Write what you don't know...

About 18 months ago I was at the York Writer's Festival pitching my book 66 Metres to three agents, who all roundly rejected it. One of them took me aside, and said, 'Look, this book is about a young Russian woman. You're not Russian, you're not a woman, and let's face it...' He told me to write about what I knew. I decided to stick to my course instead, and a year later 66 Metres was published by Harper Collins.

But ever since that conversation, it got me thinking about the adage 'write what you know.' What about all those crime writers? Are they all murderers and serial killers in their spare time? What about science fiction writers? Do they all have spaceships locked away in their garages?

I like Lee Child's Jack Reacher series. To say I'm not alone is a whopping understatement. How does he convince the reader that this fiction could be reality? The answer is detail. Pick up any Jack Reacher book and what you see on every page is details that ground the book, as if you're there. You have the feeling that he knows his stuff. There is an authenticity about his writing. Not only is there information, it feels as if this is 'insider' information, the kind of info you don't find by simply clicking on Wikipedia. Take a look at the opening of Gone Tomorrow, the one I'm reading right now, and you'll see what I mean.

But even doing deep research can only get you so far. Reading and doing aren't the same thing. Sometimes you need to know what something feels like, physically and emotionally, or else you'll never draw the reader in.

When I had to write a scene where Nadia fires a magnum .45 in order to save her sister, I realized I'd never fired a handgun. I wrote the scene anyway, but even to me it seemed flat, false even. So I went to a gun range and did some basic training for a few hours, firing various pistols until we finally got to the big one. It is quite spectacular - the recoil is extreme, the muzzle flash is scary, and the noise absolutely deafening. It feels like you're firing a cannon. I rewrote the scene, put it at the start of the book, and arguably I think that very scene was what won over Harper Collins.

Of course there is stuff I do know a lot about - same goes for any of us - we all have deep expertise. Mine happens to be scuba-diving. So I can put details in there that only instructors know - little tricks of the trade they don't normally teach you. And I know what it is like to black out underwater, because it happened to me, as well as narcosis and close encounters with large sharks. Most readers say the book really comes alive and is most intense in the underwater sections.

Diving is also a big part of my motivation for writing this series. Although there are exceptions, often when I read thrillers where there is any diving at all, I wonder if the author has ever put their head underwater. The technical details are all off, and the experience doesn't ring true. I guess they
get away with it because most readers have never dived either. But I'd like to set the record straight.

But back to the agent's comment. First, I'm not a woman, and the protagonist (Nadia) is. I based her on a blend of a fictional character and a real - and somewhat exceptional - woman I know. Nadia is not very girly, and is to some extent the son her father never had but always wanted. I do admit I had to talk to some women to get the sex scenes right, as men and women really don't see things the same way when it comes to sex.

Second, I'm not Russian. I spent some time diving with Russians in Egypt a few years ago. I was the only non-Russian in the resort. They took me in and I got to understand them a little. I also met someone who was almost certainly Russian Mafia. I have a lot more work to do on this, I freely admit, but I now have a fascination with Russia and Russians.

Third, I'm not as young as I used to be. Okay. But I still think that way...

So, can you write what you don't know? Yes, but you need to blend it with something you do really know about. Then you're more likely to have the reader give you the benefit of the doubt about the part you don't truly know.

My next book, 37 hours, comes out 17th March, and is set in four locations: Murmansk, a remote island off the coast of Borneo, Chernobyl, and London. It involves diving a submarine, a stolen nuclear weapon, a vicious shark attack, advanced interrogation techniques, and radiation poisoning. Do I know about these things? Strangely, more than you might think. I wasn't always a writer...



[P.S.> a reader who recently read the prologue to 37 hours commented that it read like a Jack Reacher novel. I don't actually think mine is to the same standard, but I couldn't ask for more!]

On being drunk underwater - nitrogen narcosis

You know that feeling when you're blissfuly happy, and you feel super-confident? Maybe you're in love, or high on something? Well, you can get that feeling easily when scuba-diving underwater. It's called nitrogen narcosis - the narcs - and it can get you killed...

