Timmy looked up. Martin saw with horror how tired his son was. Almost as tired as he was.

‘No. Everything’s okay. No one’s making me eat doners, if that’s what you mean.’

At Timmy’s school, a ‘doner’ was a handful of leaves and mud that the strongest in the class gathered up to shove into the mouths of the weakest. Just because they could.

‘It’s because of you. Because you’re away so often, and with Mama…’ Timmy’s voice cracked. Martin could see how desperately hard he was trying not to cry in front of his father.

‘Hey, come here.’ He went over to him, kneeled beside the desk and put his arms around his son.

He could feel how much weight Timmy had lost since the gaps between their marital arguments had become so short they were now sustained fire.

‘When Mama and Papa row it’s got nothing to do with you. I hope you know that.’

Timmy nodded and sniffed.

‘It’s all my fault, big man. I’m away far too often. But I swear that’s going to stop. I’ve just got one more job to do, then I’m going to resign and find a job I can do from home. How does that sound?’

His son freed himself from their embrace. His face was writ with scepticism. It was evident that he didn’t believe the good news.

‘And then you’ll be with me all the time?’

‘Yes. I promise. I’ll come back soon and then we’ll be together forever.’

Martin gave Timmy a kiss on his forehead and tousled his hair.

Then he got up, went to the door and took his duffle bag that he’d already packed.

He opened the door to Timmy’s room and turned around again, as something had occurred to him.

‘I’m afraid I’ve lied to you, sweetie.’

Timmy, who hadn’t moved, nodded.

His tears had vanished. With a stony face he said, ‘I know, Papa. We’ll never see each other again.’

Timmy swallowed. ‘I’m going to die. Just like you, now.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You know. Water is ouch. And you’re falling into the…’

*

Water.

Hard.

Black.

The pain of impact wrenched Martin from his memory-filled unconsciousness. The sensation – as if a giant were tearing his spinal column from his back – shot upwards from his coccyx to his brain. At the same time, the deeper he sank, the greater the pressure in his ears.

Martin gasped for air, but not even water would flood into his lungs. His head was still stuck inside the bag. At least his arms were no longer like lead and he could free himself from it.

Disoriented, he thrashed about with his arms and legs. His boots hung like weights on his feet. His clothes would become a coffin if he didn’t get rid of them.