The Grail Murders

arm. 'Am I seeing things?' he hissed.
    I stared through the bleak darkness. Still I could see nothing but then I glimpsed the light of a torch. One, perhaps two. The flames seemed to flicker as if someone was moving about on the island. 'Come on, Roger!'
    Benjamin and I slithered down the bank. We saw the barge, pole resting in its stern, as if some ghostly boatman was waiting to take us across. We clambered in. Benjamin sat in the prow whilst I grabbed the pole, brushing the ice away, trying to close my mind and senses to the chill wind and the lapping of the cold black lake. At first I was clumsy but then my old skill returned. (Don't forget, I was raised in Norfolk where the skill of punting barges is as natural as walking.) Nevertheless, I make a confession: Benjamin and I were stupid. Now and again we made such mistakes. An excess of impetuosity, the rashness of youth. Time and again it nearly cost us our life and that night, on the frozen lake, was no different. I had made two, maybe three sweeps of the pole, when I felt a wet slippiness beneath me. Benjamin spun round, his face a white mask in the darkness. He, too, had felt the dampness seep in and yet, due to the broad sweeps of my pole and perhaps the motion of the lake, we had already travelled yards from the shore. 'Roger, it's been holed!'
    I let the pole slip and crouched, plunging my hand into the bottom of the barge. My heart jumped in fear as I felt an inch of icy water. I put the pole down and clambered on hands and knees round the barge, looking for the hole.
    Now this is where my skill as a bargeman saved our lives. You see, on the Broads of Norfolk and Suffolk such accidents are common and the unwary make one of two mistakes, or even both. They try to reach the place they are heading for or else turn back to the shore. Sometimes, due to panic and fear, they try both. But take Old Shallot's advice: if you are in a boat or barge which has been holed, particularly one where the damage is malicious, stop rowing and block that hole for any further movement of the barge simply helps the water rush in.
    At last I found it in the stern of the barge, a hole the size of a man's fist as if someone had taken a hammer and smashed through the bottom. I took off my cloak and immediately began to thread the fabric through the hole. My master, who had found a similar one on the port side, first tried his cloak but then cursed as it went into the lake and he had to stop the hole with the heel of his boot. For a few seconds, and it seemed like hours, we just crouched, looking at each other, as the barge danced on the glassy surface. I glanced quickly towards the island where the siren light still beckoned us on. 'I am sorry, Master,' I wailed. 'Oh, shut up, Roger!' he hissed.
    I kept my hand pressed to the bottom of the boat, my fingers freezing in the icy water swilling round us, but I noticed it grew no deeper. 'Master?'
    'Yes,' Benjamin hissed. 'Now, Roger, my friend, turn this barge round and pull us to the shore, swiftly, with all your skill. If there's another hole and the water swamps us, we will not survive for long in these icy waters.'
    Now you know Old Shallot. My heart was pounding, my stomach spinning like a child's top. I wanted to cry, weep and beg the Almighty for mercy. I seized that bloody pole, swinging the barge round even as I felt the water beneath me slop and gurgle as if maliciously laughing at me, waiting to embrace us in its frozen grasp. The barge turned. I closed my eyes and began to pole.
    'Roger!' my master screamed. 'You are going the wrong way!'
    I opened my eyes and realised the barge had only half-turned and we were now running parallel to both the island and the shore. I began to pole and pray with a vigour which would have astonished any monk. In between snatches of prayer I cursed, using every filthy word I knew, until that bloody barge was heading straight back to the bank. The water lapped round my ankles. We had failed to discover a third or even fourth hole and still the water was rising.
    My master manoeuvred himself round, using his hand to scoop out the icy water, shouting at me to pole faster. We skimmed across the surface of that sodding lake whilst all around us gathered the dark hosts of hell. The water rose higher but then, just as Old Shallot's courage began to crumble into blind panic, the barge shuddered to a stop; both my master and I ran ashore, grateful to fall sobbing on to the snow-soaked bank.
    My master