Read Online Swimmer by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Graham Masterton
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mother? When sheâs mad, boy, the looks she gives you. They could turn cheese.â
Jim said, âI feel like Iâm losing it, Mervyn. I feel like I donât know the difference between one side of reality and the other.â
Mervyn held his hand, and gripped it tight. âYouâre a good man, Jim. Youâre better than you know. But you should allow yourself to be selfish sometimes. You should do what
you
want to do. I clean up around here, and unblock toilets, and run errands for the old folks. But thatâs not charity. Thatâs not martyrdom. I do it because I love it. And if you feel the same way about the things that
you
do ⦠about those young people you teach how to read and write and appreciate poetry ⦠you do it because itâs your lifeblood. You do it because whatâs the point of getting up in the morning if you
donât
?â
Jim said, âMaybe youâre right, Mervyn. I donât know.â
âYouâre scared, arenât you?â
Jim looked up at Mervyn, with his khaki mudpack and his bright pink curlers, like the chief of a primitive tribe, and said, âYouâre damn right Iâm scared. If this is real, Iâd hate to see the supernatural.â
âHow about a drink?â Mervyn suggested. âA piña colada with a pink beach umbrella would do.â
âHow about a cup of coffee?â
âFor sure ⦠if you insist.â
Jim went into the kitchen and switched on the light. As he approached the stainless-steel sink, he suddenly became aware of
scurrying
on the draining board, like dozens of cockroaches scuttling for shelter. But then he realized that it wasnât cockroaches. It was drops of water, hurrying off the draining board and into the sink, and flying
upward
into the faucet. He stood stock-still and watched in horrified fascination as drop after drop flew upward, totally defying gravity, and disappeared from sight.
It was just as though he had caught them out, these drops of water, and they were running away from him, and hiding.
Very cautiously he approached the sink. He put his hand on the faucet, and wondered if he ought to fill the percolator or not.
In the end, he went back into the living-room and said, âIâm sorry, Mervyn. Iâm bushed. Why donât we call it a night? Or a day, rather. Look, itâs growing light.â
âNo coffee?â asked Mervyn plaintively.
Jim shook his head. âNot now. It always gives me nightmares.â
Five
H e walked into class the following morning and his students were all chatting and laughing and throwing rolled-up gum wrappers and propping their Nike trainers up on the desks. He couldnât blame them: there were only two days to go before the end of the summer semester, the end of the year and the end of their time in Special Class II. If they hadnât learned anything about self-expression by now, they never would.
He hung up his crumpled blue linen jacket and sat down at his desk. He opened his copy of
New American Poets
and began to thumb through it very slowly, licking his thumb with every page that he turned. Gradually, Special Class II began to settle down. At the very back, Nestor Fawkes sat down first, frowning expectantly. Nestor was wearing a washed-out T-shirt and grubby jeans and trainers that were worn through right to the soles. His cheekbones were bruised, and there was a livid scratch on his forehead.
Out of everybody in Special Class II, Nestor was the one student that Jim was most reluctant to leave. Nestor still needed his help, both emotional and educational, but he was going to have to leave him behind. What else could he do? He couldnât shoulder responsibility for the whole world. For one thing, he didnât have the time.
You should allow yourself to be selfish sometimes
, thatâs what Mervyn had said.
Stella Kopalski kept on chattering. She had blond, piled-up hair, and eyes as green as
Jim said, âI feel like Iâm losing it, Mervyn. I feel like I donât know the difference between one side of reality and the other.â
Mervyn held his hand, and gripped it tight. âYouâre a good man, Jim. Youâre better than you know. But you should allow yourself to be selfish sometimes. You should do what
you
want to do. I clean up around here, and unblock toilets, and run errands for the old folks. But thatâs not charity. Thatâs not martyrdom. I do it because I love it. And if you feel the same way about the things that
you
do ⦠about those young people you teach how to read and write and appreciate poetry ⦠you do it because itâs your lifeblood. You do it because whatâs the point of getting up in the morning if you
donât
?â
Jim said, âMaybe youâre right, Mervyn. I donât know.â
âYouâre scared, arenât you?â
Jim looked up at Mervyn, with his khaki mudpack and his bright pink curlers, like the chief of a primitive tribe, and said, âYouâre damn right Iâm scared. If this is real, Iâd hate to see the supernatural.â
âHow about a drink?â Mervyn suggested. âA piña colada with a pink beach umbrella would do.â
âHow about a cup of coffee?â
âFor sure ⦠if you insist.â
Jim went into the kitchen and switched on the light. As he approached the stainless-steel sink, he suddenly became aware of
scurrying
on the draining board, like dozens of cockroaches scuttling for shelter. But then he realized that it wasnât cockroaches. It was drops of water, hurrying off the draining board and into the sink, and flying
upward
into the faucet. He stood stock-still and watched in horrified fascination as drop after drop flew upward, totally defying gravity, and disappeared from sight.
It was just as though he had caught them out, these drops of water, and they were running away from him, and hiding.
Very cautiously he approached the sink. He put his hand on the faucet, and wondered if he ought to fill the percolator or not.
In the end, he went back into the living-room and said, âIâm sorry, Mervyn. Iâm bushed. Why donât we call it a night? Or a day, rather. Look, itâs growing light.â
âNo coffee?â asked Mervyn plaintively.
Jim shook his head. âNot now. It always gives me nightmares.â
Five
H e walked into class the following morning and his students were all chatting and laughing and throwing rolled-up gum wrappers and propping their Nike trainers up on the desks. He couldnât blame them: there were only two days to go before the end of the summer semester, the end of the year and the end of their time in Special Class II. If they hadnât learned anything about self-expression by now, they never would.
He hung up his crumpled blue linen jacket and sat down at his desk. He opened his copy of
New American Poets
and began to thumb through it very slowly, licking his thumb with every page that he turned. Gradually, Special Class II began to settle down. At the very back, Nestor Fawkes sat down first, frowning expectantly. Nestor was wearing a washed-out T-shirt and grubby jeans and trainers that were worn through right to the soles. His cheekbones were bruised, and there was a livid scratch on his forehead.
Out of everybody in Special Class II, Nestor was the one student that Jim was most reluctant to leave. Nestor still needed his help, both emotional and educational, but he was going to have to leave him behind. What else could he do? He couldnât shoulder responsibility for the whole world. For one thing, he didnât have the time.
You should allow yourself to be selfish sometimes
, thatâs what Mervyn had said.
Stella Kopalski kept on chattering. She had blond, piled-up hair, and eyes as green as
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