SHOWCASE EXTRA
For Kara's story, 'South by South-East' click here; for the story, 'Winter's Tale,' click here, for a selection of Kara's film, book and music reviews on The New Review section of the site, click here or to read Kara's latest showcased story, click here
'MERMAIDS'
by Kara Kellar BellOrla underwater is like the dream. Except in the dream she has a red dress, shredded and floating around her. I tell her about it after we break the surface. I�m in the middle of describing how her hair was longer too, billowing out, like a mermaid�s when some boy who�s been pestering us comes up behind and pushes both our heads under.�Bog off!� I tell him when I come up again.
Orla decides she�s had enough and we climb out. She limps along behind me.
In the changing cubicle, she peels off her swimsuit. She�s the opposite of me, all thin and straight. Before the accident she had a muscular figure, wide shoulders and a trim waist and hips. Now, it�s like she�s caved in, shrunk into herself. She takes a towel to her hair. In the dream it was long and coiling, but in real life it�s straight and shoulder-length.
�You�re so quiet these days,� I say.
�I�m fine.� But her mind seems somewhere else.
I peel off my suit, wring it out and wrap myself in the large bath towel I nicked from the back of the airing cupboard.
Orla lights up. She�s been smoking ever since she came out of hospital. Stands with the other nicotine addicts at Smoker�s Corner, round the back of the sport�s hall. I�m always telling her she�ll get cancer or something. �If it happens, it happens,� is her response. Like she doesn�t care.
�F***�s sake, Orla, you know you�re not supposed to in here.�
�Oh, bugger it.� She�s quiet for a minute, takes a few drags, then says under her breath, �Why can�t you be more like me?�
* We met at swimming lessons, when we were six years old. Orla in a bright red costume, me in pale blue. Even at that first class, the first either of us had been to, she was a natural. She didn�t mind sticking her head under the water. I always tried to keep my chin above it, hating it when the water went up my nose. Our mothers got talking while we splashed about. It turned out we lived close to one another but went to different schools. After class, we all went to the chippie. Even now, the scent of chlorine reminds me of chips.
I was never a great swimmer. Books were my real love. With Orla it was different. She got approached by a local swimming coach. She started to go to classes and training sessions. By the time we were in high school, the same one, she was winning competition after competition. At fifteen she was selected for the Commonwealth Games team. But Orla never got to go to the Games.
* �I�m not like you,� Orla says to me after we get off the bus. �I�m not clever. You can do anything you want. Swimming�s all I ever wanted.� She pats her leg before taking a long drag on her umpteenth cigarette. �You�ve got another life now.� She pauses. �New friends.�
�Don�t be daft. Anyway, you could come out wi us. No reason why not.�
She looks at me. �You�re not the same wi them as you are wi me. You�re different.�
�I�m just me. Look, how about we go into town this afternoon. Buy clothes, have a laugh.� I�ll have to phone Libby, tell her I can�t make it. Orla�s staring down the road.
�Orla?�
�What? Naw,� she says, after a pause. �I fancy staying in. Thought I�d have a nice long bath. Maybe watch a video. Mum�s going out so I�ll have the place to myself.� I offer to come and watch the video with her. She waves this away in a trail of smoke. �I�ll call you tomorrow.�
I watch her go. Instead of pounding the pavement like she used to, she saunters. Orla doesn�t hurry herself to get anywhere anymore.
* At home I start getting ready, pulling black jeans over my tights. I�m wearing my new red silk blouse. It�s buttoned up right now, but soon as I�m out of Mum�s sight, it�ll be down to my cleavage.
�Now remember,� Mum says to me at the porch, �don�t leave the pub on your own.�
�Aye, aye.�
�I�m serious Josie. And don�t wear that short skirt on the way back. You know what I mean,� she says when I look all innocence. �The one hidden in your bag. You must think I was born yesterday.�
I get the bus into town. The rainbow flag over the gay centre hangs limply. Inside I head straight for the loos upstairs. Jackie�s there, fixing her immaculate short hair, and while she tells me about her star turn on the karaoke on Thursday night, I pull out my skirt and strip off my jeans under her appreciative stare. �Aye, you�ve got nice legs, Josie. I cannae be bothered wi these beanpoles. I like a woman wi some curves on her.�
Libby and some of the others are just arriving when we go downstairs.
�Hi babe,� Libby says, giving me a kiss. We blitz the caf�, pushing tables together. I order French Onion soup with croutons and garlic bread. While we�re waiting for the food to arrive, I tell Jackie and Libby about Orla�s mood.
