I don’t know why.
It’s not like I fancy him or anything.
I don’t.
I really don’t.
Do I?
No. I don’t. I’m being stupid. Really, really, really stupid.
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 It’s not lust I can feel in my tummy, it’s the out of date biscuits.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.
One of the men left the room, while the other one, the one who’d hit her, dragged over a chair. He took off his belt, slung it over his knee, sat down opposite her, hands folded in his lap.
‘I’m glad we are alone. I don’t enjoy this part of the job. Please, why don’t you speak to me? I can help you.’
He smiled, ran a hand through his Brylcreemed hair.
‘I’ve told you the truth. Je dis la vérité. I don’t understand these other things you say, these accusations.’
‘Come now. Please don’t insult my intelligence. I don’t want to see a pretty, young thing like you hurt. Cooperate. I hate this bloodshed as much as you do. I want to help you.’
He leant forward and she pulled back as far as she could go. The fire still blazed and she could see the reflection of the flames flicker in the revolver hanging from his belt.
‘Come now,’ he wiped away the blood that seeped from her lip, licked his finger.
‘I think you have mistaken me for someone else.’
He brushed her hair out of her face. She shivered. What was he doing? What was he going to do to her?
God, she couldn’t bear to think of some of the things they’d warned her about in training.
‘I’ve taken a shine to you, let me help you.’ He stroked her check with his thumb.
This was worse than being hit. She wanted to spit in his face but her mouth was dry. No saliva. God, if he tried to do anything to her. The fire crackled. She was so warm, sweat stuck her thighs together, ran down her back.
‘I am Sabine Valois.’
‘Right, Miss Downie, to start with I’d like to talk about your home life, your family.’
He stopped, looked at her as if she was meant to continue. She expected a question.
‘Well, that’s rather a large subject area. Can you try to be more specific?’
He tapped his pencil, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
‘What exactly do you wish to know?’ She spoke again.
‘Just start at the beginning,’ he replied.
God, he was awful. Worse than the last man. This one didn’t even attempt to deflect her questions, just ignored them. What was she supposed to say to that?
‘Well, I was born in Aberdeen, spent a lot of my childhood in France, one mother, one father, one brother.’
Or at least she did have one brother. She hoped he didn’t want her to speak about George.
‘Brother,’ he flicked through his sheets of paper, ‘George, yes?’
She nodded. It was as if he’d read her mind.
How dare he say George’s name, make it sound so normal, when just the thought of saying it made her throat thicken. She wanted to reclaim it from this God-awful man.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss. How does it make you feel?’
How did he think it made her feel?
Awful, so awful, she was underwater, drowning, drowning without him.
‘My family are devastated,’ she replied.
‘How does it make you feel about the war?’
‘I wish it was over, so nobody else has to go through what we have.’
The man stood up and walked towards the desk. He unlocked a drawer, took something out. Chocolate. It was a bar of chocolate. She heard the crack as he snapped a chunk off, popped it in his mouth, chewed. Then another piece. She looked away. He was trying to provoke her, just doing this to tease, get a reaction. Did he think she was stupid? Some stupid little girl he could manipulate.
He laid the bar of chocolate on the desk where she could see it. In full view. She hadn’t eaten properly in three days. Just try and give her a piece, she’d probably throw it right back up again.
He stoked the fire with a poker. God, it was already so hot in here. She couldn’t think properly. How could he stand it in that suit? The chocolate would melt lying out on the desk. What a waste of precious chocolate.
It all happened so quickly. One minute he stoked the fire, the next he had crossed the room in two strides, lifted her skirt and pressed the hot poker against her thigh.
He leant forward, his face pressed to hers.
‘If you don’t talk, it will be worse for you. I abhor violence. I am nothing compared to my colleague.’
Sabine shut her eyes, his warm breath on th
e side of her face, the sweet tang of chocolate.
‘What was your relationship with your brother like?’
‘Your carriage, m’ladies.’ He turned and she saw he dragged a wooden sledge behind him.
‘The same as most brothers and sisters, I imagine.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘We were very close.’
He looked at her, chewed the end of the pencil.
‘And your relationship with your parents?’
‘The same.’
They sat down where they were, on the floor, facing each other across the hallway. Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.
‘Tell me about your holidays in France.’
‘We would visit my grandparents, they lived there until very recently.’
‘Do you miss your grandparents?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Do you indulge in fantasies?’
‘Fantasies?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, waited for her to go on.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Fantasies, pretence, dreams of a husband, a different life, sexual fantasies.’ He looked down at his notes, as if it was a shopping list he read to her.
Her lips were wet from the snow which had started to fall again, and Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.
‘No, no I don’t.’
Where had the men gone? Were they coming back? God, how much more could she take of this?
Her wrists and shoulders ached. She longed to swing them free, let her arms hang loose at her sides. The sweat stung at her wounds. She needed a drink, water, she needed water. She’d drink some, then pour the rest of it down her leg, cool the burning.
God, they were pigs, pigs to do that to her. How could they act like that?
She made herself look at the portrait of Hitler. It was all because of him.
Down to him that George was dead, that she was here, that those pigs treated her like this. All down to that one man. Use the anger, use the hate. Use it to survive.
She hated him, hated them, all of them.
‘Do you ever feel resentful towards your parents?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
Your mother has a funny voice. Why do you call her mama? I was born here, I’m Scottish. Froggy Marie, Froggy Marie.
‘Do your father and mother have a happy marriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
Swim Until You Can't See Land Page 7