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The Thames is the cleanest industrial river in the world. They don’t dump sewage into it anymore, but even the best maintained boat lets out a tiny amount of fuel or oil.
And I’m pretty sure most of that oil wound up in my sinuses.
By the time I drag myself to the quay, my side is shrieking in agony and I’m frozen bitter. How can I ache everywhere if I’m so goddamn cold? I don’t know how far the current has carried me. I don’t know if I’m even in London proper. I’m not even sure why I’m bothering.
But eventually my hand touches sea-slick concrete. I find enough strength to stay near the wall, letting the current carry me forward, until my chilled fingers hit something I can grab.
A pole.
No, not a pole.
The side of a ladder.
Hauling myself out of the Thames demands more energy t
