'G.o.d, John-' His voice sounded weak and strained. 'Sit there and don't worry. I'll come back.' 'Where- are you going?' There was fear in his voice but also control. 'Out.'

'Well- hurry.' 'Yes.'

I slipped back into the water and swam a couple of strokes to the curtain. Tried standing up, but the water was much deeper there. Hung onto the wire feeling the tug of the eddies from the river.

With luck, with extreme luck, the curtain wouldn't go all the way down to the river's bed. It had no practical need to reach down further than the drought level of the river which had to leave a gap of at least two or three feet. From the weight point of view, a gap was sensible. Simple.

I took a breath and pulled myself hand over hand down the curtain, seeking to find the bottom of it with my feet: and there was indeed a gap between the bottom edge of the curtain and the mud, but only a matter of inches, and there was clutter down there, unidentifiable, pressing against the barrier, trying to get past it.

1 came up for air.

'Harry?'

'Yes.'

'There's a s.p.a.ce under the metal curtain. I'm going out into the river and I'll be back for you very soon.'

'All right.' More control this time: less fear.

Deep breath. Dived, pulling myself down the wire. Came to the end of it, felt the mud below. The bottom edge of the curtain was a matter of free links, not a connecting bar. The links could be raised, but only singly, not all together.

Go under it, I told myself. The temptation to return safely back up where I'd come from was enormous. Go under-

I swung down at the bottom, deciding to go head first, face up, curling my back down into the soft river bed, praying- praying that the links wouldn't catch on my clothes- in my knitted sweater- should have stripped- head under, metal lying on my face, push the links up with hands, full strength, take care, don't rush, don't snag clothes, get free of the jumble of things on the mud around me, hold onto the wire outside, don't let go, the current in the river was appreciable, tugging, keep straight, hang on, shoulders through, raise the links, back through, bottom through, legs- links- short of breath- lungs hurting- careful, careful- unknown things round my ankles, hampering- had to breathe soon- feet catching- feet- through.

The river immediately floated my free legs away as if it would have them, and I had to grab the wire fiercely to avoid going with the current. But I was through and not stuck in the dreadful clutch of metal links, not grasped by debris, not drowning without any chance of rescue. I came up into the air gasping deeply, panting, aching lungs swelling, feeling a rush of suppressed terror, clinging onto the curtain in a shaky state. 'Harry?' I called.

The dock looked dark beyond the curtain and I couldn't see him, but he could indeed see me.

'Oh John-' His relief was beyond measure. 'Thank G.o.d.'

'Not long now,' I said, and heard the strain in my own voice too.

I edged along the curtain in the upstream direction of the shut door and by hauling my way up the links at the side managed to scramble round the boathouse wall and up out of the water to roll at last onto the gra.s.sy bank. Bitterly cold, shivering violently from several causes, but out.

I stood up with knees that felt like buckling and tried to open the door into the dock; and it was as immovable from outside as in. It had a mortise lock, a simple keyhole and no key.

Perhaps the best thing to do, I thought despairingly, was to find a telephone and get professional help: the fire brigade and an ambulance. If I couldn't find a telephone in Sam's big workshop I could drive Harry's car to the nearest house- Big snag.

Harry's car had gone.

My mind started playing the s.h.i.t tape monotonously. Before I did anything, I thought, I needed to put on my boots. Went into the boathouse through the top door.

Another big snag. No boots.

No ski-suit jacket either.

Harry's voice came from below, distant and wavery, 'Is anyone there?'

'It's me, John,' I shouted. 'Just hold on.' No reply. He was weaker, perhaps. Better hurry. There was now no doubt about murderous intention on someone's part and the certainty made me perversely angry, stimulating renewed strength and a good deal of b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness. I ran along the stony path to Sam's large shed in my socks and hardly felt the discomfort, and found to my relief that I could get inside easily enough - no lock on the door.

