John Moss - Grave doubts

She inhaled in slow, shallow breaths and slowly exhaled, tilting her head and watching the bubbles rise in front of her mask and gather against the bulkhead above. She switched on her flashlight with the beam directed downwards to soften the glare, and turned her head to see if Rachel was alive. Rachel stared out at her with what Miranda perceived as serenity. Miranda’s eyelids dropped interrogatively.

What had Alexander done to deserve such a miserable death? How had Miranda so completely misunderstood their relationship? What terrible things swarmed through a mind driven to murders so contrived and cruel and seemingly arbitrary — without even the satisfaction of knowing her victims understood? Perhaps that is the point, Miranda thought: love as a prelude to death, a prologue to absolute power. Some things are beyond understanding.

Or perhaps Alexander understood his own death. Surely Rachel understood hers. And understanding for Miranda was not important — it would neither console nor redeem, and it would not compensate. Dead is dead. She felt life surge inside her and for the briefest moment she was angry, but anger made her colder. She tried to think of sunlight and fires. But when warmth began to creep through her body, she knew hypothermia was setting in as she shivered in spasms.

Rachel twisted their manacled wrists, and grasped Miranda’s hand. She gave it a slow and gentle squeeze — what might have been intended as a meaningful gesture. Miranda turned her light directly on Rachel. Rachel gave an almost imperceptible shrug, then took her mouthpiece from her mouth and held it up over her head.

There was a sudden rush of bubbles, then nothing. Her air was gone. She shrugged again, but instead of inhaling water she seemed to be holding her breath, as if she were determined to be in control to the end, to die by asphyxiation rather than drowning.

Miranda’s mask was filling with water, rising above her nostrils and splashing into her eyes. She felt panic tighten inside her. She took a slow breath and, tilting her head upward, exhaled through her nose, feeling the precious air stream out the top of her mask, driving the invasive water with it. Her mask cleared and the panic subsided.

She drew Rachel close. Reaching down to her side she freed up her octopus, which was tangled with her primary regulator hose, and pressed the auxiliary mouthpiece against Rachel’s pursed lips. After a moment of resistance, Rachel opened her mouth and grasped it between her teeth, but seemed not to breathe. Calmly, Miranda reached over and pressed the diaphragm on the front of the reg, forcing a burst of air into Rachel’s mouth. Rachel took a deep involuntary breath and began to hyperventilate. Miranda pressed against Rachel’s chest with her hand, urging her to slow down. They would share her air to the end. Miranda did not want to die alone. But she would prolong the process as long as possible. She would savour every last moment of consciousness.

Morgan swooped down on three portholes that had deliberately been scraped clean of algae from the inside. He tried to peer in but could see nothing. Grasping a steel flange with his fingertips, he pressed his flashlight against the glass to eliminate the reflection. He was sure there were human-shaped forms in the shadowy darkness. He banged on the window but there was no response. He turned and swam back to the breach in the hull, plunged into the depths of the ship, and was swallowed whole, with only the thread of his light beam to draw him through the bizarre angles of darkness.

Miranda drew in her last full breath and held it until her lungs burst and the residual air spewed out in a violent shudder. Her flashlight was on. She looked into Rachel’s mask, surprised to see fear in her final moment. She shone the light around their murky prison, calmly conscious of inscribing in her mind her final perceptions. Overhead, there was a pearly sheen where their exhaled air had gathered against the steel. She reached up and discovered she could break the surface and her fingers disappeared into a shallow pocket of air. She leaned down and drew Rachel toward her, then stretched upwards, kicking against the cuff around her ankle, forcing it to slide along the iron rail to gain a few inches of height.

Arching her neck, her face was less than a hand’s width away from the air. When she grasped to cup air with her hand, it slipped through her fingers. She needed to press into the pocket with her lips. Her mask hit steel, she tore it off and stretched again, until she could feel the flesh of her ankle break open against the restraining shackle. Still beyond reach. She dipped her fingertips into the eerily beautiful opalescence and pulled back to watch as it broke like shattered mercury. Her mind wavered; carbon dioxide tore into the walls of her lungs and trachea and larynx with innumerable edges; her chest and windpipe collapsed in a paroxysm of agony.

As her mask drifted away, Miranda felt the snorkel attached to its band brush against her leg. She grabbed down at it, but it slipped from her reach. Dropping her flashlight, she tore Rachel’s mask from her face and, after releasing the snorkel, let her mask drop as well. With a jarring heave she tried to twist the stiff plastic into a straight shaft. Briefly asphyxia took hold and her vision flashed black. She stopped, she clasped the snorkel with her manacled hand, reached out, groping, found Rachel’s knife, grasped the release, squeezed, turned the razor-sharp edge against the plastic, incised around the shaft a continuous line. The knife slipped from her fingers. Struggling to remain conscious, she twisted the snorkel with all her remaining strength. It refused, shivered, gave way, the valve end detached and slipped into the murk beneath them.

Miranda pressed the mouthpiece into her mouth and guided the sheared upper end into the pocket of air. She blew out, sucking residual air from cavities of pain to clear the shaft, and took in a slow, deep breath to replenish her screaming lungs.

She took another breath and another, then drew Rachel close, and bending away from her air supply, she pressed her lips over Rachel’s lips, forcing them open with her tongue, and blew air into Rachel’s mouth. Rachel coughed, regurgitating water into Miranda’s mouth. Miranda pulled back, and reached for another breath, then returned and blew more air into Rachel’s mouth. Her flashlight beamed from below in wavering swards above Alexander’s tethered corpse.

Morgan saw light flashing in fragments against the obscene tilt of the corridor walls. His heart racing, he surged ahead to the open door and swung into a stateroom, clattering his tank against the steel bulkhead, smashing his leg against the door frame. He doubled up in pain and lost equilibrium; he shone his light around, trying to orient himself to the bizarre angles of the room. Immediately ahead was the grotesquely contorted body of Alexander Pope. Above him, the beam shone through the swirling sediment and revealed a strange apparition of shadows and limbs.

As he rose up, he reached out and touched a leg. He recoiled as Miranda screamed into the water. He touched her again, this time not tentatively. He cast his light beam across his own face and then across hers. She had let the snorkel drop from her lips, which were open as she desperately mouthed the water. He released his mouthpiece from his own lips and thrust it between hers. She breathed deeply.

Oh, my goodness, my goodness, he thought. He reached around for his octopus regulator and exchanged it with hers. She took another deep breath and then thrust the mouthpiece out toward Rachel. Morgan grabbed it and forced it between Rachel’s lips. There was an interminable pause, then Rachel breathed on her own.

Morgan twisted slowly about and surveyed the situation. His air supply would not sustain all three for very long. Miranda was shaking from the cold but reached for his arm and gave it a tight squeeze through the wetsuit, then made the gesture of pushing him away, but without letting go. He shone his light in the water between them so that they could make eye contact. She rolled her eyes, motioning him to go up. She took the mouthpiece and handed it to Rachel, then, turning back to Morgan, she smiled and blew him an absurd underwater kiss, and gave an abrupt gesture with a jerk of her head. There was no doubt: she wanted him to leave them and save himself. Since he had found her, he understood what was happening. He must — he was here. He was her witness. She felt a great surge of warmth. She was ready.