First the basics. When you're diving with air in your tank, you don't normally get it above 30 metres (100 feet). Below that depth, the partial pressure of nitrogen starts to affect our brains, and it's very much like getting drunk. One of my most memorable dives was diving to 50 metres in Indonesia with a large school of tuna. I had the narcs for sure. and actually felt like I was a tuna. I swam with the school, turned when they turned, and was on the watch-out for sharks. My buddy stayed at 40 metres, watching me (in hindsight, not much of a buddy, no chance of rescuing me if i'd have gone deeper). 

When you get the narcs you believe you can go deeper. Then the narcosis will increase. The happy-go-lucky feeling can then change into panic and disorientation. I used to train divers to show them what it was like. I'd get them to tie a knot called a bowline on land, next to a quarry filled with water. They'd do it easily, without really having to think about it. Then we'd descend to 30 metres - the bottom, as it happens - and after five minutes I'd ask them to tie it again. They couldn't. Then they'd start laughing, and it would be time to go up. 

If you dive a lot, you get a kind of immunity, as your brain adapts. This is what divers call doing 'build-up' dives. If you do a couple of dives at twenty, then twenty-five, then probably 30m will be no problem. But you have to watch the signs. One of the golden rules in diving is 'Plan the dive, and dive the plan.' This is because on land you're stone cold sober, whereas underwater you might decide to change the plan, and maybe it's not such a good idea. 

There's even a sign between divers to let someone know you have the narcs. You point your index finger to your temple, and then draw a circle. If your buddy gives you this signal, you should go up. Often you don't need to go to the surface, maybe ascend just 5 or 10 metres and suddenly your mind will be perfectly clear as again. But if you ignore it. well... It is like getting drunk. There's a period when you realise you are getting drunk, and have the choice to stop drinking. If you don't, you tend to think you are no longer drunk, and that you are actually making perfect sense... 

Here's an extract from 66 metres, where the heroine, Nadia, gets narcosis. She's an experienced diver, and should know better, but she's under stress: she has to retrieve an object called the Rose, at 66 metres, or the Russian Mafia will kill her sister...   

Ben shut off the engine completely, the world suddenly silent barring the slip-slops of wavelets against the hull. ‘The prow is directly beneath us, at twenty-five.’

Jake nodded, squirted a little liquid soap into his diving mask, smeared it round with his finger, then leant over the rubber tube and rinsed the mask in seawater. Nadia did the same, looking into the green-blue water below, knowing the Rose was down there, waiting for her. Maybe she could retrieve it today. Why the hell not? Ben opened both their tank valves fully, then she and Jake sat on opposite tubes facing each other, masks on, regulators in their hands.

‘We stop at the prow,’ Jake said. ‘To check we’re both okay. Do you want to go inside the wreck?’

She didn’t. She wanted to plunge straight down to sixty-six, grab the Rose and come back up again. But he’d already said fifty was the limit, and she wasn’t dived up yet, and would get narcosis. Maybe if he went inside then she could go down alone…

‘Sure,’ she said.

‘Then stay close,’ Jake said.

Ben counted down. ‘One, Two… Three!’

She rolled backwards off the boat. The water hit the back of her neck and flushed into her wetsuit, warming up almost instantly. She sucked in a lungful of air and righted herself, and brought her head above the surface. Jake was already next to her. He gave her the OK signal then the thumb-down signal to descend. She returned them both in sequence, then held up her inflate hose and dumped air from her jacket. She sank beneath the water, the last airside view a rippled one of Ben leaning over the side of the boat, watching them disappear.

Jake dove down ahead of her, streamlined, occasionally twisting around effortlessly to check she was following. The water was featureless, and she felt like a parachutist dropping through green-blue sky. Keeping her breathing even, she cleared her ears every five metres or so, and studied his technique: Jake had his arms folded in front of him, the computer on his left wrist so he could read it, his right hand holding the inflate hose, jetting air into his stab jacket every seven or eight metres. Poetry in motion. She adopted the same position.

They fell through sheets of green-blue water fading to grey, the visibility about ten metres, the strong sunlight above gradually leached out by the depth. She couldn’t see anything ahead except Jake. Then a shape emerged, dark, pointed, big. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. Not everyone loved wreck diving. Some preferred ‘scenic’ dives with lots of fish. She didn’t get it. Wrecks were scenic and full of fish.

