin was just teasing me, or whether he actually minded, about me
and Tim. But why would he?

“He likes you,” commented Martin. “That’s bloody
obvious.”

I looked up, surprised at his tone. “Well, I like him
too. But it’s not like that.”

“So what is it like then?”

I paused. “Rationalisation,” I smiled. “Efficient
use of beds.”

“You don’t want to lead him on.” Martin wasn’t
smiling now.

“I’m not,” I protested. “He knows how things
stand.”

“He’s a bloke, Lizzie,” Martin said. “Blokes have
needs.”

“Well so do women,” I said, crossly. “You’re not
the only ones. But me and Tim are just fine with how things are.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Look, Martin,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t
see how this is any of your business.”

Martin looked down at his cup in silence.

“More tea?” I suggested, after a minute, trying to
lighten the tone.

“Go on then.”

I poured him a second cup. “So. Catherine still
asleep?” I asked.

“Yeah. She’s always asleep.” Martin said. “I was thinking
of going for a jog. Want to come?”

I shook my head. “I've got work. I’ve got a
meeting. I have to go soon.”

“Okay,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”

I picked up my tea and pulled my cigarettes out of
my handbag. I stood up and opened the back door. The air outside was cool, in
contrast to the night before. The neighbour’s cat shot into the hedgerow.

“You really want to pack that in.” Martin looked
up. “Seriously. You’re an athlete. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m hardly an athlete,” I said. “I like swimming
that’s all.”

“Well, imagine. Imagine how much faster you could
swim if you did.”

I shrugged, flicked my lighter and lit my
cigarette. “Maybe. You’re right, I know. I will. Soon. When I’m ready.”

“So. No time like the present.” He smiled. “Tell
you what. I’ll give you….erm. Five hundred quid. If you give up.”

I laughed. “Five hundred quid? You’re kidding,
right?”

Martin smiled. “No. I’m serious. You give up and
keep it up for six months, I’ll give you five hundred quid.”

I blew out a cloud of smoke. “But why? Why would
you want to do that?”

Martin shrugged. “Why not? It’s only money. It’s
an incentive, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “You could say that. It’s certainly a
lot of money.”

“So? Are you up for it?”

I stubbed my cigarette out on the wall and dropped
the butt into the dustbin outside.   “I don’t know. I don’t believe you’re
serious. And anyway, what would Catherine say? You two could go on a nice
holiday for that.”

Martin shrugged. “You can’t do it. You haven’t got
the willpower.”

“Yes I have,” I objected. I thought about it for a
moment. We looked each other in the eye and neither of us gave in until we both
started laughing. “Alright,” I said, finally. “Game on.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. That was my last cigarette.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Put it there.” He held out
his hand and I gave him a high five. He grabbed my hand and held it for a
moment. “No cheating?”

“I’m not going to cheat,” I said. I tried to pull
my hand away but Martin held onto it tightly and said again, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” I tried again to withdraw my hand from
his grip. The door opened and Catherine’s head appeared. Her face fell
slightly, unmistakeably, when she saw us. Martin let go of my hand.

“Oh, hi, Catherine,” I said. “We were just…”

“I thought you were coming back to bed?” said
Catherine, to Martin. “I was waiting.”

“Just coming, sweetheart,” said Martin. “I was
just making tea.”

Catherine came into the kitchen and sat down at
the table. She was wearing Martin’s jumper and she pulled it down over her bare
knees.

“Go on back up,” insisted Martin. “I’m coming now.”

“I’ll wait,” said Catherine. “I’m here now.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m going to be late.”

Nobody spoke.

“So. I’ll see you later, then?” I looked at
Catherine.

“Yeah.” Catherine nodded.

Martin leaned over and gave her a kiss.

“Bye then,” I said and closed the door behind me.

I ran upstairs to the bathroom. The door was open,
the walls damp and steamy. A wet towel was draped over the banister. I ran up
the next flight of stairs to Shelley’s room.

“Shelley?” I called softly outside her door, but
there was no answer from her room. I poked my head round Zara’s door but she
was fast asleep still, curled up in a tight little ball. I picked up my boots
and jacket from the floor next to her bed where I’d left them and kissed her on
the cheek. Then I closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs.

I worried about Zara all the way from Clerkenwell to
Euston. But when I got into work, there was a war going on in Bosnia and I had
that to think about instead.