Jackie unwraps the napkin from the cutlery that�s just been set down on the table.
�She needs to pull herself together and count herself lucky she�s alive. I would.�
�How do you know what you�d do if you�ve never been in that position?� Libby points out. �Her friend died. She can�t compete anymore.�
�Well,� Jackie flounders. �Why doesn�t she get herself a boyfriend? Take her mind off things.�
�There was one,� I say. �But he chucked her.�
�A guy is the answer to her problems?� Libby is shaking her head. �I think they�re a wee bit deeper rooted than that.�
�It wouldn�t do her any harm to get out and meet people,� Jackie counters, �instead of hiding herself away in her room. That�s no doing her any good, is it?�
We�re in the caf� for a few hours. Libby moves her chair closer to mine. �Are you coming out dancing tonight?� she asks.
�Naw. I�m under strict instructions. Back by half-eleven. You can still go.� I�m hoping she�ll say no.
She makes a face. �Don�t fancy it now.�
�Well, you can come back to mine. Stay the night.�
�Might do,� she says. �Depends on what you�ve got in mind.� She breaks into a smile when I whisper a few ideas in her ear.
At half-six, we get up to leave. The others decide to stay a bit longer, but I pay up for Jackie, Libby and me. Outside it�s been raining a bit, but it�s off now. A car almost splashes Libby�s new jeans. At Buchanan Street, I point out some shoes I�m after and we window shop and dream of what we�d do with theoretical lottery wins and future mega salaries.
�Holidays in the Caribbean,� Libby sighs.
�Sydney,� Jackie corrects.
�I�m going to have a flat in Paris, a great job, and glam women with fast cars who�ll drop to their knees at the mere snap of my suspender belt,� I say.
Libby comes to a halt. �And what are you intending them to do down there?� She gives me a shove. �Are you saying I�ll have gotten the push by then?�
A shop window catches my attention. Two dummies stand, hair weaving upwards, dresses billowing, one dress blood red. The background is aquatic with seaweed snaking up and fish frozen in mid-swim. The whole scene is rippling with light, like sunlight through water. Jackie pretends to swim by with a breaststroke, Libby goes for a butterfly crawl. They break into a run. �Last one to the pub pays for the drinks,� Libby calls back. They shoot around the corner. I�m still looking at the window.
* I was lying reading on my bed when news of the accident came. Mum took the call downstairs, and though I couldn�t hear her words, my heart immediately began to thump.
Going to the hospital, seeing other people laughing and smiling on the street, I wished I could swap places with them. Orla�s mum, Liz, was waiting for us in a side room, along with Orla�s aunt, Roz. They told us there was no news. I sat down beside Liz and put my arm around her and she burst into tears.
Orla had gone out with Penny, her swimming pal, Roz told us. On the way to a party, a truck had run into the side of the car. Penny was dead and her dad was badly injured. The fire brigade had to come and cut them out. Orla was in the operating room.
When the doctor finally came, it was to talk a load of rubbish that made me want to shout at him. He used words like serious and stable and said something about her spine. I couldn�t take it in. He said there was room for optimism. He didn�t look like he meant it. Later, Liz and Roz got in to see her briefly. I waited outside the hospital with Mum. The smell of the place made me feel sick, took me back years, and I could see Mum�s hand shaking too.
I couldn�t sleep when we got home. On the shelf beside my bed there was a photo of Dad and me on a beach in Spain, when I was five. I was in front and he was kneeling behind me, holding on to my arms as I leaned forward, grinning at the camera. My hair was in messy pigtails with the parting all uneven, so he probably put them in himself. He was smiling, but his eyes were hollowed out, his body frail. The photo beside that was Orla in her swimming costume, a medal around her neck. I lifted the two frames from the shelf and sat holding them all night.
* At the pub Jackie and Libby have given up waiting for their drinks. A can of Irn Bru is sitting on the table we habitually occupy. Libby must have disappeared up to the loos, but her jacket�s tossed to the back of the booth. Jackie is talking to one of the barmen. I pull the ring off the can and take a gulp, then pop outside with the mobile. It rings a few times before Orla�s mum answers.
�Hi Liz. Can you put Orla on?�
�She�s having a lie down.�
�I thought I�d try and get her to come out with us tonight. You know, get her mixing with people.�
Liz sighs. �Aye, she could do with it. I�ll get her to call you.�
Back inside the pub, Libby and Jackie are in the booth. The rest of the gang start to turn up from the gay centre. They�re in high spirits, voices raised. Although it�s still early, there�s a good atmosphere building up.
