Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

‘Let her go, Sam,’ called Joesbury. ‘Just let her go and we can sort this out.’

‘Get off the fucking bridge!’ Cooper’s voice in my left ear was close to deafening. ‘Get off the bridge or you scrape her brains off it.’

Joesbury had both hands in the air. He took a step backwards. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘We’re going.’

He and the officers with him were moving back. If I was going to act, it had to be now. I wrapped my hands around the fabric of Cooper’s jacket. When I had a firm hold and knew he couldn’t go anywhere, I took a deep breath.

‘The gun isn’t real,’ I called out, praying I was right. ‘It’s an air pistol. Come and get the bastard.’

Joesbury and the officer at his side exchanged glances. The gun that might or might not be real – I honestly wasn’t that certain – was pushed harder against my temple and I felt something in my neck about to snap. Then I was being pulled backwards at the waist and my feet left the ground.

Panic shot through me like red-hot needles.

The heat of Cooper’s body was gone but he still had me in a tight grip. I was being pulled backwards against the thick steel girder of the barrier. Shit, Cooper was on the other side of it, leaning out over the river, with nothing other than a tight grip on me to prevent himself falling.

‘Not a good idea, Sam.’ Joesbury was getting close again. ‘It’s low tide. The water can’t be more than a metre deep. The fall will kill you.’

On the far bank of the river, there was no sign of the grimy, rubbish-strewn beaches that appear at low tide. The water would be deeper than Joesbury was telling us. Small comfort, because the only contact I had with the ground by this time was the tips of my trainers and any second now my spine was going to snap.

‘It’s twenty metres down, Sam,’ called Joesbury. ‘That’s higher than an Olympic diving board. You won’t survive.’

The arches of Vauxhall Bridge are twelve metres to water level at the lowest tide. Add on another couple of metres to reach road level and the fall would be fourteen metres at most. Still not one I relished. People don’t often fall from bridges into the Thames and survive.

‘You’re right above one of the concrete piers,’ said Joesbury, who was almost close enough to touch us. ‘You won’t even reach the water.’ I couldn’t look down but I was praying Joesbury was bullshitting about that, too. If we hit the water, we’d have a chance. Land on concrete – forget it.

‘I’ve done nothing. This is a fucking fix.’

Joesbury’s eyes didn’t even flicker. ‘Come on, buddy, back on to this side. We’ll sort this out.’

‘Screw you.’

Joesbury leaped for us just as Cooper pulled me up and over the railing. For a split second I felt a hand around my foot. I met Joesbury’s eyes and saw them creased up with pain. His dislocated shoulder. The pressure of his hand held a second longer, then I felt a sliding sensation as my foot slipped from my trainer and I was falling.

I could see horrified blue eyes, the river gleaming like black ink and coloured lights from the north bank reaching across it like ribbons. I had a moment of surprise. I’d imagined my own death often, but it had never been like this. This strange sensation of feeling perfectly fine and completely fucked at the same time. Then instinct kicked in and I threw my arms above my head. Just in time. The water hit me so hard I thought I had landed on concrete and then the world turned into a plunging, dark hole.

46

I’M SINKING, SO FAST IT FEELS LIKE I’M STILL FALLING, INTO A blackness that is dense enough to be solid, and I know that, against every instinct, I cannot panic. I have minutes. Fall into the Thames around Westminster in the middle of winter and it takes roughly 120 seconds before the cold paralyses your limbs and you sink to the bottom. In late September I might have a few minutes longer.

Still moving fast. Make those minutes count. Limbs outstretched now to slow me down. Looking around. Eyes stinging. Nothing to see but shifting dark shapes. Lights. The lights from the bank above me. I’m not sinking any more but moving fast all the same. The tide has got me.

Swim. Get up to those lights. Don’t breathe. Don’t think about the river, about the darkness below, about weed tangling in my face. Make those minutes count. Savage pain as something hits me hard. I’m being dragged against a hard surface I can’t see. For a second I stop moving and know I’m caught on something. The river rips past me like a waterfall and I know this is the end. Then I’m free again, spinning off into darkness. Lights still above me. Don’t breathe. Minutes have gone by. Clock ticking. I need air.

I’m breathing. I’ve broken the surface. Then I’m down again, but air in my lungs has given me hope. I kick. Keep moving. Don’t give in to the cold. A body is recovered from the Thames every week of the year. Most of them are found in London. Don’t be one of them.

I surface again. The huge wheel of the London Eye is already small in the distance. I’ve travelled so far already. The tide is hurrying away with me. Then I’m dragged under again. I am in the river in the dark in a heavy tide. I’ll be found, days from now, probably in the U-bend around the Isle of Dogs because that’s where most bodies get trapped. I’ll be bloated and mutilated and the seagulls will have got to me. I’ll be laid in a shallow, large bath at Wapping while the Marine Unit take fingerprints – if I have fingers left – and try to establish my identity.

But I’m still alive, still breathing and moving. Get the jacket off, the fabric is heavy and it’s dragging me down. I risk reaching for the button and remember just in time.

The jacket might be my only hope. That and Joesbury’s mobile phone in my pocket. He and the others will know where I am. They’ll be following me downriver. Just stay alive. I catch a glimpse of something huge on the bank. Cleopatra’s Needle. I’m heading for Waterloo Bridge. There’s the Queen Mary . The river bends sharply here. This is where I run the greatest risk of being crushed to death against a bridge pier, or a tethered barge. It might also be my best chance.

I turn to face the direction I’m travelling in. I’m almost in the centre of the river and I have absolutely no chance in this tide of swimming to the side. But the north bank is busy here, it’s almost a parking lot for pleasure boats and historic ships. Shit, that hurts. Something hits me in the face and for a few seconds I can’t even breathe, but the boats of the Embankment are getting closer. There is a small one, some sort of water taxi, it has lines running to the shore. Several of them just above water level.

I hit them full on. The river howls and increases its grip. It’s pulling me round, trying to get me free, it’s not giving up on me just yet. I catch hold of a line and find myself almost horizontal in the water, so hard is the river dragging me downstream. I make the last effort I’m capable of and manage to hook my elbow around the line. I lock my hands together. It’s all I can do.

Now I really do have minutes. Minutes before my strength gives up. Minutes before the cold, even in September, gets to me. Joesbury and the others will be looking for me. The control room in Scotland Yard will know where I am, will be sending back information. Someone will come for me.

I just have to hope Joesbury’s swanky tracking devices don’t mind the wet.

47

I WOKE UP IN A HOSPITAL ROOM. THE WINDOW BLINDS WERE drawn but there seemed to be soft light behind them. I’d lived to see another day. I lay still for long minutes. I was very hot. Then I risked moving my arms and legs. Everything hurt. Everything did what it was supposed to. I sat up and had a whole new experience of pain. My head, face, torso, everything screaming.