Authors: Nicola Morgan
Her heart raced. Every gram of strength now, everything went into her surge for the far end of the pool. She knew there were other swimmers alongside her – at least two level or almost level with her. She could see the churning water, see the spattered goggles of the one on her left each time she turned her face to breathe, see the muscles of shoulders, the gaping mouth. Focused on every bit of herself: fingers tight together, toes working, each muscle squeezing the tiniest extra bit of speed and strength. She felt good, strong. Her body might be tired but her strength of will would keep it going until the very last moment. Her heart sang as she surged towards the end.
Stretch the fingers – both hands – touch! She grabbed the side of the pool, supported herself gasping, exhausted, looking round. Three other swimmers had finished at almost the same time. She shook hands with the ones on each side. She must have won! She felt it. Looked towards her coach. He was looking at the board. Had she won?
Cat knew from the movement of his body. Then she too saw the screen. Every pleasure drained from her. She couldn’t believe it. Rewind. It was a mistake. She
must
have won! By a whisker, but still. Surely?
She hadn’t. She’d come third. As she hauled her tired body from the pool, it was an effort to smile. Several of her competitors congratulated her. But she hadn’t won. Winning a bronze medal was not winning. Mr T. was coming towards her with her towel.
“Good effort, girl,” said Mr T. But his voice had no passion in it, no gleam. “It was a good speed – a fraction off your personal best. You swam a good race, Catriona. Really.”
Really. She couldn’t speak. Her legs now felt horribly weak and heavy.
“Hey, don’t be like that!” he said. If he didn’t shut up she was going to cry. She tried to smile but it didn’t come. Her mouth didn’t seem to want to do the smiley thing. “You lost by a fraction, a tiny fraction. You can improve by that much, easily – one of your turns could have been tighter. We can work on that. Don’t worry, you’re on course. And you’re younger than them, by nearly two years. They’re both out of the Under-16s soon.”
And there was Jim, saying much the same. “We can improve that, Catriona, fret not,” he said with a smile. “There are good races and there are great races. You swam some great races today. But sometimes it’s someone else’s day.” And he went to talk to someone else.
Cat looked up at the spectators as she went back to the swimmers’ area. Her friends weren’t looking. They were chatting among themselves. The banner was draped over their knees.
Only the relays were left. Cat’s team won theirs and Cat knew she’d swum well. But it didn’t feel good enough. The swimmers who’d beaten her before weren’t in the relay. The times weren’t particularly brilliant, nothing for the selectors to get excited about. One of Cat’s team made a mistake on one of the takeovers, and they had only won because the other teams had either made worse mistakes or simply not been as fast.
Three individual gold medals and a bronze, as well as the relay gold medal. Hardly something to feel down about. Most people would be thrilled. But Cat had put every effort into the race she’d lost, and if she put every effort in and couldn’t win, then what could she do? How many times would she have to deal with the kick-in-the-stomach feeling of not winning? Often, was the answer – every athlete did, and the higher she flew, the further it would be to fall.
She wanted to go home. Making an excuse about needing to fetch something from the changing room, Cat went and hid there for a few moments, listening to the echoing shouts from the swimming area. She breathed in the smell of chlorine, the steam, the familiar feeling of heat and yet chill at the same time. The wet floor was clammy underfoot, slippery with other people’s skin and soap and sweat. In the mirror, she saw her face, thin wet hair flattened from the hat she’d been wearing, and beneath it the broad shoulders.
She loved it and hated it: this place, this smell, the winning and losing, the always knowing you could do better next time, the dreams. She felt part of it and yet alone. Because you were. You might be part of a team but actually you were doing it for yourself. And if you weren’t you’d never do it. You’d never put the effort in.
She went back to the poolside.
Mr T. wasn’t there. She looked round. He should be there: the medals were going to be presented. Jim was gathering his swimmers together. There was the announcement. She and the other winners from her team made their way over to the judges’ desk. There were the girls who’d beaten her.
