Two paramedics jump out, doors slam. They run past, nod at me but don’t stop to talk. I stick two bits of chewing gum in my mouth.
Crunch and chew. Crunch and chew.
I think I’m going to puke. I can feel warm saliva collect in my mouth, a pulse in my gut.
I lean against the shop window, inhale through my nose. I try to breathe the gum, let the mint cleanse me, push out the rich, metallic taste of the old woman. I don’t want to see what they’re doing to her in there. Using defibrillators. Making her back arch and legs quiver.
Shirley and Dad having sex, Shirley and Dad having sex, Shirley and Dad fucking.
My knees buckle and I sit down on the pavement. People walk past, stare at the ambulance, at me, try to peer in the shop window. Nosy bastards. I can see the kids from the High School, getting closer, closer. Girls and boys in blazers and ties and black shoes, pounding along the pavement towards me. Laughing and joking and bumping into each other. After their crisps and their Irn-Bru and their donuts and their ten pee mix-ups.
I spit the gum out into the gutter. Everything’s spinning and there’s black spots in front of my eyes. I think I might pass out. Shirley would never survive another cycle of CPR.
I close my eyes, lean forward and put my head between my knees. I don’t care that the kids are getting closer, that they can see me sitting on the pavement. If I keep my head down and my eyes shut, they’ll go straight past and it won’t matter.
I won’t see them, they won’t see me.
Like being underwater, everything muffled.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.
With each length, I loosen off. Shoulders, hips, wrists, ankles, neck. Heart pumps. Lungs swell.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.
I’ve got the lane to myself. Not many people can be bothered getting up this early to swim.
(late compared to when I used to get up)
The Daybreak Dip.
One of the reasons why I like this time so much. I’m free to power up and down the pool, nobody in my way as I count the metres before work.
400m.
800m.
1200m.
I hear footsteps and hurried voices, then the ambulance doors slam. I jump as the sirens come on again, can see the blue flashing lights behind my closed eyelids. Was she dead? Did they just carry a dead body past me?
No, they wouldn’t bother with the sirens if she was dead.
The noise fades as the ambulance moves further away and I allow myself to break the surface of the water. Open my eyes, everything’s clear and in focus again. The kids are walking past me now, looking down at me, hesitating, staring in the shop window.
‘What happened?’
‘Did somebody die?’
‘That girl’s got blood on her.’
I get to my feet, force myself back inside the shop.
I glance at the clock as I turn to breathe.
Time to get out.
I finish the length, pull my goggles and cap off.
My hair flows out behind me as I float on my back, watch the rise and fall of my chest as my breathing slows, goes back to normal.
‘That you for today?’ Chris asks, still leaning against the wall, arms folded.
‘Yeah, need to get to work.’
‘I’m tired just watching you.’ He yawns, his eyes fill with tears and he wipes them away.
I laugh, even though he makes the same joke every morning.
In the showers, I close my eyes, let the water wash away what it can of the chlorine.
Never powerful enough.
Never hot enough.
I like it hot.
Hot enough to pink my skin.
Taste salt and shampoo as the water drizzles the back of my head, my shoulders.
You can lather, rinse, repeat as much as you want, the chlorine never truly washes off.
(you stink of swimming pool)
I tilt my head back, let the water pour over my face, into my mouth, enjoy the taste, comforting, like sucking bath water through a sponge.
Shirley’s sitting on the floor.
I move the sign on the door.
CLOSED.
2
‘MENTEUSE! TELL US the truth.’
A hand gripped the back of her head, plunged her face into the water.
She’d never felt cold like it, not even paddling in the North Sea. The water clamped at her head.
How long was he going to hold her under? Was this it? End of interrogation? They were just going to drown her. Leave her face down in this marble trough.
Lungs tight, she breathed out. Air flushed from her nose and mouth, she felt it whoosh past her face on the way to the surface. She only had so long now before she’d have to breathe in. Then it would be water, rushing and flooding her.
She shook from side to side. The man was too strong though. The more she struggled, the firmer his grip. His hand fixed on the back of her head, her skull nestled in it like an egg in an eggcup. Her fingers flexed, useless, her wrists bound. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, drew blood.
Then she was pulled backwards by her hair. Face out of the trough like a plunger with a suck of air. She shivered as the water ran down her neck, her back, her shoulders. Another man stood opposite the trough, watching. He moved aside to avoid getting his boots wet.
‘Tell us the truth. Dis-nous la vérité.’
The German accent was unmistakeable, despite the French words coming from his mouth. He wouldn’t last five minutes trying to blend in as a native.
The accent has to be just right, or the locals will spot you a mile away. And you can’t trust anyone. There are collaborators who will hand you over to the Boche in a flash if they think it will get them a loaf of bread.
Her lips trembled as she tried to speak.
