Swim Until You Can't See Land
Page 23
‘Tell him what?’
‘Our lice story?’
Sabine felt Eliza tense. She didn’t reply.
‘You will see him again.’
Eliza’s tears dropped warm onto her hand. It still surprised her, how much they could cry in here when they were so dehydrated, wasting away from lack of food and water.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’
‘SSSHHHH.’
Sabine felt a bony elbow dig into her side. She closed her eyes, cradled Eliza until the bell rang for roll call.
Step. Step.
Step.
Step. Step.
Step.
Step. Step.
Step.
They’d been told to march but it was barely a shuffle. A march was supposed to be regimented, in time, in rhythm. They had marched in training. Rows of them, arms and legs in step, backs straight, heads proud. Polished shoes and spick span uniform.
No, this wasn’t marching. This was a shambles. Women stumbling, tripping, falling, barely able to lift their feet from the ground. No regimentation. They dragged themselves forward.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Sabine and Eliza hadn’t spoken for hours now. No words of encouragement, of hope. Eliza walked with her eyes closed. She was struggling. Her breath stuttered and gasping.
There were less of them now. Even the number of German soldiers seemed to have deteriorated.
Two of them walked to the left of her and Eliza. They whispered to each other.
‘Aus der traum.’
Sabine’s shoulders and back ached from standing. It was still dark, the middle of the night when they called them for roll call. Every morning there were less of them. Sabine felt herself sway from side to side, teeth chattering. Black dots fuzzed her eyes. She had to stay alert, remain standing. If she toppled, she would never get up again.
The Aufseherin blew her whistle and Sabine felt the women around her relax. She did the same, shuffled closer to Eliza, ready to walk back to the barracks for the brown water the guards called coffee, drunk
from old tin cans like the ones she’d used to bail water out of the Seafox.
Eliza had found a lump of potato in her soup the other day, had tried to share it with Sabine, but Sabine refused. Eliza had been there longer.
Was so much thinner.
TD JF GT DF BT DZ IF IY EO IY EO DY
Madame and her coffee pot warming on the stove. To think Sabine had thought that coffee was bad. That was pure Parisian luxury compared to what they were served here.
JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY
Was Madame still lying on the floor of her kitchen or had someone moved her?
No, she couldn’t think of Madame. Her spirits were low enough already.
Eliza took Sabine’s hand, led her across the camp. The Aufseherin had let them away earlier than normal, usually made them stand for hours, swaying and shivering in their rows. She’d already had her fun for the day though. One of the other women had fainted, lain in the mud as the Aufseherin set the Alsatian on her. Sabine had tried not to look but she couldn’t ignore the cries, the screams, the growls, the sound of the dog worrying the woman from side to side. She kept her eyes focused on the barbed wire fence in the distance, kept them there until the woman went quiet.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Sabine could feel Eliza, heavier, heavier, heavier against her arm.
She opened her mouth, then stopped herself. What was the point in asking Eliza if she was alright? None of them were alright. And Eliza was too exhausted to answer anyway.
The women in front had stopped walking. Was this another stop? Would they get something to eat? She heard the whispers.
They’ve gone.
White flags.
We’re on our own.
They’ve left us, they’ve run away.
‘Come on, darling,’ Sabine led Eliza to the side of the track, lent her against a tree, ‘I think they’ve deserted. The rumours about us winning must be true.’
Eliza’s face was grey. She didn’t answer, couldn’t hold herself up. She slid down the tree. Sabine sat next to her, used her weight to prop them both up. Other women were doing the same now, sitting, lying down, collapsing where they stood.
Eliza slumped to the side. Sabine caught her, lowered her, placed her head in her lap. She stroked Eliza’s face, whispered to her.
‘It’s okay, we’re almost there, darling. Stay strong. You’ll be home soon, with Adam and with Bill.’
She still cradled Eliza when she heard the rumble of the approaching lorries. A few of the women stood up, began to scream.
It’s the Germans, they’re back, with machine guns.
It’s the Russians, quick, hide.
Sabine stayed where she was. She couldn’t move Eliza, they would just have to sit here and wait for whoever it was to arrive.
‘Ma’am, can I help you into the transport?’
A GI held out his hand. She saw the disgust and pity flit across his face, he didn’t want to touch her.
She must have fallen asleep. Other women were already in the back of the lorry. They had blankets, food, water.
‘Take Eliza first, she’s so poorly.’
The soldier knelt down.
‘I’m very sorry, Ma’am, but I’m afraid your friend hasn’t made it.’
‘No, you’re wrong. Eliza, Eliza, wake up, darling, wake up. Please wake up. They’re here. They’re here.’
