Swim Until You Can't See Land (23 page)

The truth is I don’t know what to say. My head is full of lame clichés.

‘That was the best day of my life. Why won’t you give it a go?’

‘Calum, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want a boyfriend right now.’

‘So you’re just a slut then?’

‘Okay, I’m going now.’

He stands in front of my bike. I manoeuvre it round him but he moves in front of it again. My heart’s thumping and I grip the handlebars. I really feel like banging the front wheel into his shin, but I restrain myself.

Use the nerves, use the adrenaline, channel it into speed, strength.

‘Calum, get out of the way.’

‘Not until you give me a proper answer.’

‘Answer to what? Yes, I’m a slut. Happy now?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

I push my bike round him, run over his foot as I go. Shit, that didn’t go well at all. I jump on my bike, start pedalling, scared to turn round in case he’s coming after me.

I didn’t think he could be like that. So full of rage. We’ve always got on so well, had a laugh together. I hate that I’ve ruined it.

I breathe in deep through my nose, blow out through my mouth.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I’m trembling and the bike wobbles underneath me. 

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Force down the lump in my throat. I will not cry. I will not cry because of him.

I can’t go home, not yet, not after that. I head towards Marièle’s house instead. I need some peace. To be somewhere where nobody will find me.

The fish swims to the top of the bowl as I let myself in.

‘Hey, fish, you must be hungry.’

I dump my bag at the kitchen table, lift the tub of flakes.

High in vitamins. 

Nutritionally balanced.

A healthy diet for goldfish and fancy goldfish.

‘Are you fancy, or just a normal goldfish?’

I sprinkle some food into the bowl. He bobs upside down like he’s doing a headstand, sucks at flakes as they settle on the bottom.

I turn the kettle on, open cupboards as I wait for it to boil.

Tin of macaroni cheese, tin of ham, bag of rice, packet of spaghetti, loaf of bread.

The bread’s mouldy so I throw it in the bin. The lid swings back and forward, back and forward, back and forward. Somehow her house doesn’t seem so scary when I’m using it as a hideout.

I help myself to a mug, find a jar of coffee, shake the carton of milk that sits in the fridge, sniff at it.

‘I think the milk’s off,’ I pour it down the sink. Curdled lumps drop out of the carton, sour and sickly. I turn the hot tap on, fast, gushing, try not to gag. Steam rises around the sink, melts everything down the plughole.

‘Looks like it’s going to have to be black.’

The fish sits on the bottom of the bowl, his tail rippling out behind him, like hair under water.

‘You still keeping our secret?’ I ask.

I reach in behind, lift out the lottery ticket.

5
 
16
 
21
 
26
 
32
 
44

I’ve sold these tickets every day for the last eight months or so but I’ve never really looked at one properly before.

The hand that’s meant to resemble a face. Two fingers for eyes, two fingers crossed for luck, giving you the thumbs up. A smiling mouth gashed into the palm.

Play.

Play with me.

You might win.

It could be you.

Turn your back and he’ll give you the finger.

Fingers crossed, fingers crossed, keep your fingers crossed.

What does that even mean anyway?

What good has crossing your fingers ever done?

It’s what I kept saying when I first got my injury. What other people kept saying to me.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

We’ll keep our fingers crossed for you.

It didn’t do me any good.

£
1
.
00

It depresses me to look at the price, that small amount. Marièle about to hand over her pound, the coins tumbling and spilling onto the shop floor. I turn the ticket over. The tiny pink writing makes me go cross-eyed.

SAFE CUSTODY OF THE TICKET IS THE OWNER’S RESPONSIBILITY.

PLEASE WRITE YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS ON THE TICKET FOR SAFEKEEPING.

WINNINGS HAVE TO BE CLAIMED WITHIN 180 DAYS.

One hundred and eighty days.

Twenty-four weeks.

Six months.

How long is she going to be unconscious for? I should write her name and address on the back of the ticket.

But.

She might never wake up.

(I could write my own name and address on it, nobody would ever know)

I slip the ticket back in behind the fish bowl, finish my coffee, rinse the mug out under the tap and leave it upside down on the draining board to dry.

What now?

I open the door to the hallway, there’s a pile of mail lying on the mat at the front door. I flick through it, out of habit rather than nosiness. It’s mostly junk.

Indian takeaway menu.

A leaflet from Sainsbury’s

It’ll always be bloody Presto to Mum
.

Charity letter from Amnesty International.

Another from the Red Cross.

I dump the lot on the phone table.

Five doors leading off the hallway. Which one is the living room hiding behind?

I try the most obvious one.

Jackpot.

(it could be you)

I close the living room blinds, switch on a lamp. Don’t want to advertise the fact I’m hiding out here.

I sit down in an armchair. A coaster stained with mug rings, lies on a side table within reach of the chair.

Stand.

I’m in her chair. It’s wrong to be in her chair. I smooth down the lace antimacassars. Slightly discoloured from where her hands and head have rested all these years.

