Night Swimming
Regan poured the remains of the bottle into her wine glass, little more than a dribble. She sighed and downed its contents, before getting up, a little unsteadily, then made her way to the kitchen. Opening the cabinet beside the sink, she reached for the Jack Daniels bottle near the back, pulled it out, and looked at the amber-coloured liquid inside the still-unopened bottle. It was a present that he had got for her last Christmas. Double-barrel; the good shit. Too good for her, she had said to him at the time, whilst planting an appreciative kiss on his stubbly cheek.
Regan was a philistine when it came to alcohol, particularly spirits. She doubted she’d be able to taste much difference between this and the regular stuff, despite her fiancé insisting otherwise. Her reluctance to open it had at first been down to wanting to save it for a special occasion. Then she’d found out he’d been fucking his ex - one of her closest friends - for the last year-and-a-half. After that, she’d refused to drink it out of principle. She’d eliminated every part of him from the flat; every photo, a piece of artwork that he’d bought her just after they got engaged - one of of her favourites that she’d found she could no longer bear to look at it - every souvenir or memento from all the holidays they’d shared over the past seven years, every book and every ornament. The only thing she hadn’t parted with was this bottle. She just couldn’t bring herself to pour eighty-quid’s worth of whiskey down the sink, and no-one she knew really drank the stuff.
So, in the cupboard, it had remained. Out of sight and out of mind…until now. She’d not been that much a drinker before, and never a solo drinker. A few wines or beers at the weekend with Owen, or the occasional cocktail with the girls, usually at whatever overpriced hipster bar some influencer had recommended. The last one she’d gone to, in some gentrified corner of East-London, had served her Mai Tai in what appeared to be an empty spam tin.
Her alcohol intake had gradually increased over the past few weeks. It seemed to be all she had, her only real, albeit temporary, source of comfort. Her friends, though well-meaning, and quick to tell Regan how much better-off she was without the pair of them, just didn’t get it. They couldn’t comprehend the sense of betrayal, the deceit, and the feeling that she’d squandered the last seven years of her life to a meaningless relationship, and had nothing to show for it but a sick, empty feeling deep in her gut.
“Better you know now, than after you get married,” was basically the gist of most of the exchanges she’d had with them.
Still, that was more empathetic than the words of advice her mother had offered. No, not offered…inflicted was more accurate.
”You know, Regan, everyone deserves second chances. Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to end things over a silly mistake.”
A silly mistake. Had she honestly expected anything different, though? The man could have been charged with murder and she would still no doubt try to convince Regan to take him back.
“And it’s not like you’re getting any younger, sweety.”
And there it was, right there. The only reason mother dearest was so keen for her daughter stay in a broken relationship. Regan’s thirtieth was next year. A fact her mother seemed intent on frequently reminding her of. The look of relief on her face when the pair had announced their engagement had not escaped Regan, nor what that look meant: she no longer needed to worry about her daughter being ‘left on the shelf’. About what her snooty, judgemental friends might think.
Defeated and disappointed, but not particularly surprised by where the conversation was heading, Regan got up and headed to the living room door.
“I don’t have the energy to argue about this, mum. And that’s not what I came here for. I wanted to let you know the engagement is off. I’m leaving Owen.”
She made her way to the front door, her mother’s voice following her down the hallway.
“Don’t be so stubborn! You’ll regret this!”
Regan closed the front door behind her, fighting back the tears.
“At least think about it!”
Right. Like it wasn’t all she’d thought about after finding that Whatsapp message.
She hadn’t even been snooping. Not at first. She’d had no clue anything was going on. Either Owen had concealed it very well, or she had been too naive to pick up on anything being amiss.
She’d flopped on the sofa one evening after a long, stressful day, and, on hearing the notification, had absently picked his phone up from the coffee table. She’d honestly thought it was her own phone; they looked pretty similar, and she half-remembered chucking hers somewhere nearby when getting in from work. The message flashed up for just a second, but long enough for her to see what it said. And who it was from. It was a short message, but those six words made her heart stop:
I think we should tell her.