* It was a couple of months after the accident when I met Libby. We were just friends to begin with, and Orla was funny about her from the beginning.
�She�s jealous,� Libby said one time I was sounding off about things. We were at my place, sitting on the bed watching old episodes of Bad Girls. �You�re supposed to be her best friend, and here you are hanging around with someone else, while she�s stuck learning how to walk all over again.�
�But I�m at the hospital near enough every day.�
Libby was quiet for a moment. �Maybe she feels she can�t compete with our relationship.�
�How do you mean?� I asked in a shaky voice.
�Well, we�re both gay, so maybe she feels left out.�
�Oh.� I�d been hoping she meant something else.
�Give her time. She�ll come round.� Libby got up and started fixing her hair in the mirror. She had a mad bob, all different colours of blond and red and brown. Returning to the bed, her foot hit something. She hunkered down and started pulling out drawers from underneath the bed. �I didn�t know you were a Barbie girl.� She waved two dolls around, one blond, the other brunette.
I took one and smoothed its silky dark hair. �Orla wasn�t into dolls, so I got all her stuff. I�d design clothes and act out stories.� I paused, remembering. �My brunette Barbie � Babs, I called her � spent all her time rescuing Orla�s blond Barbie � Bibi � from an old action man I found in a charity shop. He had a patch over his eye and a missing arm. Anyway, they would have all these adventures, parachute down from planes, swim across shark-infested waters��
�The bath?� Libby suggested with a straight face.
�Garden pond. And I�d build these tents and houses for them to stay in along the way. But there would only ever be one bed or sleeping bag, and they�d have to take off their clothes and get in together.�
�And what happened then?� Libby sat herself on the edge of the bed, looking at me through a thick lock of hair hanging over her forehead.
Unable to hold her gaze, I glanced down at the doll instead. �Well, I wasn�t altogether sure on the details. Kissing and stuff at the very least.�
Libby took the doll from me and put it aside. When she leaned forward slowly, I didn�t turn away. Her lips reminded me of tangerine segments, ripe and firm. Her skin was even softer than I�d imagined. Then she pulled away and we sat side by side, my heart beating madly.
When I got round to telling Orla about it all, it was like she hadn�t even heard. She started talking about her physiotherapy and another patient on the ward.
�Did ye hear me? I said, me and Libby��
�I heard.� She was twisting an elastic band around her fingers, tighter and tighter until it was ready to burst.
�Is it because she�s a girl?�
Orla threw me a look.
�I mean, because you think I�m not your best friend anymore. Cos it�s not true. It�s not the same thing.�
�I know it�s not.�
�You and me, we�re like sisters. We�re more than best friends.�
She looked at me properly then. �Are we?�
I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. �Course we are.�
* I�m pulled into the present by the vibration of the mobile. I take it outside. Orla�s voice is quiet to begin with. �Look, I don�t fancy going out. I�m just about to have a bath. The water�s running, and Mum�s out, so I can�t talk for long.�
�Oh, okay.�
�How�s the pub?�
�Well, a sizeable proportion are selflessly dedicating themselves to the goal of lung cancer for everyone. You�d have been in your element tonight.�
�Water�s my element,� Orla says. There�s a pause.
I gave Orla a candle once, with two wax mermaids. This was long before the accident. The candle was too good to use. More like a sculpture. After she got out of hospital, she made Liz take down all the photographs of her with medals, and put away all the trophies. Liz keeps everything in a box in the garage. I half expected the candle to do a disappearing act too, but it still sits on her dressing table.
�Look, why don�t we go to see a film tomorrow?� I suggest. �You check out the listings.�
�Maybe.� It sounds as if she�s puffing on another cigarette. �You never finished telling me about your dream.�
�Och, there wasn�t an ending. I just woke up.�
Someone bumps into me as I�m tucking the phone away. �Hello, Miss Stevenson,� I say to the taller of the two women going inside. �Is that your girlfriend? Not bad.� I follow them into the pub. �By the way, Miss, I�ve got a stoater of a history essay for you. I positively slaved over it.� To the girlfriend I say, �If you ever get fed up with her, why not give me a shout?�
She looks me over carefully. �Maybe, when you�ve stopped playing with your rattle.�
I�m trying to think of a smart reply when Miss Stevenson spins on her heel and says to me, �Josie, how is Orla? I didn�t see her in class yesterday.�
�Ehhh.� Orla and I are no longer in the same year, never mind the same class. She�s having to do fourth year all over again. �I think she was having a really bad period. Had to go home. Hot water bottles and all that.�
Miss Stevenson�s got that expression she always wears when someone says they�ve forgotten their homework.
