Henrik Hanssen had never watched porn, nor had he ever felt tempted to indulge in furtive perusing of grubby magazines. In fact, if he were honest, sex wasn't a priority for him. He wasn't all that interested.

Actually, that wasn't quite true, although his first real experience had ultimately resulted in disaster.

He and Maja were young, barely more than children really, doing what they assumed everyone else did. A bit of fumbling, some embarrassed giggles, a few moments of sweet delight and then ... that was it until she told him she was pregnant. From then on, he couldn't risk bringing another child into the world. Not with his genes, his mental instability, and the evil running through his family. Who in their right mind would give a child that kind of inheritance?

He shook the black thought away and went back to trying to figure out why he felt so drained and mentally exhausted. He didn't want to inflict his mood on the others so he took himself off for a walk. Isolation was his default setting, and it felt comfortable.

It was still the middle of the afternoon, blisteringly hot, but he walked out of the hotel up into the town, not really planning to go anywhere particular, but enjoying the sense of freedom that came with pleasing oneself. The air was humid, and bulky clouds were building up, promising desperately needed rain to clear the air. In the distance, thunder rumbled like an intermittent drum beat. It could have been his imagination though.

He tried to put a finger on what the problem was. It could have been the obscene luxury surrounding him when outside, people in rags were begging for a few dollars to feed their families. It could have been that he was missing his work, or it could have been the inescapable heat.

But he knew what the real reason was. Roxanna and John, embracing their new status as a threesome, easing into their roles with effortless grace whilst he floundered in their wake.

Roxanna was liberated, hungry, a woman not ashamed to take what she wanted. He couldn't equate that with the feminine, professional Roxanna, the caring, brilliant Roxanna. The Roxanna he had loved since they were at university. No, this was a woman he barely recognised, who could do ... THAT THING to John right in front of him, shamelessly, without hesitation.

And John, always a lord of misrule, a Priapic satyr luring him down a hot and dangerous path into a future unknown. With his sultry promises and sly touches, John was the wild card, a maelstrom of wicked thought and deed challenging Henrik's uptight attitudes and mocking him gently, making each harsh word a caress.

It seemed as if he and Roxanna were conspiring together, turning him into something he did not recognise, his mind dulled with sex, insatiable, making him forget why he had forsaken that side of himself for years. He had to be careful. They didn't know the damage he could cause by embracing his desires, letting people see the whole man, sensual and damaged, selfish, possessive, the man behind the mask...

A loud horn made him jump. A truck careered past him, splattering him with dust and stones.

As he brushed himself off, he tried to thrust unhelpful thoughts away and concentrate on his surroundings. The shops were mostly for the tourists, selling African art and experiences for thrill-seekers. He was rather glad John hadn't seen the Devil's Pool, where one could take a dip and look into the abyss of the Falls from close hand. It looked like just the sort of mad thing he would do, and exhort the others to join him.

The streets were unmade up, lumpy and red with dust. It was tatty and a little rundown, but spotlessly clean. He nodded to an upright figure in military uniform, who strode down the road as if he owned the place, which he probably did, and politely fended off several street-sellers trying to persuade him to buy old currency. In the end he bought several Zimbabwe dollars of varying amounts, mostly billion and trillion dollars, all with Mugabe's face on it. By the end of his trip he had a whole set, which gave him strange satisfaction. Probably because it would annoy John no end.

And to his delight he found a second-hand book shop in a side street. There wasn't a lot of choice, and most of the books had definitely seen better days. They were also eye-waveringly expensive, far beyond the means of local people. He remembered a conversation he had with Joshua on the boat. He had said books were too expensive to buy, and he hadn't been exaggerating.

Idly, he picked up a book of African folk tales. The book was beautifully illustrated, and he wondered if Oskar would enjoy such a thing. Probably he would, as he was becoming such a little bookworm, much to Henrik's delight. He kept it in his hand and continued browsing.

As he did so, another thought occurred to him. It was something Joshua had said, about teaching his children to read and write English. Coupled with the other information about books being beyond the means of a lot of hard-working people, it gave Henrik an idea.

He took his time choosing some more books, suitable for adults as well as children. The woman behind the counter watched him the whole time, scowling. She didn't return his smile as he went up to the counter to pay her.

"Who gives you these to sell?" He asked.

"Tourists. White people." It was said with a hint of disdain.

Undeterred, he gestured to the stock of books. "But surely only white people and tourists can afford all these books. Do local people buy from here?"

She shrugged. "I work here. Sell books. That's all."

"Do you sell many?"

She shrugged again. "No."

"How do Zimbabwe people afford books?"

'We don't."

"But you are fortunate. You're surrounded by books. You could read anything you wanted." He noted she didn't have a book in her hand.

"I can't read," she said stonily.

