Empires End
by Garry Stanton
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A lone swimmer slips back in time.
_____________________________________________________________________
He watches the clock, the worst thing any human can do when they are keen for time to pass. Outside, the city streets are wet, buses and cars slicing through the metropolitan night. An ambulance siren moans in the distance; a fat man runs for a bus; a chocolate-encrusted child girns and complains as its harassed mother attempts to control both shopping trolley and buggy. Alex wonders why the child is still up at shortly before eleven at night. He only has two more shelves to fill with soft drinks, and only seventeen minutes in which to achieve this. He also has a headache which is increasing in intensity almost with every passing minute. He turns away from this late night supermarket theatre, and carries on with his work. He avoids the clock.
By the time he has left work and is walking quickly along the sleek black pavements of the city, his head has begun to clear. Alex now carries a cheap sports bag and soon leaves the main street in the direction of the lower part of the city, moving down some of the many sloped streets which wend their elegant way through the New Town. There are not many people around, just a few giggling, tottering girls desperately trying to flag down a black cab as the rain pours down upon them. Mascara will run, feet will get wet. Alex walks past them, ignored in his black jacket and jeans. He hears the girls screaming at a taxi behind him as he descends towards Stockbridge. He passes pubs, restaurants and flats, well-lit oases of levity on an unpleasant September night. On another night, perhaps in a different life, he might join the partying. However, Alex Martin has a different purpose, differing objectives from most.
He approaches the sandstone building as he always does, with a blend of awe and thanks: gratitude for his talent, gratitude that he is able to come here when everyone has gone for the day. The Victorian Swimming Baths building here at Glenogle Road was built in 1897 as part of a countrywide health and sanitation programme. Its external appearance has barely changed, although some modernisation has taken place inside. Still, the shape and atmosphere inside remained intact.
Alex climbs the steps, to be met, as he usually is, by the caretaker. He is a short, pot-bellied ex-soldier in his seventies, and his name is Leo. They shake hands.
“All right, sir?” asks Alex.
“Aye, no' bad, son. Rheumatics are givin' me jip but. Never mind that. Listen, the place has emptied oot early doors, so get in, take as long as you like. There's only me, Jackie and Moira. They're meant to be cleanin' or somethin', but they just blether as far as I can tell! Good shift the day?”
“Just the usual. Pretty riveting stuff, the old shelf-stacking.” Alex notices a tabloid newspaper on the desk in the office. The headline screams: DIANA, QUEEN OF HEARTS LAID TO REST.
“Aye, well I'll be in the office if you need me, with my coffee and ma Dad’s Army video...two-fifty for six episodes out of Shelter!”
“Sweet. Well, enjoy. Oh, and here. I got you this. It's just a wee...token.”
“Brilliant, but you didnae have to son. If I cannae give a laddie a leg up to the Olympic team, who can I help? Still, a wee nip of Bell's in my coffee should spice things up a bit...”
“Just don't overdo it...you're meant to be in charge of this place.”
* * *
He is swimming now, slowly warming up, then opening up his strong arms and shoulders, then with powerful, measured strokes. As he submerges and surfaces, he is able to hear snatches of the cleaners' conversation. They stand on the old balcony overlooking the pool, and their discussion is quite animated.
“Did you see the procession, though? Awfy sad, it was. Thousands of folk lining the streets....such a lovely lassie she was. And she did a lot of good....”
“Aye, and so young to die. Terrible...”
“All those people cryin', and the royals all there...”
“I felt so sorry for the laddies, just bairns they are...”
They continue their conversation in this vein, Alex just catching the odd sentence as his head emerges from the churning water. He rests his muscles, floating passively on his back, staring at the old ceiling. He imagines what it may have been like here a century ago, with the aspidistras in the foyer, the woollen swimsuits, the Wyatt Earp moustaches. He once again submerges to swim an entire slow length underwater, the words of the women lost to him. He glides to the edge, sweeps the water from his hair and eyes, and sits on the edge. He wonders whether he should swim a few more lengths, or just call it a night. He is about to acknowledge the two women on the balcony when he notices that their speech has altered. They are speaking more softly. Alex looks up towards them. A cold shiver embraces him as he realises that they are now dressed, from head to toe, in black Victorian attire. They are each wearing somewhat threadbare dark hats, and dresses which only ever see the light of day on special occasions. He has no idea what to do. Is this really happening? What does it mean? Maybe he should have had that pint after all. He closes his eyes, then looks up at the balcony once more, hoping against hope that temporary lack of oxygen is to blame for his hallucinatory episode. But no – the women, still ignoring the swimmer, are now engaged in a quite different conversation.
