by Ian Chapman
I had to blow the hatch then go. Once I pulled the pins I had to be off. Pull, jump then swim.
I took hold of the pins, exhaled then yanked them out.
I threw them away and stepped across the hull. With a deep breath I jumped into the freezing water.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Lost
I SANK DOWN AS it swirled around me. I closed my eyes and mouth and held them tightly shut until I reached the surface. I came up and took a breath as I swam on my back, arms and legs flat out. Away from the submarine as fast as I could.
There was a dull thud, a shower of sparks, then another but nothing else. The submarine carried on into the darkness. I swam more, kicked and thrashed and put further distance between me and it. God knows what could happen with the hatch blown.
But nothing happened.
It sailed off and I floated in the water now bobbed by the wake as it made its way out to sea. Maybe I’d done some damage to it. Maybe not.
I swam on as the waves flicked me up and down. My head went under then my feet.
It had gone and I was here in the water. I needed to get as far away as possible.
It was hard to work out which way was back to the shore so I kept going the same direction. I swam backwards into the sea.
I carried on until my arms and legs ached. Waves flicked me up and down. I’d sink into a trough of dark then rise onto a crest. Up and down in the featureless sea. There was no sign of the submarine. Or land. The sun lit the desert of water a weak grey. At least I wasn’t cold. The wetsuit was doing its job.
As I floated I thought of how I’d come here. Of the journey with Becky and Casper. Daniel who was now alone in the town. Abandoned, again. Faeston with Round Up and Sophie. All the stuff I’d done before.
Then I spotted something way off to my right. A black dot that rocked around on the surface. I flapped around and aimed towards it.
For ages I swam on, legs and arms pushed to move even though I was tired. Water sprayed into my face and I was chucked up and down by the waves. My head dipped under and I took in water that I spat out as I gasped for air.
The object seemed to stay as distant as when I’d first seen it. I swam on and lay back in the water. Closed my eyes and hoped it was the boat or Becky. Becky in the boat.
Stroke by stroke I closed in on it.
The object was misshapen. Dark. I thought it was some kind of animal. A great carnivore that swam around and lured in prey: a shark or octopus that would feast on my legs and eat me as I flailed to get away. This made me curl up into a ball. Think about the great dark depths below me and what might lie there.
At the next crest I stared at the thing. It was irregular with limbs that splayed out. It rocked from side to side but there was no other movement.
I swam on towards it.
The sun shone down on it. Lit branches and a solid trunk, cockeyed and polished. It was clear that it was a tree. An uprooted tree washed out to sea. Its boughs pointed off into the water and to the sky. Leafless and striped of bark they thrust off in different directions. They rocked amongst waves of green and blue. Topped with white.
I swam alongside and held onto it, the wood smooth and solid. Then I clambered up and slumped onto the driest section where the water lapped at the edges.
I lay upon the trunk as it floated in the water. I clung to the dead tree as it swayed and dipped and rose up.
As I drifted off to sea.
Alone in the water.
Alone.
NORTHUMBRIAN WESTERNS
These were formed out of a few crazy ideas in a pub in Northern England. Over five years they evolved through numerous drafts and short stories into a series of novels.
Blending empirically based scenarios with Spaghetti Westerns, the books link dystopia, noir-fiction and border history into a unique set of stories.
Burnt Horizon is book one. Book two is Blighted Land and the third is Blasphemous Isle.
There are more details on books here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian Chapman was born and raised in Northumberland, only leaving when he was lured to the Midlands to study Economics at the University of Wolverhampton. He was so impressed with the place he went on to gain a PGCE and MA in International Studies, staying in the Midlands to teach economics and strategy at a number of colleges and universities. When not teaching he wrote stories or rode one of his three motorbikes with the odd Glastonbury Festival thrown in.
Moving north to Lancaster he took an MA in Creative Writing at St Martin’s College before completing a PhD at Lancaster University. Around this time he had a play performed and won a (small) poetry competition. He also had several short stories published.
He now lives on the edge of the Lake District, still teaching and writing but the motorbikes have been replaced by three children.
Details are available at Ian’s website here and Lakeland Writers’ site here.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing can be a lonely hobby so it’s good to have some people behind you.
I would like to thank George Green and Lee Horsley at Lancaster University for all the brilliant suggestions. Also Brian Baker, Andrew Pepper and Jo Baker for further guidance.
Thanks to Toby Travis and Phil Hilborne for reading through the penultimate draft.
To Tom and Janet Storrie for believing in me when no one else did.
Of course I couldn’t have done it without Tara, Ethan and Lucy being so patient when I was too busy to play.
And especially to Debs Austin for all her moral and emotional support.