"That's a shame." He knew when to leave a subject alone. Instead he handed over the money, gave her another brief smile and left with his armful of books.

Back at the hotel room, Roxanna and John were nowhere to be seen. He guessed they were by the pool again, so he left them a note, added his two books to the pile and put them in a bag. At the last moment he remembered Oskar's book, tucking it in his suitcase before going back to the Reception area.

Outside, he saw the driver who had taken them to the river, polishing his mini-bus. He was a cousin of Joshua's, something else gleaned from his conversation with the river boat captain, and the name badge on his white shirt said his name was Blessing.

"I don't suppose you could take me to where Joshua is today?"

Blessing smiled widely. "Of course, sir. Twenty-five dollar to get to river and back. Okay?"

"And he'll be at the river, will he?"

"Indeed. He is preparing boat for tonight's trip." Blessing slid the door open for him. "Please."

As he drove, they talked about family, and about Blessing's life. He had no wife, and therefore no children. His job meant he did not have the opportunity to find a woman, but he was well-paid, so he was fortunate. He also had an interest in African history, and was knowledgeable about politics. They talked about Nelson Mandela and Mugabe, and Blessing's wish to move to South Africa when he had enough money saved to do so.

At length they arrived at the riverside. Joshua looked up when he saw Henrik treading carefully across the jetty.

"Mr. Hanssen, my friend! So good to see you again." They shook hands.

Henrik was impressed the man had remembered his name. Rather belatedly, he wondered if he was doing the right thing by giving the books, and hoped Joshua wouldn't be offended by the gesture. All his anxieties rushed to the surface, but it was too late to back away now. There was no one else around, so it was now or never.

"This is a brief visit, as I am leaving soon. I wanted to give you a gift for showing us such wonderful sights on the river, and making this trip unforgettable. I hope you don't mind, but this is something I thought you and your children might enjoy." Henrik gave him the bag.

"Mr. Hanssen, I..." Joshua looked shocked. He peered inside the bag and gasped. "Books!" He took each book out in turn and looked at them, delight on his face.

"They are pre-loved, I'm afraid. I couldn't find a shop selling new ones. I don't mean to insult you. They are a gift, to express my appreciation."

"These are wonderful, my friend. Thank you. My children and their cousins will cherish these."

"Perhaps not the Dostoevsky. That's more for you. It's rather dry, but it will provide you with a challenge, certainly. You may find Dickens somewhat lighter reading."

Joshua flipped through the pages of A Tale Of Two Cities. "'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,'" he read, pleasure obvious on his face. "I do not know what to say."

"There's an Oxford Dictionary in the bag as well, just in case you get stuck. It's rather battered, but ..."

"Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr. Hanssen."

Henrik stepped back before the man decided to hug him. His effusiveness was making him feel awkward. "Goodbye, Joshua. Stay well."

Joshua carefully put the books down and grasped Henrik's hands. "May God bless you and your companions, my friend. I hope you have a safe onward journey."

"Take care of yourself and your family. As we say in Sweden, see you on the ice."

As Henrik went back up to the car park, he felt almost euphoric. It was a small gesture, as much for himself as for Joshua and his children. Being surrounded by so much luxury when people were scratching a living just beyond the doorstep was one aspect of African travel he found hard to deal with. Sometimes tiny gestures were the beginning of something wonderful. The inspiration of a child as they grasp knowledge, perhaps becoming scientists or peacemakers or parents to their own inquisitive offspring, lighting that fire of possibilities. He didn't know and would never know. He was just the butterfly who flapped its wings, perhaps triggering a chain of events which further down the line, could make a real difference.

The journey back was filled with Blessing's questions about Sweden, and about how he managed to cope with such a lot of snow, then England, and what it was like working there. They could have talked for hours, yet all too soon they had arrived back at the hotel.

"A big storm is coming," Blessing said. "I hope God blesses us with rain."

Henrik paid him the money, plus another twenty-five dollars for Blessing himself. Then he reached under his seat for the book he had hidden there. He chose his words carefully, as he suspected Blessing was a different character to Joshua, and would resent anything that could be seen as charity.

"I don't know if this is of any interest? I've finished it and now the damned thing won't fit in my suitcase." He gave Blessing his copy of Long Walk To Freedom. The man's eyes lit up.

"Yes! I have long wanted to read this book."

"Do you have it at home?"

A short laugh. "Books are a luxury. I have very few, sadly."

"Well, if you could look after this for me, I'd be most grateful. I really don't have the room to take it home. I've bought too many carved animals."

Blessing gave a shout of laughter. "It is easy to do, my friend! Especially here." He clasped the book in both hands. "I shall take good care of this book."

"Well done. Good luck for the future, Blessing."

They shook hands and Henrik made his way back to the hotel room.

