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'And now I, the remarkable Harry Clay, will plunge into the cold waters of the River Thames, subjecting myself to the strong currents that will try to drag me down while I attempt to free myself from these layers of bondage. Due to many years of training I am able to hold my breath for two and a half minutes. That is how long I have to escape. Two and a half minutes. Those of you with pocket watches, I ask that you keep time. If after two and a half minutes I have not surfaced, then you may fear the worst and you can tell everyone that you witnessed the death of Harry Clay.' He paused for dramatic effect. 'Hopefully not though, eh?'

The crowd laughed uneasily. They had turned up to be astounded, not to witness an overly complicated suicide.

'Begin timing . . . NOW.' Clay leapt backwards and landed with a tremendous splash in the water.

'Oh well,' said Tom. 'One less letter to deliver. He'll never get out of all that.'

'Wait,' said Esther.

Everyone watched the surface of the water anxiously. The crowd gasped when bubbles surfaced and a voice cried, 'One minute.'

'He'll never do it,' said another.

'It's impossible,' said a third.

Esther felt as though she could taste the crowd's fear and excitement.

'Two minutes,' yelled an eager timekeeper.

'Look!' shouted a woman.

The bag that had been around Clay's head surfaced and floated away, carried by the current.

'He must have drowned,' cried a panicked voice.

'Or been poisoned, jumping into that filthy old river,' said another.

'Someone do something,' yelled a woman.

'Two and half minutes.'

'He's a gonner,' said Tom.

'No, look,' said Esther.

This time it was the rope that appeared.

'Three minutes,' yelled a voice.

'Over there, Tom,' said Esther. With every eye watching the spot where he had gone under, no one in the crowd noticed a dripping figure climb up a set of steps on the other side of the jetty.