The prow of the Tsuba loomed out of the grey. A single spotted dogfish patrolled it while a small school of black bream hugged the sloping foredeck. Ben was good, he’d dropped them right on target. Jake slowed. She jetted air into her stab a little late. While he stopped centimetres from the rust-laden prow, hovering as if in space, she rammed it, and had to brace herself against it with outstretched arms. To recover, she let her momentum spin her body and legs around vertically, like a gymnast doing an underwater handspring, so she ended upright, one hand on the prow’s edge, the rest of her body parallel to the deck. As if she’d intended it that way all along.  

Jake gave her an appraising look, followed by the OK signal, which she returned. He then pointed to his air gauge. She looked at hers – one eighty bar – then showed it to him. He returned the favour. His was still at a pressure of two hundred atmospheres. Rule was, you surfaced when it got down to fifty bar, though she’d often left it much later than that. Jake aimed a flat vertical hand down the deck, and she started to descend the ship, tracing its steep seventy degree angle.

Good visibility wasn’t always best for a wreck dive. It was awesome to see an entire wreck underwater, but sometimes poor viz meant discovering a sunken ship bit by bit. The foremast emerged out of the grey. She glided in slow motion over two cargo holds, shining her torch down into them, illuminating a fog of tiny fish in one, rusted spare engine parts in another. The bridge beckoned, four steps and two metal railings inviting her inside. She turned to Jake and he nodded, so she went straight through the open hatch, careful not to bump the ragged metal sides, the rusty edges brilliant shades of orange in her torchlight.

The upper floor had almost completely eroded, so they finned up a few metres, and she found the helm, a classic antique ship’s wheel, most of the wood gone but enough of the brass fittings left to discern its original shape. Like any wreck diver she couldn’t resist grabbing it and staring out towards the mast, just visible. She realised she was grinning, and wondered if it was narcosis setting in. No, she was simply enjoying the dive.

Jake headed aft and she followed, descending deeper into the bowels of the ship.

Her thoughts became sluggish, as if she’d had a few vodkas. She watched his fins undulate in front of her as they entered a narrow black corridor. She could fin faster, show him how Russians dived. Without warning she kicked hard and thrust ahead of him like a torpedo. She misjudged it and her tank grazed the ceiling. She rebounded and ricocheted towards the floor. She let go of her torch to brace herself, and her hands disappeared into a thick layer of sludge coated with powdery sediment that plumed up in front of her mask. She could see nothing, and was still descending. Dammit, the walls were narrowing.

She tried to turn around, banged her head against solid iron. Shit! She couldn’t think straight. Panic rose in her chest, her breathing loud in her ears. Her torch hit the side of her head, its light lost in the black sediment, as if she was in a coal mine. Stop, dammit! Just stop moving. He’ll find you. But where was he? She tried to think. Had she turned left or right? Her breathing rasped ever louder in her ears.

Without warning she was tugged backwards sharply. Jake must have grabbed her fins. His hands pulled her around in the semi-darkness, her torch beam flailing wildly like a beacon in fog, still attached to her stab jacket by its thin cord.

Jake brought her close, right in front of his face, mask to mask. She breathed heavily. He put two straight fingers in front of her eyes, waggled them as if they were walking, shook his head once, then put them tight together, unmoving. She got it. Don’t fin.

He put an arm around her waist, just underneath her stab jacket, and kept eye contact with her. She had to fight her normal instinct to struggle free and be independent, which would only get them both into trouble. She stayed still. Jake edged them back out of the soup, pulling them along with one arm, and suddenly the water cleared, and they were back on the bridge. Her panic vanished. Narcosis was so depth-dependent: one second exhilaration, the next all-out panic, but a few seconds later and ten metres higher and her mind was clear as a bell. Jake studied her, and she nodded as if to say she was fine, gave him a clear OK signal to verify it, and he let her go. She followed him back outside the ship, and checked her air. Ninety bar. She showed it to him. He looked at it but didn’t show her his.