Roxanna had left him a note, saying she and John had gone back down to the Falls with a tour party. She hoped he wouldn't mind, but sensed he needed some time alone. She signed it with an R and a kiss.

Henrik didn't mind at all, but he had no desire to linger in the bedroom. The bed was rumpled from their earlier activities, and the room seemed a little stale. Instead he went to the Reception area to request a bed change, and from there made his way to the pool.

As he walked, it occurred to him with some irony he had probably undone all the good of his actions by asking for the bed to be remade. It just indicated how normalised the luxury had become for them all. He paused, feeling a long way from home, before taking a deep breath and continuing down the path. A mongoose family were playing around the trunk of of a huge tree, so he stopped to watch them for a moment, enchanted by the sight, before laughter spooked them and they ran into the undergrowth.

A group of guests were walking back up from the pool, talking loudly, and Henrik was glad they were going in the opposite direction to him. Because of the imminent storm, night was drawing in early. The path to the pool and the underwater lighting were already on, giving the water a sinister greenish glow. No rain as yet, but almost constant thunder, accompanied by an occasional lightning flash.

He went to the poolside and put his feet over the edge. The water was cooler than he remembered, but very pleasant against his overheated skin. A waiter approached him.

"Sir, it is not safe to swim. A storm is coming."

"I have no intention of swimming. I'm quite happy here."

The man seemed about to point out that Henrik's feet were in the water, but he obviously thought better of it. "May I get you a drink?"

Henrik thought for a moment. "Yes, please. A whisky. Single malt, the smokier the better."

"Of course, sir." The man went away.

Henrik slooshed his feet in the water, feeling the ripples lick up his legs.

Black and icy, freezing his bones.

Soft mud under his feet.

Velvet dark, and his mother's voice, calling him.

White dead hands, outstretched, luring him deeper.

The feeling of loss, of desperation, of panic, knowing he was responsible for a new life and with that knowledge, realising he would never be what the child deserved. Useless, cowardly Henrik, preferring to emulate his mother's death rather than face up to his responsibilities. Turning away from Maja, from Frederik, from ...

"Sir? I have your drink."

Reset to Normal.

His voice made Henrik flinch. The waiter looked concerned as he handed Henrik the tumbler. "Are you feeling well, sir?"

Well? No, he wasn't well. He had depression, and OCD, and anxiety issues, and an inability to communicate with others about his internal pain. Were should he start? With his Nazi grandfather, or his mother walking into a lake with the intention of never coming back up, or his attempted suicide, or his son killing innocent people because he wanted to get attention from his father?

"Thank you." Henrik took his whisky. "I'm quite well, thank you. Just tired. And I'd appreciate being left alone."

The man nodded and left him be.

Henrik sipped the whisky, feeling the fire warming all the way down to his stomach. Lightning flickered, followed soon after by deep rumbles of thunder. Still no rain. The water around Henrik's ankles seemed slightly warmer, and the deep green of the water was inviting.

Was it possible to teach oneself to swim? John was always offering to help him. He said it was a life skill, but there was no way Henrik would let him do that. Not at a municipal pool with the splashing and laughing of children, which sounded so much like screams of panic, or the genteel waters of a country club, where they probably had CCTV and would have a good laugh at the tall man struggling like a toddler in the shallow end.

And John wasn't the most patient of people. At one point he would no doubt get frustrated with him and say something hurtful in the spur of the moment.

No, this was something he had to do alone. He put down his whisky glass and took off his glasses, placing them next to it.

The pool suddenly looked double the size than it actually was. He reminded himself it wasn't deep. Not for him, anyway. If he could just walk along the length of it, surely that would be a start?

He checked he was entirely alone, before standing up and shucking off his trousers and shirt. The air was very warm as he stood in black boxer briefs, contemplating his next move.

Just get in the water, Henrik. Stop fucking around.

That was John's voice in his head, and Henrik knew he was right. He stepped down into the water, hyper-aware of the level rising first to his ankles, then knees, then thighs. When the water was up to his chest, he paused, clinging on to the pool side, before taking a tentative step forward. The tiles were smooth and a little slippery, something he had to keep in mind. Another few steps, and the water was brushing against his chin.

Surely it would become more shallow soon?

He looked back at the steps but they seemed so far away. He was in the middle of the pool, and he either had to go back or press on and try to swim.

He went back, but only so the water was up to his chest again. From there he could think more clearly. He remembered watching John, and how he pushed with both feet on the side of the pool to propel himself through the water. Forward motion, followed by kicking.

Right.

He took a deep breath, jumped, pushed and went forward, letting go of the pool.

Panic. floundering, splashing and coughing. He felt the water go up his nose and into his mouth. Desperately he tried to reach the side, his feet reaching for anything resembling a hard surface.

