I fail. Badly.
As I thrash around under the water, I feel every sinew stretching itself to breaking point. The tape binding my arms snaps under the stress of my frenzied contortions. Having them free takes the edge off my terror. I have never learned to swim, but at least I have a half chance of not drowning if I have the use of my arms.
Slamming the panic down, I use brain instead of brawn for a moment.
My lungs are full of air but I know it won’t last me long. Not with the way I’ve been fighting my bonds. Not with my head so far from the surface.
I blow a tiny amount of precious breath through my nose and feel the bubbles pass over my chin.
Now I know which way is up, I claw towards the surface. My movements are ungainly but I feel the weight of the water pushing down on me lessen. I’m making progress.
My head breaks the surface for a second and then I start to sink all over again.
Is this what is to become of me? Bobbing up and down from the depths to the surface until my strength wanes and I inhale lake water?
The other danger is Norm sitting on his boat watching. A crack from the boathook he’d used to push off from the jetty will knock me unconscious. Hell, he won’t even have to hit me with it, he can just use it to hold me under the water.
As I flap my way to the surface for a second time, I dig a nail under the tape over my mouth and yank the tape free. It stings, but a kiss from a supermodel couldn’t open my mouth right now, so there’s no way a yelp of pain is going to happen.
This time when I break the surface, I get a decent lungful of air. I also open my eyes for the first time since entering the water.
Norm is standing on the boat with his back to me. I see him turning as I slip beneath the water.
While I know I can’t keep up this rhythm for long, every time I break the surface feels like a victory as well as a chance to replace the spent air in my lungs. With two of Norm’s three pieces of tape removed from my body, I start figuring how to remove the third.
Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I draw out the key to my apartment. It’s a Yale key with a rough serrated edge. With it clamped between my fingers, I saw at the tape around my ankles.
It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.
With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.
This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.
Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.
Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.
My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.
I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.
While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.
I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.
Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.
When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.
I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.
If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.
The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.
Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.
Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.
A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.
A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’
82
I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.
Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.
The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.
Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.
His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.
I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.
He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.
I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.
It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.
I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.
It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.
I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.
Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.
A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.
The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.
I have seconds to decide what to do. If I was a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.
The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.