Tom breaks surface, swallowing water, choking as much as shouting. Hiding in the darkmost corner, the thought comes to Kenny that if he waits till the noise subsides, waits till Tom has nearly drowned, he might then resuscitate him, and hold him afloat, becalmed, in the Correct Lifesaving Position till dawn. He listens to his friend’s frantic shouts and splashings, staying mum. He is acting only partly on instinct; he also knows exactly what he is doing. And knows that he knows, a realisation that fills him with shame. That shame is easily turned into anger against Tom. Dumb, drunk Tom. Scared, panicky Tom – who would have thought it? The noise of his begging fills the chamber: ‘Somebody – help me! Please!’ Tears fill Kenny’s already wet eyes. He slips his head beneath the surface to wash away the heat of those tears, but the flail of Tom’s struggles is only amplified by the medium of water. Kenny even fancies he can hear the voice calling to him underwater, gasping a last burble of syllables, a bubbling ‘Kenny, Kenny.’ Or is it – it might be – ‘Mummy, Mummy’?

He surfaces, and this time swims towards these desperate, choking sounds, unable to keep his distance. ‘Tom?’ he shouts. ‘Tommy?’

Tom has vanished.

‘You stupid bastard,’ he shouts. ‘You stupid fucking bastard! Where are you? If you’re fucking hiding from me!’

He duckdives beneath the surface repeatedly, groping in the dark water with hands that grasp nothing. His legs and arms ache; exhausted, he turns onto his back to rest, but floating also becomes an ordeal. The great mass of fresh water seems no longer able to support him, or else he cannot relax. He chokes on a swallowed mouthful, but without panic; he is too weary for panic. He feels dulled, numbed, emptied now even of anger.

His unfeeling mind is nevertheless capable of thought. The hour must be . . . three a.m.? Four? An hour or two, at most, till daybreak, and someone spots the abandoned Mercedes. Will he have enough energy to shout? And if so, how often? Regularly, like the sweep of a lighthouse? Once every ten seconds? Once a minute? And what of cramp? The possibility has become unworrying, as if the capacity for fear has also drained from him, his reserves of adrenaline, the raw fuel of worry, consumed by the ordeals of the night. The problem of cramp seems no more than that: a problem to solve, a kind of algebra, remote from real events and things.

A large object bumps gently, surprisingly, against him as he floats, and rebounds slowly from the collision, like an astronaut adrift in space.

‘Tom?’

He reaches out a hand and grabs at an arm. Tom is floating face up – what does that mean? He remembers that drowned women float face up, but men, for some reason, face down. Might Tom still be alive, then? Still breathing? His earlier plan, or self-justification, seems plausible again: wait till drowning has calmed Tom, then resuscitate him. He tugs the floating body towards him, treading water. Lifesaving Certificate routines come back to him: he pinches the nostrils shut between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand; with his left he hooks down the chin to open the mouth. Leaning his elbow and shoulder on the half-submerged body, he presses his open mouth onto Tom’s and breathes out, hard. The mouth is cold and wet and carries the faint taste of sour, regurgitated sherry, but Kenny is beyond squeamishness. The downward pressure of his mouth pushes Tom’s head beneath the surface, but he senses a slight inflation of the chest against his elbow. He senses this, also: as the chest inflates, the body rides higher in the water, made more buoyant.