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MacLean continued walking. He saw that the surface of the canal was strewn with stones where children had tested the strength of the ice. He had to find out for himself. Keeping one foot on the bank he lowered the other to the surface and began a slow transfer of weight. Ten of his thirteen stones were on the ice before it protested with a loud crack and a chorus of ancillary creaks. The question had been answered. He rejoined the towpath.

The canal ceased courting the line of the main road and started to meander off into rural isolation. MacLean continued until it began to forge a level path through steepening ground on either side. There was more shelter from the wind here. There was also a wooden bench seat in an alcove in the hedgerow where he rested for a moment. A robin came to investigate and sat on the ground in front of him as if it instinctively knew that he posed no threat. Its breast seemed spectacularly red against the frost on the grass. MacLean held out his hand invitingly but the robin was not that trusting.

He recalled the last time he had come this far up the canal. He must have been thirteen years old and it had been in the school summer holidays. He and a boy named… the name eluded him for the moment but floated tantalisingly near the tip of his tongue until he had it. Eddie! Eddie Ferguson. He and Eddie had paddled their way up through the reeds in a canoe owned by Eddie’s brother. His brother had not exactly given permission but as he had gone off to Scout camp this was seen as being just as good. At that age the journey had held all the excitement of a search for the source of the Nile. He remembered the sound the fibreglass canoe made when it brushed up against the reeds.

MacLean was startled out of his preoccupation by a woman’s voice.

‘Carol! No! Don’t! Come back!’

There was so much fear in the voice that MacLean could not ignore it. He got up off the seat and rounded the bend of the towpath. He was in time to see a small child of six or seven, dressed in wellingtons and a red, plastic raincoat dash out on to the ice, her face alive with mischief. Her mother who had been chasing after her came to a halt at the edge of the bank. MacLean could tell that she was fighting to control her voice. ‘Carol! Listen to me. I want you to walk towards me… now!’

The child turned and smiled. ‘Look Mummy,’ she said. ‘I’m standing on the water.’

MacLean was thirty yards away. He stood stock still lest he break the spell between mother and daughter.

‘Walk towards me Carol,’ said the woman. There was no mistaking the anxiety in her voice despite her measured calmness. MacLean could almost feel the fear.

The child herself suddenly appeared to sense that something was wrong too. Her smile faded and she showed signs of being afraid as she started towards her mother. She took two steps and the ice sent out singing cracks in all directions like spokes radiating from the hub of a wheel; she stopped moving.

‘Come on Carol,’ said her mother.

The child took one more step and the ice opened up beneath her. She disappeared through the hole in an instant and her mother screamed out loud. MacLean broke into a run. There was no sign of the child, just a black hole in the ice like the jagged mouth of a shark.

‘Do something!’ screamed the woman. ‘For God’s sake do something!’

She was hysterical. She gripped MacLean’s lapels as she implored him to help. MacLean took her hands away and looked around for wood. There was none. For a moment his eyes must have reflected the hopelessness of the situation. The woman saw it and screamed again, ‘Oh God no! Please God no!’

MacLean could not bear the agony of being unable to do anything. He broke free of the woman and jumped down heavily on to the ice at the edge. He went straight through and landed on the ledge that lay half a metre below the surface. The icy water numbed his legs as he threw off his over coat and started to lash out at the ice in front of him with his feet, first with his right and then with his left. There was nothing ungainly about it. He retained perfect balance and put all his weight behind each strike. To the woman, the only thing that mattered was that MacLean was making good progress. He had rekindled hope in her. ‘Go on!’ she urged.

MacLean reached the second shelf of the canal and sank to a metre in the icy water. He could no longer use his feet. Without considering the consequences he started to attack the ice with his fists. The ice continued to give but now it was being splattered with blood from cuts to his hands. MacLean’s concentration was total, his features remained set and he ignored the pain until he had created a big enough opening in the ice. With a brief look back at the woman on the bank he sank down into the dark water beneath the ice.

On the bank, the woman was left feeling more alone that she had ever thought possible. Both her daughter and the stranger had disappeared. It was as if they had never been there. Even the wind had dropped away to nothing. Broken ice and black water was all that there was to see. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone…

MacLean’s body erupted from the opening in the ice. In his hands he clutched the body of the little girl in the red raincoat. He couldn’t speak; the agonising cold had all but paralysed him. He waded and stumbled his way to the bank and handed over the bundle before collapsing on to the frosty grass. He could feel the water on him turning to ice.

The woman was in a state of panic. She had the lifeless body of her child on the ground in front of her and was trying to coax the water out of her lungs.

‘No!’ croaked MacLean. ‘She needs air… Breathe into her…Water later… ‘

The woman’s eyes sought reassurance from MacLean.

‘Do it!’ he ordered. He tried to reach the child himself but exhaustion and the numbing cold had robbed him of all energy. The woman started to give the child mouth to mouth resuscitation.

‘Yes,’ said MacLean in a voice that was barely a whisper. ‘Keep on. Don’t stop.’

Icicles were forming on MacLean’s face, stabbing at his eyes and ears. He tried to clear his vision with the back of his hand but only succeeded in adding grit to the problem. He cursed and tried again before crawling towards the pair. At that moment the child spluttered and coughed. Her mother cried out in elation, ‘She’s alive! She’s alive!’

‘Now the water!’ croaked MacLean.

‘The water?’ repeated the woman.

‘Get the water out of her lungs now,’ insisted MacLean, angry at having to repeat himself when every syllable caused him such pain.

The woman rolled the little girl on to her front and put her head to the side, She started to pump the water out of her lungs. There was a lot more spluttering and coughing but it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

The girl was now sitting up. The woman turned her attention to MacLean and said, ‘Are you all right?’

MacLean nodded.

‘We just live up there. Can you make it?’

MacLean nodded again.

The trio made their way up along a mud path to a pretty white bungalow, partly hidden by pine trees and rhododendron bushes. The woman opened the door and carried the child inside. MacLean followed but as soon as the warm air hit him he felt consciousness slip away and slumped to the floor.

When he came round he found he was in bed. Turning over slowly, he looked about him to discover that he was in a small bedroom with pink flowery wallpaper. How long had it been since he’d been in a bedroom with pink, flowery wallpaper? he wondered. A different world. Hotels and motels and rented apartments always went for neutrality, like banks and building societies. The linen sheets were clean and crisp on his bare shoulder and when he looked under the covers, he saw that he was naked. He stretched out his legs and recoiled slightly as his foot came into contact with something warm. He tried again and found that it was a hot-water bottle. A smile found its way to his lips despite his cheek muscles trying to prevent it. ‘Ye gods,’ he thought. ‘I’m in Gingerbread cottage in the heart of the woods.’