I edged along the curtain in the upstream direction of the shut door and by hauling my way up the links at the side managed to scramble round the boathouse wall and up out of the water to roll at last onto the grassy bank. Bitterly cold, shivering violently from several causes, but
I stood up with knees that felt like buckling and tried to open the door into the dock; and it was as immovable from outside as in. It had a mortise lock, a simple keyhole and no key.
Perhaps the best thing to do, I thought despairingly, was to find a telephone and get professional help: the fire brigade and an ambulance. If I couldn’t find a telephone in Sam’s big workshop I could drive Harry’s car to the nearest house...
Big snag.
Harry’s car had gone.
My mind started playing the shit tape monotonously.
Before I did anything, I thought, I needed to put on my boots. Went into the boathouse through the top door.
Another big snag.
No boots.
No ski-suit jacket either.
Harry’s voice came from below, distant and wavery, ‘Is anyone there?’
‘It’s me, John,’ I shouted. ‘Just hold on.’
No reply. He was weaker, perhaps. Better hurry.
There was now no doubt about murderous intention on someone’s part and the certainty made me perversely angry, stimulating renewed strength and a good deal of bloody-mindedness. I ran along the stony path to Sam’s large shed in my socks and hardly felt the discomfort, and found to my relief that I could get inside easily enough — no lock on the door.
The space inside looked as much like a junkyard as the space outside. The centre, I saw briefly, was occupied by a large boat on blocks, its superstructure covered with lightweight grey plastic sheeting.
I spent a little precious time searching for a telephone, but couldn’t find one. There was no office, no place partitioned off or locked. Probably Sam kept good tools somewhere, but he’d hidden them away.
All around lay old and rusting tools and equipment, but among the junk I found almost at once two perfect aids: a tyre lever and a heavy mallet for driving in mooring pegs.
With those I returned at speed to the boathouse and attacked the lower door, first hammering the toe of the tyre lever into a non-existent crack between the wooden door frame and the surrounding brickwork at a level just below the keyhole, then bashing the far end of that iron to put heavy leverage against the door frame, then wrenching out the lever and repeating the whole process above the lock, this time with fury.
The old wood of the door frame gave up the struggle and splintered, freeing the tongue of the lock, and without much more trouble I pulled the door open towards me, swinging it wide. I left the tyre lever and mallet on the grass and stepped down into the boathouse, the shocking chill of the water again a teeth-gritter.
At least, I thought grimly, it was a calm day. No wind-chill to speak of, to polish us off.
I waded along to Harry who was sagging back against the corner, his head lolling only just above the surface.
‘Come on,’ I said urgently. ‘Harry, wake up.’
He looked at me apathetically through a mist of weakness and pain and one could see he’d been in that water a lot too long. Apathy, like cold, was a killer. I bent down and turned him until I had my hands under his arms, his back towards me, and I floated him along in the water to the steps and there strained to pull him up them and out onto the grass.
‘My leg,’ he said, moaning.
‘God, Harry, what do you weigh?’ I asked, lugging.
‘None of your bloody business,’ he mumbled.
I half laughed, relieved. If he could say that, for all his suffering, he wasn’t in a dying frame of mind. It gave me enough impetus to finish the exit, though I dare say he, like me, felt only marginally warmer for being on land.
His leg seemed to have stopped bleeding, or very nearly, and he couldn’t have severed an artery or he’d have bled to death by now, but all the same there had to be a pretty serious wound under the cloth of his trousers and the faster I could get him to a doctor the better.
As far as I remembered from our arrival, the boatyard lay down a lane with no houses nearby: I’d have a fair run in my socks to find help.
On the other hand, among the general clutter, only a few feet off, I could see the upturned keel of an old clinker-built rowing boat. Small. Maybe six feet overall. A one-man job, big enough for two. If it weren’t full of holes...
Leaving Harry briefly I went to the dinghy and heaved it over right side up. Apart from needing varnish and loving care it looked seaworthy, but naturally there were no rowlocks and no oars.
Never mind. Any piece of pole would do. Plenty lying about. I picked up a likely length and laid it in the boat.
The dinghy had a short rope tied to its bow: a painter.
‘Harry, can you hop?’ I asked him.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Come on. Try. Let’s get you into the boat.’
‘Into the boat?’
