Stonemouth

‘Yeah, you’re going to be a lot of fun this evening,’ I mutter, and leave him propped against one of the porch’s pillars while I go to get Ellie.

‘And it has to be good shit!’ I hear him yell after me as I walk off. ‘None of that fucking drain-cleaner shite that makes your nose bleed frothy blue, d’you hear? I’ll pay you later! Be a generous tip! I’m good for it! Ha ha ha ha ha!’

Mike Mac’s place is less than ten minutes’ walk away, but it turns into a journey of nearly half an hour as Ellie and I escort Ferg there.

‘You’d be better off going home,’ I tell him as we approach the end of Olness Terrace and the turn that’ll take us — thankfully downhill — towards the MacAvetts’ house.

‘Don’t want to go home! I want to swim! And where’s my fucking coke?’

‘Don’t have any, Ferg.’

‘But I gave you the money!’

‘No you didn’t, Ferg.’

‘I gave him the money!’ Ferg says, turning to Ellie.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe you did, Ferg.’

‘What? Are you mad, woman? Who you going to believe? This proven liar who betrayed you five years ago and left you standing at the altar or as good as, or me, Ferg?’ Ferg tears his right arm out of my grip and thumps himself on the chest. I pull his arm back.

Ellie glances over at me. ‘I’ll believe Stewart, Ferg.’

‘You’re mad!’ He looks at me. ‘She’s mad!’

‘Sure we can’t just take you home, Ferg?’ Ellie asks.

‘Certainly not! Are we there yet?’ We decide to ring Jel.

‘Is it okay if we bring Ferg?’ I ask her.

‘Is he sober?’ Jel sounds like she knows this is a purely rhetorical question.

‘I’m so glad you asked,’ I tell her. ‘He’s incredibly sober. Unbelievably sober.’ Ferg stumbles over a paving stone and I help support him. ‘Staggeringly sober.’

‘He’s filthy drunk, isn’t he?’

‘Filthy hardly covers it.’

‘Well, okay, but he’s your responsibility.’

‘I was afraid you’d say that, but all right.’

Ferg’s practically asleep when we arrive. Jel greets us, all happy, smiling, pleased to see us. Well, pleased to see two-thirds of us. We leave Ferg snoring in the recovery position behind some potted palms on the floor of the old conservatory and join the party in the pool extension.

Ellie tracks sinuously back and forth through the waters of the MacAvett pool, looking as effortless as a dolphin, as though the ripples and waves around her are what power her, not the result of her effort. She uses the crawl in pools, mostly; in the sea, in anything other than a flat calm, she prefers sidestroke. Whatever stroke she employs, El inhabits it like she invented it herself.

Mrs Mac brings lots of tea and coffee and more food, in case we all haven’t gorged ourselves sufficiently up at the Mearnside. There are sandwiches on home-baked bread, home-made scones — plain, cheese and fruit — and home-made jams too. I try a little of everything. It’s all delicious.

I’m sitting, about midway along the long side of the pool, on a lounger under the palms. Above, rolled-back blinds reveal the glass roof covering the whole extension.

There are maybe twenty people here, all in their twenties, I’d guess, apart from one eighteen-year-old and Sue, who must be late forties at least and looks like she dyes her blonde hair, but is still trim. A few guys are drinking beers, a few women white wine or spritzers. I’m on my second pint of tap water, pacing myself earnestly and rehydrating. Mike Mac is in bed, having a snooze.

I’ve checked on Ferg once so far. Hasn’t moved. Snoring like a pig. I’m feeling a little dozy myself here in the humid, sunny warmth of the pool area. I’ve been watching Phelpie through half-shut eyes, watching the way he watches Jel when she’s swimming or just walking around, sitting, talking. Does our Phelpie harbour certain feelings for the delightful Anjelica? I do believe he might. That’s sweet, I guess. Jel glances at Phelpie once or twice. Hard to tell if she’s appreciating this attention or bothered by it.

I shake myself properly awake, sitting up as straight as the lounger will allow. Ellie is doing double lengths underwater now, hyperventilating at the shallow end of the pool and then slipping under the surface, kicking away from the wall and swimming breaststroke along the bottom. The pale, wave-filtered light warps her slim form into fluid abstract shapes that seem to run like coloured mercury along the tiles beneath, her skin seeming gradually to darken under the increasing weight of water at the deep end.

Her roll and kick at the pool wall comes so easy and fast, it’s as though she reflects off the tiles rather than has to do anything so inelegant as physically connect and push. Her image trembles along the pool bottom again, growing paler as the water shallows, then she slows just before the wall and resurfaces gently, breathing barely any harder. She smoothes her hair back over her forehead. She sniffs hard, turns and looks round, sees me, smiles.