by John Moss
Morgan wasn’t. He released his grip from their convoluted embrace and, handing off his mouthpiece to Miranda, he sank down to examine the handcuffs around the women’s ankles. He made a futile attempt to break them free and felt in the darkness where blood from torn flesh seeped through Miranda’s wetsuit, warming his hand as he touched her, making him suddenly realize how achingly numb his fingers were, how close to being useless.
He drifted up, took back his reg, and handing Miranda his flashlight he squirmed around to release her gear. She and Rachel were jammed so closely together, and his icy fingers were so clumsy, he could only manage to remove her tank from the back of her BCD, which, when he released it, tumbled with an echoing clang against the steel walls and floor. He struggled to keep her from drifting upward and grasped one of her hands — the other was clutching his flashlight — and pushed it violently against his own chest straps. His fingers flashed white.
She understood, and while Rachel took her turn breathing, Miranda thrust her own fingers between her teeth and, pulling to and fro, peeled off her glove, then reached down and released Morgan’s straps. She grasped at his closest hand to warm it. He pulled away, but briefly pumped it against her breast in affirmation. When he dropped his mouthpiece and pulled the octopus mouthpiece away from her, leaving them all without air while he squirmed out of his gear, she was startled, confused, but trusting. Once freed, he handed her the primary mouthpiece and, taking a deep breath from the octopus, he gave it to her for Rachel, then holding on to Miranda with one hand and clasping his gear awkwardly between his knees, he detached his tank and regulator, took another breath from the mouthpiece she held to his lips, then swung around and secured his tank against the back of her BCD. He adjusted her gear and swung around to face her. She seemed overweighted from his heavier tank but when she moved to release her weight belt, he signalled negative and gave her BCD inflator a couple of bursts to increase her buoyancy. He took another long, deep breath from the proffered reg, while clasping her bared hand for a moment in his icy grasp. The gnawing pain reassured him; the pressure of his touch made her feel like a woman blessed.
Morgan let go, intending on searching for the discarded masks in the murk swirling beneath them, and plummeted into the bulkhead below, careening against planes of steel coated with algae, thickly studded with zebra mussels, until he tumbled into Alexander Pope’s hovering corpse.
They needed masks and light. If somehow he could free them, it would be difficult to get out if they could see clearly, impossible if they couldn’t. He pulled the mask off the corpse and, reaching around blindly, he discovered one of the other masks tangled in the dead man’s floating limbs. Sliding sideways he grabbed at Miranda’s errant flashlight and looped the lanyard around his wrist. He pushed away with oxygen deprivation tearing at his lungs, and kicked upwards but was pinioned against the steel. His weights! His fingers refused to close around his weight-belt release. Grasping at Miranda and Rachel, he hauled himself upward hand over hand until he reached the air that Miranda held out for him. He drew in a deep breath and could taste her blood, or his own, in the mouthpiece. With a single tug she released his weights. The reverberations as they crashed against steel sent shivers of loneliness through both of them.
Once the masks were secure, Miranda blew hers clear of water. Rachel left hers flooded but continued regular breathing, holding the octopus mouthpiece between clenched teeth. Morgan secured Miranda’s flashlight around her wrist, took two deep breaths from the principal reg, then pressed the mouthpiece firmly between her lips, and with a quick parting squeeze on her arm he swam down and over to the door, swimming fiercely but 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 hi
s 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 light until they entered the dim aura emanating from the hole through the hull. Prodding Morgan from behind and hauling Rachel after her, Miranda engineered their slow progress through the last of the darkness out into the open.
Morgan drifted free from the hull. Miranda grasped the rough steel edge and tried to pull Rachel through. Rachel twisted to the side and Miranda lost her. Miranda could feel her lungs imploding, her heart thudding frantically. She turned to retrieve her grip on Rachel, but Rachel kicked away and slowly receded into the darkness. For an instant Miranda thought of going after. Morgan was drifting in a stupor toward the rocky bottom, gazing back at her with a vacant stare through his mask, which was filled almost to eye level with water. She turned again and peered into the ship’s gaping interior. She saw Rachel move against a shimmer of light and then disappear.
