Falling Animals by Sheila Armstrong

Author:Sheila Armstrong [Armstrong, Sheila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-03-16T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-seven minutes into the dive and the other diver signals that half of his tank has been used up. Robert has a little more, but he nods and makes a twirling motion with his finger, turning them both around. The beam from the other man’s torch dances like a candle flame. They have reached the very fore of the vessel and there are black streak marks all along the hull where the metal has sweated and buckled. One structure has kept its vague shape: the anchor locker, from what he remembers from the blueprints. The covering over the opening seems newer than the rest of the metal surrounding it, as if it were a later addition. The outer frame is swollen, like an infected boil, but in the centre, it has protruded outwards and burst into a red-bellied flower, petals of metal curling back on themselves.

The opening is about as wide as his hips, and dark; the water changing colour slightly, as if the inside and outside were two different substances, mercury that has sunk under water. The gap is too small for him to fit comfortably into – he is a large man, made larger by the air tank and buoyancy jacket – but he pulls himself along the hull until he can aim his headtorch and camera into the locker. Inside, there are the remains of an anchor chain, barely visible through the silt. This part of the ship is less discoloured than the rest, even allowing for the fire, as if it had been sealed away for years. The heat must have caused the hatch covering to buckle and burst, opening up the room again to the elements.

There is a flash of movement, a glint of bleached bone, and he leans forward to see better, hoping to glimpse the cuttlefish again. He dips his head into the pool of mercury, and suddenly his suit is too tight. He can feel every centimetre of it pressing against his skin, the weight of the thick fabric like a full-body gag. The hood is constricting the blood to his head, his buoyancy jacket is pressing against his lungs, tight, tight, tight, and the water around him is as thick as treacle. He tries to fin backwards, but his buddy is in the way; they flail at each other to separate themselves, but at this point Robert has lost all control over his body and his brain. Panic, sheer panic lands his fist against the other man’s head, connecting with a low thunk that is audible even under the water. His mask is clouded with steam; all he can see is grey metal, all around him in every direction as he hurtles away through the silt that his fins have kicked up.

The husk of the ship is collapsing, condensing in on him; he will be caught under the debris and remain there for a hundred, thousand, million years, until he is compressed as tightly as the heart of a neutron star.

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