‘Je vous en prie, I am telling you the truth, my name is…’
Before she could continue, the man opposite nodded and she felt the force on the back of her head again. Plunged under, too quick to take a proper breath. Bubbles escaped from her nose and mouth. Less air than last time, less air. She’d been speaking when he pushed her forward. That wasn’t fair.
‘You are a British spy, admit it and we will stop.’
She heard the man speak as she was lifted out of the water. She didn’t try to answer, just took a deep breath. Air, beautiful air, filling her up.
Her head felt delineated, the skin tight, smooth like a pebble. Hair hung wet over her forehead, irritating, she wanted to push it out of her eyes.
They warned you about this. They trained you for this. They told you how ruthless the Gestapo would be if you were caught.
Training, God, that seemed so long ago now.
Dates, names, addresses rushed through her head. She tried to remember. She had to remember.
.. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...
It was very important she got everything right. She listed it all in her head, tried to ignore the burning in her chest, the pain in her lungs. Tried to push away that other voice. The scared part of her. The part screaming. Oh, God, just tell them the truth. They already know anyway.
She didn’t think she’d get caught. Even when they told her the averages.
The average lifespan between arrival and capture for a w/t operator in France is six weeks.
Remember the story.
Your name is Sabine Valois.
You are from Paris.
You have been ill, suffering from Rheumatic Fever.
You have been staying with your aunt while you recover.
Your name is Sabine Valois.
Sabine Valois.
She was going to die.
Malade. Rheumatic fever.
Paris.
Aunt’s house in the country.
Sabine.
She was going to die. Face down in the bloody baignoire.
Sabine Valois.
>
Your name is Sabine Valois.
She was going to die.
Going to die.
Sabine.
Die.
Sabine.
Die.
How many times had she been ducked? It was never-ending. A relentless cycle of submersion then air, submersion then air, submersion then air. She could see shapes in the water, dark behind her closed eyelids, dots, dashes, dots, dashes, dots, dashes.
‘Tu parleras.’
‘Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.’
‘Tu parleras.’
‘I am Sabine Valois.’
He wore a dark suit, a revolver slung at his side, his hair slick, in a side parting.
‘Tu parleras.’
‘Je suis Française.’
‘You are a British spy.’
‘Non, je suis Française.’
‘Lügner.’
‘Je ne parle pas allemand. I can’t speak German.’
‘You are a British spy, tell the truth.’
‘Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.’
‘Lügner.’
She’d been taught to expect this kind of brutal treatment at the hands of the Gestapo. Trained for it. They picked her because she was good, because she was brave, because she was strong. She couldn’t let them down.
Wake up, wach auf, wach auf.
Shaken awake at two in the morning, three men wearing German uniforms standing over her. Dragged to a cellar, tied to a chair. She knew she was still in Britain. They were so brutal though, so convincing. They shone a lamp into her eyes, slapped her, forced her to answer questions about who she was, what she was doing.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
They kept her there for hours before finally revealing it was all a test. A practice run for the real thing. The Gestapo would be worse than this, they told her, as they unbuttoned their tunics, took her for cocoa and scrambled eggs, gave her feedback.
As if it was a job interview, nothing more.
I am Sabine Valois.
British.
I live in Paris.
British spy.
This was real. There was real hatred, venom behind the questions. Nobody would smile at her. Give her cocoa and scrambled eggs. They would keep going until she spoke or until she died.
Sabine Valois.
Liar.
They didn’t believe her. They knew she was a spy. Maybe she should just come clean?
No. If she admitted they were right, even in her head, then they had her. She was not a spy. She was Sabine Valois. She had never been to London.
Oh God, but the water was so cold and she didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to die.
‘We will stop if you tell the truth.’
She’d wet herself. Could feel the contrast of the warm water as it trickled down her thighs under her skirt.
What if they saw, if they noticed? She couldn’t help it. Hadn’t even realised it was happening until it ran down her legs.
I am Sabine Valois.
Lügner.
She had nothing to be ashamed of. They were trying to bloody drown her and she was worried because she’d wet her pants. Of all the stupid, bloody things to worry about now. God, she hoped they saw it. Hoped they were disgusted by it. She wanted to disgust them.
They disgusted her, after all.
Pigs.
Good, this was good. Anger was good. It kept you fighting, made you strong.
‘Talk and we’ll stop.’
‘Je dis la vérité.’
‘Liar.’
If you are able to withstand the first quarter of torture, then you probably won’t talk.
How long had it been? Was she a quarter into it yet? How was she supposed to know what a bloody quarter was unless she knew what the total was.
She felt the silver crucifix nestled under her blouse.
God
(George)
Please keep me strong.
Her chest spasmed, her mouth opening and closing. A reflex action, like a fish on the deck of a boat.
(a felucca)
She’d stopped struggling so much now, not a conscious decision. She just couldn’t fight. She was so tired. The crucifix rocked against her chest.
‘Lügner.’
‘Je ne parle pas allemand. Je suis Française.’