The ceremony passed in a blur. She could see Bethan and the others, waving now, and cheering too. And of course she felt proud when she received her medals. But she’d tasted better – a few weeks before, when she’d broken records at the biathlon. Should she be satisfied with third best? And the hope of one day being the best, but maybe never getting there?
Where was Mr Turner? As she stepped off the podium for the last time, she saw him, hurrying towards her. He grabbed her arm, the sinews on his neck standing out in his excitement.
“They’re interested in you, Catriona McPherson! They want you to go to a national training camp, in the holidays, with all the best facilities. There’s no promises but this is a fantastic chance, Catriona! Well done, you brilliant kid!” And there was Jim in the background, grinning at her before being grabbed by someone else’s parent.
Cat could see others looking in her direction. A girl who’d beaten her, turning away now, going off to her own coach. But Cat was being herded by Mr Turner over to the changing area. He was still talking, about training programmes and how much care the squad would take of her. And, yes, her heart was singing; yes, it was a fantastic feeling, being wanted.
That was when she saw the man. “Mr T., look – there’s that man again. The one who was watching? I saw him earlier too.”
Her coach looked where she was pointing.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ve discovered who he is. I was right – he’s from another club. Spying. But he’s too late. The selectors want you to stay in this club – we’ve got it all mapped out. You’re stuck with me, kid. You’re mine! I’m going to make you a star. All our plans are coming together. It’s fantastic, girl!”
But the fear. Fear of losing. Fear of the future. Fear of being trapped.
There was nothing better than winning. And nothing worse than losing. And how did you solve that?
CAT’S
mum came home from the hospital on Saturday evening, fragile and pale. She went straight to her bed. She slept most of Sunday too. But on Sunday evening, she had begun to remember more of her accident. There’d been a person, she thought, someone who had lunged towards her and made her fall. Cat’s dad had insisted that the police come to take a statement, which they did, reluctantly. He was furious that they seemed to care so little, but the two police officers who called round explained that with no description, and no witnesses, and the victim suffering from concussion, there was no chance of solving the crime. If there was a crime, they’d said pointedly. It was only her mum’s white-faced insistence on dropping it that stopped her dad from becoming quite rude.
“Maybe I was wrong,” she said later. “False memory or something. It’s easily done.”
By Monday, everyone at school had heard about the accident. The story became exaggerated as it went from person to person, especially after Cat had told a couple of people that her mum thought someone might have leapt out at her. So the story grew into rumours of attempted murder. Near the psychiatric hospital; probably one of the patients. Well, it was more interesting to everyone than “fell off her bike”.
On Tuesday, Danny didn’t come into school again. Apparently, he was ill. Though someone said family problems.
Did he have family problems? Not as far as Cat knew. She’d met his mum, dad and older sister and thought his family seemed really nice – straightforward. More than could be said for him with his insects. Maybe he
was
ill.
She wouldn’t say she was exactly bothered.
On Wednesday Cat saw him at registration. He didn’t look at her, seemed to move aside when she found herself accidentally walking towards him. She wasn’t complaining.
At lunchtime, she almost bumped into him coming out of the canteen. He seemed so keen to get away from her that it was almost hilarious.
He didn’t go to fencing. Again, no complaints there.
“Where’s Daniel?” asked Mr Boyd.
“He had to go home, Sir,” said one of Danny’s friends.
Well, that was good news. Another fencing lesson without Danny. Cat threw herself into the lesson, lunging and parrying as though it was Danny she was fighting.
Oddly, though, the passion had gone out of it and, although she was pleased with the praise that came from Boyd, she found that she no longer particularly hated Danny.
Perhaps all that was over.
CAT
was walking home from the bus stop after hockey. It was two days later, Hallowe’en and mint cold. Dusk was falling fast from a cloud-heavy sky and it was beginning to rain. Her dad had taken Angus into town for a full rehearsal for the concert and then he was going to see a friend before bringing Angus home afterwards. Then Angus would be going trick-or-treating, no doubt. Her mum was not allowed to drive yet. Cat’s bike had still not been fixed and, anyway, with the extra darkness now that the clocks had gone back, she wasn’t allowed to do an evening cycle ride till spring. Normally she’d have argued about this, but she’d let it go.
