A sheet of ice, inches thick, and somewhere a hole – the hole he (she?) had fallen through – but where? Fight the river’s rush! Kick against it and swim, swim! Think of Harry, little Harry. You have to live for him. For his sake. For Harry …
There! There! Thank God for the hole! – oh, thank God!
Clawing at the rim, the edges of ice sharp as glass. And heaven-sent hands coming down into the water, seeming to move oh so slowly – almost in slow motion – dreadfully, monstrously languid! Strong hands, hairy. A ring on the second finger of the right hand. A cat’s-eye stone set in thick gold. A man’s ring.
Looking up, a face all aswim, seen through the chop of wavelets and the liquid flurry of water. And through the ice, his frosty outline kneeling at the rim. Grasp his hands, those strong hands, and he’ll lift you out like a baby. And he’ll shake you till you’re dry for frightening him.
Fight the current – grasp at the hands – kick against the river’s rush. Fight, fight! Fight for Harry . . .
There! You’ve got the hands! Grip tight! Hold on! Try to lift your head up through the hole and breathe, breathe!
But. . . the hands are pushing you down!
Seen through the water the face wobbles, shifting and changing. The trembly jelly lips turn up at their corners. They smile – or grimace! You hang on. You scream – and water rushes in to replace the escaping air.
Cling to the ice. Forget the hands, the cruel hands that continue to hold you down. Just grab at the rim and lift your head. But the hands are there, breaking your grip. They thrust you away, under the ice. They murder you!
You can’t fight the cold and the river and the hands. Blackness is roaring down on you. In your lungs, in your head, in your eyes. Stick your long fingernails into the hands, claw at them, tear the flesh from them. The gold ring comes loose, spirals down into the murk and mud. Blood turns the water red – red against the ultimate black of your dying – blood from the cruel, cruel hands.
No fight left in you. Waterlogged, you sink. The current drags you along the bottom, tumbling you. But you no longer care. Except . . . you care for Harry. Poor little
Harry! Who’ll care for him now? Who’ll look after Harry . . . Harry . . . Harry – ?
‘Harry? Harry Keogh? Christ, boy! – are you here at all?’
Harry felt the elbow of his pal Jimmy Collins digging him covertly, however sharply, in the ribs, causing him to draw air explosively; he heard Mr. Hannant’s rasping voice crashing in on his eardrums above the receding tumult of water. He jerked upright on his bench, gulped again at the air, thrust his hand up foolishly, as if in response to some question or other. It was an automatic reaction: if you were quick off the mark the teacher knew you knew the answer and he’d ask someone else. Except . . . sometimes it didn’t work out that way, teachers didn’t always fall for it. And Hannant, the maths teacher – he was nobody’s fool.
Gone now the sensation of drowning; gone utterly the bitter cold of the water, the pitiless torture of thrusting, brutally inhuman hands; gone the entire nightmare – or, more properly, the daydream. By comparison the newer situation was a mere trifle. Or was it?
Harry was suddenly aware of a classroom full of eyes, all staring at him; aware too of Mr. Hannant’s purple, outraged face glaring at him from out in front of the class. What had they been dealing with?
He glanced at the blackboard. Oh, yes! Formulae -areas and properties of circles – the Constant Factor (?) -diameters and radii and pi. Pi? That was a laugh! It was all pi to Harry. Pie in the sky. But what had been Hannant’s question? Had he even asked a question?
White-faced now, Harry peered about the classroom. His was the only hand in the air. Slowly he drew it down. Beside him, Jimmy Collins sniggered, coughing and spluttering to hide it. Normally that would have been sufficient to set Harry off, too, but with the memory of the night- or day-mare so fresh in his mind, he had little difficulty staving it off.