A Glimpse Through Grime

The double doors, once polished and inviting, now hung ajar on a single, groaning hinge, their glass panels spiderwebbed with cracks. Ida pushed the heavier one inward, a protesting screech of old metal cutting through the late autumn quiet. Inside, the chill was immediate, biting, a dry, penetrating cold that somehow still carried the ghost of chlorine. She shivered, pulling her thin jacket tighter, the synthetic fabric doing little against the dampness that seemed to seep from the very walls.

Arnie followed, his worn trainers scuffing against the grit on the linoleum floor. 'Told you it'd be open,' he mumbled, already pulling his phone out, the screen a brief, cold splash of blue light in the gloom. He didn't look up, just aimed the beam haphazardly ahead, as if the space held no real surprises for him.

'Still smells like… stale dreams,' Ida replied, her voice a little hushed, bouncing off the high ceilings. She looked around the cavernous foyer, where broken display cases lay shattered, their contents – faded photographs of grinning swim teams, dusty participation ribbons – scattered across the floor like discarded memories. A single, overturned plastic chair lay near what used to be the reception desk, its legs pointing accusingly at the ceiling.

She traced a finger through the thick layer of dust on a counter, leaving a clean, stark line. The air tasted gritty, like old paper and something metallic, like static electricity or forgotten copper wiring. It wasn't the sweet, sharp tang of freshly cut grass from the park outside, nor the greasy warmth of the chippy down the street. It was the scent of absence, of something waiting to be overwritten.

Arnie kicked a loose piece of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, sending a small cloud into the air. 'They're calling it the 'Youth Development Hub',' he said, his tone flat, mimicking the official pronouncements that had peppered the local news for weeks. 'Sounds like something that swallows up all the decent ideas and spits out… I dunno, another skatepark for toddlers.'

Ida snorted, a dry, humourless sound. 'Or another place for rich kids to do whatever rich kids do, while the council pats itself on the back for 'community engagement'.' Her gaze drifted to a series of murals, faded but still discernible, depicting smiling, generic figures playing various sports. A basketball player mid-dunk, a swimmer slicing through impossibly blue water, a runner frozen in perfect stride. They seemed alien now, ghosts of an idealism that had never quite belonged here.

Her mind wandered, a quick, associative leap to her own future. University applications. Forms she hadn't touched. The expectation of 'something better' from her parents, who’d sacrificed so much. But what was 'better' when everywhere you looked, places like this were being hollowed out and refilled with something that felt both sterile and vaguely threatening? The weight of their unspoken hopes was a dull ache behind her ribs.

They moved deeper, towards the main aquatic hall. The echo of their footsteps felt amplified, distorted by the sheer emptiness. The hall was vast, cathedral-like, and gutted. The Olympic-sized pool, once a dazzling turquoise, was now a crater of grey concrete, streaked with rust and choked with what looked like fallen ceiling tiles and twisted metal frames. The diving boards, once majestic pedestals, hung crooked and broken, their springboards sagging like tired tongues.

The Empty Basin

Ida stopped at the edge of the basin, peering down. It was a dizzying drop, maybe three metres, to the concrete floor below. The walls were still lined with the dark blue tiles, but many were cracked or missing, revealing the rough mortar beneath. She imagined the roar of the crowds, the whistle of the referee, the sharp smell of fresh chlorine that used to cling to her hair after swim lessons. Now, only the smell of damp moss and something metallic, like burnt-out electricals, lingered.

Arnie shone his phone light into the deep end. 'They're ripping all this out, aren't they? Putting in some kind of climbing wall, maybe a VR arcade.' He sounded bored, but Ida caught the slight tremor in his voice. He’d learned to swim here, too. Everyone in their neighbourhood had. It was one of the few places that had felt truly public, truly theirs.

'A VR arcade,' Ida repeated, the words tasting like ash. 'Because what kids really need is less actual movement, more staring at screens. Brilliant. Just what the doctor ordered for 'development'.' She scraped the toe of her boot against a loose piece of tile. 'It's like they want to erase what this place was. Pretend it never mattered.'

Arnie shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 'Progress, right? Gotta keep up. The world moves on. Or they move it for you, whether you want it or not.' He started to walk along the edge of the pool, his eyes scanning the walls, not for nostalgia, but for something else. Ida watched him, a familiar knot tightening in her stomach. Arnie saw the world as it was, a series of opportunistic moves and unavoidable consequences. She saw the layers, the things hidden beneath the surface, the unspoken agreements and the subtle betrayals.