From Zara. Her best friend since childhood. It was no secret that she and Owen had had a bit of a fling before Regan got together with him, but their time together had been brief, and things had ended between them, the year before her and Owen had got together. In the years since, they had remained on friendly terms, only seeing each other at parties, and gatherings with mutual friends…or so Regan had thought. She’d sensed nothing between them. And at any rate, Zara now lived in London. Even Regan didn’t see her much more then every couple of months these days.
She had kept silent at first after seeing the message, and quickly returned the phone to the coffee table, before Owen came into the room moments later, his face sullen upon picking it up. When Regan - attempting to keep her voice as neutral as she possibly could - enquired if everything was okay, he muttered something about work shit, and took the phone into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Some subsequent digging - via mutual friends and connections, and good old social media - had revealed they had been in contact, at least once-weekly, when Owen was presumably travelling ‘for work’, since approximately Spring of last year. A year or so after which she had become pregnant. She had been insistent on not having an abortion, a close source had reluctantly shared, and wanted Owen to move in with her, in her flat in Brixton. He was less enthusiastic, apparently wanting to continue leading a double life.
Regan wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she confronted them both separately, but she hadn’t been prepared for Zara’s reaction. Unlike Owen’s grovelling apologies, and insistence that it was over, that he wanted nothing to do with Zara or the baby, her former best friend had seemed almost relieved to find out that Regan knew everything. Her apology sounded half-hearted, and she appeared more concerned about her future with Owen than with salvaging a friendship of almost twenty years. She’d made little contact with Regan, and virtually no attempts had been made to even try and make amends.
The weeks since that encounter had been a hazy blur of weed, wine and whatever other booze Regan had had to hand; late nights, missed alarm- clocks, and disciplinary meetings. It wasn’t just her frequently showing up an hour or two late to work; once there she was barely productive, increasingly unable to focus, and her work was becoming shoddier by the day. Things had come to a head two days ago, when she’d arrived over an hour late, dishevelled and probably still smelling of booze. No more warnings, they’d told her. They had no choice but to let her go.
She unscrewed the bottle, and managed to find a clean glass, despite the mounting pile of dirty cups, glasses and crockery by the sink, taunting her. She half-filled the tumbler, then pulled a can of coke out of the fridge, and poured it over the whiskey. She was pretty sure you were supposed to drink high-end stuff like this neat; poured over ice and sipped slowly, savoured. But she’d never been able to bring herself to drink any spirits straight, not even shots.
She took a gulp…not bad at all. She thought it tasted slightly sweeter and smoother than the usual stuff she was more accustomed to, but it could be in her head. She took another two gulps, then re-filled her glass, this time making it a double. Or was it a triple? Who was counting anyway? She downed half the glass and wandered back into the lounge, now swaying slightly. She returned to her favourite spot on the sofa, and picked up the book she’d been trying to read, managed a few lines then tossed it aside, unable to concentrate. She switched on the TV instead, selecting one of her favourite comfort shows - a brightly-coloured sitcom with unattainably-pretty people living in swanky apartments that they surely couldn’t afford on their meagre salaries - and watched for a few minutes. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and began absently scrolling through TikTok and Instagram, as she sipped her drink. Videos of cute animals, good dancing, bad dancing, hair and make-up tutorials and cleaning hacks, sponsored posts, obnoxious ads from ‘life coaches’, the latest must-have beauty gadgets and influencers wearing clothing she could never afford - all flashed before her, briefly imprinting themselves on her brain, and seeping into her subconscious, before vanishing and making way for the next one.
