You’re going to die with your lungs bursting.
She tried to kick, but Jane was on top of her, one knee in her back, one hand pressing her right arm to the jetty. These sensations were happening in a different time zone. Meanwhile, Sid was holding her breath, while Hercule Poirot wheezed inside her. Tt Tt Tt, he said. Then Pp Pp Pp, and finally Qq Qq Qq. The water tightened round her head, and memories broke from the mass of her past: the shape of the bedknob on her first bed. The coat she wore on her first day at school. Something was burning inside her chest, and might swallow everything, if she let it. A piece of coloured paper on which she’d fixed gold stars and drawn a friendly horse … It would be simplest to breathe in now, and let the lake’s cool water put the burning out. She had forgotten why she was here. But all paths lead back to where they started, don’t they? The coloured paper crumpled and vanished, joined all the things she couldn’t remember yet, and then Jane’s hand released her and she almost slid into the water anyway, because that seemed the obvious move. But with what was left of her free will she pulled back, and breathing air seemed the most extraordinary event: unusual, unprecedented, worth lighting a candle for. It hurt, and her chest still burned, but for a minute she couldn’t get enough of it, and lay there gasping, staring at the clouds, while a yard away Jane, taking a break from killing Sid, was killing River instead.
When River followed the path through the trees, it led him to the lakeside he remembered from boyhood, or thought he did, though this was new: a wooden jetty, ten yards long, leading to a small hut, probably a bird hide. The jetty was low, or the lake high: either way, its elevation allowed a woman to drown Sid Baker by holding her head under water while kneeling on her back. Sid was alive because her feet were kicking, just barely. Something silver on the planking caught a random sliver of light: a gun. She’d put the gun down the better to drown Sid. This thought took a moment to process itself, and by the time it was done River was halfway there.
The woman turned before he reached her, and her face was pure calculation: work in progress versus approaching deadline. She abandoned her task, leaving Sid flapping like a landed fish, and lunged for the gun, which River’s foot reached first: he sent it flying towards the hide. It hit the door and clattered to the woodwork. He tried to kick her in the face as a follow-up, but was unbalanced. She was on her knees, a good height at which to direct a jab at his balls, but his forward motion had propelled him past her, and she hit his thigh instead, which went briefly numb. He turned, dipped and reached for the gun, but she was on her feet now and kicked out, catching him on the shoulder, but only because he averted his head in time. Before she could snatch the weapon he sprang forward and caught her midriff, rugby-tackle-style: now they both went down, River on top. He felt her knee thrust upwards between his legs and jammed his thighs shut, and crashed his forehead onto her nose. Blood spurted. Then her open palms slapped both his ears at once, and the resulting thunderclap split his head open. She pushed him off, and for a moment they shared a look: one of them was going to kill the other. Whoever had the gun was favourite.
She was nearest.
She scrambled onto all fours and scurried for it, but River recovered in time and leaped on her. He tried to grasp her collar, and gain leverage to smack her head on the platform, but she rolled without warning, throwing him off. He nearly went in the water; she nearly reached the gun, but he grabbed her wrist, and when she tried to smack her forearm into his face, bit her. She screamed in outrage, and he hauled himself over her, stretching for the gun, but two swift punches to his side stopped him. He jabbed his elbow into her face in response and she loosened her grasp, and this time his hand did reach the gun, but before that could matter, she punched him in the throat. His whole body convulsed, fingers included, and the gun went off: a sudden firework against a dark background. The bullet could have gone anywhere. The gun did; before she could wrest it from his breathless grip he launched it, hard as he could, into the night: the splash it made when it hit the water met the gunshot’s echoes coming back.
Still trying to breathe, feeling like his head was wrapped in plastic, he tried to crawl free, but he was on his back and she was clinging to him tight as a lover: her face soaked in blood, her teeth a grimace. And then she hit him in the face, twice, each blow sending pain rocketing through his head. Before a third blow could connect he arched his back violently and threw her aside. For a second he felt weightless, and had to anchor himself: there was work to be done. He scrambled to his feet, lost balance, and tumbled against the bird hide again, but didn’t fall. She was on her feet too, in the crouching dragon position, unless it was flying tiger: she was about to launch herself, and almost did, but something stopped her – Sid Baker, wrapped around her legs like an angry toddler. River stepped forward and punched her in the face and she fell back over Sid and hit the deck. River threw himself onto her while Sid clung to her legs; she was kicking madly, but Sid wouldn’t let go. Kneeling on her stomach, River put his hands round her throat and squeezed. It was like wrestling a fish: she arched and flapped and tried to punch him again; then seized his wrists and tried to break their grip. He felt himself winning, but she freed a foot; kicked Sid in the head, and dislodged River. She rolled, began to crawl, but he was on her again, and this time for good: for good? Was this good? River was suddenly aware of the noise, all the noise they were making. Yelps and snarls and pained mouthfuls of air. She was flat on the deck and he was on her back, and the water was there in front of them. She’d tried to drown Sid. It seemed like a plan. He hauled her forwards, and she struggled when she realised what he was doing, but it didn’t help her, not with the two of them holding her down. And then River had her head in the water, like some God-awful Baptist ceremony, and her arms flailed about, desperate to grab hold of something; she caught his ear and tried to rip it off, digging her nails in, but River wouldn’t relax his grip, couldn’t, and now Sid was pulling the woman’s hand away and holding it in both her own. Her feet were beating a message in Morse code, just a loose collection of vowels expressing who knew what. She had never died before. It was new territory. And then the letters spaced themselves out, and the message fragmented, as whatever it was the woman was seeing outgrew her ability to describe it. One last shimmered attempt at resistance, and she fell silent. It was over. It would never be over. But it was over.
River gave it another full minute before letting go of her head.
There was no sudden reanimation; no last-minute movie shock.
He drew back from the edge, still on his knees, every muscle trembling. Sid, too, had shuffled away. With distance between them they were breathing in unison: hard ragged gulps of air. He was soaking wet, he noticed. Sweat and blood. Lake water. Something to think about if this ever happened again: bring a change of clothing. He wanted to be sick. Even as he had the thought, Sid threw up. He wiped his mouth, as if it were hers.
Somewhere behind them an owl hooted. And then, from the other side of the lake, another replied: Hu-whit. Hu-whuh. Life went on.
10
A CROWD DEFAULTS TO ITS dominant emotion. Recent years had seen children taking to the streets, angry at the damage their elders have done to their planet, but fired by hope nevertheless. For others, rage remained the easier option.