She remembered the time her younger cousin, little Leo, had nearly drowned in the shallow end, just a tiny bit of water. The lifeguard, a girl barely older than Ida was now, had pulled him out, coughing and sputtering. The memory was sharp, vivid. Life and death in bright blue water. Now, it was just a concrete hole, ready for a new kind of emptiness.

Ida knelt, running her hand over a section of wall where the tiles had come completely away, revealing bare brick. The brick felt cold, rough, porous. She noticed a brick that looked slightly out of alignment, a fraction of a centimetre deeper than its neighbours. Her fingers, despite the cold, felt a strange warmth against it. She pushed, a tentative pressure, then a little more. It gave, just a fraction, scraping against the mortar.

Arnie, halfway down the length of the pool, turned. 'Find anything interesting, Sherlock?' he called out, his voice echoing, then falling into the vast silence. He had a tendency to make light of her observations, but he always lingered, always watched.

She didn't answer immediately. Her fingers worked at the brick, wiggling it, feeling the resistance, then the slight give. The smell of damp earth and fine dust rose from the gap. Finally, with a soft grating sound, it shifted enough for her to pull it free. Behind it, not a dark cavity, but a small, shallow space. Someone had made a tiny, crude hiding spot.

She reached in, her fingers brushing against something small, smooth, and oddly stiff. She pulled it out. It was a folded piece of paper, aged and creased, tucked inside a clear, brittle plastic sleeve. The plastic had yellowed with time, crinkling at the edges. Not a treasure map. Not a love letter. Her gut twisted. This felt different. More… clinical.

The Unspoken Language

She unfolded the paper carefully. It was graph paper, the kind used in maths class. On it, a series of seemingly random numbers and letters were written in a precise, almost mechanical hand. Not a message in plain sight, but a cipher. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp air traced its way down her spine. The numbers formed blocks, interspersed with single capital letters. Not words. Something else. Like a list, but secret. Her gaze swept over the characters, trying to find a pattern, a meaning. She found none, only the unsettling certainty that this wasn't innocent.

'What is it?' Arnie was beside her now, his phone light illuminating the paper, making the faint pencil marks stand out. His casual air had vanished, replaced by a keen, almost predatory focus. His eyes narrowed, trying to decipher the alien script. 'Looks like… some kind of code. Or a shopping list for aliens.' He tried to joke, but his voice was tight.

Ida shook her head, her breath catching in her throat. 'It’s… I don’t know. Not for us, that’s for sure.' She held it up, rotating it slightly, the paper crinkling softly. The numbers were too precise, the letters too deliberate. It was a secret, carefully guarded, left behind by someone who clearly hadn’t expected anyone to find it.

Her mind raced. Who would hide something like this in an abandoned sports centre? And why? This wasn’t some kid’s time capsule. This felt… grown-up. Dangerous, even. The 'recreation program' suddenly seemed less like a bureaucratic joke and more like a conveniently timed cover-up.

She looked at Arnie, whose face was illuminated by the phone screen, his jaw set. 'Think it has anything to do with… you know. The new project?' he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The silence that followed was dense, heavy, pressing in on them from all sides.

Before Ida could answer, a loud, metallic clatter echoed from somewhere far off in the building, like a heavy sheet of corrugated iron being dropped. It was sharp, sudden, and too close for comfort. They both froze, every muscle tensed, listening. The sound had come from deeper within the labyrinthine corridors, perhaps the old changing rooms, or the administration offices.

Arnie’s phone light flickered, then held steady. His eyes, wide and darting, met Ida’s. His breath hitched, a faint, ragged sound in the quiet. They weren't alone. And whoever was here, they hadn't come to reminisce about swimming lessons.

They waited, breathless, straining to hear anything else. The silence after the clatter was profound, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drip of water. Ida could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic drum against the silence. Every shadow seemed to stretch and shift, every creak of the old building amplified. Her grip tightened on the small piece of coded paper, her knuckles white. She looked at Arnie, a question in her eyes, a silent plea for an explanation he couldn't possibly give. His eyes, still wide, were locked on the far entrance to the pool hall, where a sliver of deeper shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall, growing longer, reaching towards them.