It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.

With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.

This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.

Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.

Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.

My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.

I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.

While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.

I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.

Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.

When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.

I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.

If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.

The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.

Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.

Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.

A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.

A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’

82

I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.

Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.

The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.

Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.

His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.

I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.

He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.

I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.

It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.

I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.

It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.

I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.

Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.

A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.

The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.

I have seconds to decide what to do. If I was a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.

The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.

I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.

As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.

The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.

If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.

This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.

His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.

Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.

Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.

I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.

A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.

The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.

His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.

There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.

I let the rubberised tip find its mark.

When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.

The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.