She slumped over the edge of the trough, her bosom crushed against the cold marble. Water sloshed over the top, soaked her. If he let go of her hair, she wouldn’t have the strength to lift her head.
‘Talk.’
‘Je vous en prie, je m’appelle Sabine Valois.’
She had to stick to the story, no matter how weak her body was. She would die knowing she hadn’t let anyone down.
‘Vous êtes un espionne Britannique.’
‘Non!’
‘Liar. Tu parleras.’
The longest he’d held her under yet. This was the end. They didn’t care if she was guilty or innocent. She was just another French girl, soon to be another dead French girl. She wanted to die with her eyes open but it was too painful. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash.
Her shoulders bucked and rolled, she could feel her legs trying to kick. Her faithful little body, trying to keep going, trying to ground her soul even though it was too late now.
The hand on the back of her head was too strong.
She suck, suck, sucked as she was pulled free of the water; the air no longer sweet and pure, but painful. Pin pricks up and down her windpipe and inside her chest.
The man standing opposite swung an arm. His hand in slow motion came towards her and the slap when it hit wasn’t sore.
She saw him connect with her face but she didn’t feel it. It was happening to someone else. The hand holding her hair let go and she fell backwards away from the trough. God, the irony, if she died down here in a puddle on the floor.
She could hear them speaking German now. Did they believe her? They sounded far away, at the other end of a long corridor. She could still feel the hand gripping her head.
The ghost of it.
She watched two pairs of boots as they walked away from her, leaving wet footprints.
She was alone.
The concrete, damp against her cheeks.
She was alive.
She closed her eyes, lay still on the wet floor.
June 2002
It’s All’wright For Local Swimmer!
Local swimming prodigy Hannah Wright had a successful weekend at the Scottish Schools Swimming Championships in Edinburgh, winning the 50m Butterfly in a new meet record of 31.16.
Hannah, who qualified for the event after winning the local Midlands District School Championships, beat off competitors from all over Scotland to claim the title.
It was the first time Hannah had competed in a long course event, but she took it all in her stride.
‘I usually train in a 25m pool, so it was different from what I’m normally used to,’ said Hannah after the event. ‘It was fine though, I just pretended it was still 25m when I dived in!’
3
‘I DON’T KNOW about you, but I need some tea before we start trying to sort this out.’ Shirley says, gesturing to the mess on the shop floor.
She’s still out of breath, hair matted, clothes crumpled.
I nod, not sure I can speak right now.
The floor’s covered in stuff, fallen from the counter and knocked over by the paramedics in their rush.
There’s a clear space in the middle of it all, like someone’s come along with an old woman-shaped cookie cutter. If I close my eyes, I can still see her lying there.
I swallow down sick, feel it burn my throat.
‘You okay, sweetheart? You’re really pale.’
I nod again, scared to open my mouth in case I puke.
‘Sure?’
‘Feel a bit queasy.’
‘Come on. Let’s just go and sit down for half an hour. It’s the adrenaline you know, it’s fine once it’s pumping round you, but when
it leaves you…’
Shirley puts an arm around me, leads me into the staff room. I turn my face away from her bloody hand on my shoulder.
(use the adrenaline, Hannah, use the nerves to your own advantage)
I could work it in the pool, but not today.
I stand at the sink and scrub my hands, smother them in soap, turn the tap up full so the hot water splutters out. My red fingernails flash at me through the foam.
‘God, Hannah, that water’s burning,’ Shirley says as she takes over from me at the sink.
The smell of cheap soap makes my stomach turn.
‘Look at that,’ Shirley says, holding out her hand, ‘can’t stop it from shaking.’
She squeezes her hand into a fist then stretches her fingers out again.
Still shaking.
‘You were brilliant,’ I reply, ‘If you hadn’t come back when you did…’
‘When I went on that first aid course, I never thought I’d have to use it,’ she says as she flicks the kettle on.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
We both jump.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I think it’s someone at the door, can’t they see we’re closed?’
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
‘Just ignore it, they’ll go away,’ Shirley drops teabags into two mugs.
I want to get out of here, go home, get out of these clothes. Shirley can deal with all this, it’s her shop.
‘Oh, I’m vibrating.’
‘What?’
‘My phone,’ Shirley replies.
I can’t help it though, my mind conjures up dildo. Maybe that’s what she uses now she and Dad aren’t shagging?
Maybe they used one together?
Fuck sake, what’s wrong with me?
Shirley pulls her mobile out of her cardigan pocket.
‘It’s Calum,’ she says, before answering.
‘Hi love.’
‘What? No, I’m okay.’
‘How do you know we’re shut?’
‘Oh, is that you? Hang on, I’ll let you in.’
‘Calum’s outside,’ she says, hanging up.
She leaves the staff room and I relish the few seconds of calm, of being on my own.
‘Hey, Hannah,’ Calum says as he follows Shirley back through, ‘you alright?’
Swim Until You Can't See Land Page 2