Water Born (21 page)

THREE MONTHS LATER

I
stand with my toes curled over the edge of the block. The noise around me is almost deafening. The voice on the tannoy system announces each of us in turn and the crowd claps, shouts and whistles its approval – all of it echoing off the walls and ceiling, distorting and blurring at the edges.

I'm in lane five. When my name is read out, I look up to the stand.

Dad's there. He's got his camera at the ready to take pictures, but he's not looking at me through a lens right now. He's on his feet cheering and waving. Milton's mum is next to him. She's sitting down but she's got both hands in the air, like a worshipper in a revivalist church. She and Milton have been coming to all my competitions. They do a proper job – bring cushions to make the plastic seats
more bearable and a big cool-bag full of sandwiches, drinks and snacks. Mrs Adeyemi wasn't there the day we got home from Kingsleigh, but she'd been in our house and stocked up our fridge. Mum had called round to hers to leave her a key before she and Dad chased after me.

‘She said it was just in case, but why after all this time? When she left she hugged me, like she was saying goodbye. When I heard the news I knew that she'd been trying to tell me something. And I knew I couldn't sit on my big behind in that chair any longer. She was counting on me.'

Milton's the other side of his mum. He's taken over from Dad as my statistician. He'll have today's time and placing on his database before I've even got changed. But he won't give me a bollocking if it all goes wrong. Neither will Dad.

‘Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I'm proud of you,' Dad says. ‘And I know Mum is, too.'

Mum. She should be there, sitting next to Dad. Don't think about it. Don't lose it now.

I give everyone a quick wave and then try to blank it all out. I use my rituals to calm my nerves and focus: check my hair is tucked into my hat, adjust my goggles, look ahead at the turquoise rectangle of water.

The starting judge tells us to get ready. The hubbub starts to die down.

I take a couple of long, smooth breaths.

I can do this. I know I can.

I'm going to do it for Dad, and Milton and his mum, who've stood by me, got me through the last few months.

And I'm going to do it for Mum.

‘Ready.'

I wait for the electronic tone, desperate not to go too quickly. And then it's there, and I sense the others starting to move, and I spring away from the block. All I've got in my mind now is the shape of a perfect dive. I cut through the water and start flexing my stomach muscles, dolphining down and along as far as I can, my ears full of the sound of rushing water.

I make the surface, turn to the side, breathe in and roll back again, reaching forward, kicking hard. I find my rhythm quickly and settle into it. I don't try to check where the others are. It doesn't matter. I'm going to swim my best, and this is going to be the best swim of my life.

I'm on the last lap when I hear a voice.

I'm with you, Nic. I'm here, my beautiful girl
.

I look left and right, trying to see where it's coming from.

Keep going. Don't stop now
.

I stretch a little further, kick a little harder. The water buoys me up, gives me strength. I feel part of it. We're one and the same.

The change in tiles marks five metres from home. I want to take a breath, but I don't want to lose any time. I push on, sprinting faster, pushing myself, reaching forward and slamming my fingers into the wall. Still underwater, I look around at the thrashing arms and legs, but I can't see what I'm looking for.

Where are you?

Ssh
, Mum says.
I'm here, Nic. I'm right beside you. I wouldn't miss this for the world
.

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank:

Barry, Imogen, Elinor, Rachel and everyone else at my amazing publisher, Chicken House.

My foreign publishers and translators, especially dear Anja, Uwe-Michael, Dorothy and Laszlo.

The booksellers, librarians, English teachers and bloggers who champion my books. I owe you so much.

And lastly, but especially dear to me, my readers, particularly the ones who write, email or tweet and tell me what they think. You'll never know how much your messages have meant to me.