Whilst watching a reel about another life-changing serum that she absolutely could not afford to ignore, a notification from Facebook informed Regan it was Carrie Beaumont’s birthday. Carrie was an old friend from secondary school. Except ‘friend’ wasn’t quite accurate. She was fairly sure Carrie had hated her guts…yet that hadn’t stopped her sending a friend request a few months after they’d left school or stopped Regan, who had not been particularly fond of her either, from accepting. Because that was the way it worked, wasn’t it? Regan opened up Facebook, then paused, undecided whether or not to leave an insincere and generic birthday greeting. She began typing…then she remembered when she and Carrie had bumped into each other in Morrison’s a few months back. Regan, after catching her eye, had smiled and begun to say ‘hello’, only for the bitch (who had most definitely seen her), to blank her, and continue down the cereal aisle.
“Fuck it.” Regan said out loud, startling Ziggy, her tabby, who was currently curled-up on the opposite end of the couch, and had been sleeping peacefully. Ziggy regarded Regan through half-closed eyes, probably wondering what could possibly have been worth disturbing his all-important nap for, before resting his head back on his paws and closing his eyes. “Sorry Zig,” his owner murmured. Regan deleted the birthday wish she had begun to type, and instead, looked through her feed for any vaguely interesting updates from her family and friends, navigating through ads to do so. Not one, but two videos with chirpy American girls telling her how she could “manifest all her goals, her hopes and her dreams,” if she only signed up for their free webinar and enrolled in their exclusive 10-day course. She’d foolishly clicked on one of these links a few weeks ago, mainly to find out what the actual fuck this manifestation shit was all about. That was all it had taken, of course, to open the floodgates to more of this twaddle. Rookie mistake. She clicked on ‘comment’ beneath the second video, and paused briefly, before typing if this really works, why not manifest yourself a pile of cash instead of screwing over suckers? She pressed ‘send’ before resuming scrolling. Pictures from a friend’s work do, about eighty photos of her cousin’s admittedly cute baby daughter, sun-drenched holiday snaps posted by an ex co-worker, mostly selfies and bikini shots. Suggested ‘news’ articles about supposed celebrities she’d neither heard of nor cared about. An article from the Essex Echo, accompanied by a picture of a half-smiling young man.
Police are appealing for the public’s help in locating Jerome Tyler. Last seen in the Westcliff area on October 20th, wearing a grey parka and a red beanie hat. 18 years old, he is described as 5ft 9, slim and with short dark hair. Please contact the police if you have information regarding his whereabouts.
She dutifully clicked ‘share’, went to get herself another drink, then returned to her spot and continued reading and scrolling. More ads, more webinars, more promises to change her life. She closed the app and tossed her phone on the sofa…went to pick it up again after a few seconds, then stopped herself, feeling suddenly restless. She needed to get out of here, that’s what she needed to do. To clear her head. A brisk seafront walk - the fresh air would sharpen her up a bit.
She went to her room to grab her Converse, then her eyes fell on her trainers, her proper trainers that was. Her running shoes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone for a run. Her regular twice-weekly runs had become once weekly. Then once fortnightly. Then at some point within the last couple of months, had stopped altogether, when she’d become unable to motivate herself to do much more than get out of bed and shower. She’d never really been one for exercise, and hated gyms, but had enjoyed her runs sometimes, particularly late in the evening or early in the morning when the streets were virtually deserted, and the seafront almost void of dog walkers and cyclists. They allowed her time to think, free of any distractions. It was during these that she had done a lot of the basic planning for the wedding that would have been next year. It was also during an evening run that she had made the decision to leave Owen.
She glanced out of the bedroom window. It was no longer raining, as it had been earlier, but was still cold and dark. Owen had always hated her going out to run after dark. And that was when she was sober. She could almost hear his voice now, telling her how nuts she was. She’d downed a bottle of Sauvignon, followed by 42% whiskey and had had nothing to eat today but a sandwich. What was she thinking? She almost listened to this imaginary voice, almost heeded its advice, made a cup of tea and had an early night. But that urge to run, to feel the cold air on her skin, and the pavement under her feet, was stronger than ever. Regan pulled her running shoes on, sitting on the bed to do so. She struggled a little with the laces, having bent down too suddenly. She straightened up, closed her eyes for a few seconds, until the dizziness subsided, then tried again; success. She peeled off her jumper and changed into a sports bra and t-shirt, pulling a hoody over the top, then attempted a few half-arsed stretches. She had never been great at warming up, but thankfully, was flexible enough to have never suffered any injuries from lack of stretching more severe than sore ham strings the next day. Or she was just lucky.
