Dead Man's Grip

boss.’
    ‘STOP THE FUCKING LOCK GATES FROM OPENING!’ Grace screamed.
    Then a blow on the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground.
    He dimly heard a crackle, then a voice from his radio saying, ‘Did you say stop the lock gates?’
    He tried to stand up, and fell over, sideways. He lay there, feeling like he was going to throw up. Ahead, he saw a figure scramble over the lip of the roof and disappear. In the light beam of the helicopter hovering overhead again, he stared at the camera. In fury he rolled over towards it, into the base of the tripod, and sent it crashing over. He tried to stand again, but his legs gave way. In desperation he hauled himself on to his hands and knees, looking around for his radio, but it had vanished.
    He tried to stand again, but this time the wind blew him over. No, no, no. He got up again, virtually oblivious to the splitting pain in his head, and staggered across the roof. He grabbed the top rung of the ladder, then made the mistake of looking down.
    The whole world spun 360 degrees.
    He had to do it. Had to. Had to. Gripping the top ladder posts, he swung his legs over the roof. The wind tried to push him over, backwards.
    Don’t look down.
    He thought for an instant of Cleo. Of their unborn child. Of their life ahead. And of how, in the next few moments, he might plunge to his death. Was this worth it?
    Then he thought of the image of the boy, suspended by his arms from the lock gates. Anything that might save his life was worth it.
    Half climbing, half sliding, he descended as fast as he could. Looking ahead all the time, never down. He still had his gloves on, he realized, and they protected his hands for a few seconds until the ladder cut through them, burning into his hands as he slid.
    Then his feet hit the bottom and he tumbled over on to his back. He scrambled to his feet. Over to his right he could see the light on the bow of the Arco Dee dredger slipping steadily past the end of the power station. He saw red lights on the lock ahead, starting to flash.
    No. No. No.
    He ran to the steel fence and realized, to his frustration, that he was trapped in here. It had been OK coming in, over the pallets, but it wasn’t so easy to get back again. There was nothing to give him a leg-up now.
    ‘Glenn!’ he screamed, having no idea where his friend might be at this moment. ‘Glenn!’
    ‘I’m here, boss!’ he shouted back, from – to Grace’s immense relief – the other side of the fence.
    ‘Give me a hand out of here!’
    Moments later, Glenn was leaning over the top of the fence. Grace grabbed his strong hand and was hoisted up. He scrambled over the top and on to the tarpaulin over the first pallet. As he jumped down on the ground, the front of the dredger was drawing level with them.
    ‘Is anyone at the lock gate?’ Grace yelled.
    Branson shook his head.
    ‘We have to stop it opening!’
    Grace broke into a sprint, with Branson alongside him. As they ran, Grace could hear a cacophony of police sirens approaching. They raced down the quay and reached the entrance to the gate. Red lights were flashing and a klaxon was sounding loudly. As Grace stepped on to the lock walkway, he felt it vibrating. He continued running, the gate juddering harder and harder beneath him. Then he reached the join.
    Suddenly the vibration stopped. The gates had paused. He looked down and saw the boy beneath him. The helicopter was right overhead, Tyler clearly illuminated like some grotesque crucifixion figurine, water swirling wildly beneath him. He was about to be torn in half at any second.
    ‘Stop the fucking gates!’ Grace screamed at Branson, as he clambered over the top of the gate. He could see one end of the rope, tied around a wooden peg just below the top and frantically pulled at it.
    A wild froth of water was building up beneath him. The gates juddered, the gap widening, inch by inch.
     
     
    Branson ran on, over to the far side, the gate juddering more and more. He threw himself over the metal plates, pushed open the unlocked gate and then ran towards the control room. As he did so, he suddenly felt something wrap around his legs and he hurtled, face down, to the ground.
     
     
    Roy Grace tugged again at the rope, which was getting tighter by the second. He could hear, above the roar of the helicopter and the wind and the rain and the klaxon, a muffled crying sound. Suddenly, an instant before the gates opened wider, the rope fell free.
    The boy dropped down