Dead if You Don’t

95

Sunday 13 August

16.00–17.00

Mum! Dad!

The sea level was up to his groin now. Every few minutes the water would surge, breaking over his stomach and spraying across his face.

Aleksander. Someone. Please. Someone please help me.

The tape over his mouth stifled all his cries.

He was standing, struggling to stay upright, to maintain his balance. He knew he had to keep his feet on the ledge. Had to. It was getting increasingly difficult, but if he lost his foothold the wire round his neck would get him. Already it felt raw, even the smallest movement of his head was agony. And every retreating wave pulled at his legs, tugged at them harder all the time, as if the sea itself was trying to dislodge him. He had to fight back, hard. Concentrate every second.

Help me!

He thought about Steven Brathwaite at school. Big, tall, powerful Steven, who the whole of his class was afraid of. The class bully. School bully. Brathwaite picked on him because he was clever. The bully liked to sneak up behind him and kick him in the back of the knees, making his legs buckle, so he fell over. Mungo had learned to stand up to Brathwaite by bracing his legs hard, then flexing at just the right moment to absorb the kick. It annoyed the bully.

It served him well now.

As each wave tried to pull him over, to make him lose his balance, and the wire cut into his neck, he used the same technique as he used against the bully. Brace. Flex. Brace.

The water surged over his belt.

He looked around. Looked at the slime and weed on the walls — and ceiling. The weed, fresh and living, waiting for the water to come.

He had already checked his height against the high-water mark. That mark was a good six inches or more above the top of his head. Water would fill this chamber completely.

He shook with terror.