Slaves of Obsession

The man’s eyes widened. “Bash an ’ole in it, I reckon. Below the waterline, o’ course. Not the bottom. That’s made of elm. Too ’ard. Sides is oak.”

“I see. Thank you.” He had all he needed. Now there was no avoiding putting on the rest of the suit and going over the side and into the murky water.

A few more pulls on the oars, five minutes perhaps, and he was climbing into the diving suit with the help of two of the men. It looked rather like a very baggy, all-in-one jacket and trousers made of two layers of waterproof cloth with india rubber between. It felt as though he were pulling on a heavy sack, but with arms and legs in it.

He had had no idea how difficult it would be to force his hands through the tight india rubber cuffs. He was obliged to grease his hands with soft soap and then narrow his palms as much as possible while an attendant opened the cuff and he pushed his hand into it so violently he was afraid he was going to tear his flesh.

The dresser nodded with approval. If he noticed the cold sweat on Monk’s face he made no comment on it.

“Sit down!” he ordered, pointing to the thwart behind Monk. “Gotta get yer boots on, an’ yer ’elmet. Gotta make sure everything’s right.” He bent down and began the process with the enormous weighted boots. “If they in’t right, you’ll lose them in the mud. Sucks summink awful down there. an’ ’old still while I put on yer breastplate. That comes loose an’ yer a gonner.”

Monk felt his stomach clench as his imagination visualized the darkness and the bottomless, greedy mud. It cost him all his self-control to sit obediently motionless while the helmet was placed over his head and screwed, metal rubbing against metal, until it was tight. The front glass was left off for now. Monk was surprised by the almost crushing weight of the helmet. The air hose was passed under his right arm and the end attached to the inlet valve, then the breast line was brought up under his left arm and secured. Next came the belt and the heavy, razor-sharp knife in its leather sheath. The man looped a rope around Monk’s waist.

“ ’Ere now, ’old this in yer ’and, and if yer get in trouble pull on it six or seven times an’ we’ll get yer up. That’s w’y we call it the lifeline.” He grinned. “This ’ere other rope we’ve tied to yer, we’re gonna tie the other end ter the ladder—we don’t wanter lose yer—least not until we’re paid.” He laughed heartily.

“All right, lad?” the man asked.

Monk nodded, his mouth dry.

He looked at the brown water around their vessel, still drifting idly on the slack tide, and felt as if he were about to be buried alive. The three men were busy at their tasks, careful, professional.

Trace sat on the other thwart, dressed exactly the same. He smiled, and Monk smiled back, wishing he felt as confident as the gesture implied.

One of the men straightened up. “All right, boys, let’s get the pump going!” There was a loud click-clack, and in a moment Monk felt the air rush into his helmet. The man smiled. “Aye, it’s working all right. Now, don’t you worry, lad. Just ’member ter stick close ter the other feller an’ ’ow ter inflate yer suit wi’ that valve, an’ yer’ll be fine.” He did not sound quite as confident now, as if at this final moment he had realized just what a novice Monk was, and the risks he was taking.

The front glass of his helmet was screwed into place and for a moment Monk was overcome with panic. He gasped for air and drew it into his lungs. Gradually his wild heartbeat subsided.

“Right,” the man said with a slightly forced smile. “Time ter go!”

Monk lumbered towards the ladder, thinking with each step that the weight of the helmet would buckle him at the knees. He climbed down awkwardly, and when the water was to his waist two fifty-pound leads were fastened to his chest and back. He gasped at the sudden increase in weight.

He was handed a waterproof lantern with a candle in it.

His suit began to inflate slightly as the air expanded it. Now he appreciated why it needed to be so large on him.

Trace was already below him in the water, almost submerged.

The river closed over his head and in moments he was blinded by gloom. The only contact with Trace and the surface was by rope, and he tried to unscramble what the men had told him: Stay calm. Don’t panic. Remember, you are not on your own. Pull on the rope if you’re in trouble. We’ll get you up.

The pressure built up in his eardrums. He swallowed to clear it.

Gradually his sight cleared a little as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. He could make out the form of Trace, coming towards him, taking Monk by the hand.

With leaden feet just touching the muddy bottom, Monk followed after him.

He lost all sense of time. He was amazed how difficult it was to keep his balance. The tide was far more powerful than he had foreseen, pulling one way and another at him as current eddied and swirled, sometimes going one way at chest height, the opposite way at his thighs and knees. More than once he found himself falling and regained his footing with difficulty. And all the time he was acutely aware that only one thin hose of pumped air supported his life, one thin set of ropes could pull him back to the surface.

The ground sloped up beneath his giant boots. They were on the mud bank. It was hard work trying to climb up it. He was sweating as he went, but his hands and feet were cold. The murky water swirled around his head, a brown, blinding mass.

The dim figure of Trace was still just ahead of him, close enough to hold his hand, but was no more than a deepening of the gloom.

Time seemed endless. He longed for light. This was all an idiotic idea. What had made him think the barge had been sunk, simply because he could find no trace of its going back upstream again? And if it were down here, what did that prove? Only that fraud had been the intention all along. Would it prove by whom? Or who had murdered Alberton?

It was impenetrably dark ahead. How long had they been down here?

Trace was still guiding him along, turning slowly in the water, raising his other arm.