She’d blown it. Not nearly enough air left to go down to the sea floor and start searching, and in any case the narcosis would return straightaway. Fucking hell! The Rose was down there, waiting. She wanted to punch the wreck. But you can’t punch anything seriously underwater. At least she was alive. Next time she might not get narked at all.

Jake moved away from the Tsuba, and she followed him, close to an eel that slithered off in the direction of the underwater pinnacle propping up the wreck. She and Jake slowly ascended amongst lush green ferns, flora she normally spurned. Fish skittered over mossy boulders, and she tried to take her mind off this catastrophic dive. As they rose above the promontory, the prow of the Tsuba loomed into view again. A cuttlefish, changing colour mid-water, calmed her down a little. Her computer said she’d touched forty-eight metres, and required a decompression stop for five minutes, probably more by the time they arrived at six metres.

She gazed down the disappearing length of the ship. The Rose – her and Katya’s key to freedom – was down there, and she’d been less than twenty metres above it. 

It might as well have been a kilometer.

66 Metres available digitally everywhere. Please don't read your kindle or iPad underwater...

When is a novel finished?

This is a kind of zen koan - a mind-bending unanswerable question - for many authors. But as I'm getting ready to send off my next manuscript, these are the ten questions I ask myself:

1. Prose - is it fresh, evocative, vivid, agile? Is it clean, with the occasional sparkle? Are the first five pages as good as they can possible be? Does it have a killer first line? Does the reader get a feel (or at least a hint) for the upcoming conflict in the first few pages?
2. Characters - are they memorable? Do they each have their own voice? Does the protagonist undergo a change by the end of the book?
3. Dialogue - is the dialogue sharp, never banal? Do characters interrupt each other? Do they occasionally say things that can't be taken back?
4. Setting - are places described using all the senses, as perceived by (and reflecting) the characters' views of the world? Do settings imbue their own character on the novel (could it only happen there, or could it happen anywhere?) Do the settings signpost the mood(s) of the book?
5. Pace - does every chapter advance plot and character? Is there a good pacing of action/drama, and dialogue/exposition/internal scenes allowing the reader to go deeper inside the characters, without ever becoming either too static (aka boring) or breathless? 
6. Story - is the story coherent, every apparent loose end tied up, no deus ex-machina? Once the reader gets to the end, could she/he tell a friend what happened and why, and what it all means? 
7. Genre - is it clear what genre it fits into, and what sub-genre? Does your novel follow the etiquette for that genre? [you have to read in your genre to know this]
8. Motive - are you clear why you wrote it? Vanity and profit making are valid reasons. But if there is a part of you trying to come through in your writing, does the novel do you justice? Because it is personal.
9. Essence - can you already boil it down to a handful of killer tweets? It's best to 'get' the essence of your novel before it's published.
10. Cover - does the cover reflect the novel/s genre and essence? Because the cover matters.

Okay, back to my editing. I hope the above may interest or even help a few other writers.
JFK

Xmas Teaser: 37 Hours

Happy Xmas everyone, especially to readers of 66 metres. Here's a teaser, the opening of the next book - 37 hours - due out in March. The book takes place in four locations: Moscow, a remote island off the coast of Borneo, Chernobyl, and London. Expect plenty of fast-paced action, gritty scenes, tough choices, a chilling villain, and some twists you won't see coming... 

This is how it starts. Some of you might guess who Vladimir is...

 

Prologue

Vladimir Nikolayevhich was cuffed and hooded, but his guards had made a fatal mistake. His hands were behind him, but not attached to any part of the inner structure of the military van. A standard Russian UAZ 452 – he’d know those rickety creaks and the pungent blend of oil and diesel anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards some unknown destination where he would be interrogated, beaten some more, then shot in the back of the head.

Three of the four men chattered as they picked up speed down a straighter road. Their second mistake. Clearly they weren’t Special Forces – Spetsnaz – like he’d been until very recently. Regular army. He’d only seen the two men who’d taken him from breakfast with his daughter. But now he knew there were four – one other had engaged in the banter, another had remained silent but was referred to as the butt of several bawdy jokes. The hierarchy of the men was also clear. The leader was in the front passenger seat, the silent one the driver, leaving the two musclemen in the back with him. One beside, one opposite. He waited. They’d been driving for an hour or so, initially dirt tracks, now a highway, which meant they were on the E119 to Vostok. If they turned right, he had a chance, as they would have to cross the Volga river. Then he would make his move.

