Hauling his body up, he forced himself on, following the thin vapour of his own breath. The woods couldn’t be far now. He would go so deep into the marsh they wouldn’t be able to follow him. But quickly, the reeds became too thick and he fell splashing into a creek and had to wade. It was in his shoes, around his waist, up to his armpits. A faint miasma of rotten egg rose from the water. The wind cut into his skin and he barely seemed to make a step. Blind and deaf. His hair was crusted with ice slivers; his eyes stung with salt tears. His ears ached in pain: he wished he could cut them off. He was close to the end now.

A torch swung past him, carving an arc of light through the darkness. Arthur was back in the boat with Jack again. Forever, rowing in the boat. He thought he heard a breath, someone panting. How could that be true? In time with the breath, there was a rhythmic shushing of water. Someone else’s breathing. He didn’t know if he was imagining it, out of his mind from the cold. He waited, shaking, trying to judge how near or how far they were, but without the light from the moon it was hard to tell where they were.

His eyes strained but he couldn’t see anyone – there was nothing but a circle of white in the dark and, again, the slosh slosh of something lapping at the marshy water.

‘Mr Silver,’ said a disembodied voice he didn’t recognise. He had no idea from what direction it was coming apart from the light, weakly shining through the veil of snowflakes. Maybe it was in his head. Maybe Verity was there.

‘There’s no need for this, Mr Silver, we’re here—’

He heard nothing more as his foot caught on something in the creek – a dead animal – an old rotten piece of wood – and he was sent off balance. Foundering, clutching, he fell forward with his hands outstretched into the muddy creek, grasping at nothing. As he fell, he tried to shout her name but no sound came out. Down he sank under the cold mud and salt. He tried to take a breath but swallowed the silted saltwater. Fell again. The weight of the freezing creek and the reeds bore down on him, pushing him down to the seabed. Blind under the water, he thrashed his lead-heavy limbs but couldn’t move. His lungs were crushed with lack of oxygen. He saw Jack sinking. He sank with him. Mrs Frost, drowning in the sea. No breath. He couldn’t get the air into his lungs. His throat tightened and tightened to nothing. A sudden vision of a man, face looming above. His father, he as a boy in the bath. Father. ‘Arthur,’ says his father. ‘Get out of the bath, son.’

*