Sorry to leave you all in suspense! Here we go...

BTW Humphrey's story is based on something that happened to me. Same location and same scenario, but I was a bit older than him and I didn't break anything - just rather bruised and embarrassed by the whole thing!

Usual disclaimers, not mine, no money.

Chapter 10

Humphrey looked around the empty boathouse rather helplessly. A few rotting wooden crates and that was all. There was nothing that looked even remotely useful in their current, rather desperate, situation.

Camille moved slightly nearer to him, her attention on the sea water that was spreading across the floor. It looked innocuous at the moment, but…

"How long does it take for the tide to come in, anyway?" he asked.

"God, Humphrey, I don't know! I have never paid much attention, really."

"Well, I just thought - ."

"What? That if you're born on a Caribbean island, you must know everything there is to know about the sea?" She didn't take her eyes off the water. "I hate to break it to you, Humphrey, but not everyone who lives on an island is that interested in boats or swimming!"

"But you can swim?"

"Yes, of course, but I don't care for it much. And the thought of having to tread water for several hours in rough cold water…"

He looked up at the hook. "We'll have to try to hang on to that."

"We can't! It's too high…"

"Well, then, what about -," he looked at the wooden crates again. "Could we break those up and stick them into the wooden slats so we had something to hang on to?"

She looked at them a little doubtfully. "I suppose it's worth a try."

They hurried over to the crates, picked them up and began to pull them apart, trying to select the sections that looked strongest.

"Where…?" Humphrey looked at the walls, irresolute.

"One of the side walls," Camille suggested. "Not too near the door – if someone opened it suddenly, we'd probably get swept out on the tide. It's the same with the back wall – there might be a big wave that crashed straight through the hut."

"OK – no, wait a minute! What if we use a longer bit to stick across the corner at a right angle? We might create a little seat or step that one of us could get on."

She looked down at the rotting wood. "I really don't think this stuff would hold our weight for any length of time, though."

He limped across to a corner near the door with a couple of likely-looking pieces and held them up, assessing. He feared that she was probably right. Besides, it meant they were further from the hooks on the wall, and he had some ideas about how one of them might be useful. He moved to the wall beneath one of the hooks and started jamming planks in between the slats in the wall, at different heights. He stood on tiptoe to try to get them in at about shoulder height while Camille passed them to him.

The problem was that the gap between slats was not that big, and the pieces of wood, already rather weak, simply kept snapping as soon as he tried to push them with any force. He managed to jam in a couple of jagged pieces at a slight angle that might just hold Camille's weight if it came to it, but were highly unlikely to hold his.

He stopped, panting from the effort. "It's no good. I don't think it's going to work."

"I think you're right," she said, in a tight, little voice.

He looked at her for a moment and then grabbed one of the abandoned planks and started hitting the wall wildly. His leg forgotten, he swung hard at it several times, applying the full force of his weight behind the blows.

After a few minutes of this, she grabbed his arm. "Stop it! You're not making any difference and you'll just tire yourself out."

"We need to make some noise!"

"Who do you think will hear you – with that going on out there?" She gestured at the door and he listened to the sound of crashing waves. She shivered violently. "Even if someone did come down to this cove…which isn't likely."

The water was now lapping over their feet. It was cold and Humphrey also shivered. It seemed odd to feel chilled after so many months of sweltering weather.

"I suppose -," he speculated, looking up at the hook. "-I could tear up my t-shirt and try to make a rope with it. We could loop it over that hook."

She looked a little dubiously at his worn t-shirt; it was several years' old and the fabric was thin in places. "Would it hold us?"

"Possibly you."

She looked up at the hook, considering. "I suppose you could try. You might get cold, though."

"I'm cold now. To be honest, removing a layer is not going to make much difference." He didn't like to add that, once they were floating in deep cold water, a single layer of cotton was unlikely to prevent hypothermia setting in.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and went to work on it, tearing it into as many strips as he could and tying the sections together. It was, of course, not possible to reach the hook yet, but he coiled it around his wrist so that it was ready for him to loop over if it came to it. He thought it unlikely that it would hold their weight for as long as it would need to, but it might be a way of staying together and keeping their heads above water for a while. He just prayed that someone would find them in time. He wouldn't even mind if it were the smugglers with a change of heart – being drugged again was preferable to drowning in a blasted hut.

She gave him a shaky smile. "That looked like one of your favourite t-shirts. You are going to be so annoyed if Fidel and Dwayne turn up to rescue us now."

He grinned. "I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I'd quite like to be bloody annoyed…" He looked up at the ceiling and shouted, "You hear that, Fidel, Dwayne? If you want an instant promotion and pay rise, now's the time to show up!"

