Питер Джеймс - Dead if You Don’t

Keep calm. Breathe. Breathe!

When the water subsided, he could still see the youth, closer now. Much closer. Wire noose round his neck, duct tape over his mouth. Water up to his nose. Eyes wide with terror, fixed on his.

He swam as fast as he could towards him, before the swell rose again, once more submerging his head.

How long did they have ?

Four more strokes and he reached him, just as the swell rose yet again, covering both their heads. As it subsided, he said, ‘Police, I’m going to get you out, OK?’

Numb with fear, the teenager could hardly nod.

Grace lowered his feet through the water and found something hard to stand on. He stood, stretching himself as tall as he could, just above Mungo, pulled the pliers from his belt and cut the top of the wire noose, leaving for now the part of it round the boy’s neck. Next, as quickly as could, he tore the duct tape away from his mouth, hearing a yelp of pain.

‘Sorry. Are you OK?’

‘Please help me.’

‘Mungo?’

A petrified nod. ‘My hands. Can you free my hands?’

The thought flashed through his mind that he had both his ears intact. Whatever had been sent to the father must have come from elsewhere. ‘Mungo, I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly what I tell you, understand?’

Another nod.

Grace ducked under water and looked behind the boy. But it was too dark to see. His wrists were bound by what felt like cable ties, with a chain looped through them and tied in a clumsy knot. He managed to free them from the chain, but did not dare try to cut the ties for fear of cutting Mungo’s wrists.

Surfacing again, Grace took a moment to check any possible escape from here. All he could see was water, which seemed to be rising by the second, and the arched ceiling above, coming closer. With his arms behind his back, how the hell was he going to get him out?

‘Mungo, are you good at holding your breath?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a tiny, trembling voice.

‘Underwater?’

The boy stared at him with an unreadable expression.

‘Underwater, Mungo? Can you? Can you hold your breath?’

‘Yes,’ he mouthed, nodding wildly.

Grace pointed back. ‘We have to go that way, and quickly, we don’t have long. I’m going to tie this rope round you. Follow me, OK, and use your feet to kick as hard as you can in the water.’

Mungo just stared at him.

He tied one end of the rope securely round the boy’s chest under his armpits, and held the other in his hand. ‘OK?’

‘Yes.’

At that moment, a surge of water filled the cavern and started to suck them backwards, towards the sea. Fighting it with all his strength, Grace launched himself through the water, back the way he had come, pulling Mungo, who felt like a dead weight. As he rose to the surface, his head, then his body, hit the slimy ceiling. Shit, the gap was decreasing rapidly as the tide kept on rising. The swell carried him up, once more submerging his head. As it subsided again, he turned to see Mungo close behind him.

Just a few more strokes and he reached the entrance to the tunnel. The way into it was some feet below the top of the brick arch in front of him. His head broke the surface and he turned round, to see Mungo’s head appear also. ‘How are you doing?’

He nodded, looking scared as hell.

‘Now, you are going to have to do something really hard. How long can you hold your breath?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mungo replied.

‘Take several deep breaths, first, then a really big one, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Start now.’

As he watched the boy taking his breaths, Grace did the same. There was no going back from what they were about to do. If either of them ran out of air before they reached the steps at the entrance, they would die down here. There was no one to rescue them.

Grace took four breaths. Five.

Now!

He launched himself forward and down beneath the tunnel entrance, pulling the rope, feeling his head again scraping against the roof. He swam down, deeper, going as fast as he could, his eyes open and stinging in the ink-black water.

On.

On.

For several strokes he felt fine, powering along. Something kept touching one of his feet. Then his lungs began tightening.

Keep going.

He was running out of air. Keep going!

His chest was hurting. His lungs bursting. He didn’t know if he could go on much more than a few seconds. His throat was tightening, he was shaking. Shaking. Convulsing. He was going to have to—

To let go.

No.

Going to have to—

He wasn’t going to make it.

His hands bashed hard against something solid.

The steps.

From somewhere he got a second wind.

Felt Mungo strike his feet.

He stumbled upwards, waited, feeling the teenager’s weight on the rope.

Only seconds more. Please, only one more step!

Then one more!

He was going to have to breathe. Was going to have to. Could not go on. This was the end.

One more step.

Got to breathe.

Then, suddenly, air!

Air.

He gulped it down, reached back, found an arm and pulled, as hard as he could. An instant later Mungo’s head broke the surface alongside his, gasping and spluttering, coughing up water.

Alive.

Grace looked up and saw an anxious face. Never, in all his life, had he felt more pleased to see the Detective Sergeant.

‘Nice swim, chief?’ Norman Potting enquired.

Sunday 13 August

20.00–21.00

Invisible to the outside world, Dritan Nano sat uncomfortably on the bare metal floor of the van. It was travelling at speed and, with nothing to hold on to, he was thrown around every time the van braked hard or negotiated a bend. The exterior of the vehicle bore the name NEWHAVEN WET FISH SALES — WHOLESALE AND RETAIL, which had been stencilled on both sides and across the rear doors in Mr Konstandin’s garage an hour ago.

Opposite him, looking increasingly nauseous from the motion, was the young medical student, Gentian Llupa. All the personal belongings the pair could carry were crammed into two rucksacks in the rear with them. The exhaust resonated as if they were in an echo chamber and the gaseous fumes, leaking in from somewhere, were making Dritan feel queasy.

Neither of them spoke much. Dritan’s mind was preoccupied with Lindita. He kept looking at her photograph, his heart hurting each time. He could not wait to be back and go in search of her. He rehearsed, over and over in his mind, what he would say when he found her, to convince her he had changed. He would convince her. She would believe him.

Wouldn’t she?

He would take her flowers. She liked red flowers. He would take her the biggest bunch of red flowers she had ever seen in her life.

He peered, anxiously, past the driver and out of the windscreen, at the falling dusk. Somewhere out there a massive manhunt would be underway for him. He had to trust Mr Konstandin. He had no option.

As the van slowed, approaching the Newhaven swing bridge across the River Ouse, Dritan said to the quiet young man, ‘How are you feeling about going home?’

‘England — Brighton — is my home,’ Gentian Llupa replied, curtly.

‘You can continue your medical studies back home.’

‘Maybe.’

‘It is better than the alternative,’ Dritan said.

‘I was a refugee from Kosovo. Now I am a refugee from England. How do you think I feel?’

‘Perhaps you should feel fortunate to be alive.’

‘I find it hard to believe Mr Dervishi is dead,’ Llupa said.

‘So do I.’ Dritan attempted to sound sincere. ‘While he was alive we were safe. Now, no longer. Once the police begin investigating him, they will soon be looking for both of us. We don’t have an option.’