I'm drowning, and it feels highly unpleasant, was his thought as he fought to get to the side. He thought of Roxanna and John, devastated, travelling back to England with his body, and Oskar, clutching his wooden animals, tears running down his little face. When had he last updated his Will? He couldn't remember...

Solid ground.

He gripped the edge of the pool, gasping for air, coughing and spluttering. When he had calmed down, he stood up.

Two things became immediately apparent. The water was only up to his waist, and he was on the other side of the pool from where he had started.

He looked furtively around, expecting to see a crowd of astonished onlookers taking in the sight of a middle-aged man in his underpants, floundering around like an excitable Labrador, but he was still alone. He could actually have died in there.

But he hadn't, had he?

His whisky glass was on the other side of the pool, by his clothes. If he wanted a celebratory drink, he'd have to go back and get it.

Then he remembered something. A patient of his had been a triathlete, in for a shoulder repair. In one of their conversations, he had told Henrik he learned to swim underwater before he ever managed to learn conventional techniques. He said he wasn't afraid of drowning because he was already underwater. That was something Henrik thought sounded slightly ludicrous at the time, although he could hardly argue with a man competing at national level, and now it seemed to make sense.

He took a deep breath and went back under the water, keeping his eyes open. It was a strange sensation, not entirely pleasant, but not unbearable either. The lights underwater meant he could see where he would be headed.

He could do this.

He came back up and took air into his lungs, trying to calculate the distance to the other side of the pool. It wasn't far, not for a man of his height. A few kicks with his legs, and he would be there...

Another deep breath, and he sank back under, then pushed hard with his feet off the side of the pool.

Within a few seconds, he was crashing into the wall on the other side. He came up for air, saw his whisky tumbler right in front of him and punched the air, triumphant.

A sip of whisky, another breath, under the water, over to the other side.

Then back. A huge clap of thunder made him jump, but there was no way he was getting out of the water right then. Rain began to fall, heavy drops that splashed water back up into his face, but he didn't care.

This time, he was going to try for a length. He figured he could get to the deepest part of the pool, and if he ran out of breath, he would be able to reach the shallow end.

And he did. As the storm rolled all around him, he played in the water, challenging himself, gradually figuring out the coordination needed to keep himself afloat. His eyes were sore, his fingers wrinkled, but the sense of achievement was huge. Now he could take Oskar to a swimming pool, and they could actually play rather than him hovering nervously on the side, longing for his grandson to get bored so he could take him home! Now he could swim with John and Roxanna, feel their bodies against his in the water, join in with their ridiculous games...

He swam to the bottom of the pool, touched the floor, and came back up again, noting with some satisfaction he was in the deepest part. Another breath, and back down...

As he emerged again, close to the poolside, he was aware of two feet in flip-flops, standing over him. He looked up, blinking, his eyes blurry and sore from the water.

John was standing there, looking unimpressed.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Henrik squeezed the water from his nose and shrugged. "Swimming."

Before John could reply, he pushed himself away from the water and did a backwards dive down, before coming back up and paddling to the side again.

"In the middle of a thunderstorm? Do you have a death wish or something?"

Henrik gave him a lopsided smile. "Don't make me answer that."

"That isn't funny!" John yelled as Henrik sank back under the water.

He swam back towards the steps and arrived just as John got there. He must have run to reach the steps at the same time. Another flash of lightning, but the gap between the flash and the rumbles was widening. The storm was gradually moving away.

Henrik hovered with just his head above the water as John kicked off his flip-flops and sat down on the edge. He beckoned to Henrik to come closer.

"Are you Aquaman now?"

"That is a slight exaggeration." Henrik pushed John's knees apart and stood between them, gazing up at him.

John brushed droplets of water from his face. "You want to talk about it?"

"No. Is Roxanna all right?"

"Rox is fine. I left her at the cocktail bar. What about you? Are you having second thoughts again?"

"About the three of us? No. It's just me, battling my demons as usual."

"You don't have to do it alone. We're here for you. You know that, right?" John placed his fingers under Henrik's chin and tilted his face so they could look into each others' eyes. "You're not alone," he repeated.

"I'm getting used to that," Henrik replied. "It will take some time."

"I know. I would join you in the pool but dinner is in half an hour."

"I'll get out then."

"First swim up to the other end and back. I want to lust after you just a little longer."

Henrik laughed briefly. "If you insist."

He slipped under the water and torpedoed through it, there and back, before emerging from the water, smoothing his hair back, black boxers clinging to his body. John obviously appreciated the sight, from the evidence in his swimming trunks, but he handed Henrik a towel and his clothes.

"You're in so much trouble as soon as I get the opportunity," he muttered.

"I'm counting on it." Henrik toasted him with his whisky tumbler.