"Well," she shrugged. "I'd offer you mine to add to the strength, but…"

"That's quite alright," he said, quickly. "If mine won't hold us, I doubt yours would make much difference."

She leaned against the wall, looking at the water coming in under the door with each wave. It was swirling around their ankles.

"When I was a kid," he said, leaning next to her. "We went camping once in Cornwall, a little village on the west coast called Polzeath. It's very popular with surfers. And there's a smallish bay, where the tide goes way out. You can walk out over the sand for… well, not exactly miles, but a long way. And I was fascinated by the rock pools below the cliffs that hug either side of the bay. Anyway, I was there one day by myself and the tide started to come in. The thing was, I hadn't noticed. And then, suddenly, I looked down and there was water over my ankles – just like this. So I looked around and there was water everywhere. I was standing on a raised platform of rocks and when I tried stepping off to paddle back to the beach, the water was deep. It was above my waist. And I wasn't the best swimmer in the world so… I was completely stuck. I was seven years old at the time."

"Where were your parents?"

"Mum was sunbathing at the campsite – she never ventured out much when we went on holiday. Dad had taken my brothers to Newquay to watch a surfing competition. I didn't mind – I preferred to be by myself. And I could usually get myself out of trouble just as fast as I got myself into it."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating the water. "What did you do?"

"There were some older boys up on the cliff top. They were waving and yelling at me, trying to show me where to climb the cliff. I…well, you know me." He smiled, ruefully. "I was as accident-prone then as I am now. I just knew I was going to slip and fall. All I could think of was what my mum would say… I didn't do too badly, all things considered," he added, contemplatively. "I got most of the way up, and then I did fall, a few feet onto rocks. Fractured my wrist in the process. They had to get the lifeboat dinghy out to pluck me off the rocks. And we had to cut the holiday short. Mum was furious."

She looked up at him in surprise. "But – but wasn't she worried?"

He laughed. "Oh yes, she was, underneath it all. It was just her way. She hated showing emotion." He shook his head. "God, I've made her sound horrible and she really wasn't. Just terribly English. But I remember she made me my favourite cakes when I was laid up with my wrist. Chocolate cake and caramel squares…and home-made lemonade," he went on, remembering. "It was a hot year – for England, that is – too hot to be outside with your arm in plaster. So, I sat in the lounge with the curtains closed and a nice cold glass of lemonade, and watched cartoons while Mum knitted. It was…surprisingly nice."

The water was around their calves now. He nudged her.

"Go on. I've given you a nostalgic childhood tale, and now it's your turn."

She grimaced. "I'm not sure I'd call it nostalgic. Nearly drowning and breaking your wrist."

"Well…it was, in a way, because I felt closer to my mum that summer than I ever had before, or since, if I'm honest. But also, I survived." He looked at her profile as she contemplated the water around her legs. "I tend to make a habit of surviving against the odds. So do you. You're trained to survive."

She gave a dry laugh. "I'm not sure I've ever been in this type of situation before. I'm better when there's something I can actually do. I'm not so good at just…waiting."

He reached over and grabbed her hand. She didn't look up at him, but squeezed his fingers tightly.

"So come on," he prompted her. "Tell me some heart-warming tale about the young Camille. How did your mother spoil you when you were ill or feeling fed up?"

"Not with home-made lemonade or chocolate cake," she said, sounding amused. "Although, I used to love this one pudding - I think she had the recipe from her mother. Sweet potato pudding cake." Her voice sounded dreamy. "With a spoonful of coconut cream… I loved it. Of course, that was before I appreciated just how many calories there were in a portion… She was busy with the bar most of the time, but she'd close it on public holidays and then we'd sit on the sofa and eat and drink far too much and watch old films. It was…" she hesitated and then smiled reminiscently. "It was nice – just the two of us for once."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "You know, I haven't craved anything much since I came here…but right now, I would mind some of Mum's lemonade."

She laughed. "You're not like Richard in that regard. He was always obsessed with finding the perfect cup of tea. I don't think he ever did, however hard he tried. Although there was that hotel that time…"

Her voice trailed away, her face darkening.

"Tell me," he prompted her. "Tell me…" Tell me why you love him so much. "Tell me about the tea."

She stirred. "Oh, well even my mother couldn't make the perfect cup for him. But Richard finally found a pot of tea that suited him at one of the big hotels…and then he had to leave it to go to a crime scene!" She laughed at the memory. "But – you know he went back to London once?"

"Yes. I was at the Met then, but away on a case. I was sorry to miss him."

"Well, he brought half a case full of tea back with him. I've never seen so many little boxes - of teabags and loose leaf tea, all different varieties."