A few minutes later Regan was outside. It had begun raining again, but that was okay. It was only a light drizzle, and felt almost refreshing on her warm cheeks. She had never ran drunk before, and it felt good. The usual anxieties she had around tripping or falling - she had done so several times and although thankfully not too serious, it had hurt like a bitch each time - had melted away. She ran fast…or maybe she just thought she was; she had read somewhere that people running, cycling, or even just walking at night time often felt they were moving fast, even if their movements were the same speed or slower than during the day. Something to do with not being able to see faraway objects or landmarks in the dark, leading to an increased sense of speed. She passed by her local chip shop, her stomach growling at the welcoming scent floating out of the open door, and continued down the road towards the seafront, past takeaway restaurants, and shops mostly closed, except off-licenses and convenience stores.
She slowed her pace a little once she reached the seafront, taking a moment to breathe in the sea air, and feel the cold breeze ruffle her hair. Jogging slowly, almost walking, she closed her eyes for just a moment, listening to the rhythmic sound of the waves. Seconds later, an abrupt impact broke her out of her trance. She opened her eyes in time to see the tall man before her, one hand clutching his phone, the other stuffed into the pocket of a large padded coat. His face appeared disgruntled beneath the hood.
“Sorry!”
Regan exclaimed, flustered and beginning to step aside to allow him to pass.
“Stupid cunt!”
The man spewed, shoving past her.
“Fuck you, I said I was sorry!”
She shouted after him. Why were people so bloody rude these days? Where did he even come from anyway?
She resumed jogging, this time with her eyes fully open. The rain had become steadier; not heavy, but no longer a drizzle, and had deterred most of the dog walkers and fellow-joggers resilient enough to brave the cold night air. Whilst the cars continued to pass alongside her, the pavement and cycle-lane that stretched up ahead were deserted, with the exception of two figures ahead, walking side-by-side.
The tide was in, and the wind that had begun to pick up, was less than forgiving. She increased her pace, to combat the chill she was beginning to feel. It worked; after a few minutes, sweaty and out-of-breath, she paused, leaning on the wall that separated the sand and pavement, and gazed out towards the inky watery depths, almost indistinguishable from the navy sky, except for the movement of the frothy waves, illuminated by the subdued glow of the moon.
Regan looked at the anchored boats, bobbing on the rippling surface. She frowned, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, opened them, then looked out towards the same spot. She was still there. At least it appeared to be a she, even beneath the moon’s rays it was hard to tell for sure. A slim figure, with long hair, hanging in wet clumps, standing perfectly still in water that reached above their knees, and facing the shore. Looking at her. Except, that was silly. Regan could barely ascertain the figure was female, never mind be able to make out her face. It was impossible to tell what she was looking at. That didn’t stop a chill - that was nothing to do with the weather this time - from running down her spine. She shook off this irrational fear and looked around her. The couple she’d spotted and passed by earlier were long gone, and there was no-one else around. What should she do? The figure didn’t appear to be in any trouble, or struggling at all. It’s not like she was drowning. Should she just leave her to it? Whatever ‘it’ was…swimming? She knew there were some nut-cases that thought nothing of going for a dip in the ocean in ice-cold temperatures, and insisted how good it felt once your body got used to it. But at night time? - and fully clothed?
“Hey!” Regan shouted. Would she be able to hear her above the sounds of the waves and passing cars?
“Hey!” Louder this time. “Are you okay?” The figure remained motionless.
As loud as she could manage, leaning over the wall this time, Regan bellowed “Do you need help?”