If they turned left, he was a dead man.

Vladimir wasn’t a man for options, or for hedging his bets. Not a question of making the right choice, but of making the choice right. In all his missions in the past twenty years he’d never cared much for  a Plan B. Leave too many options open, and events control you, inviting failure.

The van would turn right.

He needed to know if there was anything, a metal strut, for example, between him and the driver, in front on the opposite side. Nobody had talked to him since his arrest. Why talk to a hooded, dead man? But they were military, at least they had been at one stage or another, so it should work. He waited for a pause in their talk fuelled by bravado – they were probably wondering which one of them would pop him in the skull. He had a feeling they’d make the driver do it. A rite of passage. Probably a rookie, not yet blooded.

The pause came.

“Cigarette?” he asked, nodding through his hood to the one opposite. “Probably my last, we all know that.”

Silence, except for the van’s suspension creaking. He imagined questioning looks from the musclemen to the leader, the driver fixing his eyes on the road, maybe a glance in the rear view mirror. The dead man had spoken.

A sigh, the rustle of clothing, a pocket unzipped, the tap-tap of a cigarette being flushed from the pack. He could smell the nicotine despite the strong diesel fumes. A hand heavy on his shoulder – the muscleman on the same side – while the hood was pulled up by the other one just enough. He felt cooler air on his lips, the stale coffee-breath of the one opposite.

The smack in the mouth wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it stunned him all the same. He slid off the bench onto the floor, and while three of the men burst out laughing, he stretched his left leg backwards towards the rear edge of the driver’s seat – nothing in the way, no vertical metal support. But there could still be a wire mesh separating the rear compartment from the two in the front. He rocked back onto his knees, and addressed the one who’d hit him. He lowered his head, bychit-style, a bull about to charge, and spat out the words amidst spittle and blood.

“Mu dak, suka, blyad!”

This time the punch was fully expected. He railed backwards and upwards, travelling with the force of the uppercut, so that his head ended up in the gap between the driver and the leader, which cost him a whack from the latter on the top of his head. No wire mesh. Rough hands slotted him back where he’d been twenty seconds earlier. Profanities poured forth. Nothing he’d not heard or said himself. His face stung. He ignored it. Things settled down, and the banter resumed.

He began drawing long breaths, oxygenating his body. He was chilled, because he had no coat. The other men were wrapped in thick commando jackets. It was early spring, still cold. The Volga would be near freezing, maybe four degrees. Not a problem, he bathed in it every morning. For them, though, it would be a different story.

The van slowed. The tick, tick, tick of the indicator. They slowed down further. Stopped. A truck passed fast ahead of them, rocking the high suspension van in its wake. The leader bellowed a command, though he wasn’t stupid enough to name the destination. “This way, this way.” Another lorry – no, a tractor, given the smell of manure – the leader cursing the young driver for not pulling out sooner. The engine revved, the gear engaged, the van pulled forward.

And turned right.

 

37 Hours is due out in March 2017

 

66 Metres is already out!

"Massive page-turner!" "This author knows his stuff!" "Intelligent, fast-paced thriller!"

 

 

Underwater, running out of air...

When I'm diving deep I always glance up to the surface. Sometimes, as deep as fifty metres, you can still see it, maybe even the boat awaiting you. But often or not, you can't. And the thought occurs to me, what if I were to run out of air, right now? Could I make it?

You can increase the danger by going inside a wreck at depth. Now, if you run out of air, you are already inside a steel mausoleum, and have to find your way out before you can begin to ascend.

The one time this almost happened to me was in the Isles of Scilly, off the Cornish coast. My buddy and I were inside a wreck, and I'd tied a line to the entrance/exit, so we could find our way out. It was about 40 metres deep. At a certain point, we both checked our air and decided we should head out and then back to the surface. But as I began reeling the line back in, it came too easily, and we both realized the unthinkable. The line had either been untied or had been cut. We were well inside the wreck, and I hadn't counted the twists and turns to get into its bowels. Our air was burning nicely at that depth, now aided by an adrenaline kick as we realized our predicament.

