I haven’t come this far to fail now. A steely calm steadies me, and with burning arm muscles, I drag the hem of his jeans in a wide arc, sending him to the shallow end.
Here, I can stand, so with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip I heave him up.
He flips over, and my legs almost give out in relief.
But then, a new panic hits me. Is he breathing?
‘Mark!’ I shove him, trying to get a response, but he’s lying here lifeless. I feel like I’m standing outside myself, watching as I wade through the water, pulling him with me. It’s at my waist now, and every laboured step takes me closer to getting him out.
But there are five broad steps to climb up, and he’s less buoyant in the shallow water, and I’m not sure I have the strength to lift him. He must be close to a hundred kilos in his wet clothes. I want to cry with frustration.
I keep calling his name, praying he might somehow come to, but he’s like a dead weight.
I stand behind him, dig my hands into his armpits and heave. I get up the first step, and the second, but then my hands slip from his wet skin, and I land heavily on the tiled surface. The impact makes my jaw snap.
He falls between my knees, but his head stays above the water, thank God, resting against my chest.
I could try to pull him out by his arms, but I need to keep his head supported. I am already terrified that he’s got some sort of neck injury that I’m making worse, but I’ve got no choice.
I don’t know where I find the strength but I finally drag him up the steps. Should I put him on his side in the recovery position, or should I be doing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth?
Panic rises like bile in my throat.
I’ve been so fixated on getting him out, it’s only now that I realise I don’t know what the fuck to do.
‘Help!’ I scream, praying it’s enough to wake the others.
I stare at his chest, but it’s not moving. Before I can second-guess myself, I pull his chin to open his mouth, pinch his nose and lean down to breathe air into his lungs.
His lips are cold, but they’re still pink. I try again and again, and in between, I shout for help so loudly that I crack my voice.
There’s still blood oozing from his left temple. And when I look down, my T-shirt is stained red, too.
After what feels like an eternity, Yan arrives holding his mobile. His eyes are wild. ‘Nella – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Call an ambulance.’
He immediately starts punching numbers.
Theo is next on the scene. He kneels down next to me.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘He was face down in the water. He must have hit his head, and he’s been drinking.’
‘You keep doing that, and I’ll start chest compressions.’
‘Ambulance is on the way,’ says Yan.
‘Good,’ says Theo. He takes off his T-shirt and gives it to Yan. ‘Hold this against his head where he’s bleeding.’
With three of us crouched down around him, there’s less room for me to keep pressing my mouth to Mark’s. But I twist sideways and breathe into him once more. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and I gasp in relief. He’s alive.
A second later he’s spluttering and heaving for air. I turn away, too distressed to see him fighting for breath.
‘Easy does it, mate,’ says Theo. ‘Small breaths.’
He asks Yan for his phone and shines a light in both of Mark’s eyes. He seems satisfied with what he sees.
