Swim Until You Can't See Land (17 page)

Tears at Dad’s loyalty to me, tears of disappointment that it’s not me in the sports pages anymore making him proud, something to brag about down The Sal. In another life, it’s me out there, at the Europeans, breaking records, winning medals. Instead I’m sitting here with Dad, eating takeaway and drinking lager.

I take a swig, gulp down the lump, burp as it collides with the gassy fizz somewhere on the way down.

‘Pardon me,’ I laugh.

‘Very ladylike,’ Dad shakes his head. ‘Where you been today anyway?’

I hesitate, about to make something up, lie about where I’ve been. The lager’s gone to my head though, made me slightly tipsy, and the love I feel for Dad right now won’t let me lie.

‘I ended up going to visit that old woman.’

‘What old woman?’

‘The one who collapsed the other day, she’s in the
PRI
.’

‘Did you? Jesus, I’d forgotten about that.’

I slurp on a noodle, feel it slap against my chin, wipe the juice away with my hand.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’

‘I’m allowed to worry about my daughter.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I take another prawn cracker, my stomach bloated, all this food buoyed up with fizzy lager.

‘Was she okay?’

‘I don’t know, she’s unconscious, hooked up to all sorts of machines.’

Dad picks at a bit of pork he’s dropped in his lap, eats it, then wipes at the trail of juice dripping down his t-shirt. He crunches on a prawn cracker, white crumbs fleck his beard and moustache.

‘I’m stuffed,’ I say and push my plate away, lie back on the sofa. ‘Thanks, Dad, that was great.’

He nods, gets up and clears the plates away. I hear the clatter as he dumps them in the sink, then he comes back through pulling open another two stubbies.

‘Another?’ He asks.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply.

‘Will you go and see her again?’

‘Not sure. Maybe. They said I was the only visitor so far.’

‘Really? Poor old soul.’ He shakes his head.

The Lottery ticket is on the tip of my tongue. One more bottle of lager and it would be out there, I’d be telling him. I hold back though.

Dad picks up the remote control, starts channel hopping, puts the volume up.

‘What’s the use of all these bloody channels, eh?’ He says. ‘All a load of shite.’

‘I think I might head up to bed,’ I say, finishing my beer.

‘You swimming in the morning?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Do you think you should?’

‘Probably not.’

Hearing about Jason though, doing so well, it makes me want to pound the pool.

‘Got a goodnight kiss for your old Dad?’

I bend down, his moustache and the crumbs of prawn cracker tickle my lips as I kiss him.

‘Thanks again for dinner.’

Dad waves his hand in a ‘don’t be silly’ way. I leave him flicking through the movie channels.

I’ll find him on the sofa in the morning, empty bottles on the coffee table,
TV
on, wallet lying open at the picture of him and Mum.

I tramp up the stairs. Sometimes I think about destroying that photo. Pulling it out of Dad’s wallet and ripping her up into pieces.

Poor old Shirley never stood a chance. Her face that day in the shop, when he opened his wallet to pay for lunch and she spotted the photo. Dad didn’t even realise, just put his change away, carried on flirting in his own useless way. Shirley saw me watching, smiled as if nothing had happened, but we both knew.

Sometimes I feel like shaking Dad, she’s not coming back, she left us. But he knew her better than I did, loved her more, misses her more. Sometimes I wish she’d died, at least then she’d be worthy of his grief.

It’s still early but I’m worn out, full of food and gas. I sit on my bed, peel my socks off, pick at my feet. I get the cotton wool and the nail polish remover, rub it over my toenails and fingernails, wipe away the colour. Paint them purple, hide the stained and cracked nails underneath.

As it dries, I lie back on my bed, wake hours later, still fully clothed on top of the covers.

(like father, like daughter)

12

THE GUNSHOT WOKE
her. She never really slept properly these days anyway, never let herself relax. Always on the periphery of sleep, she had odd fragmented dreams, often in Morse code.

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

She was exhausted but her body kept going. It was her eyes that gave her away. Dry, itchy, always wanting to close but not able to. They reminded her how much she wanted to lay her head down, allow herself to drop, drop, drop all the way. To go past the dreams into a sleep where she knew nothing and woke refreshed.

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

A second shot, closer this time, forced her out of bed. Was that a car engine she could hear?

She slid the pistol out from under her mattress, put on shoes, a skirt, jumper. Her fingers throbbed, swollen with chilblains from cold nights tapping skeds back home. Her paddle finger doubled as her trigger finger.

She edged towards the window, the wooden shutters were closed but she left the window open at night.

Make sure you have an escape route planned in case you need to make a quick getaway.

She listened for a signal. A warning. Their agreed whistle. The go-ahead to hide or flee.

Nothing came though. Just the sound of a dog barking.

