Swimmer by Graham Masterton Page A

fluent hair, fashioned entirely out of water. Her skin rippled like a fast-flowing current, and her eyes gleamed like glass, without pupils or irises. Her expression alone was enough to terrify him: she was furious-faced, and obviously intent on drowning him.
    He kicked and kicked, but he couldn’t break her grip. His lungs felt as if they were just about to detonate. His head throbbed and it took every ounce of strength not to open his mouth and breathe in a huge lungful of icy cold seawater. He heaved himself around, and gave a desperate double kick with both feet. The figure seemed to scatter apart, like beads of liquid mercury. He kicked again, and again, propelling himself upward.
    He broke the surface, screaming for air. ‘
Hah! Hah! Hah!
’ He thrashed his arms, trying to keep himself afloat. And then looked around the ocean, and found that it wasn’t an ocean at all, but a bedroom, with a bedside clock, and a bureau, and a pair of khaki Dockers hanging over the back of a basketwork chair. He was still lying on his bed, his sheets twisted like the Indian rope trick and his T-shirt soaked in icy cold sweat. He sat up, wiped his face with his hands, and drank a large mouthful of tepid water. Outside his apartment, he could hear distant samba music and the sound of automobiles swishing along the street. He checked his bedside clock. It read 13:06:01.
    This was ridiculous. It wasn’t six minutes past one in the afternoon: it was more like quarter past two in the morning. He picked up the clock and stared at it. Last year’s class had given it to him, and on the back were engraved the words: JIM ROOK, BECAUSE HE OPENED OUR EYES .
    It was then that TT padded into the room, and let out the faintest mewling sound.
    â€˜What? What is it now?’
    TT jumped up on to the bed beside him and nuzzled the clock.
    â€˜What are you trying to say to me, you witch of darkness? My alarm clock’s gone on the fritz, that’s all. Probably a brown-out.’
    But TT mewled again, and almost head-butted the clock, and then laid her paw on top of it.
    â€˜You’re trying to tell me something, right? I know. But you obviously don’t understand that you’re trying to communicate with a higher species of vastly superior intellect. When cats start writing rhyming couplets and sending each other e-mails, then I’ll worry. But right now, all of this mewling and scratching and head-banging … I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’
    TT didn’t give up. She jumped off the bed, trotted into the living-room and jumped up on the back of the chair in front of the calendar. Jim followed her, and stared at her uncomprehendingly for a very long time. Impatient, she jumped up and swatted at the calendar with her paw.
    â€˜I don’t get it,’ said Jim. But then TT ran back to the bedroom and nuzzled the clock.
    â€˜Clock … calendar. Calendar … clock. What’s going on here, TT?’
    TT came back, and again she was carrying the Grimaud death card in between her teeth. She dropped it in front of Jim’s feet and stood there staring at him, almost willing him to understand.
    â€˜Clock – calendar – death card. Oh, hold up a minute. This is beginning to make sense. The clock is wrong, right? So these numbers on the clock … these aren’t the
time
, they’re the
date
… thirteen, six, oh one. The thirteenth of June 2001. Which is … let’s take a look … precisely nine days from now.’
    Jim slowly reached up and felt the psychic necklace that was dangling on his chest.
Wear it when you go to sleep tonight, and you’ll dream the day you’re going to die
.
    â€˜No way, José,’ he told TT. ‘I believe in seeing the past, but I don’t believe in seeing the future. It hasn’t happened yet. How can anybody know?’ TT remained where she was, staring at him implacably. ‘How can anybody know, TT?