I stopped reeling the line in, and we simply followed it as far as we could. Luckily it got us close to the outside, and dim daylight guided us the rest of the way. I never found out who had untied the line or why. To this day, I prefer to think it was by accident.

I used the memory of this dive when I wrote the following scene for 66 Metres. In this part of the book, Jake has finally found the device that a range of killers are racing to find, the Rose, but is running out of air, and is beginning to suffer narcosis. Two Navy SEALs armed with spear guns are hunting him, and in order to hide, he enters the wreck...

Jake watched the fourth tank zip past, sounding like a torpedo, a jet-stream of small bubbles in its wake. It meant things weren’t good topside. The SEALs had arrived with a sled – he should have seen that coming – and must have left someone in charge on the surface. Ascending now would only serve to deliver the Rose to whoever was up there. He had to descend. Nadia’s air had been so low her only option was to reach the hang-tank under Pete’s boat at ten metres, so he’d sent her up.

The hut at fifty-two, where he’d left the smaller, 'pony' cylinder of air – that was his destination. But he chased after the larger tank, looking for the bubble-stream – his own tank would be empty imminently, and the pony wouldn’t last long at depth. By descending again he was going way off the deco-tables, but decompression sickness was preferable to what the SEALs would do to him. Besides, it bought Nadia time, and she was resourceful.

Legs locked together, he dolphin-kicked hard, holding his breath, the speed of his descent pressing his facemask back against his forehead and cheekbones. For a moment he lost the stream of bubbles from the tank and slowed, circling to find them, then continued downwards. Whoever had dropped the tanks had tried to make it land on the Tsuba, and as he passed the wreck’s funnel he saw a familiar grey aluminium cylinder lodged against one of the shed-like structures on the ship’s aft section. As soon as he reached it he shut off the valve. There was no way of knowing how much air was in it, but a diver never wastes air, and the valve had only been cracked open a quarter of a turn, so he reckoned it was at least half full. Anchoring himself by placing the ends of his fins on the sloping deck, he picked it up, still barely breathing – determined to leave no trail for the SEALs – and swam to the hut where he’d left the pony. He entered the wreck.

He’d been inside this part of the Tsuba twice before, but years ago, so he didn’t remember it too well. Rather than switching on his torch, he reached into his stab jacket pocket and took out a thin plastic tube the size of a cigar, and bent it till the mid-section snapped open. The light-stick began to glow a dull fluorescent green, casting a ghoulish light on his surroundings: a corridor straight ahead and up, then a staircase leading deeper into the ship. He took a short breath and headed in.

At the foot of the rusted metal stairs was a square room, algae-encrusted pipes lining floor and ceiling. The room had a single opening at the lower end – too small to get through with all his gear on – and at the other end a sealed hatch. First things first – air – since his main tank would be empty soon. But it was hard to think. The inevitable narcosis made his brain feel like a sponge soaked in rum. Concentrate! Three tanks: one ten-litre half-full, one nearly empty, and the smaller three-litre pony cylinder. Two SEALs. What to do?

His brain wasn’t co-operating. It was like staring at words, unable to decipher their meaning. On the surface he could work it out in an instant. A light flickered above, and he knew he’d run out of time. Clearly the SEALs had a detector and the locator code for the Rose, even though it only worked over a limited distance. He swam to the hatch, tried to heave it open. Rusted solid. Light beams danced around the bottom of the stairs. He swam back to the smaller hole at the lower end of the chamber, and dropped the pony bottle, with its regulator attached, straight through. He heard a clunk two seconds later.

As he turned around the first SEAL appeared. Nice rebreather kit, he had to admit; serious, professional. Jake pulled out his diver’s knife – Sean’s knife – and faced him. But the SEAL aimed a spear-gun at him, and gestured for him to drop the knife, just as the second SEAL arrived, squeezing in next to his comrade. Jake knew he might be dead either way, so he turned his back and went to the opening, and shoved the Rose, inside its bag, through the hole. He heard it hit bottom.

