When I say the Walbrook was ‘a perfectly good stream’, I mean it was good as a boundary that no sane person would ever cross.
The real version didn’t have creepy tree roots like the bronze sculpture outside twenty-first-century Bloomberg Arcade. It was much deeper, freezing cold and with unmentionable things floating in it.
There was a huge splash behind me and I managed to turn and see Dinu doing the doggy paddle. Up on the bank, our two pursuers were shaking their fists and still crying, ‘Furcifer!’
They seemed unwilling to follow us in.
Maybe they couldn’t swim.
Of course they couldn’t swim.
There were no swimming pools in Londinium apart from maybe a hot plunge in the baths.
And you don’t need to know how to swim to take a bath.
Also, nobody in his right mind would want to swim in this brook. I could not imagine anything worse.
Then I was swept into the Thames.
It was even colder than the Walbrook, and just as full of floating things, but with the added element of being much more dangerous because there were boats everywhere. My head nearly struck one the size of a bathtub made of leather. What was that kind of boat called? A barnacle? No: a coracle.
‘Help!’ I made a swipe for it, but already I was being whirled past it and the open-mouthed face of the boy inside.
When I turned away, I realised the current wanted to slam me into a big wooden ship up ahead. I thrashed with my arms and kicked with my feet and only just managed not to get my brains bashed out by a giant paddle.
I knew I had to get to the south side of the river, but I had got turned around and no longer knew which way was which. Plus this ancient version of the Thames seemed twice as wide as the river I knew.
Then I glimpsed a big wooden bridge between two boats. I knew Londinium had only one bridge across the Thames, and it was east of the Walbrook.
I struck out for what I hoped was the south bank.
My legs and arms felt as if a thousand freezing needles were pricking them. A couple of times I gulped water instead of air. I tried not to think about what else I might have swallowed.
Finally, just when I thought I couldn’t swim any further, I realised the water wasn’t tugging at me as much as before. I managed to float on my back for a moment and gather my thoughts.
Dinu! Where was he?
I trod water and looked around, but couldn’t spot him among the flotilla of boats.
‘Dinu!’ I shouted, but only got a mouthful of water.
So I turned and paddled for shore.
I almost sobbed with relief as my numb toes felt slippery mud and soon I was staggering out of the water. The sun was low in the sky, making an angry orange smear. It was setting on my right, which probably meant I had made it to the south bank.
But you can never tell with the Thames; it curves like a snake.
Finally I was out of the water and wading through grey mud. But I wasn’t home free. In fact, it was getting harder and harder to move. Every time I pulled my leg out it was covered with more mud than before. And with every step I sank deeper. After about five more minutes of this, I found myself stuck up to my waist. I squirmed and writhed but only managed to wedge myself tighter.
There was something evil about the cold and slippery grey mud, like it wanted to suck me down. My heart was pounding so hard that I felt sick. I took deep breaths and tried to think what to do.
Once when I was in Year Four, the Thames River Police came to our school and told us never to go down on the foreshore without supervision. A few weeks before, three teenagers from Putney had taken a boat for a midnight joyride. Out near Hammersmith they had seen a kind of island in the river and got out of the boat to explore. Then they started to sink into the mud.
‘We rescued two of them but there was still one missing,’ said the policeman. ‘It was a dark night and we were shining our torches and powerful floodlights. We were about to give up when the beam showed us a little patch of white. It was the girl’s cheek. She was up to her neck in the mud. We were just in time. A few more minutes and she would have been gone forever.’
After the police left, our teacher, Mr Rowley, showed us a photo of the famous Bog Man, a guy who died in a muddy bog in Denmark about three thousand years ago and got preserved like a mummy.
I thought of my list.
Of all the ways to die in Londinium, being drowned in the evil grey mud of the River Thames had not occurred to me.
But it seemed that was to be my fate.
I was going to end up as Bog Kid.