Free Crusher by Niall Leonard Page A

screaming at the top of her voice. She was looking at the pool, where the water wassplashing and slopping, stirred up by a boy of maybe six as he threshed about just below the surface. He was drowning in the deep end.
    I threw the daft handful of rose stems aside and ran to the door, pulling off my hoodie, then started to undo my belt. The kid’s struggles were getting weaker—how long had he been in there? I hurled myself in, jeans, trainers and all. My denim jeans immediately become waterlogged, and felt a hundred times heavier. My trainers seemed to be streamlining my feet, so no matter how hard I kicked with my legs I still sank. I wished I’d stopped to take a breath before I jumped, but it was too late now. I gave up trying to surface, straightened out and swam underwater straight for the kid, who was now slowly descending, mouthing like a fish, his blond hair hanging round his pale, scared face like a halo. I struggled towards him, felt his arm brush mine, clutched it and dragged him towards me. His body was limp, more dead weight. Not dead, not dead, I thought, please not dead. Hugging him to my chest, I aimed for the surface, kicked and kicked. My head burst clear, and I gulped down air. The kid was limp and heavy in my right arm, and my left arm swung out behind my head, trying feebly to swim half a backstroke and simultaneously feel for the end of the pool. My lungs were burning and my stroke growing weaker when my fingers brushedthe end wall. I scrabbled for a handhold, scratching uselessly against the smooth, warm tiles, and I almost dislocated my arm stretching out and backwards before I grasped the hard rim of the tiles at the pool’s lip. With the last of my strength I folded my body towards it, my right arm still hugging the kid. The girl had stopped screaming—now she just sobbed and gasped.
    “It’s OK—it’s OK!” I panted. “He’ll be all right. Go get help.” She stared at me, and swallowed. “Go get
help
!” I barked. She turned and ran off, her little feet slapping the wet tiles. I looked around, and realized I was only three metres from a ladder. Kicking my leaden legs and hopping one hand along the edge, I managed to drag the two of us towards it. It was easy to throw the kid over my shoulder; he was as floppy and as light as a wet tea towel. I climbed up the ladder and as soon as his feet were clear of the rungs I lowered him onto the tiles, then scrambled up after him, my jeans flabbily hugging my legs.
    He’d been threshing about a minute ago—with any luck I’d still have time. As I leaned over him I tried to remember everything,
anything
Delroy had taught us about first aid, and I cursed myself and the other kids in the gym for how we’d messed about, pretending to grope the practice dummy and not really listening. A few things came back to me—head back, check the airway isclear, for a child cover both the mouth and nose. I tasted a hint of snot as I put my open mouth over the lower half of his face, but to hell with hygiene, I thought, and blew, and paused, and blew. Heart massage—what was it? One hand for a kid, fifteen pushes to the sternum—
    Now I could hear shouts and shrieks and arguing and blame approaching from the other side of the glass doors, but kept going. Three breaths to the mouth and nose, heel of the hand to the sternum—one, two—
    The kid coughed, winced, rolled onto his left side and puked. And coughed some more, great racking wheezes, hacking water out of his lungs. I fell back, my legs folded beneath me, utterly exhausted, and realized I had an audience. The little girl, clutching the hand of a blonde in her late twenties with tumbling hair, an amazing figure and too much make-up; a younger, pinch-faced girl of about twenty with black hair scraped back in a ponytail, looking terrified, shocked and clueless; behind the two of them, a scarred gorilla in a suit, impassive and silent. And walking round to stand in front of all of them a slim, fit,