Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  ‘What more is there to say?’

  He smiled that annoying smile he had. He didn’t answer questions, he asked them.

  ‘They have their ups and downs like anyone else, but, yes, they’re happy.’

  ‘Would leaving your family for a period of time be difficult for you?’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  It would be harder for them than it would for her.

  ‘Ah, but if you had to go away for longer than a few days? Further than London.’

  ‘They’d understand if it meant helping the war effort.’

  ‘What if there was danger involved?’

  Danger? What was he asking her to do?

  An interview for what?

  ‘We’re all in danger while the war continues.’

  ‘Could you put your parents through that? After George.’

  Mama reached towards Marièle and she took her mother’s hands, the telegram lay on the floor between them.

  ‘Am I at risk?’

  He ignored her question, scribbled something down in pencil.

  ‘How do you feel about keeping secrets from your family?’

  Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

  ‘If it helps us win the war, I see no problem with it.’

  ‘Us, what do you mean by us?’

  ‘The allies of course.’

  God, she hoped this would be over soon.

  She heard footsteps outside, approaching the office. Were they coming back? What were they going to do to her now?

  That other woman, the one who’d been in the cell with her that first day. She told Sabine they’d given her electric shocks. Clipped wires to her bare breasts and shocked her. She urged Sabine to talk, tell them what they wanted to hear. They’re sadists, you’re so young, so pretty, don’t let them hurt you. Just tell them, you can’t imagine what they’ll do to you otherwise. The girl had shown her scars, sobbed as she pleaded with Sabine.

  Sabine ignored her. Listened but hadn’t spoken back. She didn’t know whether the girl was for real or a plant put there to trick her. A stool pigeon. They did that sometimes. She was sorry for the girl, but she couldn’t trust anyone, not now she’d been caught. The war had hardened her.

  Besides, she didn’t plan on talking. She wouldn’t give anyone away, spill her secrets. She would keep quiet.

  No matter what they did.

  The footsteps stopped outside the door. She heard the key click in the lock, saw the handle turn, then the door swung open. Why had they locked her in? She was going nowhere. Even if she could get her weary brain to come up with some sort of escape plan, she was too weak to break free of these ropes. God, how had the Germans lasted so long? They were stupid.

  The two men were back. One of them carried a silver tray but she couldn’t see what was on it. Something jangled as he placed it on the desk.

  ‘This is your last chance to talk.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘I told you about my colleague, I warned you. Are you sure you won’t tell us the truth?’

  The man rummaged in a paper folder, pulled out a pile of cards, held together with string. He untied them, shuffled the cards, laid them on his lap.

  ‘Now, Miss Downie, I’m going to hold up these cards and I want you to tell me what the image reminds you of.’

  Marièle nodded. At last, a break from the intimate questioning.

  He held up a card. It had some sort of inky splodge on it. Like when they made butterfly paintings at school. You painted one half of a sheet of paper, then folded it over so the pattern spread. Symmetrical.

  ‘Spider.’

  He held up another card.

  ‘House.’

  Her voice echoed around the room, lonely, a conversation with herself.

  ‘Flower.’

  ‘Butterfly.’

  ‘Beach.’

  ‘Sun.’

  ‘Moon.’

  ‘Horse.’

  ‘Dog.’

  ‘Cat.’

  ‘Ball.’

  God, she wasn’t even sure if the cards make her think of these things. Any hesitation made her awkward, ill at ease. She had to keep speaking, quickly, quickly, quickly. Word after word after word after word. Just to keep herself from standing up and shaking him. She wanted to grab the cards out of his hands, throw them up in the air, see how he reacted to that.

  He untied her arms. They floated free at her side, she’d lost all feeling in them.

  He moved round, sat in the chair facing her. Shook his head, held out his hands, as if to say, I gave you a chance, there’s nothing I can do now. Then he grabbed her wrist, clamped her hand flat against his thigh.

  The other man picked up the silver tray, it rattled as he walked towards her. He lifted a pair of pliers. They glinted in the firelight. Her stomach contracted.

  Hitler surveyed the room.

  Oh God, what were they going to do?

  Her breath was quick and heavy, quick and heavy,quickandheavyquickandheavyquickandheavyquickandheavy quickandheavy.

  She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

  He slid her thumbnail between the teeth of the pliers, squeezed until she felt them grip, then pulled.

  The man tidied the cards into a neat pile, tied the string around them again.

  Was that right? Had she answered properly?

  ‘Okay, Miss Downie, now a word association game.’

  Game? Was this a game?

  ‘I’m going to say a word and I want you to reply with the first thing that comes into your head. Okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  He laid his papers on his lap, folded his hands and stared at her.

  ‘Rose.’ ‘Red.’

  ‘Cat.’ ‘Mat.’

  ‘Dog.’ ‘Cat.’

  ‘Tree.’ ‘Leaf.’

  ‘Horse.’ ‘Door.’

  ‘Sea.’ ‘Boat.’

  ‘Shell.’ ‘Sand.’

  ‘Shoe.’ ‘Stocking.’

  ‘Apple.’ ‘Pie.’

  ‘Tram.’ ‘Ticket.’

  She tried not to think. Snapped responses back at him.

  He stopped firing words. Looked down at his bit of paper, nodded to himself. She wanted to scream. Speak, don’t sit there contemplating.

  ‘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.

  ‘Obvious
ly 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.