He shouted it. Russians, canals, suicide. He shouted to the empty street, forcing himself through the gap in the railings, shouted formlessly as he stumbled down the bank, slithering, catching at branches and bushes, fumbling for the whistle in his pocket. Not there, forgotten, black mark, he thought; Ivan, Vanya, blast you, this isn’t the Fontanka. He tore off his raincoat and flung it behind him somewhere, dragged off his shoes, grabbed his torch—remembered for once—and swept the beam over the water. There was the centre of the spreading ripples, close to the edge. With a despairing bellow for help to the backs of the tall houses, he threw down the torch and plunged in. He yelled for sheer agony. He was being stabbed, riddled, cut up. It was impossible, it was freezing. He couldn’t stand it, he was going to get out. He went under, blind and groping, meeting nothing but swirling darkness. Yet he could feel it wasn’t too deep, six or seven feet. He groped and groped. His heart was going to split in a second. He had to breathe. He burst the surface, spluttering and blowing. Why hadn’t someone come? He had to have lights. He shouted, very breathlessly, and went under once again. He swam and groped, swam and groped, till lights began to ping on and off on his head. Suddenly he hit something soft, recoiled, choked on a gulp of water, and clutched material between his fingers. There was movement, a struggle against his hand. The grip wasn’t right, he hadn’t had time, hardly ever practised. They were sinking. He heaved, kicked, clawed—chin, shoulder, and got it. Now surface, he had to surface, to break out of all the bells and fireworks, up, back, and up. But clothes were heavy, Streatham Baths in trunks another matter. An inch, only an inch—but he couldn’t, not with Ivan. Let him go, he thought. No. It was coming. He was through. He gasped, and swallowed knives. His body was on the rack. His legs were strangely feeble. The bank, now, he thought, the dry scratchy bank, with Ivan dead or alive, and soaked enough without the help of the canal. Regent or Grand Union? Moika, Fontanka, or Ekaterinski? Something rubbed his shoulder. The bank.

He dragged himself out, landed Ivan, rolled him over and collapsed on top of him, shaking, puffing and snorting. Why had no one come? He tried to call out and uttered an exhausted croak. He couldn’t let Ivan die, not after all that. He heaved himself up and tried to press down on Ivan’s back with arms like jelly fish. Swimming was obviously not his best subject, especially in near ice. One, two, wait, he thought. Come on, Vanya. One, two—

A meteor cracked his head open, a magnesium star split the darkness. Nuclear warhead, he thought sickly, and knew no more.

* * *