The Drowning of Arthur Braxton. Caroline Smailes

‘Do not have fear, my dear. I can tell you that those spirits are aching, in anguish, in such deep misery. It is true that they are near to you, that they see your energy, but still they cannot touch you. They cannot become you. I can see that you do not recognise the power that you hold within yourself.’

      That’s when the lass falls below the water and that’s when Silver turns back to being Silver, lets go of the edge of the pool and dives under the water to rescue her. He pulls her back above the surface and over to the side of the pool. She’s all spluttering but that doesn’t stop Madame Pythia from continuing with her speech.

      ‘They cannot climb onto you,’ she shouts, she’s treading water and raising both of her arms out of the pool and up towards the ceiling. ‘It is true that they seek to scratch your surface, yet beneath this fragile outer layer there is a vast reservoir of light. Close your eyes, relax, try to draw upon it.’

      Silver’s holding the lass with one arm and clinging to the edge of the pool with his other hand. The lass leans her head back, onto him, then she lets her legs lift up into the water. She’s floating, she looks calm.

      ‘Even if you cannot look into this light within my presence, know that this reservoir will be there to guide you when you are open to accepting that you are deserving of happiness, of goodness.’

      Madame Pythia pauses, she locks eyes with the lass and that’s when Madame Pythia declares, ‘It is time, we must end this session’, and she swims to the side of the pool.

      And that’s when I run to the doors, swing them open and run to my desk. I know I’ve been seen and that I’ll probably get a bollocking later, but it was worth it.

       His Love Story:

      Next day I’m at my desk, struggling to complete a piece of GCSE coursework. I’m too close to the deadline and that’s making me panic even more. It’s English language, it’s a love story, and mainly I’m struggling ’cause I don’t really think I believe in love. I mean, it’s not like my mum has found her happily-ever-after and it’s not like any of the women who come here are celebrating amazing marriages. Everyone moans about their husbands and their partners and their kids. I don’t think I know anyone who’s in love, I mean not like I read about in all Madame Pythia’s books. And that’s why I’m struggling.

      That’s when Martin comes up to the desk, he’s on a fifteen-minute break before his drop-in sessions start. As usual he sits, then shuffles closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. My stomach hula-hoops and I try to move my chair back a bit without him noticing.

      ‘What you up to?’ he asks.

      ‘Coursework,’ I say. ‘Got to write about love, like I know anything about love.’

      ‘What do you want to know? I’m a bit of an expert,’ he asks, he winks.

      I look at him, I blush because his eyes are that strong and powerful and scary. ‘Everything,’ I say. ‘Don’t reckon I believe in it,’ I say.

      ‘Love exists,’ Martin says. ‘I once knew a woman,’ he says. ‘She was one of my first-ever clients. Gwendolyn Price was her name. She came here for treatment but me and her, well she was my fit. I mean she fitted onto me and I fitted into her and it was different. I know that’s lame and all pathetic and I know that my wife’d have a paddy at me daring to say that me, that the father of her kids, was with the wrong lass. But Gwendolyn was the woman I should have married.’

      I don’t say anything. I pick up my pencil and start making notes. Martin’s still perching on the edge of my desk, but he’s taken his hand off my shoulder.

      ‘Mainly at night when I was lying in bed, when I’d just shagged my wife, well I’d be thinking about Gwendolyn. And I’d be thinking about when I could next be with her. I still loved my wife, but it was clear I wasn’t in love with her. Sometimes I even hated her because she could be a right nasty bitch to me and the kids. But mainly we just ended up shagging because that’s what married folk do and if I did then she’d not be suspecting that I was at it with some person else,’ he says, then he laughs. I laugh too, even though I don’t think he’s funny. ‘What do you think about that?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I don’t. I mean I look at Martin and I see someone who’s old, he’s like the age my dad probably is. I don’t really understand what he’s trying to tell me. ‘I don’t get it. How do you do that? How can you love, but not be in love?’ I ask.

      ‘Love’s not that black and white, pet,’ he says. ‘I wanted to leave the wife, but it was my kids that kept me and the wife together. I thought that the responsibility I felt towards my kids was more important than the love I felt for Gwendolyn. I reckon that me and the wife, that having kids was the reason why everything started going wrong between us, but we were good parents. Being with Gwendolyn was my only bit of me-time, the only time I could have some fun, away from dull-as-fuck routine,’ he says.

      ‘So what happened?’ I ask, ready with my pencil.

      ‘I couldn’t leave my kids, financial and emotional shit, Gwendolyn got fed up of not having all of me. We ended after a year and I reckon my heart broke,’ he says.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ’cause I am. He looks sad.

      ‘I still think about her every day,’ he says and he sighs. I’ve not seen him sad before, I feel sad too.

      ‘I reckon that you can fall in and out of love all through your life, but there’s only one person who really fits. And that love, that love trumps all other love. The problem is, that like everything in life, you can blink and you’ll miss your moment,’ he says, and then he’s laughing again.

      I laugh too.

      ‘So Gwendolyn was my first-and-only real affair. And, of course, after losing Gwendolyn,’ he says, ‘that’s when I started resenting my life. I decided I had nothing to lose and now I shag anything with a pulse. If I can’t be with Gwendolyn then I don’t give a fuck about anything else.’

      That’s when I look up at him and he winks and gets down from the edge of the table.

      ‘People have affairs,’ he says, walking towards the main door. ‘Of course they do. And I do my duty as a husband, I’m there for my wife and I’m there for my kiddies. And I love every one of the women I’ve shagged, almost as much as they’ve loved my cock inside them. Everyone’s happy and everyone’s getting a piece of me. But it’s never been like it was with Gwendolyn. I’m just a giving kind of bloke. I shag women and I give them a love that lasts for anything from five to thirty minutes.’ He laughs again, I don’t really understand his joke. ‘What I can do with my cock …’

      He doesn’t finish his sentence and I’m really not sure what he’s trying to tell me about love. I’m feeling even more confused.

      But a bit later, I’m just coming out the toilet after having a wee and he’s waiting. At first I’m wondering why he’s waiting to go in the girl’s toilet but then I get to realising that he’s waiting to see me.

      ‘So when you going to let me take you out?’ he asks.

      ‘Out?’ I ask.

      ‘On a date,’ he says, and I laugh. ‘What’s funny?’ he asks and I think I might have upset his feelings.

      ‘Soz,’ I say, I blush.

      ‘How about the pictures?’ he asks.

      I shake my head, I don’t look at him, I look down at the mosaic tiles. ‘My mum wouldn’t let me,’ I say. And that’s when he walks away.

      ‘I’m in love with you, Laurel,’ he shouts over his shoulder, he laughs as he turns the corner. ‘Think of it as research for your coursework,’ he says.

      And I’m left wondering