Breathing Water: an extract

Breathing Water: short story extract

Dad calls me Billy-the-Fish. He says if I stay under water any longer, that’s what I’ll turn into. I think I’d like that. To be a fish. To live, quiet, in this liquid world, where cotton wool sounds and dimpled shadows are the only hint of what’s going on above.

When my chest starts to burn and my heart thumps in my ears; when I know I’m about to give in, to burst up through the water to suck in deep, searing breaths of air—then, I imagine it. A tingling, just behind my ears. The skin stretching tighter until suddenly it tears—rips apart under the strain. There will be no pain, just the silky slip of water as it flows into a space at the back of my head. The burning will cool, and I’ll let the last air in my lungs bubble out between my lips. I’ll look up and watch it rise to the blue of the surface. I am full of water. I am breathing water. My gills must have been there all the time, ready, waiting for their covering of skin to peel back and set them free.

But not this time. I lunge for air, gasping great drags of it until the pain in my chest subsides and my heartbeat slows. 

“How long?” I ask, when I can.

Dad’s sitting on the side of the pool, dangling his long white legs into the water, his watch in his hand. “One fifty-four point five. That’s your best yet. So close!”

I can’t see his eyes, only an image of myself in his blue reflective sunglasses, but I know from the way his forehead is wrinkling upwards and his eyebrows have gone high that he is surprised and impressed. “Well done, mate.” He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, and now his eyes crinkle up in a big smile. “Great job. You’ll break two minutes by the end of the week, I reckon.”

“Yeah, I reckon I will. Time me again?”

Dad shakes his head. “You’ve got to know when to rest when you’re in training. Besides, I’m getting too hot. I’m going in for a swim. Fancy a race?”

“Nah, might get out for a bit. Can I have an ice cream?”

“Okay. So long as you get one for me, too. I’ll just do a quick couple of lengths.” He puts his sunglasses and watch down by the side of the pool. “Grab those as you go, will you, stick them on my sunbed? There’s some money in my shorts pocket.”

He bows his head, straightens his arms and dives. The water ripples behind him, but there’s hardly a splash. I watch to see how far he will get. His body is long, like a spear. He reaches the end, turns and surfaces. He heads back towards me in a lazy front crawl, his arms dipping impossibly slowly. I wish I could do that. The only way I know to stop myself sinking is to churn through the water as fast as I can. I pull myself up onto the ladder. The top rung’s above the waterline and it burns my feet as I clamber up. 

I time the ice-cream run to perfection. As I weave through the obstacle course of sun-beds and flip-flops, I have to keep licking my 99 to stop it dripping down my arm, but I get back to our chairs just as Dad’s drying his back. His hair is sticking up all over, like someone in a cartoon who’s seen a ghost. 

“Nice shades, dude,” he says, as I hand him his Magnum. He reaches his other hand out for his glasses. The light burns white without them, reflecting off the pale flagstones. I feel it spike my eyes. I screw them up against the glare as Dad unwraps his ice-cream. It’s already melted a bit at the bottom, and he licks at the chocolate that’s oozing around the stick.

“This is the life, eh?” says Dad, leaning back in his lounger. 

“How many days have we got left?” I ask, leaning back in mine. I bite into my flake: it’s sweet and mushy with heat. 

“What’s today? Wednesday? We fly back Sunday. Three days.” He looks over to me; there’s a shard of chocolate on his chin, melting into his holiday stubble. In his blue lenses I am reflected in duplicate. 

My two selves shake their heads.  “Nah, it’s not that. Well, a bit.” I feel disloyal whatever I say. “No, just wondering how much more time we’ve got, that’s all. I like to know where I am.”

Dad nods and looks away again, his tongue catching the white stuff that is dribbling down his lolly stick. “Good idea, Billy. If you know how much time you’ve got, you can make sure you enjoy every moment.”

I swallow down the last of my cone then lie back and close my eyes. I hope Mum’s okay. I should have texted her this morning, but we were late getting up, and I didn’t want to miss breakfast. I love having all those choices. We’re definitely getting our money’s worth, Dad says. I’ll text her when we get back to the room. She’ll be at work, now, anyway.

“Wish I had,” he says.

“Wish you’d what, Dad?”

“Enjoyed every moment. Understood where I was, and how good a place it was to be.”

I slide my eyes over sideways to look at him.  “When d’you mean?”

“When we were all together, Bill. Me, your mum. You. It was a great place, but I didn’t know it. And I forgot to enjoy every moment.”

I think about the screaming and shouting and swearing that went on downstairs and wonder if he’s remembering straight.  “I thought you hated Farmwell Close?  Far-Too-Close, you called it, remember?  Everyone on top of each other.”

“I don’t mean the actual, geographical place, Billy, I mean the place in life.” Dad takes a big breath, then lets it out loud, like he’s blowing off steam. “The place in life. The relationship. You, me, your mum. We had something good, and I … I didn’t realise how good till it was gone.”

I’ve heard this before but usually late at night, when he’s had a few beers in front of the football. He sits on my bed and I just lie there, half asleep and half listening. I’ve never had to answer before.

“But still, Candy’s great, isn’t she?” I say, as bright as I can manage. I give him a nudge. “Good enough to eat, eh?”

Dad’s head whips round and he lifts up his glasses. His eyes are bleary but his look is sharp as a blade. “Where the hell did you hear that turn of phrase? That one of your mum’s?”

As if. “No, one of yours. You said: ‘I don’t love your mum any more. I love someone else. Her name’s Candy, and you’ll love her too. She’s just like her name. Good enough to eat.’”

Dad lies back again. He takes another one of those big breaths, and sighs.

“God, Billy. What are you, a human bloody sound recorder?” He’s quiet for ages, then says: “Candy was a mistake. I made a mistake, Billy.”

© Caroline Ward Vine 2018