A few days later Catherine and I caught the tube down to
the Barbican where Catherine was meeting her friends for rehearsals. I had
tried ringing Zara but got no answer. As it was a Saturday I decided to travel
down with Catherine and surprise her instead. I knocked on the door and Shelley
answered.

“She’s up in her room,” she said. “She’s been up
there since yesterday. I can’t get her to come down.”

When I got upstairs Zara was curled up in bed,
crying. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept.

“Zara? What’s wrong?”

“It’s James,” she said. “He didn’t want to see me
last night. We had a bit of a row.”

“Why?” I sat down on her bed.

“He said he had important things to do today, a
flying exam or something, and he had to get ready. And he made me go.”

“Well, you should understand that Zara. You’ve got
your own exams coming up soon.”

“I don’t believe him. I think he was just giving
me the brush-off. He’s had enough of me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I’ve changed. I need him now and he can
sense that. And now he’s rejecting me. I can’t bear the rejection. It hurts so
much.”

“Zara, listen, darling,” I said, bending down and
stroking her back. She had always been thin, but I hadn’t realised quite how
bony she had got lately. “You’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s just as
he says, it’s an important day for him.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I know what it is. I told
him I loved him. And now he doesn’t want me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Why? Have you spoken to him?”

“Well, of course not. I just meant…”

“He gave me a look, Lizzie. As if to say “I know”.
And that’s why.”

“That’s why what? What are you talking about,
Zara?”

Zara said nothing.

“Look, lying in bed’s not going to do you any
good,” I said. “Get yourself dressed. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”

There were three cups of tea in the room already,
all cold, sitting on the mantelpiece. I gathered them up and poured them down
the bathroom sink. I went downstairs and put the kettle onto the stove. When it
had whistled, I poured water into the teapot.

Suddenly there was a rumbling like thunder
outside, which went on continuously for several seconds, getting louder and
louder, as if it was getting closer to us. Then the windows rattled hard and
the kettle wobbled on the gas ring.

“What the bloody hell was that?” yelled Shelley,
running into the kitchen. Zara appeared in the doorway in her nightdress.

“I don’t know. Can I use the phone?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I picked up the phone and called Sandy, my boss.

“Can you get in?” he said.

“What is it?”

“A bomb. Bishopsgate. Outside the Hong Kong and
Shanghai Bank. Apparently it's massive.”

“I’m in the city, not far away from there.”

“Perfect. Can you get yourself straight down
there? Tom will meet you there in the radio car as soon as possible.”

“I’m on my way.”

I glanced over at Zara, who looked petrified.

“Zara? Are you okay?” said Shelley, putting her
arm around her.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Sorry.”

I grabbed my jacket and ran out into the street. A
black cab passed and pulled up to my frantic waving. As I opened the door,
another loud explosion hit the air like a giant gunshot and the cab rocked
visibly in front of me.

I leapt in and shut the door. “Bishopsgate,” I
said. “As fast as you can, please.”

“Bloody hell,” said the driver.

We drove quickly through the quiet streets of
Clerkenwell and onto London Wall. It was easy to find where we were going. A
huge cloud of smoke sat above the City skyline, like a beacon, or some sick
parody of Hiroshima.

There were at least nine or ten ambulances on the
scene when I arrived and two double-decker buses which had been commandeered to
take the injured to hospital. Teams of fire-fighters were standing by and the
police had already begun cordoning off the area. Nobody stopped me, however, as
I picked my way through the street-long devastation of injured bodies and
sheets of broken glass.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was
about to witness and certainly not three years at a small radio station in
Cambridge. They didn't teach you on journalism courses what a hundred people
shouting or crying out in pain sounded like, or about the sight of people lying
bleeding, possibly dying, right before your very eyes.

There were people everywhere trying to help,
lifting panels of glass, fallen scaffolding and metal from on top of the
injured bodies. One man was holding another man's head with his coat wrapped
around it, despite the blood that was matted into his own hair and splashed
over the back of his shirt. A woman was sitting on the kerb and holding the
hand of a younger girl who was lying in the road, her skirt pulled up above her
bloodied knees. She looked about fifteen; she could have been her daughter. Her
ankle looked as if it was on back to front.

Windows had exploded in every building within a
five-hundred metre radius of the Bank, blowing debris from the bigger buildings
and offices through basement windows into the local cafés and restaurants. A
middle-aged man in a suit was stumbling towards me. His eyes were wide and
terrified and there was blood running out of both of his ears.