A swimming pool, but a salt-water one. Outdoor, beside the ocean.
Carved seemingly out of the rock that jutted out of the coastline.
She could see the actual ocean just beyond. There was sunshine overhead.
The water was cool, but given the heat of the air above her the cool was welcome.
Once upon a time she had been the best fourteen-year-old female swimmer in Bedfordshire.
She had won two races in her age category at the National Junior Swimming Championships.
Freestyle 400 metres. Freestyle 200 metres. Her dad had driven her every day to the local pool.
Sometimes before school as well as after. But then – while her brother rocked out on his guitar to Nirvana –
she traded lengths for scales, and taught herself how to play not just Chopin but classics like “Let It Be” and “Rainy Days And Mondays”.
She also began, before The Labyrinths were even a figment of her brother’s imagination, to compose her own music.
But she hadn’t really gone off swimming, just the pressure around it.
She reached the side of the pool. Stopped and looked around.
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