The Drowning People Read Free Page A

I can hear myself panting, can feel the pulse of the blood beating in my head, can see what I wore: a white T-shirt; school rugby shorts; the socks of my college boat club. I can see what Ella wore too, because I noticed her long before she saw me. She was sitting on a bench, in a black dress that pulled tight against her slender hips. Her eyes were dazed from wakefulness; a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup steamed on the bench next to her; a pearl necklace (which I have since, on another’s neck, come to know well) was in her closed hand, which was shaking a little. She was a dramatic figure in the half light of the early morning: sitting on that bench; hardly moving. I ran past her twice before she noticed me, each time shortening the route by which I doubled back unseen and passed her again. The third time I passed her she looked up at me and her eyes focused. She smiled.
    I stopped, panting, a little distance from the bench, regretting my last circuit of the carriage track. When I turned to look at her, she was still smiling.
    “Tough run,” she called out.
    “You could say that.”
    We nodded politely to each other.
    “Tough night?” I asked, looking at her clothes. She saw my eyes hesitate on her hand and the shaking stopped.
    “More of a long night,” she said. Her accent was American, but lilting and musical with anglicized vowels. She was soft-spoken. We smiled at each other as I wondered what to say, but it was she who finally broke the silence. “I’m sure I know those socks,” she said.
    “Really?”
    “They’re college socks, aren’t they?” She paused. “Although knowing my luck they’re going to turn out to be school socks or some other kind of sock—there are so many kinds in England—and I’ll feel a right arse.” Her pronunciation of the word “arse” was self-consciously rounded; here was a person who had trained herself not to say “ass.”
    Glad to have been offered a neutral topic of conversation, I told her that they were college socks, as a matter of fact. “The socks of my college boat club,” I said with adolescent pride.
    Remembering it now, I find it curious to think that the course of my whole life might be said to have hung on something as inconsequential as my choice of footwear that morning. Ella would not have noticed different socks; and without her remarking on them as she did do I would probably never have known her. In that case I would not be the person I am today; I would not have killed my wife yesterday afternoon; I would not be in this smoky room, trying to keep warm, listening to the waves of the Atlantic crash on the rocks beneath my windows. It is curious, the way in which seemingly innocuous details like the selection of a pair of socks can set in motion a chain of events which, as one leads to another, build up such momentum that they become a guiding force in your life. I find it strange; strange and slightly unsettling. But the evidence is there, I suppose; and who am I to refute it?
    I watch myself saunter over to the bench where she is sitting, a question on my lips. Ella remains absolutely motionless, the fine bones of her neck and shoulders showing clearly through her pale skin. She is sitting a little hunched, which contributes to the effect of her fragility. She would look innocent but for the cut of her dress and the stylish parting of her short hair, which a hand pushes back from her eyes occasionally and ineffectually. Getting close I see that pronounced cheekbones make her face almost gaunt, as do pale blue rings which undercircle her eyes. But the eyes themselves are bright: sharp and green, they move swiftly up and down me as I approach and seem to indicate a place beside her on the bench. I sit down.
    “These are the socks of my college boat club,” I say again.
    “I know,” she says. “Oriel, Oxford, aren’t they?”
    I nod, impressed by her accuracy. “How do you know?” I ask smiling.
    There is a pause while the smile on her