So Cat was going home on her own, though her dad would not be happy about it if he knew. He thought she was getting a lift, but it had turned out that there wasn’t anyone who
could
give her a lift. She’d been going to ask Ailsa’s mum but she was taking Ailsa and her sister to some aunt’s house for tea and Cat didn’t have the nerve to ask her to go completely in the wrong direction, even though she wouldn’t have minded. And by then, the others had gone.
Anyway, her dad was overreacting. She’d been making her own way home from school for nearly two years now. It wasn’t that far from the bus stop. And there’d be people around.
But now he suddenly seemed to want her to be collected or to promise to walk with other people. It was ridiculous. OK, so she knew he’d been upset by her mum’s accident – who wouldn’t be – but that didn’t mean he had to see danger everywhere.
“Just do what you’re told, Catriona, please. Humour me, OK?”
Ridiculous.
She made her way along the tree-lined road from the bus stop. A gust snatched at the branches, tumbling leaves adrift. The wet scrunch of her footsteps was loud in the evening air, though mixed with other noises: the swoosh of a car passing along the hospital road, the wind in her ears and in the branches. Gobbets of rain falling through the trees and hitting the car roofs. A siren from afar, and then another. A distant horn. Another car.
Some little kids came tottering round the corner dressed as ghosts and fairies – wet fairies with stomping feet – shepherded by two parents. One kid was crying and one was being carried, its sheet tangled round its wellies. Cat waited for them to pass. Their silly noise disappeared into the darkness.
She hurried on, her blazer collar hunched round her neck and her scarf wrapped round her head. Footsteps came from the side. A man with a dog. They passed by.
She crossed the road. A sudden noise like a snapping twig behind her made her turn. Nothing. She carried on, her heart beating faster, though she tried to stop it. Silly.
The door of some nearby flats opened and a man came out. He spent some time fumbling with his door, locking it. Looked in her direction, just briefly, in passing. Then walked round the corner until she could not see him.
She turned a corner and continued walking quickly homewards. She was nearly where her mum had had her accident, she realized. There was the lane, stretching into the gloom. A cat streaked across the end of it, low to the ground. The rain was unpleasant against her face and her hair would go curly. She hated that.
She passed parked cars, and a motorbike leaning on its support, a drenched cover over its seats.
Turned up the cobbled terrace. Darker here, no lights, few windows looking down. She could hear someone walking behind her. She looked round, but it must be someone still round the corner because she could see no one. And maybe she’d imagined it because now she could hear nothing other than the noises of normality. She began to jog, though carrying all her school stuff made it difficult. Now, she was in the next street to her own. Hers was just round one more corner. Nearly home.
A woman was getting into a car, waving goodbye to someone in a doorway before driving off. Leaving the street empty in the gathering gloaming. The door of that house closed tight.
But no, the street was not empty. A man was standing there, on the other side from her, beneath a broken streetlight. Just standing. A man in a thick padded coat, the hood up against the rain. He had a bicycle with him. He turned and saw her, and quickly wheeled his bicycle away, back out of the street. Which was odd because he’d looked as though he’d been about to go
into
the street. It wasn’t anyone she recognized. Mind you, she hadn’t seen his face and she couldn’t tell much from what she had seen – just the coat and body shape. And the bike was just any bike, scruffy, old-fashioned, an old man’s bike.
Nothing to do with her.
Whatever, she needed to get home. Fast.
She almost ran towards her own street, less unnerved now that she was so close to home. Turned the corner. With relief she saw her front door, the lights on upstairs. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that there were footsteps behind her. It could, of course, be coincidence, just someone also hurrying through the rain and cold. But what if it wasn’t?
Mrs Morris came out of her front door and began to walk slowly towards the other end of the street, stopping to put something in her bin, and Cat realized that nothing bad could happen while Mrs Morris was within view. Cat could wait just inside her own front door and see if anyone came past. See who had been following her. If anyone. It was probably no one, or just someone quite innocently walking in the same direction. With danger passed, it suddenly felt unreal.