She shifted and gripped his hand more tightly. The water was rising above her knees and pushing at her a little.

"The thing is, until then, I just assumed that Richard was a typical Englishman, wanting a cup of tea over any other drink and just being fussy because it didn't taste the same as at home. But it wasn't just that. He was a connoisseur of tea itself, and he liked all varieties. Ordinary black leaf tea, but also Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Darjeeling, Assam, varieties of green tea… Not long after he returned, there was a big storm forecast and I was worried about him there in the beach house by himself, so I went to see if he was alright. He was fine, but then the storm came in and it was too dangerous for me to leave. There was no electricity, and the wind was howling around the house and it was dark. But Richard had a little camping stove to boil a kettle on…and we sat there in the storm and tried all the different teas. He was explaining to me where they came from and what ingredients went into them and what the optimum weather conditions were…." She shook her head, a little smile on her lips. "He really did know all those things… And the best of it was that when he was talking to me, his face was so – so animated! You know? He never seemed very happy or enthusiastic most of the time, but when he was talking to you about something he knew, he just lit up inside. I should have been bored, but..."

"I think I can understand," he ventured, cautiously. "I used to read his files back at the Met. He sounded like an interesting man."

"That's what I don't understand," she burst out, vehemently. "I shouldn't have – I don't know why he mattered so much to me! When I first met him, he – he drove me mad! He was so exacting, so fussy about the rules and regulations… I didn't think he would last five minutes. And if you'd asked me back then, I would have been happy for him to go. I resented him. I thought he was grumpy, unfriendly, and rude about Sainte-Marie. And his stupid suits! Always so hot, but he would never unbend enough to even take off his tie. And he hated the beach. I don't think he would ever have been reconciled with life on Sainte-Marie. So why did I have to fall for him of all people?"

"We can't choose who we fall for," he said, gently. "You must have seen beneath his mask. I think he was probably a very caring person, really. He just wasn't very good at showing it."

"I didn't even realise." Her voice was very quiet; he could hardly hear it over the waves. "Not until… until it was too late. I mean, I liked his company in an odd way and I knew I cared about him as a friend at least. And he was – I found him attractive. When he left for London, I was sure he wouldn't come back, and then when he did, I was so happy and I didn't even understand why…"

He grasped her hand tightly, but didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she said, after a few minutes. "Here I am going on about my own troubles… You see, I don't actually know that we are going to get through this, Humphrey. It feels like we're in a tomb… And please don't say that we will; I know that you're trying to cheer me up, but you know as well as I do that this is not a good situation. I just wish I'd told Fidel where we were. And I'm worried about Maman – what will she do when she finds out? And – and I regret so much. I wish I'd told her this morning that I love her. And I wish I'd told Richard how I felt before it was too late. But you must have regrets also - and you're so far away from your family here…"

Her voice died away. It was now too dark to see her face and he couldn't tell whether or not she was crying silently. Not sure what to say, he let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders.

He felt bone-weary; the adrenaline of danger had long since deserted him, and his leg ached terribly. He thought briefly of his mother; of that all-too-brief summer when he had been at the centre of her attention and affection instead of just being the youngest and least promising of her three sons. He thought of his dad, who had always been a distant and disapproving parent. And he thought of Sally. Remembering something, his spare hand went to his shorts pocket. Against all the odds, her letter was still there.

His heart sank as he remembered that he had been planning to write to her. He'd wanted to set things straight between them. He knew it had been hard for her to write that letter. Now, she might never receive a reply, might never know that he still cared about her and wished her happiness despite what had happened between them.

And then there was Camille… She wished she'd told Richard that she loved him. Humphrey ached to make the same confession to her…and yet, how could he? Wouldn't it be selfish to burden her with such knowledge? And, if they did survive, how could he work with her again?

The point was, both she and Richard had sensed a mutual attraction. In her heart, she knew, as had Richard before he'd died, that if either of them had made a declaration, it wouldn't have been rejected. Compared to that assurance, his own feelings for Camille seemed facile. The romantic feelings were all on his side, he felt sure of that. She felt nothing for him but simple friendship. Sure, it would certainly give her something to focus on apart from their dire situation, but to what end? It would only cause more distress for her.

"Yes," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I would have regrets if I didn't survive…which is precisely why I'm determined to survive." He tightened his hold on her. "We will get through this, Camille. We have to. We've both got people who need us to get through it."

He could feel the current pushing and pulling at his legs as the waves swept in and out of the boathouse. He reached behind him with one hand and grabbed hold of one of the pieces of wood he had shoved into the wall. The other hand he slipped down around Camille's waist, gripping the waistband of her shorts as tightly as possible. "We need to try to stay together for as long as we can. I would tie us together with this t-shirt, but I'm worried that I'll pull you down if I can't float anymore. When the level gets higher, I'll try to loop the middle over that hook and then we can each hang on to one end.