Like the ones Gran used to have.

This is where she sits.

Where she sat.

I go for the sofa instead, pick up the remote control, switch on the
TV
. Noise blasts out of the speakers and I point the remote at the
TV
. My finger press, press, pressing on the volume button.

DOWNDOWNDOWNDowndowndown

I channel hop, about to put my feet up on the coffee table when I stop myself. Remember where I am.

Her home.

Have some respect.

It’s all shite on the
TV
.

LOOSE WOMEN.

THE WRIGHT STUFF.

SECRET MILLIONAIRE

(not quite a millionaire, but…)

THIS MORNING.

THE JEREMY KYLE SHOW
.
My older lover acts like I don’t exist. We had sex in a shop and now she’s ignoring me. Schoolboy lover for washed-up swimmer.

Fuck sake.

I keep flicking.

My finger stops, hovers over the channel button as the screen shows a swimming pool. I recognise that pool. I’ve swam in that pool.

NOW: LIVE SWIMMING FROM THE EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIPS

I put the remote control down on the coffee table. I know I should keep going, move away from this channel, turn the
TV
off altogether, but I can’t.

Next up in the pool, we have the heats of the women’s 100m butterfly.

100
m butterfly.

My stroke.

My distance.

My event.

My British record.

Heat one
.

The commentator names the eight girls as they stand behind the starting blocks. Swinging their arms, peeling off tracksuits. Costumes slick against skin. Caps and goggles being adjusted. The camera moves from left to right, each girl gets their five seconds of airtime. I recognise most of them. It’s not that long since I competed against them. What do they care that I’m not there? One less person to have to beat. One less person to keep them out of the final.

They may have acted like they were upset, like they cared. But nobody cares when a rival drops.

Painted nails wave at the camera, a few smiles for the viewers back home. A couple of girls ignore it completely, just stare straight ahead. Focused. Already swimming the race in their head.

Take your marks
.

The girls are still, poised on the blocks.

Beep
.

They dive, streamline into the pool. The camera switches to its underwater view now. Froth and bubbles as eight strong pairs of legs breakout. Then they’re up on the surface of the water, into their stroke.

The camera focuses on the girl in lane four, edging into the lead. Her shoulders, just under the surface of the water, rise with every stroke. Strong and supple shoulders, muscles relaxing and contracting, working.

I’m in the pool with them. I swim every stroke, every kick, every pull. I count my strokes, I’m racing them. I’m racing them and I’m winning.

Turn and push off the wall, leg kick under the water, propel myself to the surface and back into my stroke. Final length. Feel my muscles burn as I hit the last twenty five metres, my arms heavy, lactic build up.

Ten metres to go. My legs are slowing, my chest heaving. I have to maintain my stroke, not give in to the tired ache.

Five metres. The wall is in sight. Keep going, keep going.

Four metres, you’re almost there now.

Count the strokes.

Three metres, dying but almost home.

Two metres, head down now.

One metre, bang, your hands hit the wall.

The winning time flashes up at the bottom of the TV.

1
:
01
:
78

Slower than my
PB
.

I won that heat.

I would have won that heat.

I’m out of breath. I reach forward to pick up the remote control, need to switch this off, put myself out of my misery. But I don’t switch over. I leave it on.

I should be there. I should be competing. I’d make the final, a medal contender. My
PB
would have been faster by now if I’d been able to keep going. Fulfil my potential.

Heat 2
. 

Slower than my
PB
.

I was strong when my shoulder gave up. I had a whole season of training behind me. I had a faster time in me, I know I did. I just didn’t get a chance to prove it.

I was flying before my shoulder gave up.

Heat 3, and of course we have Claire Richards going in this one
.

Claire Richards. Claire. My teammate.

Ex-teammate.

She sticks her tongue out for the camera as she’s introduced. She’s had it pierced.

(Jase must love that)

Her nails are long, painted with Union Jacks. As the camera moves on to the next girl, Claire pulls her goggles down over her eyes. She may be acting the fool for the camera, but she’s focussed. She knows what she has to do.

She’s so slim, so fit. Her skin’s brown, muscles toned and smooth. The Twix from earlier sits heavy in my stomach and I put a hand down my waistband, rest it on the loose flesh of my belly.

Take your marks
.

Claire wins Heat
3
.

Fastest time going into the final.

0
.
6
of a second off my
PB
.

(she’ll get it in the final)

I used to hammer her in training. Leave her standing. Now she’s fastest going into the final. Favourite for the gold.

The camera zooms in on her as she treads water. She leans her arms over the lane rope, pulls her cap and goggles off, shakes the hand of the girl in the lane next to her. Then a thumbs up for the camera and a big smile. The camera zooms back out again as she makes her way out of the pool, pulling herself over each lane rope like an eel.

I tune in to the commentator.

And what a swim from Claire, she’s having a great season, isn’t she
?

Yeah, she sure is
.

That second voice, I hadn’t been paying attention before but it’s a voice I recognise.