The Considerate Killer by Agnete Friis, Lene Kaaberbøl

the edge and slowly lowered himself into the water. His long, lean biceps rippled under his dark, sun-chafed skin. He inhaled deeply a couple of times, rolled forward and dove under the surface with powerful strokes. Then he began to pull himself downward on the anchor line. Vincent could see him as a vertical line in the water, heading straight for the bottom, his white swim trunks bright in the gradually darkening blue.
    Vincent threw a quick look at Victor. His friend’s face was stone calm. His sunglasses were pushed up on his forehead, and he had his hand on the boat’s tiller.
    â€œDon’t look at me,” he said, spreading his arms. “You and he are the ones who do the stupid stuff. I just come along. And . . . he’s probably got it under control.”
    â€œYou’ll keep an eye on us, right?”
    â€œYes,” said Victor. “But there’s not much I can do if something goes wrong. Stay here. He’ll come up again when he needs air.”
    How long had it been? Thirty seconds, a minute?
    He could see Vadim swimming along the bottom. Calm, lazy movements of the flippers. He was so far down that he looked like a child.
    Vincent tipped himself over the boat’s railing, and the water closed around him with a fierceness that instinctively made him fight his way upward. Or try to. The lead belt was too heavy, and even though he worked with both arms and legs, he sank slowly but surely toward the bottom. He reminded himself that this was in fact the idea and turned so he could work with it rather than against it. Direction down. Stiff kicks. Sunlight from the real world above him formed luminous columns in the clear water.
    He could already feel that he needed to breathe. His initial hopeless struggle to reach the surface had used his oxygen. He thought about taking just one deep breath, and about the fact that he couldn’t. There was a pressure in his chest, and knowing he couldn’t take that one breath only made it worse.
    Think of something else. Find that fucking ring and reach the surface again.
    He observed with a certain relief that his long fall was over. The bottom was right beneath him now. He could stretch out his hands and touch the sand around the small, sharp anchor and the line that went up to the boat high above them.
    He turned over and caught sight of Vadim a little further away. He lay calmly, almost apathetically, above the sandy bottom and let his fingers run across it, making long, soft lines which were erased almost the second he drew them.
    Vincent rolled over on his stomach and began to do the same. Every time he moved there was the sound of thunder in his ears. A couple of sizeable fish floated lazily past him. Blue-finned jacks and scorpion fish with empty, staring, flat eyes and mouths that opened and closed with hypnotic slowness.
    How long could Vadim hold his breath? Two or three minutes, maybe more. He himself felt a massive pressure against his head and chest, but the initial panic had subsided.
    He let his fingers glide through the sand. Felt warm water and small, fine grains under his fingertips and then, he could hardly believe it, something smooth and round that glimmered dully and got away from him when he first tried to grab it. Could he be that lucky on his first dive?
    He let his hand run across the place again, but in his eagerness he stirred up a cloud of sand which swirled slowly in the warm water and for a moment made it impossible for him to orient himself. He felt . . . high. New fish glided by him, smaller this time, a school of golden, streamlined creatures that circled around him. The pressure in his chest grew and grew, but the sand was settling and had left the bottom a bit darker, so the bright ring could now be made out with the naked eye.
    He reached out his hand, carefully this time, and had just placed the ring solidly on his own thumb when his chest gave an involuntary and cramp-like jerk, an attempt to breathe and