The Thames

Death is calling us, W. says, he can hear it. The waters are calling us home. Will I jump first? Will he? Will we hold hands and jump together?

But the river wouldn't want us, W.'s sure of that. We'd be pulled up from the waters, our stomachs pumped of the polluted water. They'd slap us round the face. Wake up! Wake up! And his eyes would open and see me. And he'd retch up the black river water from the bottom of his lungs.