The s.p.a.ce inside looked as much like a junkyard as the s.p.a.ce outside. The centre, I saw briefly, was occupied by a large boat on blocks, its superstructure covered with lightweight grey plastic sheeting.

I spent a little precious time searching for a telephone, but couldn't find one. There was no office, no place part.i.tioned off or locked. Probably Sam kept good tools somewhere, but he'd hidden them away.

All around lay old and rusting tools and equipment, but among the junk I found almost at once two perfect aids: a tyre lever and a heavy mallet for driving in mooring pegs.

With those I returned at speed to the boathouse and attacked the lower door, first hammering the toe of the tyre lever into a non-existent crack between the wooden door frame and the surrounding brickwork at a level just below the keyhole, then bashing the far end of that iron to put heavy leverage against the door frame, then wrenching out the lever and repeating the whole process above the lock, this time with fury.

The old wood of the door frame gave up the struggle and splintered, freeing the tongue of the lock, and without much more trouble I pulled the door open towards me, swinging it wide. I left the tyre lever and mallet on the gra.s.s and stepped down into the boathouse, the shocking chill of the water again a teeth-gritter.

At least, I thought grimly, it was a calm day. No wind-chill to speak of, to polish us off.

I waded along to Harry who was sagging back against the corner, his head lolling only just above the surface.

'Come on,' I said urgently. 'Harry, wake up.'

He looked at me apathetically through a mist of weakness and pain and one could see he'd been in that water a lot too long. Apathy, like cold, was a killer. I bent down and turned him until I had my hands under his arms, his back towards me, and I floated him along in the water to the steps and there strained to pull him up them and out onto the gra.s.s. 'My leg,' he said, moaning.

'G.o.d, Harry, what do you weigh?' I asked, lugging. 'None of your b.l.o.o.d.y business,' he mumbled. I half laughed, relieved. If he could say that, for all his suffering, he wasn't in a dying frame of mind. It gave me enough impetus to finish the exit, though I dare say he, like me, felt only marginally warmer for being on land.

His leg seemed to have stopped bleeding, or very nearly, and he couldn't have severed an artery or he'd have bled to death by now, but all the same there had to be a pretty serious wound under the cloth of his trousers and the faster I could get him to a doctor the better.

As far as I remembered from our arrival, the boatyard lay down a lane with no houses nearby: I'd have a fair run in my socks to find help.

On the other hand, among the general clutter, only a few feet off, I could see the upturned keel of an old clinker-built rowing boat. Small. Maybe six feet overall. A one-man job, big enough for two. If it weren't full of holes-

Leaving Harry briefly I went to the dinghy and heaved it over right side up. Apart from needing varnish and loving care it looked seaworthy, but naturally there were no rowlocks and no oars.

Never mind. Any piece of pole would do. Plenty lying about. I picked up a likely length and laid it in the boat.

The dinghy had a short rope tied to its bow: a painter. 'Harry, can you hop?' I asked him. 'Don't know.'

'Come on. Try. Let's get you into the boat.' 'Into the boat?'

'Yes. Someone's taken your car.' He looked bewildered, but the whole afternoon must have seemed so unbelievable to him that hopping into a boat would seem to be all of a piece. In any case, he made feeble efforts to help me get him to his left foot, and with my almost total support he made the few hops to reach the boat, though I could see it hurt him sorely. I helped him sit down on the one centre thwart and arranged his legs as comfortably as possible, Harry cursing and wincing by turns.

'Hang on tight to the sides,' I said. 'Tight.'

'Yes.'

He didn't move, so I pulled his hands out and positioned them on the boat's edges.

'Grip,' I said fiercely.

'Fine.' His voice was vague, but his hands tightened.

I tugged and lugged the dinghy until it was sliding backwards down the bank, and then held on to the painter, digging my heels in, leaning back to prevent too fast and splashy a launch. At the last minute, when the stern hit the swollen water and the dinghy's progress flattened out, I jumped in myself and simply hoped against all reasonable hope that we wouldn't sink at once.