He expected to be speared at any moment, but the two SEALs stayed put, one of them nodding to the knife still clasped in Jake’s hand. Their eyes looked clear, alert, whereas he knew his own would appear groggy, half-closed and bloodshot. He let the knife slide from his grasp. One of the SEALs handed his spear-gun to the other, then approached Jake, his own knife drawn, and pushed past him to the opening. He shone a torch into it, then grabbed Jake’s stab jacket, and began unbuckling it. He then backed away, pointed to the hole, then to Jake.

It took Jake a few seconds to understand. Two spear-guns. Two options. Retrieve the Rose, or be killed here and now, after which one of them would go and fetch it. Reluctantly he slipped out of his stab jacket and let the whole ensemble, stab and tank, drop to the floor, but he kept the regulator in his mouth. He felt naked. He checked his air gauge – thirty bar. At this depth, it would last a few minutes, tops.

Unbuckling the tank from the stab’s harness, he turned, relishing each breath, and faced the dark hole. It looked like a giant letter box. The only way in was to put the tank through first, then follow it. Without his stab jacket he’d sink easily, especially carrying the tank, and finning back up to the hole would be difficult. He pointed to the other tank lying on the floor, the half-full one. The SEALs both shook their heads.

So, that's how it was.

Clambering through the hole, tank first, Jake fell rather than swam down, the regulator mouthpiece tugging against his teeth. After five metres, during which he felt as if he’d just downed two pints, he hit the metal floor. The SEALs must be shining their torches downwards, as he could see everything lit up in stark twilight, small clouds of silt puffed up from the floor where he’d landed. A completely sealed room, no other way out, but there was a tall metal cupboard, mesh doors hanging off their hinges. He found the bag and could see the Rose inside, blinking innocently next to his pony bottle. He stood over the pony as he fished out the Rose, so they couldn’t see what he was doing, and moved the pony and regulator into the cupboard, along with the bag, then turned to face the two torch beams.

He kicked hard, causing a cloud of silt to mushroom up from the floor, kicked a few more times, then launched upwards, finning furiously to climb back up to the letter box, cradling the almost-empty tank in his left arm. He passed the Rose through to one of the SEALs, then held onto the lip of the hole, and heaved his tank through, sure it would give out at any moment.

Jake expected the worst. He wasn’t disappointed. They yanked the tank from him, tore the regulator from his mouth, and then he saw the tip of a spear-gun right in front of his facemask. He pushed sideways with his left arm against the opening, just as the SEAL fired. White-hot pain lanced through Jake’s shoulder. He spiralled down into the cloud of silt, banging his other shoulder against the bulkhead. Another spear phished past him, slashing his wetsuit, cutting his thigh, but that was minor, a flesh wound. The torch beams were scattered by the silt, two suns trying to break through cloud. Good, they couldn’t see. Come and get me.

He landed in darkness, knew they would be reloading. He clawed his way to the cupboard, groped desperately for the pony’s regulator, and found it. He gasped in air, but breathed out carefully, into the top of the cupboard, so the bubbles were trapped there. The torch lights continued to hunt him, but Jake knew the silt would take ten minutes to settle. Two more spears shot down, one clanging into the floor, the other striking the top of the cupboard. The beams waved some more, then it darkened. He heard a loud hiss from up above. They were emptying both his tanks.

Bastards.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, dared to touch the short metal shaft sticking out of his shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t in too deep – the spear’s momentum had been slowed by his neoprene wetsuit – but he had no intention of ripping his shoulder wide open trying to extract it.

It grew dark again, and he heard clangs as the SEALs departed, leaving him to die. He slumped down inside the cupboard, and breathed heavily from the pony. It wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. This was it. He’d been beaten. He’d finally join Sean. Not the way he’d intended.

The pain burned. He was losing blood. Where was nitrogen narcosis, or for that matter, oxygen poisoning, when he really needed it. He sucked in a few more breaths, knowing these were his last. He wondered what Sean would say. But he already knew what his son would say. Get the fuck up! That’s what he’d say. Nadia and the others are on the surface depending on you. You weren’t there when I most needed you, you’d better be there for them!

