It wasn’t what he had expected. For one, he thought it would be darker. And colder.
The silt oozed between his toes, and weeds caught in his hair and ribs. Sometimes a fish (eyes huge, glowing) would gnaw at him, so he carried an old rusted hook.
There were others, too, shuffling in the murk. Most kept to themselves, but a few were social. Red Pete could talk an age.
“How’re ye findin’ the locker, Tommyboy?” said Pete.
Tom shrugged. “Could be worse.”
“Aye.” Pete hawked and spat, watched it float over his head. “You should hear poor Jack’s story.”