A pool after closing

An original first-person fictional account of an invented visit to a closed swimming pool.

The pool was darker than I expected. From the entrance, the water looked flat and black, and the smell of chlorine seemed to belong to a place that had been scrubbed empty. I had come to collect a bag I left behind after lessons years ago. I wanted to be in and out before the caretaker finished locking up.

He led me along the tiles, apologising for the lights that had been switched off. My shoes made a sharp, hollow sound. I remembered being small enough to grip the ladder with both hands, pretending I was not afraid to let go. The memory irritated me. I had not come back to feel small again.

At the shallow end, the caretaker found my bag beneath a bench. While he checked its name, a drop of water fell from somewhere above us. It struck the surface with a small, clear note. Rings spread across the pool, touching the tiled edge and travelling back towards the middle. I watched them until the water was still.

The caretaker said the roof leaked whenever the wind came from the west. He spoke as if this were an inconvenience, but he stayed beside me while I looked up at the high windows. A thin strip of evening light rested on the far wall. The place no longer seemed empty; it seemed to be holding its breath between one day's noise and the next.

I took the bag from him. It was lighter than I remembered, and the zip had rusted at one corner. I had expected the pool to hand back an old version of me, fixed and waiting. Instead, I found myself asking when the roof would be repaired. The caretaker shrugged. Outside, the door clicked shut behind us, and I looked back once, not because I wanted to go in again, but because I had finally noticed the light.