Nothing. No reaction or change in position.
Seconds passed, then… the figure moved. Just slightly. The left hand raised slowly by her side, in some kind of gesture. A wave? It stopped, and didn’t move, just remained by the silent figure’s side, fingers outstretched. Disturbed, Regan tore her eyes away, and began walking, looking back every few seconds. Each time she was still there, same position, hand suspended as if frozen mid-greeting.
When enough distance was between them that she was nothing more than a vague shape, Regan began running again.
She was suddenly very thirsty, and wished she’d thought to bring water with her. Whilst not sober, she felt a little less sluggish than she had when she’d left the flat, and was able to sustain a steady pace. She thought about the girl, about what she could have been doing. About how cold the water must be. What it would be like to swim in. Regan enjoyed swimming. In pools, or even in the sea, provided the waves weren’t too rough, and the temperature agreeable. But in the dark? And in
Winter? Where the water and land beneath it was nothing but a dark mass, and distance almost impossible to measure? Where you could so easily become disoriented and turned-around if you weren’t careful, even swept away by the relentless waves? Despite how horrifying it seemed, Regan couldn’t suppress the morbid curiosity that was growing within her now-spiralling imagination. She slowed her pace, then stopped by some steps connecting the pavement to the beach.
She told herself she’d stopped because she needed to catch hear breath, stretch a little. Yet even after stretching for several minutes, she found herself unable to move on. She remained by the steps, mesmerised, losing herself to the sounds of the waves. It almost sounded as if they were calling her name. Not in a frightening, but soothing way. She found herself moving towards the steps, climbing them slowly, the sweat drying on her skin. Her trainers sunk into the sand. She used to run on the sand. It was better for your joints, less impact on them. Low impact or not, she’d soon given up and began running on pavement or grass instead. Sand was fucking hard to run on, her feet had sunk with every step, with no bounce to elevate them. Walking was okay though. She removed her shoes and socks so she could feel the sand. It felt cool, but not too cold against her hot feet. She began moving again, this time towards the water, wincing a little at the sharpness of the small rocks that peppered the sand. The rational part of her brain intervened. Asked her what she was actually doing here. Was she really going for a dip in the sea? A line from a forgotten character in an old Simpsons episode floated through her mind. Something about alcohol and night swimming. It hadn’t ended well. The hazy, hypnotised and still intoxicated part of her insisted she just wanted to dip her feet, see how it felt. How do you think it’s going to feel? She was a couple of feet away now.
A few steps later, edging closer to the water’s edge, Regan felt a strange, but not entirely unpleasant sensation of being pulled forward. A large wave suddenly rolled in, lapping over her bare feet. She gasped, taken aback by just how aggressive the coldness of it was. The wave descended, leaving frothy seaweed in its path. Okay, we’ve established that it’s fucking cold, can we turn back already?? Her feet were still moving, however, wanting to feel that sensation again. Moments later she was ankle-deep. The cold just as harsh and unforgiving the second time. Another wave rolled in, drenching her leggings, and sending jolts of icy pain through her lower shins and calves. Yet still she found herself taking another step. Then another. She thought she felt a shard of glass just grazing the side of her bare foot, or a particularly sharp stone, her foot was too numb to be able to tell. Her lower legs and knees screamed in protest as another wave temporarily submerged them, threatening to cramp up. She almost stumbled, but retained her balance.
That’s enough now, for Christ’s sake, do you want to kill yourself?
“Maybe I do.”
What the fuck? She stopped abruptly. Where had that come from? Some deeply-buried part of her subconscious? Things had been bad lately. Pretty fucking bad actually…but that bad?
No. Not that bad. She didn’t want to die.
Yet, for just a split-second, she had done. To just end it. To walk out, and to keep walking, until the water slipped over like a blanket, and say goodnight and fuck you to the world.