His eyes blurry, Jake staggered out of the cupboard. He released his weight-belt and lowered it to the floor. He found the bag he’d used to carry the Rose, and breathed out into it, then swam a few strokes upwards, carrying the pony, his teeth clamping down on the pain from his shoulder. When he got through the entrance, he found Sean’s knife and sheathed it. Each time he breathed out, he did so into the bag, creating a small balloon.

Drunk with pain, he made his way outside the ship, and stood for a moment on the deck. What are you waiting for? Sean said.

Jake kicked off, hanging from the homemade balloon that billowed as he ascended, and as the water pressure reduced, the bag began to lift him. He could almost feel the nitrogen flashing out of his bloodstream, forming small bubbles, searching for his joints, his heart, his brain. Just another way to die underwater. At thirty metres the pony resisted his in-breath. Sudden, though not unexpected. He was out of air. Forget about it. Every diving instructor knew the physics. From here on the air in his lungs would expand, and he wouldn’t need to breathe in, just breathe out, as if whistling, and by ten metres, he’d need to exhale in one long continuous scream. That would come easy. He let go of the pony bottle, withdrew Sean’s knife, tilted his head back, and began the long exhale.

Praise for 66 Metres:

"A great read that kept me turning the pages right from the start. Fellow divers will love the detail the author has put into this, as well as the story itself. Thoroughly recommended!"

'Deep diving meets suspenseful underwater action!"

"It’s clear the author knows his stuff about diving."

"Massive page-turner, read it in one long flight!"

"Couldn't put my kindle down!"

Why I dive...

Imagine another world, one without mobile phones, laptops, emails, conversation, work... Imagine you could fly in this land, silently sail over exotic landscapes, parachute in slow motion, immerse yourself in swarms of wild but perfectly choreographed creatures going about their business – eating and trying not to be eaten – where the hierarchy is clear, where you and the other fish are always on the lookout for sharks. Imagine a place you can only observe, where you are the alien, where you need a wetsuit and an air tank to survive, where you never quite take the next breath for granted.

Imagine swimming, seeing nothing but featureless blue atop rippled sand, and then a wreck looms out of the shadows towards you like the ghost that it is, ominous, rusted, sharp, dangerous, its entire body tattooed with vibrant coral, its dark, open holds hiding schools of fish, enticing you inside if you dare…

Scuba diving allows you entry into this world. Several million people now dive all over the planet, some only once or twice in their lifetimes, perhaps during exotic holidays. Others become passionate, addicted. It doesn’t take long to become a diver if you’re in reasonable medical health – a few days course abroad or at home will teach you the basics, enough for your ‘bapteme’, and then, if you go again, you can soon get your diver certificate and start heading to far-off locations, taking on more challenging dives – diving deeper, into caves, into wrecks, drift diving in strong currents, encountering bigger and more awesome fish such as whalesharks or hammerheads.    

Diving is a serious hobby – there are risks, from nitrogen narcosis to decompression sickness to running out of air – but with good training, proper equipment, a sensible attitude and some basic safety culture, it is safer than many sports. The rewards are endless – the underwater world is serene, magnificent,  with ever-changing coral vistas. And because it is serious, because there is no language underwater besides a few hand signals, divers bond with each other, often becoming good friends. Your life may one day depend on your buddy, so you watch each other, and watch out for each other.

Some of the most intense moments in my life, when I have felt most alive, have occurred underwater – from encountering a whaleshark in the blackness and then riding it on the surface and then back down into the depths (Watamu, Kenya), to exploring pristine WWII wrecks in the Pacific (Truk Lagoon), to watching a dozen sharks hunting a school of over a thousand jack (Palau), to being pinned between two schools of hammerheads at depth (Sipidan, Borneo), to seeing a swordfish hunt fish less than a metre away (Seychelles), to diving fjords at night in Norway, to coming face to face with a penguin underwater (Galapagos), to chasing reef sharks in the Coral Sea outside the Great Barrier Reef.

These are highlights out of 650 dives worldwide. But almost any dive is a good dive. Just being underwater transports me to another type of perception. After all, try to imagine a world where there are no mobile phones, no laptops, no emails… a world where you can truly fly.

@kirwanjf