Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

Finally, I stopped struggling and stared at the excavator as it trundled noisily along the edge of the wharf. Several tons of mud filled its metal jaws and slopped over the sides in great, slippery gouts. I’d seen Andrew use this machine on the site before, and I knew he was a skilful driver who could drop a load exactly where he wanted it. Right now, he was manoeuvring the excavator directly over my head.

I craned my neck to stare up in helpless fascination as the arms of the machine reared above me. If the weight of that mud didn’t break my neck, I would suffocate in seconds, with my lungs full of wet, stinking sludge. For the second time in a few days, I was staring into the face of death.

Every time a boat passes through a lock, thirty thousand gallons of water go with it, descending from the summit level, lock by lock, until they reach the end of the canal and flow into a river. The water in the summit pound is kept up to its level by a reservoir. Without that reservoir, the waterway would run dry with the continued passage of boats.

In my mind, that reservoir is a bit like the genetic memory that Great-Uncle Samuel thought he’d discovered. The water is released one surge at a time, flowing imperceptibly through the miles, just as a blood line passes from generation to generation of a family. But there’s no way to call on the whole reservoir at once. And there’s no way to grasp the entire thoughts and memories of your ancestors, to understand what drove them, what they desired or feared. The system hasn’t been designed that way.

I always said I’d never look back. But, in a way, my life had ceased to be a series of random, unconnected trivialities. I was starting to see myself as part of an unbroken strand, an individual segment of a coherent whole that stretched over the centuries and had its own unique significance. I’d begun to believe there was a meaning for everything, after all.

William and Josiah Buckley had both died close to that spot at Fosseway Wharf. Their lives had been cruelly taken from them, their place in the flow cut violently short. I’d seen in my nightmares the way they both met their deaths. I’d felt their fear, as real as if it were my own. The fate of my ancestors was inextricably linked to mine.

But I’d vowed to avenge their deaths, not to allow myself to die in the same way. I hadn’t come all this way to suffocate in three feet of mud. I was the last Buckley, the end of the line, and I carried the weight of expectation of all those generations who’d gone before me. When history’s boot is in your face, the only thing to do is fight back.

I can’t pretend all these thoughts went through my mind as I wallowed in the canal basin watching Andrew Hadfield manoeuvre the excavator bucket into a killing position. There was really no thinking involved. It was more like a great surge of defiance, a furious rejection of the prospect of death that sent new strength rushing through my body and pulled my limbs free from the clinging mud at last.

My foot found a fallen lump of brickwork. I kicked out against it, and suddenly I was free and moving. It felt as though unseen hands had reached out to pluck me from the morass and set me on my feet.

I didn’t waste any more time. With my muscles straining and my breath coming in painful gasps, I thrashed across the sea of mud, feeling fresh rain starting to fall on my sweat-soaked face and wash away the caked muck. I thought I heard a curse from the direction of the excavator cab, then a grinding of gears as the machine began to turn.

I plunged along below the wharf side, feeling the ground get firmer and firmer underfoot. I realised there was more and more fallen rubble in the bottom of the basin the further I went towards the end of the wharf. The brickwork was powdery and disintegrating, broken down and ruined by the passage of time. Looking over my shoulder, I saw my advantage of surprise was rapidly being lost as the excavator kept pace with me on the wharf above.

My burst of energy was already failing me when I saw a brick pier jutting out into the basin from the darkness. The top looked indistinguishable from the rest of the wharf, but from below I could see the brickwork was decayed so much it was on the point of collapse. The packed earth supporting the masonry was bursting through bulging walls. The pier looked as though it could fall at any moment, perhaps as soon as I touched it.

I staggered my way to the end of the pier, and finally the energy drained from me completely. I watched in desperate hope as Andrew stopped and twisted the wheel to send the excavator trundling towards me. The tracks of the machine got only halfway along the pier before the ground began to give way.

For a moment, Andrew didn’t seem to notice the danger. His attention was distracted by a running figure that came from the direction of the old warehouse and leaped onto the back of the excavator, shouting and gesticulating. I realised it was Simon Monks, arriving on the scene at last. Having pursued me into Andrew’s trap, he was now attempting to avert the disaster that he and I could see, but Andrew Hadfield couldn’t.

But Monks was too late. In the next moment, the walls of the pier disintegrated and the excavator tipped precariously. Earth showered into the basin, and I threw my hands over my head to protect myself against the cascade of broken bricks that followed. The giant machine sank with a jolt as the ground subsided beneath it. I could hear the engine whining and the tracks spinning uselessly until the excavator began to topple, the weight of the debris in its bucket throwing it sideways off the derelict pier.

I saw a single figure hurl itself clear before the machine lurched one last time and fell ten feet into the basin. The excavator rolled over onto the roof of its cab and landed in an explosion of metal and splintered brick.

For a few seconds the engine continued to churn and the tracks attempted to grip the shattered side of the pier, driving the excavator further into the mud as lethal fragments rained down on the basin.

Then the engine choked and stopped. And a strange silence fell on Fosseway Wharf.

I seemed to be making a habit of coming round to find myself in even worse situations than I escaped from. When I awoke, it was to find Simon Monks standing over me. He was staring at me with a calculating look, like a butcher trying to decide which knife to use to dispatch his victim.

I began to panic again, thrashing my arms and tossing my head from side to side to see where I was and what was holding me down. Bafflingly, I realised after a moment that I was surrounded by plain white walls and constrained only by bedclothes. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard a voice I knew.

‘It’s all right, sir. You’re quite safe.’

The face was too close for me to focus on it at first, then I recognised Detective Sergeant Graham. I grabbed at his arm and pointed wildly at Monks.

‘It’s him!’ I shouted. ‘Him! Keep him away from me!’

‘Now, calm down, sir,’ said DS Graham. ‘You’re getting a bit hysterical. You’ve had an unpleasant experience.’

‘Unpleasant? He and his friends tried to kill me!’

‘I don’t think you quite know what you’re saying, sir.’

Graham looked worried, embarrassed and puzzled. Monks continued to stare at me contemptuously, a sneer lingering around the corners of his mouth. I couldn’t understand what he was doing in my hospital room after what had happened at Fosseway Wharf.

‘Why isn’t he under arrest? He’s the man who killed Godfrey Wheeldon. He tried to kill me, too. I can give you all the evidence you need.’

Finally, Monks had heard enough. He spoke to the bemused Graham.

‘See that Mr Buckley understands the situation, sergeant.’