�Would I lie about a thing like that?� I object? �Have you ever had a bad period? Head down the toilet, the entire contents of your stomach splattered everywhere, weaving in and out of near unconsciousness from the pain��
Miss Stevenson isn�t buying any of this. �I haven�t seen Orla in class all week. So you tell her I expect her arse to be parked at her desk first thing Monday morning, or there will be re-per-cussions.�
�Orla�s in big bloody trouble,� I tell Libby afterwards.
As the hands on my watch go round, the pub fills up. By half-nine, a sea of smoke submerges us all. Suddenly, I�m fed up. �I fancy going soon,� I shout at Libby, over the music.
She nods.
Smoke stretches above our heads. I want to stand on a table and breath some air. The music is thumping, but there�s a muffled quality, that reminds me of being underwater. The bass of the music rolls around under the lyrics like thunder. My head feels heavy all of a sudden, everything around me swaying back and forth.
�You okay, Josie?� Libby wavers in front of me a moment, then everything�s back to normal.
�I just felt weird for a moment.�
�Come on,� she says. She hunts down our bags and tosses my jacket to me.
�You two off?� Jackie shouts.
�Aye, it�s too busy.�
On the way out I say my goodbyes to Miss Stevenson. She glances at Libby. �You two off to do your homework?�
Libby winks at her. �There are some aspects of sex education that aren�t covered in class. And we�re conscientious pupils.�
On the bus home, Libby chats away, but I hardly hear a word, thinking instead of Orla in her bath, puffing away, with the bathroom window open because Liz hates her smoking and wont let her do it in the house.
* The first time Orla went swimming after getting out of hospital, we were on holiday in Spain. At first she wouldn�t go near the water. And that made me reluctant to go in too.
�Why aren�t you swimming?� Mum asked me one morning we were up early enough to get a decent position by the pool. I couldn�t help glancing at Orla who was sitting stretched out on a lounger, reading a magazine, wearing thin white trousers and a top. She was self-conscious about her scars. Her excuse for keeping covered up was that she didn�t want skin cancer.
�No, just lung cancer,� Liz said back one time.
Liz had been saving up for this holiday for months. She was convinced a bit of sun and blue skies would do the world of good. I was beginning to doubt this and we�d hardly got here. Orla had been in a stinker of a mood since we�d left Glasgow, and I was the one stuck sharing a room with her.
�Orla, why don�t you go for a swim with Josie?� Liz suggested.
There was the rustling of a page as Orla continued to screen her face behind a glossy magazine. �I didn�t bring a costume.�
�Well, you can go up and change.�
�She didn�t bring one on holiday, she means,� I said.
�You keep telling me there�s more to life than swimming,� Orla pointed out, letting her magazine fall to her lap. �And now all you want to do is sit around a bloody pool.�
�That�s not true. But there are other people here as well, in case you�d forgotten. Maybe Josie wants to go in the pool.�
�Actually,� I interrupted, �I�m not really bothered.�
Liz lay back. She looked like she was going to cry. �Do you think I�m pushing too hard?� she said in a low voice to Mum, once Orla had gone back to her magazine and plugged in a pair of earphones to complete her withdrawal.
Mum shrugged. �If she doesn�t want to do it, you might as well leave it.�
We concentrated on sightseeing the next few days, visiting small villages and markets where we bought souvenirs and local crafts. When we went for a walk in the hills, Orla got tired first. I deliberately slipped on some stones and scraped my leg. This was an excuse to stop without making her feel she was holding us up. While I rubbed away the beads of blood and bits of dirt with a hanky and spit, she sat on a rock looking out to sea, with the wind blowing her hair about.
Because we were in a quieter resort, the beaches, away from the hotel complex, were long and empty. A couple of visits there, and Orla�s mood seemed to lighten a little. But she never went near the water. Just walked along the beach on her own, or in spite of her claims about skin cancer, stretched out fully clothed on the sand while her face, neck, arms and feet tanned.
