Swim Until You Can't See Land (12 page)

‘Okay, I think that will be all, Miss Downie.’

‘Oh?’

Did she pass? Was she hired?

Was she mad?

He stood up.

‘What happens now?’ Marièle asked, standing but not moving towards the door.

‘Oh, I’ll hand in my evaluation and then you’ll be contacted. I’d stick around for another day or so if you can. I expect they’ll want to see you again.’

Was that good news or bad? Did she want to be chosen by these strange men, for whatever job they wanted her to do?

Yes, of course she did. If it meant helping.

She sat in the chair, head slumped to one side, hands heavy and sticky.

The men were gone. They’d untied her, but she still couldn’t move. Couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk, couldn’t turn the door handle.

Not without her fingernails.

They’d taken them all.

Ten fingernails.

She could still hear the ting, ting, ting as the nails dropped into the steel tray.

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.       

Ting.

March
2006

Hannah Re-Wrights The Record Books

Swimmer Breaks Scottish Record

Hannah Wright is celebrating Commonwealth success with a new Scottish record in the 100m Butterfly.

Hannah swam a personal best time of 59.76 and finished fifth in a thrilling final, missing out on a medal by less than half a second.

‘Obviously it would have been nice to get a medal, but to get a PB and a new Scottish record, well you can’t ask for more than that really,’ Hannah said following her race.

‘I’ve had such a great experience out here, and it really bodes well for the European Championships in July. I just want to catch those Aussie girls, they’re so fast!’

In other results in the pool, fellow Scot Jason Livingstone finished sixth in the 200m backstroke final. Claire Richards narrowly missed out on the final of the 100m Butterfly but swam a personal best in the heats.

9

I WAKE EARLY
, can’t get back to sleep.

I keep thinking about that lottery ticket.

Has she really won?

£
100
,
000

(it could be you)

I turn the bedside lamp on, my eyes shrink against the light, puffy and swollen. I reach over to the dresser, grab the nail polish remover and a bottle of pink polish. Might as well do something useful if I can’t get back to sleep. Take my mind off everything. The old woman. The Europeans. Calum.

(the money)

I hate just lying in bed, can’t do it.

(I’ve spent enough time lying still recently)

I paint my fingernails, then slide my legs up from under the duvet and do my toes.

When they’re dry, I get out of bed, chuck my swimming stuff in my bag, throw on jeans and a top.

I’m brushing my teeth when I hear the paper being delivered.

The paper.

I can check the lottery numbers again.

I spit, rinse my mouth out, tie my hair back in a ponytail as I head down the stairs. The paper’s lying at the front door and I pick it up, head into the living room.

Dad’s asleep on the couch. Fully dressed, shoes, jacket, the works. His eyes flicker open as I pass him. He stretches, sits up.

‘What time is it?’ He asks. His mouth’s sticky and he licks his lips. I can smell the booze off him.

‘Just before seven.’

‘What are you doing up? You don’t normally work a Sunday?’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘You’re not going swimming are you?’

‘Yeah, I thought I might as well, seeing as I’m up.’

‘That’s nearly every day this week,’ Dad says.

You keeping tabs on me? I want to ask, but I just shrug.

‘They told you to take it easy.’ Dad continues, ‘You can’t train the way you used to.’

‘I’m not. Believe me. I’d die if I tried to do a proper session.’

I open the paper. Conversation over, flick through it, where do they print the lottery numbers?

I can feel Dad’s eyes on me, don’t look up.

Eventually I find the numbers.

5
 
16
 
21
 
26
 
32
 
48
  Bonus Ball  
44

£
100
,
000
.

‘What’s so interesting?’ Dad asks.

‘Nothing, just checking something.’

I don’t know why I lie. What does it matter if I’m checking the lottery numbers?

(because it’s a secret. My secret. Because I’m… the old woman is rich)

I have to see her ticket again. Check the numbers properly.

‘Give us the paper over and make us a coffee, eh? There’s a honey,’ he says, lighting a cigarette.

I hand Dad the paper, head into the kitchen. Strong, black with three sugars. He’s reading the sports pages when I take the coffee back through to him. He looks up at me as I hand him the mug, his eyes are bloodshot, flecked with red veins. I open the window, stand out of the way of his fag smoke.

He flicks through the paper, back to front
.

Jason Swims New
PB
To Make Final

Dad clocks the headline, turns the page, glances up at me.

‘It’s okay, you don’t have to hide it,’ I say.

‘Ach, I know, but… it’s just not fair. You always wanted it more than him. He’d have given up years ago if it wasn’t for you.’

I shrug.

‘I never liked him anyway, truth be told. He’d fall in a bag of shite and come up smelling of roses.’

I kiss Dad on the cheek. Warm, flushed skin, more veins, purple and broken.

‘Right, I’m off.’

‘I mean it love, take it easy, for your old Dad.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m okay,’ I lie to him for the second time that morning.

