Half of the crocodile’s belly is above the surface, and the razor-sharp steel shaft slips silently into the skin, all the way to the knife’s hilt, opening up a massive gash but without stopping the beast. His tail thrashes round me, and I lose my grip, sliding below the water again, which is now a swirling mass of blood – Cuthbert’s and mine. Through the mist, I see his mouth open, ready for a last attack, his glassy yellow eyes fix on me and I screw my eyes shut, ready for the end, for there isn’t anything more that I can do, and then …

Nothing.

I’m standing now, near the shore, and I can hear Mola shouting, ‘Malky, Malky!’

Swallowing hard, gasping for breath, I look to my side where the body of Cuthbert lies upside down, nudging the dry bank, his purple guts spilling into the water, the cross-shaped handle of the dirk jutting out of the flesh. I stagger away until I’m lying, choking, at Mola’s feet.

Then I see something move inside the gaping corpse. In the space where the crocodile’s guts once were is a shape that rises up out of the split belly.

The slimy mound straightens out and I see that it is the back of a person who has been crouched down inside the beast. The human creature – stinking crocodile innards clinging to his clothes – stands up, removes his spectacles, and wipes a sloppy clot of blood from his eyes and beard before stepping out of the crocodile’s body with a squelch.

‘Dad?’ I croak, and he nods, puffing out his cheeks.

‘Aye.’

‘What are you doing here?’

He looks around, bewildered. ‘I wish I knew, Malky.’

I look behind me to where Mola was standing a moment ago. She has gone, and I turn back to Dad.

‘Is that it?’ I say. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say something, you know, inspirational at this point? Something properly … Daddish?’

Dad spits a bit of crocodile innards on to the ground and says, ‘Well. According to your mam, Malky, I gave up the right to say how I’d bring you up three years ago, and so …’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me stuff! Like now, for example. Can’t you just tell me what to do? Isn’t that what dads are for?’

He shakes his head, sorrowfully. ‘I’m sorry, son. I guess I’m not that sort of dad and never have been.’

‘But why, Dad? Why?’

He takes a step towards me, but I shrink back: he stinks of crocodile guts. He sinks to his knees and looks at me, his face streaked with blood, and shakes his head.

‘You want the whole lot now, Malky? The drugs, the depression, the divorce? It’s going to take more time than you have, son.’

He’s right, of course, and I feel my shoulders drooping in despair.