Ullswater

I stand, ready, on rough shingle at the edge of the lake.

Behind me, gouged hills wait bad tempered, stone and soil shaped by slowly melting ploughs; the remains of summer tourism, optimistic fell walkers in breathable fabrics rubbing wind blown faces, gauging the weather by swiftly blown clouds that scrape the mountain peaks.

A dark bowl collected from glaciers, the water icy as if in memory; three boys died here, eaten by freezing blackness.

Striding forwards, the cold feels like heat at first, rocks cutting at my feet beneath the surface. The heaviness of the water sucks down light and sound, enclosing my body entirely as I take the final step, my legs suddenly kicking at nothing.

Opening my eyes, my own white body moves languidly, a flash of silver in an infinite void. I dive; weeds pull at me jealously, trying to keep me from air and sky.

Eyes frozen, I look for thrashing limbs, the silver trails of final breath escaping upwards. Stillborn into cold darkness, I look for them; ready to pull them back through into the world of packed lunches and minibuses.

Something brushes my numb hand and I instinctively grip, but there is nothing.