Be Near Me by Andrew O’Hagan

baths. He spoke of one day in particular. It was raining that day—black clouds, he said, a long boring afternoon—Dalgarnock feeling strange, a place that seemed far away from the world. At Auchenharvie it was warm, and he said he felt great under the chlorinated water, seeing the white legs of other swimmers.
    'Only white?' I said.
    'Aye,' he said. 'Black people don't go to the swimming baths here. There are no black people around here anyhow. If there was, they wouldn't go to the swimming.'
    'Why not?'
    'How should I know?' he said. 'Black people don't like the swimming baths. They don't like dogs either. The chlorine burns the back of your throat. People dive for their rubber bands. The tannoy says: "Would swimmers wearing yellow bands please leave the pool now." The skin at the ends of your fingers gets wrinkled if you've been swimming too long. There's always shouting at the baths, and it sounds as if it's echoing inside you when you're under the water and watching the legs and swimming down.'
    'Yes,' I said.
    'I was sitting on the edge of the pool when I saw him.'
    He was talking about his father. He remembered him coming from the changing room and standing at the metal steps. He was way fat, Mark said, the fattest man in Ayrshire. 'He knew I was coming to the swimming,' he said. 'He must have known I'd be there.'
    'He didn't see you?'
    'I saw him. Everybody saw him. They were all staring. He looked about and it was noisy and people were laughing at him. Doing the backstroke and laughing at him; diving in right beside him and laughing.'
    Mark's father just swam through the jeers and the splashing. And Mark slipped into the water, held onto the side and dipped his face so that only his eyes peeped out of the pool. 'It was horrible,' he said. 'My dad was being shouted at and he just did the breaststroke. Even just swimming like that, because he was so fat he made waves that rolled right across and splashed my head. His face was bright red but he didn't seem bothered. I just hid from him. Imagine that was your dad.'
    Mark spoke of the noise he could hear as he swam down into the depths of the pool and saw his father's body passing above his head. Like a shark's view of a passing boat, I thought. Mark got to the steps, climbed out and went to the changing room. 'I was shivering next to the lockers for ages,' he said. 'I wanted to go back and get him.'
    'Why didn't you?' I said.
    'They were all laughing at him.'
    Even in the dimness of the car, I could see there was a look of defiant hurt in Mark's eyes. 'He used to be quite a sharp guy,' he said. 'He had all the cool gear before everybody else. He got a trial to play football for Kilmarnock one time. He used to read books and that.'
    After a moment I clicked off the headlights and looked up. Stars were beginning to show above Arran and we breathed out. I thought of the distance and listened to Mark speaking, and after a while I forgot the scent of the dead bird. 'I'll take you and Lisa over to see Ailsa Craig,' I said. 'If you want to.'
    'To the rock?' he said. 'Is there a boat?'
    'I'm sure I can use my influence. If you want to.'
    'I'd like to see it,' he said. 'Just the once.'
    'Then leave it to me.'
    'You're mad,' he said. He flicked a lighter on and off for a minute or so and tapped on the dashboard. 'Some people would think it weird, wouldn't they, a priest and a young guy sitting in a car?'
    'I'm sure they would.'
    'Well,' he said, 'that's their problem, isn't it?'
    I wished suddenly that I had a good glass of wine to take away the taste of the meal and the conversations. There are days when you realise you haven't enjoyed one lovely thing, then when you do have it, as I had the company of Mark for that hour, you want something to complement the pleasure, to raise it further and make it last.
    'Okay,' he said, 'I'm going back to the wedding.'
    I asked him to take that thing with him, the dead bird on the back seat, and he complained before lifting it up in the