And then early one morning, I was woken by her moving around. It was obvious she was trying not to wake me. Through half-closed eyes I watched her come out of the bathroom with a rolled up towel. She let herself out quietly. I lay for a few minutes before getting up. Opening the French windows and stepping out onto the balcony, I caught sight of her by the pool. No one else was about. She stood looking down at the water for a long time, before pulling off her T-shirt and going to sit at the edge, her trouser legs rolled up, feet splashing in the water. I could see the top half of a bathing costume I�d seen in one of the resort shops.
After a while she took the trousers off and slipped into the water. I saw her swim a few strokes. Stop. Then have another go. She swam underwater a few metres, then resurfaced and climbed out, sitting on the edge again. Her chest was rising and falling steadily. When she returned to the room, I didn�t tell her I�d seen her. After that, she went out to the pool a few times during the rest of the holiday, but always alone, always early.
At the beach, one afternoon, she sat on the wet sand and let the waves rush over her, turning her trousers transparent.
�It pushes you away and pulls you back,� she said to me later when I walked out the water and threw myself down beside her.
�The sea?�
She didn�t answer. Just looked out towards the horizon.
* Rainwater pours down the windows of the bus. When we pass the end of Orla�s street, I can see all the lights are out in the house. Looks like she�s had an early night after all. At my stop, we step off and pull our jackets over our heads, making a sprint for my gate, and the raindrops splatter my legs and I remember I�m still wearing the skirt. Inside the porch, I change into my jeans.
Mum is in the living room watching telly. �You�re early.�
�It was getting too smoky.�
�You staying over?� she asks Libby. �Remember to call your mother.�
�How are you feeling now?� Libby asks later, as she sits on the corner of my bed with a slice of toast in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other.
�Fine. It was nothing.� The telly is on and I�ve got the remote in my hand. Flicking channels, I see it�s the usual Saturday night rubbish.
Libby picks up the photo of Dad and me on the beach from the shelf. �What�s Orla�s dad like?�
�I�ve hardly ever met him. If it wasn�t for his wife reminding him, he�d probably never send Orla a birthday card, never mind a present.�
Libby puts the picture back and yawns. �I�m glad I didn�t go out dancing.�
I get up to brush my teeth. There�s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom that Libby uses when she stays over. She takes my place and I switch off the TV and get ready for bed. Libby comes back in a pair of my pyjamas. On her they look baggy. She turns off the overhead light and we climb into bed, rolling onto our sides so that we�re face to face.
�I�m done in,� she says apologetically.
�Me too.�
She snuggles closer, her lips brushing mine softly. Then I turn off the bedside lamp and we lie together like spoons, one of her hands cradling my breast.
* Orla is underwater in the red dress, hair snaking out. Bubbles burst from her mouth and I lean forward to blow them away. I pop a few with my fingertip. Bubbles erupt from my own mouth and I�m conscious of the need to draw breath. But Orla is not just blowing air out, she�s drawing water in, breathing it. Her chest is rising and falling.
�I always knew I could do it,� she says in a strange muffled voice. �It was just a matter of working out how.�
My lungs are near to bursting. I can�t stay here longer and kick my way up to the sun-spangled sky. Orla breaks the surface after me. We�re in an outdoor pool, carved out of rocks. Behind us, a cliff climbs up, while the sea stretches out in front, the waves lapping over the edge of the pool.
�Look what I can do,� Orla says. She flips over, diving down. Her dress is gone now, a red cloud at the bottom of the pool. She has a tail, all silvery and gleaming that arced briefly when she flipped over. When she breaks the surface, her hair paints glossy patterns on her bare shoulders. She looks at me a long moment, then points out to sea. �I�m going out there.�
�When will I see you?�
She swims closer, winds her arms around me. I feel the softness of her cheek against mine and I know that she�s not coming back.
The waves are crashing into the pool, before drawing back. It�s like the sea is breathing in and out. Orla is carried away from me. Her watery tail, translucent, flashes for an instant, gleaming in the sun. Then she disappears into the sea beyond. A wave crashes over me. I swallow water going down and have to kick hard for the surface. But I reach air, and suddenly I�m sitting up, gasping for breath in darkness. My hand is at my chest and there�s the salty taste of tears in my mouth. Beside me, someone murmurs. And I remember, it�s Libby.
The luminous digits on the bedside clock tell me it�s quarter to one in the morning. The house is quiet. I lie back, pulling the quilt over my shoulder. My heart is thumping. I try to close my eyes, try to fall back into sleep, but the images from the dream are playing through my head on a loop. Opening my eyes, I stare hard into the darkness.
Downstairs, the telephone starts ringing.
� Kara Kellar Bell
Reproduced with permission
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