She squeezed her eyes shut, tight. Took a deep breath. Nope. She wasn’t dying. Not tonight, and not like this. She was going to go home and have a hot shower. Then get into her PJs and curl up on the sofa with Ziggy and a hot chocolate. Tomorrow things would be better. Tomorrow would be a fresh start.
As appealing as all this was, she still couldn’t bring herself to move, to walk back to the sand, find her trainers and head home. As much as she tried to turn around, she just couldn’t do it. Worse still, although she was standing motionless, she couldn’t fight that inexplicable urge to keep moving forward. To her horror, she realised her right foot was actually moving…very slowly, but it was gradually working its way out of the sand that it had begun to sink into as she had stood stationary, and was taking a step forward. The other foot was beginning to do the same.
No…
The right foot took another step. Then the left.
No!
Two more steps. She couldn’t stop. Her legs no longer felt like her own. She clasped her right-thigh with both hands, hard enough to feel the sharpness of her nails, even through the fabric of her leggings. It made no difference. The water was now lapping at her knees. Any traces of sluggishness had vanished. She was in full panic-mode now. She turned to look around her desperately. There were no pedestrians, just cars. She shouted, waving her arms. She was sure they wouldn’t hear her, but they might be able to see her; the moon was full and cast its dim light across the water. She turned back around, lowering her arms, suddenly worried she might fall if she continued thrashing them whilst her legs were moving, seemingly independently. She had a sudden, eerie notion that if she were to fall, it would be all over. She would not be getting up. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and with every ounce of strength she could muster, she was able to slow her legs. Not stop them, but slow them, just a little. She grimaced, sweat pouring from her pores, then exhaled, her legs resuming their course at usual speed. The effort of trying to stop them had drained all her energy, to the point where she feared she might pass out if she did it too long.
The water was around her thighs and colder than anything she had ever felt before in her life. She looked all around her, dragging in deep, terrified gasps of air, scanning her surroundings for anything that could help, that she could use. Of course, there was nothing. What was she expecting, a dinghy and a flare gun? There were a handful of boats further out, but of course, no-one was operating them at this time of year and at this hour.
Or were they? Regan squinted. She could’ve sworn she saw one of them moving. Not bobbing about on the waves, like the others, but actually moving. Just for a moment. Was it just a trick of the moonlight, or wishful thinking. The boat was bigger than the others, and looked to be older. She couldn’t make out the name printed on the side from this distance, but she thought she spotted a couple of ‘e’s and what looked like an ‘h’ somewhere in the middle. She saw a flash of white; the somewhat shabby sail flapping in the wind, then saw the ship turn slightly, almost as if in her direction. It was definitely moving! As relief and excitement rushed over her, Regan shouted for help as loud as she could, and raised her arms; she couldn’t help herself this time. She gauged the direction between her and the ship, and wondered if it would reach her in time. The water was now up to her waist. She could feel little sensation now in her legs, but she knew they were still moving. She was sure whoever was manning the boat had seen her…they had to have done, as it was definitely sailing towards her now, yet she raised her arms again for good measure.
“Hurry!” Please hurry!”
She yelled at the top of her lungs.
She sensed a movement in her peripheral vision and glanced to her left. Her arms, still waving frantically, froze mid-air. He was standing about twelve feet away, tall and motionless. Facing her. Too stunned at first to speak, Regan just stared. She had no idea where he’d come from. He certainly hadn’t been there moments before.
Who gives a shit where he came from, it’s another person! He can help you!
She found her voice. “Please…please help me!” she called, her arms returning to her side. “My legs. I.…” She didn’t know what else to say. He was walking towards her now. But slowly. Regan urged him to hurry, frustrated by the speed he was moving. Couldn’t he see she was in trouble? She tried again, then stopped, realisation dawning on her. He was plodding slowly in her direction with no urgency. Just one slow step after another, the same speed as her.
It had to be happening to him as well. Dismay washed over her. The ship was nearer now, but didn’t look near enough. The water almost reached her chest now and she was losing sensation in her torso as well as her legs. A wave swept by her, almost knocking her off her feet.
