Nightingale Point. Luan Goldie

running again, but it was him that pushed her to start swimming after her injury, so why rule that out as well? There’s no way he could have found out how little she actually swam.

      ‘I’ve circled the ladies-only sessions for you,’ he had said as he handed her the pool timetable. He even went out and bought her a costume.

      She knew she wasn’t going to like swimming as soon as she got into the cold changing rooms. Most of the locks on the cubicles were broken and women of all shapes and sizes roamed about naked. Pamela looked the other way as old ladies stood with their swimming costumes half hanging down, applying deodorant and chatting to friends. There were used cotton buds left on the wooden slat bench, the floor dusty with talc. Quickly, she changed into the overly modest costume and made her way out to the pool, her eyes already stinging from the chlorine.

      As she waded through the water her fingers caught long strands of black hair. She couldn’t get a rhythm going, the pool was too small and crowded, and she found herself gripping the scaly tiles at the far end, waiting for someone to complete a lap so she could have a turn. There was no freedom, no clearing of the mind and no possibility of losing herself in the monotony of the movement. It was the opposite of everything she loved about running.

      She flipped her collar up while she stood under the awning outside, watching the bus home pull away. If she ran she could be home in fifteen minutes, but there was no rush to get back there, to sit in the dreary living room alone.

      Two people came towards her with their hoods up. One went through the sliding doors but the other one stopped.

      ‘Hey.’ It was Malachi. He removed his hood and wiped the rain from his face.

      ‘Hi.’ She wanted to smile back but instead looked around cautiously in case Dad appeared from somewhere.

      ‘How’s your leg?’

      ‘Fine. Well, no, it’s sprained, so I’m giving it a bit of a break from running.’

      The sliding doors kept opening and closing until Tristan stepped out from them. ‘Mal, we’re not allowed in.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Oh, it’s a women-only swim session,’ Pamela said.

      Tristan stood between the two of them. ‘What kind of sexist nonsense is that? I bet they don’t run men-only sessions, do they?’

      Malachi rolled his eyes.

      ‘Let’s go gym instead?’ Tristan said.

      ‘I told you, you’re too young for it.’

      ‘Come on, swimming never gave anybody a six-pack. Ain’t that right, Blondie?’ He nudged her side.

      ‘Maybe you should take up running?’ she suggested, still looking at Malachi.

      ‘I’d like that.’ Malachi smiled and held her gaze.

      Tristan laughed. ‘Yeah, running is a great choice of sport for a chronic asthmatic.’

      ‘Tristan, I’m going to meet you back home, all right?’

      ‘For real?’ Tristan looked at Pamela like he wanted to laugh. But of course, it didn’t make sense that someone like Malachi, who was tall and perfect, would want to spend time with a girl like Pamela, who was plain and invisible.

      Malachi dug in a pocket and pulled out a crumpled fiver. ‘Here, go cinema or something. I’ll see you later.’

      Tristan kissed his teeth as he took the note. ‘All right, see you back home. Laters, Blondie.’ He threw up his hood and sulked off into the rain.

      They stood and faced the road, the rain coming down heavier now.

      She wanted to wait for him to speak first, but couldn’t hold it in. ‘You know it’s too wet to run, right?’

      He looked at her. He had amazing eyes. ‘I know. And you’ve been swimming already. You hungry?’

      She shook her head. She didn’t have money to eat out anywhere.

      ‘What about a drink then? There’s a greasy spoon over there, it does good milkshakes. I’ll race you.’

      It was awkward as they ran to the café together, as if they both knew straight away there was something more happening. The smell of burnt onions hit her as they stepped inside. They sat opposite each other in metal chairs and he picked up the laminated menu and held it closely to his face, studying it for way too long. Frowning, his forehead wrinkling, he looked so serious, so utterly different from every other boy she came across at school.

      ‘How old are you?’ She felt embarrassed straight after asking it.

      ‘Twenty-one.’ He put the menu down and folded his arms. ‘Twenty-one going on sixty.’

      She smiled at him. ‘I know the feeling.’

      He looked at her for a beat too long.

      ‘I’m almost seventeen. I’m the oldest in my year group at school,’ she said, trying to justify their age gap. ‘Seventeen in September. If I was born one day earlier I would already be in college.’ She paused. ‘You and Tristan don’t look very much alike.’

      ‘No. We’re not alike in lots of ways.’

      ‘Do you have the same dad?’ she asked.

      ‘What kind of question is that?’

      The milkshakes came and she felt she had blown it, asked a stupid question and revealed herself to be a stupid schoolgirl after all.

      ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.’

      ‘He’s my brother. That’s all there is to it.’

      She nodded and mixed the milkshake with the end of the straw.

      ‘Tristan said he’s never seen you at school before.’

      ‘No one sees me at school. No one sees me anywhere.’

      ‘I see you.’ Malachi smiled.

      As they came out of the café, back into the real world, Pamela felt cautious again. ‘Do you mind if we walk back separately?’ she asked.

      ‘But we’re going to the same place.’

      ‘You met my dad – he’s quite strict about who I hang out with. He doesn’t really let me see boys.’

      The word ‘see’ almost implied that she thought they had started a relationship.

      ‘I understand.’

      How could this work? Could she really see him again? She wanted to. But there were lots of things she wanted to do but wasn’t allowed.

      ‘I don’t really have time to, you know … do stuff outside of school and sport. My timetable is quite packed.’

      He straightened up and rubbed his face.

      School and sport, that’s all her life was. Surely she could take the risk of having something else going on?

      ‘My dad wants me to go swimming every Tuesday and Thursday between six and eight. But I hate swimming.’

      ‘So what are you saying?’

      ‘That I’m free every Tuesday and Thursday between six and eight.’

      He nodded. ‘Got it.’

      They separated as they reached the field in front of the estate. He sat on a bench and she walked off, trying her best not to keep looking back at him. She pulled her hair in front of her face, smelling its mix of chlorine and fried food, and knew she would never set foot in the pool again.

      Pamela