The realisation came aged fifteen that cold water meant wetsuits, and wetsuits meant not having to be seen in a costume. When the Mixed Pond shut in September, Matty clenched everything and went to the Ladies’ Pond, changed under a tree on the furthest bit of grass to avoid the heavy waft of bodies under the cold showers, the variedly shaped breasts, the low-swelling stomachs. Matty went even when thin tiles of ice settled, when it was so thick that a metre-wide path had to be broken to make a lane. Sometimes, it felt too much, and other places became haunts, too. Old gravel pits with the nearby drone of the M25 and planes going overhead. The sea-coves at Broadstairs. A recommended river. The echo of Dad in them all. Of Joe.

But it began to have its own call. Water had a song, a near-silent lilt. When you got closer – tarn, pool, river, proper swimming lake – the impatience made you sweat. The need to undress, a frustration that the wetsuit didn’t slip on as easily as it should. A lust that you forgot as soon as you were submerged.

Water was not just looked at, but assessed. Depth, entry and exit points – exposed tree roots, shelving boulders – weeds, reeds. Flow, undertow, rocks lurking under the surface. Rip tides if it was coastal. And not too many people around. Onlookers weren’t ideal.

22/11/99

LOUGH _______, Air 8°C, Water 9°C, 300m

Black and blue. The lough’s surface was dark, flecked. Matty had taken the slim path around one hill, long-dead heather stalks on both sides, having to lean against the wind. Sinking into moist peat, sinking further once the trainers were off. There were no rocks here, just hill softening into lough.

It felt harder today. The air was brutal, the water petty and spitting. Matty lowered, let the cold trickle down one spine-bone at a time, and slid into it. Face down straightaway. There were earplugs, a nose plug too, but it was still an absorption. You were with the water. Matty pulled through the lough’s width, the rhythm beginning to settle. A breath every three strokes, no matter what. Scooping downwards, arcing out above. Arms lengthening.

Swimming got rid of everything else, usually. Thoughts were detritus left bobbing in your wake. The lack of father. Mother, now. The worry about work, where to live next. The always-feeling of being in between things. There was only this, the metallic feel of the water and the movement through it.

At the other end, the shallows were puttyish. Matty turned and headed straight back, stopping once to watch the mist lower. It was so bleak. Reddish hills and not a single tree. For a moment, the wind hushed, just the whisper of it remaining, and something threaded in it. A trace of a woman’s voice, with a familiar hardness.