She once again used what felt like the last of her remaining strength to slow her legs. It helped, just a little, but enough to buy her some time.
The figure was nearer now. She gestured to the boat ahead and opened her mouth to try and tell him it was okay, help was on the way and stopped. Now just a few feet away, she could see him more clearly. Could see the mottled blue-ish grey of the skin on his face and neck, the seaweed dangling from his ears and draped like epaulettes on his shoulders. The two dark vacant sockets just beneath his stained red hat. An old audio cassette tape, something she hadn’t seen since her childhood, hung from the front of his coat, its twisted and tangled film wrapped around one of the buttons. She screamed, sure she was going to pass out. This time she wanted her legs to move, to get away from that thing, to put as much distance between them as possible, even if it meant stumbling further out into the ocean depths. The ship, her only chance of salvation, was closer now. She could see it more clearly, the decaying wood, the tattered sail. She still couldn’t decipher the name from this angle, but could see the first letter, a ‘P’ in dark paint, and a curve for the second letter that could have been an ‘o’ or perhaps another ‘e’. She didn’t care too much about the ship’s name however; her attention was drawn more to the figure standing at the bow. A female figure draped in a light-coloured, flowing fabric, her slim arms bare, with some kind of shawl or hood that partially obscured the face. Was it a dress? Whatever it was, it wasn’t standard boating attire…or at all weather-appropriate.
Her relief began to turn into trepidation. Whoever or whatever the ominous figure looking down at her was, it wasn’t here to help. She tried again to slow her legs, but she had no strength left to do so. Her chest was now submerged, the hood of her hoodie floating behind her. She screamed, but it was barely a whimper, not audible to anyone except these things. The boy was close now, but it hardly mattered, she was done for either way. She cried silent tears, thinking of who she was leaving behind. She wondered if Ziggy would be okay, and how long it would be before anyone noticed she was missing.
The boy’s arm was outstretched towards her. She batted it away, then remembered her keys in her pocket. The closest thing she had to a weapon. Drowning was one thing, but the thought of that thing touching her repulsed her. Her numb hand fumbled into one of the chest pockets of her hoody, trying to remember which one she’d put the keys to her flat in, and hoped they hadn't fallen out. Her fingers touched something, but it wasn’t her keys. Something oval and plastic, with a button protruding from the centre. Her eyes widened as she remembered what the object was. She remembered Owen giving it to her months ago, insistent that she take it with her on her night runs. She had done so, mainly to keep him happy, but had forgotten all about it until now. Her icy fingers pulled out the attack alarm from her pocket, held it above the water and pushed down on the rubber button, as hard as she could, praying the water hadn’t fucked it up. Miraculously, it worked. The sound tore through the night air, but too late. A harsh wave knocked her over. Before it did so, she was sure she’d felt a hand on her shoulder.
Regan shielded her eyes, squinting, as she looked out towards the water again. Even the sunglasses were doing little to block the glare of the sun. It was early May, yet the day was unseasonably sunny and warm, closer to midsummer than late Spring. The sun’s rays had turned the sea water a clear green-blue shade that Regan had rarely seen on any beach in the UK.
She still came down here sometimes. Not as often as she used to, but now and then. For walks though, not runs. And only during daylight hours. Preferably when it was busy. The crowds of tourists, once an annoyance to her, were now a source of comfort. The sea still mesmerised her, perhaps even more so than before. Only now she admired its beauty from a distance, and with a sense of caution. Much like one might admire a tiger at the zoo from behind the safety of the toughened glass. The sense of peace and tranquillity the sea once brought her, however, had all but gone.
