Swim Until You Can't See Land by Catriona Child

just an empty house. There’s nobody here. No old woman. No relatives. No ghosts.
    Just me.
    I reach the front door, pick up the purse, along with some mail, the free newspaper.
    I did it. I made it.
    There’s a phone on the table. I put the mail down next to it, carry the purse back along the hall to the kitchen. I’m out of breath. Tired. 
    (post-race cool down)
    ‘There’s someone here after all,’ I say, spotting a fish bowl on the kitchen counter.
    ‘What’s your name? Are you hungry?’ I say to the goldfish. My voice sounds hollow, hangs in the strangeness of the empty house. I open the tub of fish food, sprinkle a few flakes onto the surface of the yellow water. A scum line has formed around the top of the bowl. He could do with a clean.
    The fish darts away from the shadow of my hand, but swims to the surface as I move away. The flakes float for a moment, before sinking to the bottom of the bowl.
    ‘Your owner’s not well. She might be dead actually. Sorry to break it to you like that. I don’t want to upset you little fish.’
    The fish sucks at the surface of the water, inhales soggy flakes of food. I run my finger along the side of the glass bowl.
    ‘Poor fish.’
    Does he care that his owner went out and never came back? Did he even notice? Maybe he’ll only start to worry when his water gets too brown to see through or when he misses his food?
    I sit at the kitchen table. I could do with a cup of tea, something to eat, but that would be a step too far. It’s one thing breaking in but another helping myself to breakfast.
    I play with the clasp of her purse.
    Click it open, shut, open, shut, open, shut, open, shut.
    Win or lose?
    Win or lose?
    Win or lose?
    ‘What would you do?’ The fish nibbles at the layer of coloured chips lining the bottom of the bowl.
    ‘As many flakes as you can eat? A castle?’ He swims in a circle, long tail rippling behind him.
    I open the purse, slide out the lottery ticket.
    5   16   21   26   32   44
    I was right, five numbers and the bonus ball.
    £ 100 , 000 . £ 100 , 000 .
    I hold up the ticket for the fish. Read the small print on the back.
    Is there any way I can do this without phoning, without turning up in person?
    (without giving myself away)
    HOW TO CLAIM
    PRIZES CAN BE CLAIMED BY POST OR IN PERSON.
    PRIZES OF UP TO £75 CAN BE CLAIMED FROM YOUR LOCAL RETAILER.
    PRIZES OVER £50,000 MUST BE CLAIMED IN PERSON.
    PROOF OF IDENTITY WILL BE REQUIRED.
    I should probably check she’s still with us, before I go spending her money.
    I head back into the hallway. I feel better somehow, knowing the fish is here, switch the light on now.
    The phone book lies on a shelf underneath the phone.
    I flick through it, find the number for the PRI. It rings a few times before a woman answers.
    ‘Good morning, Perth Royal Infirmary.’
    ‘Hi… I’m phoning to find out about a patient. She was brought in on Friday.’
    ‘What’s the name?’ Fuck sake, what’s her name again? My mind’s gone totally blank. I lift a piece of mail. 
    TO THE HOUSEHOLDER
    Shit, another one.
    MS MARIÈLE DOWNIE
    ‘It’s Downie, Marièle Downie.’
    ‘Hold on.’
    I hear the clacking of computer keys as she types.
    ‘Can you spell that for me?’ She asks.
    ‘Yeah, it’s M.A.R.I.E.L.E. D.O.W.N.I.E.’
    ‘I’ll need to transfer you to Intensive Care.’
    The phone beeps as I’m put on hold, then it rings again.
    Intensive Care.
    That sounds bad, but at least she’s still alive.
    ‘Hello, can I help?’
    ‘Hi, yeah, it’s about Marièle Downie.’
    ‘Are you a relative?’
    ‘Yeah, she’s my aunt… my great aunt.’ The lie slips out before I stop to think about what I’m doing.
    ‘She’s very poorly but she’s hanging in there. She’s still unconscious, but we’re hoping she’ll wake up soon. Are you able to come in and see her?’
    ‘Yeah, I guess so. When’s visiting?’
    What am I doing?
    ‘We make exceptions for Intensive Care. We can usually let you in at