I do as I’m told. Take it easy in the pool. Plod up and down, up and down, up and down. Not even out of breath by the time I finish, might as well have stayed in bed for all the effort I put in.

Try to work out a plan in my head as I plod, plod, plod, plod.

The lottery ticket.

£
100
,
000
.

How can I check it?

There’s no point getting all excited when I’m still only
98
% sure that she’s won. I guess I could go round there and knock on the door. It’s unlikely she’ll be in but someone else might be?

Son, daughter, grandchild?

(rival for the ticket)

As I’m getting changed I make up my mind, I’ll cycle past her house on the way home. If someone’s in, I’ll explain what’s happened. It’s good news after all. Might perk her back to life.

Or pay for the funeral.

I feel like such an idiot as I walk my bike up her garden path. Why was I so scared the other night? It’s just a house.

I must have been suffering from shock or something. In the daylight, it’s harder to freak yourself out.

I ring the doorbell and wait.

Ring again.

And again.

Nobody’s home.

The free paper sticks out of the letterbox, so I push it through, kneel and peer in.

I can’t see anything, the hall’s in darkness.

I push my hand through the letterbox, see if I can reach the purse, but it’s no use. I only get as far as my wrist before I’m stuck.

(big old swimmer’s arms)

As I pull my hand back out, I realise how dodgy I must look.

Local (Failed) Swimmer Caught Trying To Rob Sick (Possibly Dead) Old Woman

I’m not trying to rob her. I just want to confirm what I think is true.

She might never know, otherwise. She could be in hospital for months, recuperating, in a coma. She might even forget that she bought a lottery ticket what with all the drama of almost dying.

I’m the only link between her and the win.

(I could take it and nobody would ever know)

No.

I would never do that.

Steal from an old woman.

(if she died though…)

One of her neighbours must have a key.

I try the house next door.

Nothing.

The house on the other side.

Nothing.

Nobody at home.

Everybody needs good neighbours, but where the fuck are they?

I suppose that’s it? Not much more I can do now.

I wheel my bike along the gravel path that leads down the side of her house, push open the gate into the back garden. It’s nice and secluded. I dump my bike on the lawn, sit down on her back steps.

Her garden’s pretty. She must have someone in to do it for her. She’s too old to keep it this nice.

What do I know? Sitting here, making assumptions about her life. My only contact with her was when she lay on the shop floor and here I am making judgements.

Maybe before that she’d been super fit.

(like I used to be)

Her garden reminds me of Gran’s. She had a veggie patch too, lettuces, potatoes, carrots. And a plum tree, made amazing jam. We’ve still got a couple of jars of it in the kitchen. It tastes fine once you scrape the white mould off the top.

Gran used to leave a key hidden under a gnome outside her front door. Dad always gave her such a row for it.

That’s a bloody obvious place to leave a key. You could be robbed and killed before you even made it to the phone.

I’ve had a key outside my house my whole life, I’m not going to stop now.

Aye, but it’s different now. Times have changed. It isn’t the bloody Blitz spirit anymore, Mum.

They used to bicker, those two. But Dad misses her more than he lets on, and at least visiting her kept him out of The Sal some nights.

The old woman doesn’t have a gnome at her back door.

She does have two large flowerpots though.

Worth a try, I suppose.

Without getting up from the step, I tip one of the pots. Dry, dead leaves fall from the plant, but there’s nothing underneath except a circle of dirt on the paving slab.

It’s a long shot, I know. Nobody leaves a key out anymore.

I might as well try both flowerpots. I reach towards the other one with my foot, tip the pot to one side. I push too hard though and the whole thing topples over. It cracks as it hits the crazy paving around the edge of the lawn. The plant slides out of the pot, roots clinging to a dried-out block of earth.

Fuck sake.

What was I doing, using my foot like that? That was stupid.

I lift the pot, about to put the plant back in when I hear something rattle.

I slip my hand inside.

No way.

It’s a key.

A very dirty and rusty key, but a key nonetheless.

Wow, she’s something else. Not content to leave a key under the pot, she actually hid it inside. I slide the plant back in, stand the pot upright again, wipe the key on my jeans.

It looks like it’s been in there for a while.

Did she expect someone? A visitor who never showed?

Something tugs inside me at the sadness of it.

I scrape at the rust with my fingernail. I bet it doesn’t even work anymore.

I might as well give it a try though.

I push the key into the back door lock. It takes some effort, but it seems to fit. I try to turn it but it’s too stiff. I need pliers or something, something to get a bit of power behind it. It hurts my hand too much otherwise.

Come on, Hannah. Put those swimmers shoulders into it.

The key digs into my palms.

No movement.

I try again, squeeze my hands around it until my knuckles are white, jump down so I’m on the bottom step, stand with my legs slightly apart, lean all my body weight into the key.

I feel it move slightly.

I push harder, clench my face, my arms, my legs, everything. The key grinds against my fingers, rust flaking off.

It’s moving, it’s moving.

Gently at first then more and more and more until finally it clicks in the lock.

I push down on the handle and the door swings open.