Sabine’s legs were numb, Eliza’s head heavy in her lap. She tried to lift her, but she couldn’t do it. She was so heavy. So heavy for someone so tiny.
‘Eliza, wake up, wake up, we’re safe now.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Ma’am.’
Ma’am.
Ma’am.
Why did he keep calling her that?
Did she look like an old woman to him?
‘Please, Ma’am, let me help you into the transport. The Red Cross are nearby, they’re expecting…’
‘Stop calling me Ma’am. I can’t leave her, I can’t leave her here.’
The GI stood up, waved over two other soldiers. They lifted Eliza, helped Sabine to her feet. She wanted to fight them off, hit them, struggle, she wasn’t leaving without Eliza. But she was so tired, too weak to fight back.
And she knew.
She knew they were right.
Eliza was dead.
She let the men carry her to the lorry, lift her in beside the other women. The ones who had made it. The lucky few.
They handed her a blanket and a square of chocolate. She let the chocolate melt on her tongue as she watched the men. Men carrying spades.
They lifted Eliza, put her in a pile with the other bodies.
There were so many of them.
So many who hadn’t survived the
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
March 2009
Swimming Star Sunk by Shoulder Injury
Scottish swimming star and British record holder Hannah Wright yesterday announced her retirement from the sport.
Hannah, 20, has been suffering from a shoulder injury for the past eighteen months and has had to endure painful surgery and weeks of rehabilitation.
‘The operation was my final chance,’ said Hannah, ‘and unfortunately it hasn’t worked out the way I’d hoped. I’m absolutely devastated to give up my swimming career.
I thought I’d have a few more years to enjoy it. The decision to retire hasn’t been easy, but it’s been taken out of my hands. I’ve been in pain for months and the doctors have told me I risk permanent damage and disability if I continue with the intensive training that I need to do to compete at my best. I’m struggling to come to terms with it and it’s going to take me a while to get my head around things. I’d like
to thank my coach, Greg Candy, for everything he’s done for me.’
23
THE WHISTLE BLOWS, signalling the start of the race.
________ ________ ________ ____________________
Three short blasts followed by one long.
Only I’m not ready.
Not ready to get up on the starting block.
I don’t have my cap and goggles on yet. I’ve still got my tracksuit on over my costume. I’m not ready.
They’re going to start without me. I’m not ready.
________ ________ ________ ____________________
________ ________ ________ ____________________
I’m not ready, my goggles have snapped, I try to unzip my tracksuit top but the zip’s stuck.
I’m not ready.
________ ________ ________ ____________________
________ ________ ________ ____________________
notreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynot
I sit upright. Where am I? It’s dark, takes my eyes a while to get accustomed.
I’m still on Marièle’s sofa, the blanket’s tangled around me, I can’t get my arms free. The wool itchy and hot.
The book lies open on the carpet, must have fallen. One of the pages is bent and I smooth it down. Slide the author’s note back inside.
What time is it?
It’s dark outside. It must be late.
________ ________ ________ ____________________
________ ________ ________ ____________________
Why can I still hear the whistle from my dream?
________ ________ ________ ____________________
________ ________ ________ ____________________
I’m disorientated, half asleep, trying to catch up with what’s going on.
________ ________ ________ ____________________
Idiot, it’s not the whistle, it’s the phone.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
I put my hands out in front of me, shuffle towards the ringing.
It’s dark and it’s not my house, I can’t see where the fuck I’m going.
‘Shit.’
I bash my shin off the coffee table. That was sore. I rub at it.
I’m never going to get to the phone on time.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
Wait.
Why am I going to answer the phone? It’s not my house, it could be anyone. Who the hell’s ringing at this time anyway? Whatever time it is.
Foggy, middle-of-the-night brain. Doesn’t work properly, makes decisions that don’t make sense to wide-awake-middle-of-the-day brain.
I reach for the living room door, pull it open. I can see shapes and shadows now. Street light shines in through the frosted glass of the front door.
The phone stops.
The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks.
I flick the hall light on.
Half three.
Shit, half three. I should have gone home hours ago.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
I jump as the phone starts to ring again.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
Half three.
Nobody rings at half three in the morning with good news.
I’m still holding the book. Why am I still holding the book?
I put it down, stand with my hand over the phone, grip the receiver, but don’t lift.
It buzzes against my palm, the ring vibrating up my arm.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
I don’t want to pick up. I know who’s on the other end. I know what they’re going to say to me.
If I pick up.
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
It’s so loud. I look for a volume control. An off switch.
What if I pull the cord out of the wall?
Just ignore the ringing. If I don’t answer then…
Then what?
(she’s not really dead)
‘Hello?’