17 January 1944
Circuit code name:  Sand Dune
Organiser:      Alex Sylvan
Agent:       Marièle Downie
Field Name:    Sabine Valois
Code name:      Blackbird

Agent to join Sand Dune circuit (27-land) as replacement w/t operator/possible courier, following the regrettable capture and disappearance of previous. To be transported by felucca on 20.02.1944. Arrangements have been made and communicated to circuit organiser.

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

She stood at the window, peered through the slats in the shutters. Who was out there? She was in danger, felt her skin prickle.

Trust your instincts. They will keep you alive.

‘
Merde
,’ she whispered – it was too dark to see anything. She crept across the bedroom, opened the door onto the kitchen. Her escape route was meant to be out the bedroom window, but she couldn’t be sure that it was safe. It sounded like someone was out there.

She was grateful she had left her transmitter in the cachette. At least she didn’t have to worry about them finding it here.

‘Sabine, who’s out there?
Qu’est-ce qui se passe
?’ Madame Poirier peered out from her own bedroom. She held a candle, dressed in a full-length night gown, hair in a net. She’d never make it if they had to run.

‘
Je ne sais pas
, stay there, ssshhh,
ne fais pas de bruit
.’

Madame Poirier nodded, stepped back into the darkness of her bedroom.

Congratulations to all of you on completing the training. You will be pleased to hear that most of you are now entitled to go on leave. You will be contacted individually concerning any future arrangements.

   Please always remember that, even if you do everything we have taught you, we still cannot guarantee your safety. Never let your guard down or relax your defences.

Sabine padded across the stone floor towards the front door, lifted the latch. She hesitated, preparing herself to pull the door, slowly, slowly, slowly open when she saw a shadow.

Feet.

The door thrust open against her. It caught her on the side of the head and she fell backwards, dropping her pistol.

She put a hand to her head, felt the blood, wet and warm. It stuck in her hair, dripped down her forehead into her eyes. She felt around for her gun, saw the boot connect, heard the pistol spin away across the stone floor.

Oh God, this was bad, very bad. A torch shone down on her and she looked up to see the German soldier.

The trainer stood in front of the full-length poster, pointing at the various pictures of men, uniforms, insignias, while the class recited back at him.

Gefreiter

Leutnant

Oberleutnant

Hauptmann

SS
Hauptsturmführer

SS
Obersturmführer

‘Sabine Valois?’ He pointed his Luger at her.

‘
Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça
? Assaulting me at home like this.’

‘We have orders to take you in for questioning. We know Sabine Valois is an alias and that you are a British spy.’

‘What?
C’est ridicule
.’

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

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
.

I am twenty-one years old.

I am living with my aunt while I recover from rheumatic fever.

My name is Sabine Valois.

J’ai vingt-et-un ans
.

I have been ill. Rheumatic fever.

The doctor sent me to the country to recuperate.

I am staying with my aunt. My parents and younger sister live in Paris.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
.

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

‘Sabine,
ma nièce, ma nièce
, are you hurt?’

Madame Poirier rushed from her bedroom. The soldier looked up, lifted his pistol, shot her in the forehead. Sabine heard the moan of surprise and the thud as Madame slumped to the floor.

‘Your aunt is a terrible actress. On your feet.’ He fixed his pistol on Sabine. Dizzy, she put out a hand to steady herself as she stood, felt something wet at her feet. A puddle of blood. The smell of it was all around her, rich and musky.

What now? What now?

Parts of her training flashed in and out, like a Morse signal, what should she do?

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

The blood soaked into her shoes, she felt it pool between her toes.

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

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
.

She’d memorised the story they gave her. Recited it over and over and over, until she felt like she’d erased her real memories. She had to make it believable, it had to roll off the tongue. There could be no holes, nothing they could stick a fingernail in and pick at. They had well-manicured hands, those Gestapo officers.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
.

How dare you suggest that I’m lying?

I am speaking the truth.

Je dis la vérité
.

I am Sabine Valois.

She took the Marièle part of her and shut it away. Bullied Marièle into submission, let Sabine take over.

Merle, the pianist, sending skeds back to Britain. Chilblains on her hand from the paddle.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

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

Oh God, oh God.

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

Please let her wake up, let this be a nightmare. Maybe she had finally succumbed? Allowed her eyes to close, slipped down, down, down, down.

But no, this was all too vivid, too real.

She’d been caught and dear Madame Poirier…

Sabine had told her to go back to bed, left her there to die, instead of giving her a chance to run, to hide. Madame had trusted Sabine, tried to help her.

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

Sabine felt the nausea in her stomach, saliva coating her dry mouth. She swallowed back the sick, felt it burn her throat on the way down.

The soldier gestured for her to move towards the door. His Luger in her back as he pushed her outside. Her feet stuck to the floor as she walked, leaving footprints on the stone.

Should she try a persona?

The swooning invalid.

The simpleton.

The seductress.

Sabine.

She and Eliza had giggled through that part of the training, embarrassed and awkward to role play in front of the others. It had seemed funny back then.

18 January 1944

Agent Downie is to report to HQ on 22 January at 13:00.