“You know, she missed him an awful lot since he died. Been in black for...”
“What? Forty-odd years!”
“Yes, it was '61 she lost him. So sad....”
“ And there she was, on the throne alone for all that time. She was so lonely at the end....”
“Yes, well, it's the end of something, and the start of something else. That's how it goes, is it not?”
Alex shouts to them.
“Hello! Hello up there...can you hear me? Ladies!”
But the ladies do not hear him. They turn away and disappear, the sound of their heels receding upon the old tiles. Alex shivers and jumps from the poolside. What about old Leo? Alex can no longer hear the faint laughter of the Dad's Army video. He runs towards the office. Through the high windows, he notices that it is now extremely, unnaturally dark outside. There are no street lights that he can see. He hears no traffic, no distant, omnipresent urban rumble. Leo suddenly appears. But he is attired in funereal black. He is unsmilingly watering the plants in the foyer.
“Leo! Leo! What's going on, man?”
But Leo, like the ladies, looks through Alex as though he has merely heard some insignificant sound in the distance – the smoky blast of a train, perhaps, or water dripping almost imperceptibly from a leaf.
Alex runs, shivering, panicking, utterly bewildered, his world vanished. He slips on the tiles, landing painfully on his backside. He groans in agony as his head thuds down on the floor. He feels that if he blacks out, he will never again wake. He struggles to his feet, moving to the window. As he does so, he is aware of the women, accompanied by Leo, leaving the front door of the building.
He pulls aside a heavy black curtain, to reveal the dark street. On the opposite wall there hangs a large portrait of Queen Victoria, in her old age. As he suspected, there are no street lights, just some gas lamps providing the street with a weak, yellow glow. In the distance, church bells peal softly.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A lone swimmer slips back in time.
_____________________________________________________________________
He watches the clock, the worst thing any human can do when they are keen for time to pass. Outside, the city streets are wet, buses and cars slicing through the metropolitan night. An ambulance siren moans in the distance; a fat man runs for a bus; a chocolate-encrusted child girns and complains as its harassed mother attempts to control both shopping trolley and buggy. Alex wonders why the child is still up at shortly before eleven at night. He only has two more shelves to fill with soft drinks, and only seventeen minutes in which to achieve this. He also has a headache which is increasing in intensity almost with every passing minute. He turns away from this late night supermarket theatre, and carries on with his work. He avoids the clock.
By the time he has left work and is walking quickly along the sleek black pavements of the city, his head has begun to clear. Alex now carries a cheap sports bag and soon leaves the main street in the direction of the lower part of the city, moving down some of the many sloped streets which wend their elegant way through the New Town. There are not many people around, just a few giggling, tottering girls desperately trying to flag down a black cab as the rain pours down upon them. Mascara will run, feet will get wet. Alex walks past them, ignored in his black jacket and jeans. He hears the girls screaming at a taxi behind him as he descends towards Stockbridge. He passes pubs, restaurants and flats, well-lit oases of levity on an unpleasant September night. On another night, perhaps in a different life, he might join the partying. However, Alex Martin has a different purpose, differing objectives from most.
He approaches the sandstone building as he always does, with a blend of awe and thanks: gratitude for his talent, gratitude that he is able to come here when everyone has gone for the day. The Victorian Swimming Baths building here at Glenogle Road was built in 1897 as part of a countrywide health and sanitation programme. Its external appearance has barely changed, although some modernisation has taken place inside. Still, the shape and atmosphere inside remained intact.
Alex climbs the steps, to be met, as he usually is, by the caretaker. He is a short, pot-bellied ex-soldier in his seventies, and his name is Leo. They shake hands.
“All right, sir?” asks Alex.
“Aye, no' bad, son. Rheumatics are givin' me jip but. Never mind that. Listen, the place has emptied oot early doors, so get in, take as long as you like. There's only me, Jackie and Moira. They're meant to be cleanin' or somethin', but they just blether as far as I can tell! Good shift the day?”
