Swim Until You Can't See Land (10 page)

It’s been a hard couple of years, I’ve been lonely, feeling sorry for myself. That’s all.

I peel open a packet of biscuits, snack on them as the flirting continues. ‘Blonde-Pigtails’ and ‘Pierced-Nose’ leave them to it, spy on ‘Hot-Pants’ through the shop window. Eventually she makes her goodbyes, gives me a massive fake smile as she leaves the shop.

Bitch.

The other two grab her out on the pavement and they all hug again, laughing. Am I really a girl? That age once?

(you’ve got shoulders like a man)

Calum goes back to his biscuits. I eat another Hob-Nob. Watch him bend over. The way his t-shirt rides up. The dark hair on the back of his neck. His bare arms.

Stop it. Stop it now.

It’s just the flirting, the fancying someone, I haven’t felt the thrill of that in ages.

I’m being stupid. It’s not lust I can feel in my tummy, it’s the out of date biscuits.

I don’t fancy him.

I don’t fancy him.

You do.

I don’t.

Yes, you do. Just admit it.

No, shut up.

I turn away, flick through the
Daily Record
, try to distract myself.

Boris The Bonking Boar

Boris the boar has been having a squealy good time of it recently. The randy porker is now the proud father of over 121 piglets, after having his wicked way with fifteen pigs. Boris’s owner, farmer John Norman, noticed that Boris had a wicked glint in his eye and…

Jesus, who reads this pish?

I flick to the back pages instead. Past pages of football until…

No way.

No fucking way.

I think I preferred the story about Boris.

Jason Hungry For Gold in Budapest

Ughh. I’m an idiot. I’ve been trying so hard to avoid all mention of the European champs. Why did I open a paper?

Jason Livingston is going for gold at the European Swimming Championships in Hungary. Jason, British record holder for the 100m and 200m backstroke, is hoping to make his mark in the championships, which take place this week.

‘I’ve been working really hard and I feel a lot stronger and faster than I did this time last year. It’ll be tough, but I’m in with a good chance.’

There’s a picture of him in his
GB
tracksuit, hair wet and tousled. Not long out of the pool.

He looks good.

I hate that he looks good.

I miss him, miss that part of my life. That was my life.

I miss my life.

‘Do you know him?’ I jump as Calum speaks. He’s looking over my shoulder at the paper.

‘Yeah.’

‘Think he’ll win?’

I shrug.

‘Probably.’

I shut the paper on Jason. 

Shirley arrives as we’re closing up.

‘Sorry you two, did you get on okay? I meant to come in earlier, but I just felt terrible.’

‘That’s okay,’ I reply.

‘I phoned the hospital, Hannah, the woman’s very poorly but she’s still hanging in there.’

‘Really, that’s great.’

Wow, something good to come out of today’s madness.

‘What’s this?’ Shirley says, as she discovers the pile of biscuits we’ve cleared.

‘Some of the biscuits were out of date, Mum.’

‘Were they? That’s my fault, I’ve been meaning to do a proper stock check, just ran out of ink in the printer to run off the report. Hannah, I’ll maybe get you to do that on Monday.’

‘Yeah, no problem.’

Every day. Every day. Every day. Every day.

‘Almost glad I’ll be at school,’ says Calum. ‘Alright if I take off?’

‘Hot-Pants-and-Tights’ is back, standing outside the shop.

‘Oh aye?’ Says Shirley, ‘who’s that?’

‘Blake, just a girl from my year.’

‘What sort of a name is Blake?’

‘Very good, Mum. I’ll see you later, okay?’

‘Okay, not too late though.’

‘Yeah, yeah, see you Hannah,’ he grabs his jacket and heads outside. I watch him and Blake walk off together.

You fancy him.

I don’t.

Yes, you do. You bloody do.

‘Seems like he’s got over his wee crush,’ Shirley says, wiping biscuit crumbs off the counter into the bin.

‘What?’

‘That wee thing he had for you.’

Me?

Calum fancied me?

Sometimes we’d all have dinner together, watch a film. He was about twelve though. I didn’t pay much attention to him, wasn’t always about.

(stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke)

‘No,’ I shake my head, blush.

‘He used to talk about you all the time – Hannah, the famous swimmer. Oh aye, he had a real wee thing for you.’

I guess I was more attractive back then, when I was the local celeb.

(nobody wants you when you’re a nobody)

Dad’s not in again when I get home. Everyone’s got something to do except me.

Pub.

Blake.

Europeans.

I make myself a cup of tea, slump down on the sofa with a packet of out of date biscuits. Don’t have to be so strict about my diet these days.

I switch the TV on, channel hop for a bit, avoid the sports channels.

It’s all rubbish. I press mute, put the biscuits to one side before I eat the whole packet.

(you’ll put on weight now you’re not training, those muscles are already going to flab) 

The Lottery’s on.

I pick up the remote, about to change the channel when I remember.

The Lottery.

The old woman’s lottery numbers.

Shirley said she’s still alive. I should check them for her.

The lottery balls flick up and out of the machine. The camera zooms in on them as they line up in a row. I jot the numbers down on Dad’s old
Sun
which is lying on the coffee table.

32
,
16
,
21
,
48
,
5
,
26
, bonus
44

They put the lottery balls in order, flash up the winning numbers along the bottom of the screen.

5
 
16
 
21
 
26
 
32
 
48
  Bonus Ball  
44

Has she won anything?

I run upstairs, my jeans are lying on the floor. I dig in the pockets, find the piece of paper.

5  16  21  26  32  44

Back in the living room, I compare her numbers with the ones I’ve jotted down.

32
,
16
,
21
,
48
,
5
,
26
, bonus
44

She’s done not too badly, got a couple, no, wait, three, she’s won a tenner. Not too shabby.

5  16   21  26  32  44

32
,
16
,
21
,
48
,
5
,
26
, bonus
44

Hang on a minute.

5  16  21   26  32   44

32
,
16
,
21
,
48
,
5
,
26
, bonus
44

She’s got five numbers.

Five numbers.

And the bonus ball.

She’s won.

But what has she won?

It must be a lot.

I unmute the
TV
, maybe they’ll say how much?

I’m too late though, the Lottery’s over, they’ve moved on.

5  16  21  26  32  44

32
,
16
,
21
,
48
,
5
,
26
, bonus
44

I bring up the internet on my phone, Google.

Five numbers on the lottery

Scroll through the results.

3 numbers = £10

4 numbers = 22% of prize (£62 approx)

5 numbers = 10% of prize (£1,500 approx)

6 numbers = 52% of prize (£2,000,000 approx)

5 numbers + bonus = 16% of prize (£100,000 approx)

£100,000
approx

£100,000
approx

£100,000

£100,000

£100,000

£100,000 £100,000 £100,000 £100,000 £100,000

8

‘TU PARLERAS
.
Tu parleras
.’

Sabine looked away from the Gestapo agent, her eyes resting on a portrait of Hitler. It hung central on the wall, above the fireplace. A fire blazed in the grate, it was warm, so warm. Sweat trickled down her forehead.

‘Sabine.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
. I’ve not been well, I’m staying…’

‘Enough! You are lying.’

Sabine pitched back in the chair as the man slapped her across the face. Her gaze lurched from the portrait of Hitler down towards the plush, red rug that covered the office floor.

‘Tell us the truth.’

He slapped her on the opposite cheek. The portrait of Hitler flashed past again in the opposite direction as her head rolled. She felt the man’s fingers, burnt onto her skin, pulsing.

- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

She stayed silent, head lolled to one side, her eyes flickering. Hitler’s image flashed on the inside of her eyelids. Her hair had come loose, tickled her nose. She wanted to scratch but her hands were tied behind her. Looped with rope around the back of the chair.

She looked down at the man’s shiny shoes, could see her distorted reflection in the toe caps.

The same room as before, but this time a different man opened the door. He stood there for a few moments, just staring at her, before he eventually invited her in, asked her to sit down.

The intensity of his eye contact made her nervous, awkward. He sat opposite, his pencil tap, tap, tapping on the side of a notebook. He hadn’t spoken, she was sure he hadn’t. But he looked at her like he was waiting for her to answer a question.

Had she gone deaf?

No, she could hear the tap, tap, tap of the pencil. And his mouth, his mouth hadn’t moved, his lips still, underneath his moustache.

Her eyes wandered the room. She couldn’t maintain the eye contact.

It annoyed her, angry at him for making her feel like this. She let her eyes travel back to his, smiled. She could play this game too. She could stay quiet as long as he could.

The man cleared his throat.

‘Miss Downie, thank you for coming back.’

‘My pleasure.’

Pleasure, what a joke. She could think of a hundred different places she’d rather be right now.

‘Now, I want you to know that everything you say in this room, everything we discuss, it’s all strictly confidential. Just between you and me.’

Marièle nodded. Was this an attempt at reassurance? Was he trying to put her at ease? She had never felt less comfortable in her life. Even that first day at the shop was a more joyous experience. What was he going to ask her? What did he expect her to tell him?

Sabine shut her eyes. The room began to see-saw. Something dribbled down the side of her mouth. Saliva? Blood? She ran her tongue around her lips.

Blood.

‘Your supposed friends have already told us all about you, we know who you are. Why not make it easier for us all. Tell us what you know.’

She kept her eyes closed. Didn’t answer. Was he bluffing or had someone betrayed her?

If they already knew so much, what did they need her for?

She visualised the hand moving towards her face, waited for it to make contact again. When it didn’t, she opened one eye. Two men stood in front of her now, she noticed a look pass between them, a nod.

Something about that nod.

She swallowed down the bile in her throat.