"Try floating on your back as much as possible," she advised. "We'll need to avoid too much treading water if we're going to save our energy. Just kick around enough to stop your hands and feet from getting numb."

The water was at mid-thigh by now. She was flung against him by a particularly strong swell, but braced herself more strongly against the wall. Like him, she grabbed the wood with one hand and put her other around his waist.

"Funny really," she said, raising her voice to be heard. "It seemed like such a good idea this morning. A nice day out on the bike, lunch in some café, a view of the sunset off the west coast…"

He smiled in the darkness. "It was a good idea. We had fun at first, didn't we?"

She didn't say anything, but her fingers squeezed his waist.

"You know," he commented after a period of silence. "If it helps at all, I'm pretty sure that Richard knew how you felt."

She was silent for a moment. "It does help. And you're right, I think he did, or he suspected. His diary suggests that he did. How ironic if he knew me better than I knew myself."

"Enough to consider breaking his rule about fraternization," he pointed out. "I was wondering… it must be hard for you to come into work every day when he's no longer there. Especially with me sitting at his desk. If you wanted a transfer for a while, I wouldn't blame you."

"What?" Her face whipped around to look at him. "And leave you in charge at Honore? I wouldn't think of it. Goodness knows what you boys would get up to without me there to keep you in order."

He grinned, trying to ignore the coldness of the water that was now lapping at his hips. The level was already above her waist. "True. Well, if you don't mind… It's not that I want you to leave."

She laughed, a little hysterically. "What a strange conversation to be having at this moment!"

"What do you suggest? A sing-a-long? I'm sure I can think up some of the songs we used to do in Scouts."

She was still laughing. "I'm sure you could! Maybe that should be a last resort."

"Yes, if the casual conversation dries up. Camille, are you OK? You need to stop laughing now and try to breathe."

She made an effort to stop, choking a little. "Sorry. That's not clever. Hysterics won't help now. Humphrey?"

"Mmm?" The water was pushing hard at him now, threatening to knock him off his feet. His fingers slipped on the sodden wood as he pushed himself harder against the wall and linked his fingers through her shorts belt to hang on.

"I just want you to know, that if I have to drown in a boathouse…I couldn't think of a better person to be with."

"Er, thanks...I think."

"No, I mean it." She gave him a sober look. "I'm going to try very hard not to drown, you understand, but…you're a good person. And a good friend. I…wasn't very nice to you when you arrived."

"Understandable. You were in a bad way at the time."

"No, but…" She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking hard. "I guess I wasn't all that nice to Richard either. He really did hate it here. And I wasn't very tolerant." She smiled at him. "Do you think I would have liked London better?"

He smiled back, trying to conceal the cold ache in his heart. "Would you have moved to London, for him?"

She contemplated that. "Yes. I think so. I would have given it a try…for his sake. I'm not sure the Metropolitan would have liked my methods, though!"

He laughed. "Possibly not, but you'd have certainly brightened the place up!"

"Humphrey…not sure I can hold on…"

A large wave swept through the hut. Camille slipped and grabbed at Humphrey's shoulders to try to keep her balance. He felt the splintered edges of the wood lacerate his fingers as he hung on, grimly.

"This is crazy! We'll be dashed against the walls and probably knocked before we're even out of our depth!" she gasped.

He looked up at the hook, barely making it out in the dark. If only it was a bit lower and he could reach it with his makeshift rope…

"Wait -," she grabbed his arm tightly. "Listen…did you hear something? A voice…?"

For a moment he feared she was starting to imagine things, but he listened obediently. Suddenly the sound came again, a bit nearer.

"…boss? ... there?"

"Oh, thank God, thank God," he breathed and turned around, banging loudly on the wall. "Dwayne! It's us – we're in the boathouse! We're here!"

Camille let go of him, grabbed a bit of floating wood and banged as hard as she could, shouting between bangs. "Dwayne! Fidel! Help us!"

"Boss! Camille!" There was the flash of a torch in their direction – its beam was strong enough to come through the slats. "They're here…"

They could hear some voices conferring and then the splashing of someone wading through the water.

"Boss?" Dwayne was right outside now. "We're getting you out of there. We've got axes and will knock down the back wall. The coastguard is here, but they think it'll be too difficult to open the door with the water there. Just hold tight and try to get near the back wall if you can – but not too near in case it collapses."

"OK, got it. Thanks, Dwayne."

He looked at Camille, grabbed her hand and breathed a quick prayer of thankfulness as they fought their way towards the back wall.