“Just the usual. Pretty riveting stuff, the old shelf-stacking.” Alex notices a tabloid newspaper on the desk in the office. The headline screams: DIANA, QUEEN OF HEARTS LAID TO REST.
“Aye, well I'll be in the office if you need me, with my coffee and ma Dad’s Army video...two-fifty for six episodes out of Shelter!”
“Sweet. Well, enjoy. Oh, and here. I got you this. It's just a wee...token.”
“Brilliant, but you didnae have to son. If I cannae give a laddie a leg up to the Olympic team, who can I help? Still, a wee nip of Bell's in my coffee should spice things up a bit...”
“Just don't overdo it...you're meant to be in charge of this place.”
* * *
He is swimming now, slowly warming up, then opening up his strong arms and shoulders, then with powerful, measured strokes. As he submerges and surfaces, he is able to hear snatches of the cleaners' conversation. They stand on the old balcony overlooking the pool, and their discussion is quite animated.
“Did you see the procession, though? Awfy sad, it was. Thousands of folk lining the streets....such a lovely lassie she was. And she did a lot of good....”
“Aye, and so young to die. Terrible...”
“All those people cryin', and the royals all there...”
“I felt so sorry for the laddies, just bairns they are...”
They continue their conversation in this vein, Alex just catching the odd sentence as his head emerges from the churning water. He rests his muscles, floating passively on his back, staring at the old ceiling. He imagines what it may have been like here a century ago, with the aspidistras in the foyer, the woollen swimsuits, the Wyatt Earp moustaches. He once again submerges to swim an entire slow length underwater, the words of the women lost to him. He glides to the edge, sweeps the water from his hair and eyes, and sits on the edge. He wonders whether he should swim a few more lengths, or just call it a night. He is about to acknowledge the two women on the balcony when he notices that their speech has altered. They are speaking more softly. Alex looks up towards them. A cold shiver embraces him as he realises that they are now dressed, from head to toe, in black Victorian attire. They are each wearing somewhat threadbare dark hats, and dresses which only ever see the light of day on special occasions. He has no idea what to do. Is this really happening? What does it mean? Maybe he should have had that pint after all. He closes his eyes, then looks up at the balcony once more, hoping against hope that temporary lack of oxygen is to blame for his hallucinatory episode. But no – the women, still ignoring the swimmer, are now engaged in a quite different conversation.
“You know, she missed him an awful lot since he died. Been in black for...”
“What? Forty-odd years!”
“Yes, it was '61 she lost him. So sad....”
“ And there she was, on the throne alone for all that time. She was so lonely at the end....”
“Yes, well, it's the end of something, and the start of something else. That's how it goes, is it not?”
Alex shouts to them.
“Hello! Hello up there...can you hear me? Ladies!”
But the ladies do not hear him. They turn away and disappear, the sound of their heels receding upon the old tiles. Alex shivers and jumps from the poolside. What about old Leo? Alex can no longer hear the faint laughter of the Dad's Army video. He runs towards the office. Through the high windows, he notices that it is now extremely, unnaturally dark outside. There are no street lights that he can see. He hears no traffic, no distant, omnipresent urban rumble. Leo suddenly appears. But he is attired in funereal black. He is unsmilingly watering the plants in the foyer.
“Leo! Leo! What's going on, man?”
But Leo, like the ladies, looks through Alex as though he has merely heard some insignificant sound in the distance – the smoky blast of a train, perhaps, or water dripping almost imperceptibly from a leaf.
Alex runs, shivering, panicking, utterly bewildered, his world vanished. He slips on the tiles, landing painfully on his backside. He groans in agony as his head thuds down on the floor. He feels that if he blacks out, he will never again wake. He struggles to his feet, moving to the window. As he does so, he is aware of the women, accompanied by Leo, leaving the front door of the building.
He pulls aside a heavy black curtain, to reveal the dark street. On the opposite wall there hangs a large portrait of Queen Victoria, in her old age. As he suspected, there are no street lights, just some gas lamps providing the street with a weak, yellow glow. In the distance, church bells peal softly.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Garry Stanton is a musician to trade, as well as a teacher in training. His debut album, Indigo Flats, was released online in 2010.
Garry also writes, having completed several short stories, his first novel and a lot of poetry, some of which has been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin.
Garry also writes, having completed several short stories, his first novel and a lot of poetry, some of which has been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin.