without thrashing. If he could get outside through the hole in the hull, he was certain that he would be able to reach the surface without air.
Miranda succumbed briefly to panic when she realized what Morgan was doing. She stiffened, then slowly relaxed, and breathed deeply, calmly, for his sake as much as her own. Her one hand was still gloveless and it ached; she tried to tuck it between her legs. She tried to pee into the wetsuit and succeeded a little, but not enough to warm her hand. Morgan, one way or another, he would be back. Breathing as shallowly as she could, she struggled to comprehend what was happening. Being captive in a watery grave seemed the inevitable consequence of preceding events, yet it made no sense. Morgan finding her seemed inevitable, as well. She felt a surge of warmth.
Morgan’s lungs knotted with pain as he emerged through the breach in the hull into the pellucid water surrounding the ship. He began to exhale a steady stream of bubbles as he kicked slowly to the light, struggling desperately to control his rate of ascent, knowing instinctively that expanding air in his lungs had to be released. He was no use to Miranda if he lost consciousness or succumbed to an embolism or the bends.
As he struggled through the long ascent toward the boats overhead, his mind swarmed with imagery: fragments of banal conversation with Miranda over a thousand coffees, the headless embrace, the radiant serenity of the face when they opened the tomb, the pilgrims like wraiths in the night, the revealed frescoes on the walls of the church. The surface shimmered far overhead. Images turned into walls of black. He kicked with a great surge and in an explosion he breached, heaving for air, and thrashed in the water until Peter Singh’s arm appeared within reach, then he collapsed into himself, too exhausted to negotiate the ladder. There was no OPP boat, no Coast Guard rescue vessel, only tourist boats in the far, distant offing.
Peter Singh was distraught as he struggled to haul Morgan up onto the dive deck of the trawler. “Where is your tank? Where is Miranda? What is happening down there?”
“Where’s our backup? We need air!” Morgan doubled over to force his diaphragm against his lungs, then straightened abruptly, gasping, twisting his guts into raw knots of pain. “We need air,” he repeated. “How long was I down?”
“There are no air cylinders on the other boat. They did not bring extra. Thirty-five or forty minutes, perhaps.”
“Which?”
“I don’t know. Forty.”
“Can you see anyone coming?”
“Maybe over there. They made the same mistake we did and went the wrong way. Who is down there? Is Miranda okay?”
“No, she’s bloody not. Find the tool kit — there must be a tool box.” As he tried to suppress nausea, Morgan began to straighten and hunch over with slow deliberation, forcing his wracked body into a crude sort of bellows, pumping air into his system. Peter clambered awkwardly about the trawler, tearing open hatches and lockers, and came up with nothing. He climbed into the commandeered fishing boat and found a red tool box.
“Open it. Are there snips, shears, something to cut steel?”
Morgan windmilled his arms, trying to force blood back into his fingers. The excruciating pain was a good sign.
Peter sorted frantically through the box and came up with a rusted pair of cable cutters.
“Good man!” Morgan yelled. “Bring them here.”
As he rushed back, Peter stumbled. The cutters skittered across the deck. Morgan lunged for them from the dive platform, tried to wrap his unbending fingers around the blades as they clattered against the gunnel, spontaneously releasing his grasp as they cut open his palm, and watched them slip through the scuppers into the water.
He scrambled to his feet, heaving to take in as much air as he could, and dove after them, sliding his mask into place in mid-air. He kicked savagely to keep the cutters in sight and watched them clank against the hull directly below and slide down past the hole in the wreck’s side to the rocky bottom. He could feel his ears throb like bolts of hot steel hammering into his head, he continued his descent, his eyes fixed on the small twist of shadow where the cutters had come to rest. His ears popped explosively, and his vision blurred from the pain, then his eyes came back into focus. He was past the dark opening in the hull. He reached down and managed to clutch the cutters between his frozen hands.
He rose to the gaping hole in the ship’s side, unclipped his flashlight, and let its beam lead the way. Within the first chamber he was momentarily disoriented, then found his way through. Careening in slow motion off the angled planes of the corridor, he surged along its length toward the open doorway.
