The emergency lights give off a faint buzz like trapped bees. In his hand, Olive’s keys weigh heavy, the judgemental black cat that hangs from her keyring, sizing him up, seeing if he is fit for purpose. Milo glances across the empty room, bathed now in a low, silvery light, and runs through the checklist in his head.
Chlorine levels, clear floor, lights. Check.
A shallow pool recesses into the ground, and in this light, the water looks a mouldy shade of green. The filters are running, so just below the surface, ripples thrum, disturbing the flat surfaces. He remembers that scene from the first Jurassic Park movie, where the approaching dinosaur’s footsteps cause the water to vibrate, and gives an involuntary shudder.
It is the first time Milo has been given the responsibility of locking up, and he doesn’t want to let Olive down.
Chlorine levels, clear floor, lights. Check.
He loves this job. Teaching babies to swim was never in his life plan, but after his therapist, Candice, told him he needed purpose, he thought he’d give it a go. He’s good at it too: patient, enthusiastic, everything a baby and new parent could need in a swim teacher. And when he’s teaching, the images that flash through his head like a flick picture book disappear and he starts to feel almost…normal.
Chlorine levels, clear floor, lights. Check.
The chlorine levels were good: he jotted them down on the chart neatly, hoping Olive would appreciate him keeping her chart nice. The chairs have been stacked in tall totems around the room to give the cleaners clear access in the morning.
And of course, the lights are off.
Milo thumbs through the keys Olive pressed into his hand before she left for her dental appointment.
“Don’t let me down, Milo,” she said. “Remember, I took a chance on you.”
The cat is still giving that appraising stare.
Outside, a thick, grey mist rolls across the valley, shrouding the streetlamps in a hazy cloak. The lights look fuzzy, muted. Milo curses himself for leaving his coat behind this morning.
“You should take it,” said his mother, not meeting his eye.
Milo coughs.
If he had coughed a moment later, he probably wouldn’t have heard the splash, but he did and it is there: a glug, dense, like a rock. His breath catches in his throat, heart thuds behind his ribs.
Milo turns.
At the end of the pool, the training doll floats face down in the water. He lets out a sigh, giggles slightly. Of course it’s the training doll! The teachers prop it up against the wall, but the ledge is small, the doll’s limbs unwieldy and awkward, so it falls in regularly.
For a moment, he’s five years old again at his Uncle David’s pool and the familiar flashes illuminate the sides of his vision. He slams his eyes shut, braces his body against the cool tiled wall and counts to a hundred.
It’s only a doll, Milo. Only a doll.
Milo heads along the side of the pool, grabbing the long-armed net as he goes, shoes squeaking on the concrete. He extends the net over the pool.
Pff, pff.
He pauses.
Pff, pff.
It sounds like a breath, but it is not his own. A breath and a bubble. His pulse flutters in his throat.
Not a breath. Not a breath.
