Only the complete terror in my shrieking compels the boss to grind to a halt, our front wheels searching for purchase beyond the grass. A suspicious fringe of green grass verging the bare mucky field, disguising a drop of about twenty metres to the river and fields below.
“Fecking river!” he shouts, leaping out of the car and pointing an accusing finger at the watercourse. “You fecking river!” he rails, furious at this cruel trick of fate. The river does not reply.
It hasn’t occurred to the boss that we were inches from death. Only this obstacle in his path consumes his thoughts. Filled with creative rage, he swoops back into the car and rummages in the back seat. The helmet and various priceless manuscripts are unceremoniously ejected. He re-emerges with a length of rope and a crossbow. I’m too stunned to comment. I mean, really – a crossbow?! Methodically, as if this is an everyday occurrence, he knots one end of the rope about the bolt and the other to the chassis then throws me the coil of rope. Calmly raising the crossbow to eye level, as if he has just now sighted some mythological creature – a spotted unicorn, a three-legged centaur, I don’t know – he licks his forefinger and pulls the trigger. The bolt flies straight and true, with the rope whipping out. At the last moment, some part of my subconscious causes me to drop the coil to the ground, so that rather than taking the flesh of my palms halfway across the water with it, the coil of rope instead slashes harmlessly across itself and empties, pulling on the chassis just a fraction as the bolt plunges deep into the soil on the field across the river. The boss gives a satisfied nod of approval, then drops the crossbow to the ground and turns to me.
“Tenders first,” he barks.