My voice is a croak, a whisper. My mouth’s dry. I cough, clear my throat.
‘Hello?’ I repeat.
My hand’s shaking and I have to squeeze tight on the receiver to keep it steady against my ear.
‘I’m phoning from the PRI, it’s about Marièle Downie.’
I nod my head, remember I’m on the phone.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to call you so late, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
‘Uh-huh.’
I’m not pretending anymore. My throat’s thick and I can’t speak. I don’t want her to be dead. She can’t be. Not now.
‘I’m very sorry, but Marièle passed away this morning. It was very peaceful. She never regained consciousness.’
‘Oh,’ I try to say okay but only manage the first part.
Peaceful.
her fingernails forcibly removed
The pressure builds, builds, builds in my chest.
Erupts.
Why am I crying? I didn’t know her. We weren’t friends.
‘I’m very sorry for your…’
I put the phone down. I can’t speak. There’s no point trying to continue the conversation. I sink to the floor, lean my head between my knees, dig in my jeans for a tissue but can’t find one, so I wipe my sleeve across my nose and eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m in your house and I’m sorry for what happened to you and I’m sorry you died.’
Saying the word out loud makes it worse.
Died.
Died.
Died.
I force myself to stand, into her bedroom, take down the photo of her from the shelf.
My tears drip onto the frame, smear the glass as I try to wipe them away.
I make my way along the hall towards the kitchen. The fish is swimming back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Having one of his mad half hours, zipping from one side of the bowl to the other.
I sit at the kitchen table, stand the photo in front of me. Angle it so the fish can see it.
‘It’s bad…’
That sets me off again and I can’t speak, I can’t speak, I can’t speak. My breath comes in short gasps, shuddering and painful.
What the fuck am I doing? I need to get out of here, go home.
But what about the fish? What’ll happen to him if I leave him here? On his own.
‘I could take you with me?’
No, Hannah, wake up. Middle-of-the night-brain doesn’t talk sense. Stop listening to it and just go home. You shouldn’t be here. You should never have come here in the first place.
Someone needs to organise the funeral. And it can’t be her fake niece.
Too many lies. Too much breaking and entering.
Ex-swimmer, Hannah Wright, was arrested today…
‘I’d better feed you before I go,’ I reach for the tub of flakes, catch a flash of red.
The lottery ticket.
It could be you.
(it could be me)
The lottery ticket. I could take it. Cash it in. Nobody would ever know.
(it’s not as if I haven’t thought of it before)
£100, 000
£100, 000
Give Dad something to be happy about, make him proud of me again.
What if she’d died straight away? If she’d died before she reached the hospital? If I’d never come to her house, never looked at her photos, visited her, read about her.
I could have taken the ticket.
She would still be the old woman lying on t
he shop floor, the one I didn’t want to touch, to go near.
She wouldn’t be Marièle and I wouldn’t be this upset.
Jesus, the world is fucked up.
announced her retirement from the sport
her fingernails forcibly removed
Me and her just haven’t caught a break.
(except I almost have)
It could be you.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of making it up to me. Sorry we fucked around with your swimming career, but here’s something to make up for it. No hard feelings, eh?
I pull the ticket out from behind the bowl. Walk to the phone table in the hall.
Pick up the pen that’s lying there. Write the name and address on the ticket before I change my mind.
NAME: Marièle Downie
ADDRESS: Douglas Crescent, Kinross
The book’s still lying next to the phone. I carry it through to the kitchen.
‘I’ve got to go, fish. Don’t worry, they’ll come here first when they can’t get in touch with me. You’ll be okay.’ I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. That someone will find him, look after him, that he won’t end up floating on the top of his bowl or flushed down the toilet.
I put the book down on the kitchen table next to her photo, mark the right page with the author’s note, place the lottery ticket on top, pocket my mobile.
Chapter Fifteen: Marièle Downie, aka Sabine Valois, aka Blackbird.
Something stops me and I head back to the phone table again, tear a blank piece of paper from the notebook lying there. Leave a note beside the book and the photo.
She wasn’t just an old woman who died.
Please look after her fish.
Thank you
‘Who knows, maybe she left everything to you?’ I kneel in front of the fish bowl. I can feel tears coming again. Fuck sake, what’s wrong with me?
Saying goodbye to a goldfish has me sobbing.
I’ve got quite attached to that wee fish though.
‘Goodbye, look after yourself.’
I stand at the back door for a moment, take in Marièle’s kitchen. Exactly how she left it that day she went out and never came back.
I wave.
Close the door.
No, I can’t do it. I can’t leave him. She can have the lottery ticket, but I’m taking her fish.
I push the door open.
‘You’re coming with me, fish.’