Bruce’s lamp started to flicker and he cursed himself for not carrying spare batteries. Now he was trying to run against the current. Ahead he saw a tunnel to his right and instinctively followed it. Here the water subsided and he came to a dead end. A rusty iron ladder reached upward and he tested it for strength. It might just hold his weight. He was about to climb up when he heard a thunderous roar and stopped to listen. It was flood- water and coming his way. Seconds later he was engulfed in the torrent and gasping for breath. His helmet flew off and he searched desperately in the inky blackness for the ladder, his only hope!

Then he was climbing up and spitting out the filthy liquid. With the last of his strength ebbing away he pushed his shoulder up against the heavy manhole cover and it gave, letting in the light. He was in the middle of a quiet road. Two people rushed to his aid and hauled him out to lay on his back, drinking in the fresh air and rain. A policeman’s face peered down at him as he spoke: “Look it’s here, I’ve found the Ripper’s den, here’s his diary and scalpels.” He reached inside his shirt. The buttons had come undone and his shirt was empty.

End.