Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

touching of them to have brought along the interpreter
– a Special Constable, no less – who, though not deaf,
knew British Sign Language. The two detectives
looked pleased with themselves for this show of
consideration. But as the young woman flapped and
gestured her way through the interview, her wide
cheeks and chubby forearms reddening with exertion
and embarrassment, it became obvious that it was
useless. Pauly understood not a word.
The younger of the detectives began to write
questions out instead, in big half-witted capitals on
Pauly’s best writing paper. She waved the sheets away
and pointed sadly to her eyes, and
shifted in her seat to cover the
glasses-case with her hip, praying
they wouldn’t notice.
She could lip-read a little, but
she already knew the purpose of
their visit. She had seen the
newspaper, even seen the police
boat going up and down a few
days after Emmy had drowned.
Been drowned.
She had nothing to tell them.
She didn’t take their pen, she kept
silent, shaking her head and
shrugging in apology. Her blueish
fingers touching her ears, her
eyelids.
- No.
- Can’t hear a thing.
- I’m blind, too.
- I can’t read your questions.
- I didn’t see anything.
- I’m sorry.
*
Past the blackcurrants, where the lip of two-by-four
marked the end of the lawn and the start of the
water, Pauly untied her shoelaces. Squinting briefly
about her, she lifted the hem of her polyester dress and
drew her tights down, slowly, to halfway down her
thighs. She crouched and rocked carefully backwards,
and wriggled free, shedding them like snakeskin.
Edging forward, she rested her feet on the water, barely
touching, watching the meniscus lift around her tender,
hardened soles.
Opening her eyes, her irises still readjusting, she saw
him on the south side of the water. He was motionless
He paddled towards her,
diagonally across the water,
not taking his eyes from her
face.
With each plunge of the
oar, another detail pulled
into focus: the hair peeking
over his t-shirt at his throat.
The wedding band, lit by
the low sun when he raised
his right arm. The serene
smile, pulled slightly to the
left, the lips closed
22
postgraduate fiction
in his canoe. Arms crossed. A perfect silhouette against
the late autumn sunset.
Pauly rose to her feet, disguising the struggle as best
she could. She saw him raise his oar, and took a step
back. She felt in her pocket for her secateurs.
He paddled towards her, diagonally across the
water, not taking his eyes from her face. She gripped the
grass with her toes, and didn’t move. With each plunge
of the oar, another detail pulled into focus: the hair
peeking over his t-shirt at his throat. The wedding
band, lit by the low sun when he raised his right arm.
The serene smile, pulled slightly to the left, the lips
closed.
The coil of rope, stuck with
thick black tape to the upper
surface of the back of the scuffed
vessel.
He lay the oar across the boat,
the fulcrum on his lap, and dipped
the ends briefly port, then briefly
starboard, until he came to a stop.
He maybe ten feet from the
battered planks that held Pauly’s
garden in. Taking hold of the sides
of the cavity he pushed himself up,
shifted backwards, slipped into the
water, and disappeared.
Pauly gasped. She leaned
forward, scanning the surface of
the water for him, but could see
nothing past the ellipses of orange
light, reflected from the sky and
fractured over hundreds of little
swells in the surface of the water.
He emerged, his chest and
abdomen springing up from the
riverbed, shooting upwards. He
shook his hair. Lifting a palm, he
gestured to her to join him.
Pauly glanced at the empty canoe. It rocked
rhythmically, the rope slipping slightly from side to side.
The teacher waved his arms above his head for her
attention, and made a beseeching face. He beckoned
again. Pauly approached the water.
Her knees cracked as she lowered herself into a
crouch, then crack again as she stretched her bare legs
in front of her. She was cold, but her skin felt loose on
her bones. Her blood thudded in her temples.
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Canal
Kate Simants