Miranda swooped down to Morgan with a single kick. She still had a tiny reserve of oxygen in her system. She placed her lips over his, prodded between them with her tongue as she had done for Rachel, and expelled a few precious gulps of air into his mouth. He took in the air but did not respond, and settled like a dead weight to the bottom. Miranda shook him and released. If she did not start now, she would never make it to the surface. Instinctively, she kicked away, but then arced around on herself and grasped Morgan under the arms, trying to pull him away from the bottom. As she hauled Morgan roughly against her breast, she could feel the abrasive material of her BCD scraping the back of the hand that was still bare. She squeezed the BCD against her body, responding to its thickness. She had taken in a few extra bursts of air to compensate for the increased weight when Morgan had given her his tank. Reaching along the inflator hose, she grasped the valve with aching fingers and thrust it awkwardly between distended lips, pressing the deflate button. A rush of air surged into her mouth. She took a deep breath. It tasted foul but sent brilliant lights dazzling in front of her eyes as freshened blood coursed through her body.
She thrust the valve between Morgan’s bruised lips and pressed the deflator button again. Nothing. She squeezed the BCD material against her body and watched air stream from his gaping mouth, then his lips closed and she could see him struggle to breathe. She shifted within the constraints of her vest to free up her weight belt and let it drop among the rocks, giving herself a little more air. She took the deflator valve, drew a trickle of air deep into her lungs, then passed it back, and pressed the button. A brief burst trickled from the sides of his mouth, then nothing was left.
Without weights, they were beginning to drift across the bottom. She drew Morgan to her breast and emptied her lungs into his mouth. Turning him to face away from her, she grasped him under one armpit, pushed with a surge against the rocks, and began to swim toward the two boats overhead, kicking with all her strength and pulling against the frigid water with her free arm while Morgan, when he remembered where they were, fluttered his fins, trying to help as he passed in and out of consciousness.
As she concentrated on keeping Morgan in her grip, focused on their upward ascent, Miranda felt lethal waves of euphoria sweep through her. She forced herself to think. Rachel was dead. She knew they would find her body with Alexander, their bodies entwined in a miserable reprise of the eternal embrace — one final dramatic tableau of inspired depravity. It would be the fulfillment of Rachel’s desire, although with the wrong partner. Rachel wanted to share death with Miranda and be free at last of her demon lovers. Miranda was sure of that. Nothing was certain. Nothing was sometimes enough.
I hope we live, she thought. He’ll owe me,
The shimmering surface spread above them like an enveloping shroud. Blood pounded inside Miranda’s head w
ith deafening urgency — suddenly drowned out by an unmistakable roaring. Instinctively, she cringed downward as the hull of another boat slid to an abrupt halt immediately overhead. With a last surge of energy, she pulled Morgan off to the side, then reached desperately upward toward the dive platform. A hand grasped her wrist.
Peter Singh and two OPP officers in full scuba gear dragged both of them onto the trawler deck.
“Miranda,” Peter exclaimed in a tremulous voice. “You are rescued. You can release Morgan now.” He tried to pull her hand away but she would not relinquish her grip. When he pried her fingers free so the OPP medic could look after him, she rolled on her side and grasped a handful of his hair.
“Miranda,” said Peter Singh. “It is all right now, you are rescued. Please release Detective Morgan.” He made an incomprehensible gesture of flinging his open palms into the air.
She tightened her grip.
“Damn it, Miranda,” Morgan gasped in a faraway voice. “That hurts like hell.”
She rolled closer so their faces almost touched. Their noses were running with mucus and blood, their eyes were raw, their lips bruised. Her hands were weeping blood from where the steel had cut into her palms; Morgan’s hands bled from being sliced when he grabbed at the cutters. She smiled. Stigmata. Morgan understood; he struggled to keep her in focus, his ears throbbed. He smiled back.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Told you we’d dive together.” He couldn’t hear his own words over the roar of his blood beating against the inside of his skull.