Miranda could see flashes of light and, by their erratic pattern, knew Morgan was on his own. She had recovered her composure, despite shivering bitterly, cold to the bone. She was breathing carefully, ensuring that Rachel was breathing as well. The light beam faltered, stayed ominously still. Dread overwhelmed her. She wrenched violently against the handcuffs on her wrist and ankle, shifting to bang the tank on her back against a bulkhead, sending a thunderous metallic clang resonating through the ship’s interior.
The light began to move again. Morgan flailed with his fins against the wall of water behind him and soared ahead, curving through the door and up beside Miranda in a single, violent motion, grabbing at the mouthpiece from her outstretched hand, jamming it between his teeth, wavering into unconsciousness. Miranda shone her light at him. His eyes were glazed, he wasn’t breathing. She reached out and pressed the diaphragm on the reg, forcing precious air into his mouth. He didn’t respond, and she punched him hard on the chest. He gave a sharp intake of water and air, spat the mouthpiece out, sputtered, and when she replaced it between his lips he drew sweet air deeply into his lungs.
Miranda took a few breaths from Rachel’s reg, then returned it. Rachel was compliant but disinterested. Morgan offered Miranda the cutters — she had to pry open his fingers to get them. She took them and grasped the steel links between the blades. With a seesaw motion of her free hand, she worked away, stopping periodically to breathe from the octopus, feeling the blades etch into the steel of the cuffs. Morgan tried to take over but could not get a grasp. Miranda resumed cutting. Suddenly, the steel snapped. Miranda withdrew her wrist in a sudden motion.
Morgan took the cutter, took a shallow breath, and dropped down to work away at Miranda’s ankle cuff. He reached twice for air from the mouthpiece she held down to him, and in his third attempt, he gave a mighty heave and the steel broke, setting Miranda free.
Checking to be sure Rachel had a good grasp on her mouthpiece, Miranda handed off her own mouthpiece to Morgan. Prying the cutters from his frozen fingers she began working through Rachel’s ankle cuff, taking occasional shallow breaths from Morgan, knowing her exertion was increasing consumption of their last few minutes or seconds of air. Morgan tried to help but she pushed him away. He was barely conscious, his body still depleted and wracked with pain. She would get him out of here, even if they had to leave Rachel behind.
Everything was upside down. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples; vertigo threatened with nausea, bile, blurring vision. She tried to focus on steel against steel, rocking the blades in a severing motion until suddenly there was an abrupt snap — the cutters fell apart in her hands.
Miranda swung upright and tugged the octopus mouthpiece from Rachel’s mouth. She needed the air. She needed to manoeuvre. With Morgan shining the light on Rachel’s ankle, Miranda braced against the steel wall with one leg and with the other jammed against Rachel’s leg she grasped the cuff in both hands and concentrated all her diminished strength on the cleft in the steel. There was a long moment of unspeakable pain as the steel cut into the flesh of her hands and the water clouded red with her blood. The steel snapped and Miranda careened into Alexander’s tangled embrace.
Breaking free from the hoses and limbs, she grasped upward, found her dangling regulator, drew a single breath as she ascended, and put the mouthpiece back into Rachel’s mouth. Morgan handed her his. She drew in deeply; there was a rattle and smack as her cheeks collapsed into themselves. Their air supply had expired.
Morgan slid down against the wall as if he were going to take a rest. Miranda pushed against him then swam through the door and drew him abruptly behind her. In the corridor, she turned and, grasping him by the hair, she shook his head violently. He rocked briefly askew, then, righting himself, motioned her to go first. Miranda pushed him past her and reached back for Rachel, drawing her forward. Morgan had dropped his flashlight and she lost hers in the tumble after Rachel’s manacle gave way. Rachel had retrieved hers from where she had dropped it — her first wilful act in the last quarter hour — and while its beam flashed erratically as she swam it gave them enough
