'Like?'
'Like not trying to shag the Assistant Chief Constable.'
'Did you ever see Susan Sarandon in Moonlight MileV
'I don't remember it.'
'She reminds me of Susan Sarandon in that movie. I liked that movie, it was good. Yeah. Want to take a ride out to the car pound
with me, lunchtime - talk some more on the way? I'll buy you a pint and slap-up sandwich.'
'Lunch at the car pound? Wow, proves what I thought the moment I saw that tie. You really do have style.'
26
The water was still rising, Michael calculated, at one inch every three hours. It was now just below his ears. He was shivering from cold, getting feverish.
He had worked frantically through the night, sawing with the glass, and he was now on the last fragment of the whisky bottle and his arms ached with exhaustion. He had made a deep groove in the lid, but had still not yet broken through to the outside of it.
He was pacing himself now, two hours on, half an hour off, imagining he was sailing. But he was losing. The water was rising faster than the hole was widening. His head would be underwater before the hole was wide enough to get through.
Every fifteen minutes he pressed the talk button on the walkietalkie. Each time all he got was static back.
It was now 11.03 a.m. Friday.
He ground away, powdered glass and wet soil pouring steadily down, the last fragment of glass shrinking with every minute he worked, thinking, all the time thinking. When the glass was finished he still had the belt buckle. And when that was finished what other instruments did he have to grind away at the wood with? The lens of the torch? The batteries?
A sharp hiss as the walkie-talkie came to life, then a phoney American accent again. 'Hi, buddy, how ya doin'?' This time he recognized it.
Michael pressed the talk button. 'Davey?' he said. 'Is that you?'
'Just watching the news on TV,' Davey informed him. 'They're showing an auto wreck I went to with my dad on Tuesday! Boy that was some accident! All of 'em dead - and there's one guy missing!'
Michael suddenly gripped the walkie-talkie with deep intensity. 'What was it, Davey? What was the car?'
'Ford Transit. Boy was it trashed!'
'Tell me more, Davey.'
'There was one guy sticking right out through the windshield, half his head missing. Jeez, could see his brains coming out. Knew right away he was a goner. Only one survivor, but he died too.'
Michael began shaking uncontrollably. 'This guy who is missing. Do you know who he is?'
'Uh huh!'
'Tell me who he is?'
'I have to go in a minute, help my dad.'
'Davey, listen to me. I may be that guy.'
'You shittin' me?'
'What's his name, Davey?'
'Uh - dunno. They're just saying he's meant to be getting married tomorrow.' Michael closed his eyes. Oh no, oh Christ, oh no. 'Davey, was this accident - ah - this auto wreck - about nine o'clock on Tuesday night?'
'That's about the size of it.'
With new urgency, Michael held the walkie-talkie up close to his mouth. 'Davey, I'm that guy! I'm that guy who is getting married tomorrow!'
'You shittin' me?'
'No, Davey. Listen to me carefully.'
'I have to go - can talk to you later.'
Michael shouted at him, 'DAVEY, DON'T GO, PLEASE DON'T GO. YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN SAVE ME.'
Silence came back at him. Just the crackle of static to tell him Davey was still on the other end.
'Davey?'
'I have to go, know what I'm saying?'
'Davey, I need your help. You are the only person in the world who can help me. Do you want to help me?'
Another long silence. Then, 'What did you say your name was?'
'Michael Harrison.'
