‘It’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s exactly the same thing. I won’t let you do it. Now stop struggling. I’m warning you, I’ll write you up and that would finish both of us.’
He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘It’s all in the lap of the gods, Max. As it should be.’
I was suddenly still. He was right. Reluctantly, I nodded and slowly, an inch at a time, he let me go.
I rolled away from him and busied myself with the equipment. Doing what I was here for. Watching people die. Raging silently at History. At injustice. At the futility of it all. For all the people everywhere who quietly and patiently build their lives, only to watch them being knocked down by war, famine, earthquake, or just plain bad luck. I was so finished with this bloody awful job. I would go to Thirsk, work in a clean office, participate in learned debate, and never, ever, have to stand helplessly by and see people die again.
I stared at the equipment so I didn’t have to watch this tiny group of people whirling away, lost in the currents, disappearing one by one, as the waters closed over their heads. Children, old people, all of them.
But why had Dr Bairstow had given us these coordinates? Surely not to witness yet another failure in a long line of failures. And here was an interesting question. Was this the successful migration to which Dr Bairstow had given us the coordinates? Or was this the successful migration because Dr Bairstow had given us the coordinates?
Then, suddenly, maybe it wasn’t going to be another failure.
‘There,’ said Tim, with sudden excitement. ‘Further up. No, to your left.’
I looked.
One of the rafts, swirling wildly in the current, was within a few yards of the shore. The two adults aboard were standing and literally hurling small children into the water. As close to the shore as they could get them. Around them, their raft was breaking up. They had only seconds.
Tiny dark heads bobbed in the water, scrabbling, puppy-like in the surf. One went under. I didn’t see him come up.
They were nearly there. They were so close. Only a few feet to go.
I could see their faces; watch their frantic struggles as they fought their way to land.
So tantalisingly close … Someone on the beach could just reach out a hand … They touched land, struggled to get out, and were pulled back into the surf again. They’d made it. They were here. They just lacked the strength for those last few feet and the waves wouldn’t let go.
‘Go,’ said Tim and I went like the wind.
I raced into the surf, seized the first child I could see and pulled him out of the waves. Another appeared in front of me, head high in the water, kicking for all he was worth, his little face grim with fear and determination. I caught at his arm and held him safe while he found his feet and climbed out of the water.
Another, older child was about six feet away and she had hold of a bundle. A struggling bundle. She pushed it towards me. I let a wave carry it forward and deposit it on the beach. I swear, all I did was just nudge it with my foot as the next wave tried to pull it back again. That surely didn’t count.
I picked up the crying bundle and handed it to one of the children. The older girl was clambering out of the sea, panting and exhausted. I waited until she was clear and then helped her to her feet. We both stared out to sea.
The two adults were clinging to the remains of the raft, which was being pulled back away from us.
What could I do? What could I possibly do?
The problem was solved for me. While I’d been busy here, the rest of the group had been struggling to land back along the beach. Some three or four people raced past me with their long staffs.
They were so organised. They had a plan. One stood up to his knees, and extended his staff. A second man took hold of that and extended his. A woman took his and extended hers. They were nearly there. A fourth man began to work his way along the line, calling to the people on the raft.
They were elderly. Maybe they wouldn’t have the strength.
Strength or not, they could see that every moment was taking them further and further away from any chance of rescue. They kicked out for the shore as the last of the raft disintegrated. Hide-wrapped packs bobbed around them in the water.
Everyone got the same idea at once. The bundles floated! I had no idea what was in them, but they floated. Shouts rang out as everyone yelled the same thing in their own particular language.
‘Grab a bundle and kick!’
They did.
The woman on the end was shouting and waving her staff. An elderly man, his white hair vivid against his dark skin, grabbed the end and began to work his way along. Hand over hand, just as they’d obviously practised. The other man was not so lucky. I caught one last glimpse of his terrified face as he went under, his arms raised high in the air.