It was six months since she’d awoken in hospital, dazed, disoriented, and confused under the fluorescent lights, her head thumping, her mouth dry and a sense of nausea growing in the pit of her stomach. After endless waiting, assessments, checks and evaluations, she’d been allowed to leave, just after 4am. Not without a list of numbers for numerous helplines though, and a referral to the mental health crisis team. They believed it was a suicide attempt, of course. What else would you call a person walking into the sea fully-clothed on a chilly November evening? Even the rape alarm (her rescuer had given the hospital staff a full account of what had happened when he’d heard the alarm and come to Regan’s aid, but hadn’t hung around after), hadn't convinced them otherwise. They simply believed she’d panicked and changed her mind, too intoxicated to drag herself back to shore. She’d ‘bottled it’ as she’d overheard one of the nurses casually inform his colleagues when she was believed to be sleeping. Her insistence that she wasn’t in control of her actions had done little to help her case, all it had done was suggest that she was potentially unhinged, as well as suicidal. On seeing the looks on the hospital staffs’ faces, and the exchanged glances, as she tried to explain that her legs had been moving on their own accord, she’d given up, not wanting to make things worse then they already were.
The months since then had not been easy. Not by a long stretch, but they had been bearable. She no longer drank, for one thing. There had been no AA meetings, no counselling…she had just stopped. There was simply no desire for it any more. The hazy numbness, once so alluring, at least in the weeks and months prior to that night, had since lost its lustre. Now the idea of drinking, the loss of control, the cloudiness, the vulnerability…it horrified her. For how long, she didn’t know. For now, at least, she was clear-headed and healthy. She stopped at an ice-cream kiosk. Mostly healthy. She had gained half-a-stone within the last few months, with food - particularly the sweet kind - filling the void that the wine and whiskey once had. She asked for a Mr Whippy, and fumbled in her purse for the fiver that she thought she’d seen in there earlier. Still, she thought, a few extra pounds were a small price to pay, considering the way her life had been headed half a year ago.
She had a new job now. It wasn’t much; basic entry-level office drone, but it paid the bills. It gave her a reason to get up in the mornings. A sense of purpose. Less opportunity for those thoughts to begin to seep in, polluting her mind and threatening her frail stability. Thoughts about drowning and darkness.
She sat on one of the benches, watching couples, families and groups of friends pass her by, as she devoured her ice-cream, and listened to the sounds of chattering and laughter, excited squeals of young children, barking dogs and the desperate cries of seagulls circling the sky above, darting down occasionally to help themselves to a dropped chip, or discarded sandwich crust.
She hadn’t talked much about what had happened. She wished she could. She wouldn’t have hesitated to have told Owen, back in the day. For all his faults, he would at least have listened. He wouldn’t have made her feel like some nut job, or subjected her to that look of pity that she’d seen on her friends’ faces when she tried telling them. Nor would Zara, although she would undoubtedly have responded with a healthy dose of doubt and scepticism.
She finished her cone and got up, wiping her slightly sticky hands on her shorts, as she walked towards the wall dividing the pavement from sand. Not far from where she’d stopped that cold night six months ago, before taking an impromptu dip. Unlike that night, the beach was now dotted with sunbathers and families, taking advantage of the warm weather. Toddlers and their parents paddled in the sea, and dogs yapped frantically at the waves, running in and out indecisively. Regan forced herself to look further out, towards the boats. They were still there, but mostly smaller, newer and colourful, none that looked shabby, old and decaying, and none with tattered white sails. She breathed a small sigh of relief.
Only one person, a friend from the law-firm she’d worked at (the only one who’d had her back in those barely-remembered days before she was fired), had listened and let her talk, without the patronising responses. And even then, Regan hadn’t told her everything. She hadn’t told her about the girl she thought she’d seen, standing thigh-deep in the icy water. Nor she had she told her about the boy, plodding towards her. The boy in the grey jacket and red beanie hat. She hadn’t told her about the ship, or the imposing figure standing at the front of that ship, shrouded in what had very much appeared to be a toga. Or the letters painted on the side, cracked and peeling, but still legible. Letters that she’d only glimpsed in full - seconds before she slipped below the glassy surface of the water - as the ship turned, just enough for her to make out the name:
PERSEPHONE