Stories:

• Meera Syal’s story
• Rik Mayall’s story
• Sir Ranulph Fiennes’s story

Written by Anthony Horowitz

Me and my Goldfish saw it at the same moment. A great white shark, cruising through the water in that lazy, careless way you only get with a born killer. What was a great white doing in the Red Sea anyway? I tried to persuade myself that it wasn’t looking for us. Maybe it had just got lost. But somehow I doubted it.

“What now?” I asked.
“We run for it?” Goldfish suggested.
“How can you run for it with no legs?” I replied.

I suppose things could have been worse. But not much worse. We were thirty metres under the surface, surrounded by the most vicious selection of sea creatures that had ever gathered in one place since the audition for Jaws. And - oh yes - I was running out of air. I mentioned this to Goldfish.

“At least that’s one problem I don’t have,” he said smugly.

Nice.

I still didn’t know how this had happened to me. How had a two-week holiday in Sharm-el-Sheikh turned into this subaquatic nightmare? I’d been looking forward to some sunshine. A little diving. Char-grilled lamb cooked on a terrace overlooking the promenade. A chilled glass of Al Ahram beer with my best friend in the hotel bar.

It had been a tough winter in London, the snow hurrying in like a starving dog chasing a bone. Suddenly the streets were white and the sky was black and everything in between was an unforgiving grey. Business was dead. So were most of my clients. I was a private detective in the middle of the worst gang war since “Knuckles” Calhoun forgot to invite Al Capone to his birthday party. Did I need a holiday? I wasn’t sure – but in the end I decided to go. Just me, my trusty Hassleblad SWC/M and my Goldfish.

I like the Red Sea even though it isn’t red and, for that matter it isn’t actually a sea. Strictly speaking, it’s an inlet. But who really cares when you’re lying on your back with the sun in your eyes and the waves kissing your feet? Five hours from London – six if you count the queue at passport control – and suddenly everything is different. You’re in a taxi, crossing the desert, and there’s no congestion charge. And once you hit the sea, you know you’ve arrived. Actually, if you hit the sea, you’ve probably gone too far.

I was there for all of three days before I got into trouble. Advice to myself.

Don’t pick an argument with a scorpion fish. And if you do pick an argument with a scorpion fish, make sure at least one of you is on dry land.

So here I was, hiding behind a gorgonian fan coral. In the last few minutes, things had gone from bad to worse. It turned out the scorpion fish had friends. You ever seen a moray eel in a bad mood? It’s not a pretty sight. Even a moray in a good mood is nothing to write home about. It struck me that even the plants looked hostile – which made me think. With friends like these, who needs anemones?

I glimpsed a movement near the surface and for a moment I thought it might be a kindly dolphin coming to our rescue or perhaps a philanthropic turtle or better still, the dive boat. No such luck. A school of barracuda had come out of the blue, searching for us with those black, staring eyes that make them look dead long before they hit the chopping board. I realised that I’d never seen a barracuda smile. It’s just not part of their genetic makeup.

There was a jellyfish still hovering above us. That was about all it was good for. When God was handing out limbs, claws or wings to His various creatures, you have to admit that the jellyfish drew the short straw. It didn’t even have eyes although in the circumstances that was just as well. But it was the stingrays that worried me. Two metres of silver nastiness from their ugly nose to their swirling, barbed tail. If they saw us, we were sunk. Actually, we were sunk anyway – but you know what I mean.

“OK,” I said. “This is what we’re going to do. You swim that way and make a diversion…”
“I can’t. There’s an octopus…”
“That octopus is rubbish.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“It’s only got seven legs.” I took a deep breath. I was aware that I didn’t have too many of them left. “Everyone will come after you. That’ll give me a chance to get back to the surface. I’ll meet you on the beach. The usual place.”
“OK.” Goldfish nodded. “But may I just say one thing? The next time we go on a holiday, I choose the destination.”
“The last time you chose the destination, we ended up in the Everglades being chased by a crowd of alligators,” I reminded him.
“They weren’t alligators. They were crocodiles.”
“They were alligators!”
“Crocodiles. You can tell from the shape of their nose.”

This was getting ridiculous. I was in no mood for a quarrel in the coral and the whole thing was going nowhere. Which is more than you could say for my air supply. I could see it leaking out, great silver bubbles of it, disappearing faster than the champagne at “Knuckles” Calhoun’s birthday party.

“Listen, Goldfish,” I muttered. I was careful not to raise my voice. That would cost me more air. “Just help me out, will you? I’ll meet you back on the shore.”
“Sure…” He winked at me and I knew he’d only been kidding about the crocodiles. Then he rose up and dashed away, flickering through the water like an orange flame caught in a wind tunnel. The barracuda saw him first. They turned round and shot after him, a dozen silver knives thrown with razor-sharp precision. They were followed by the stingrays, the shark and the scorpion fish that had started all this. Then came a school of spotted gobies, half a dozen wrasses, a blotched hawkfish, two more eels and a gigantic snapper. The octopus limped behind.

The jellyfish stayed where it was, not particularly aware of what was going on.

Suddenly, I was on my own. Taking care to avoid the jellyfish, I kicked out in the opposite direction, my fins propelling me towards the shore. I made sure I followed the ocean bed. Fight for the surface and I’d end up with the bends.

And there was less chance of my being seen this way.

The sun was already beginning to set by the time I climbed out. Either it had been a short day or I’d been down there longer than I’d thought. I took off my mask and let the water drip off my wet suit. The evening sun felt good against my skin.

I made my way over to the beach, a crescent of white sand close to the promenade where I liked to sip a mojito and watch the sun set. I’d thought Goldfish would already be there but he wasn’t. I waited for him with a hollow, uneasy feeling in my stomach. I really wanted to see him. Apart from anything else, it was his turn to buy the first round.

Behind me, the multi-coloured light bulbs blinked on. The restaurants were opening for business. I could smell the burning charcoal in the air. But still there was no sign of Goldfish. I stared out at the water, a dark blue that was rapidly turning midnight black.

Nothing.

Then something cold and predictable, jabbing me hard between the shoulder blades. The smell of seaweed. And a voice.

“If you want to see your friend, you will come with me.”

I spun round. It was the old move – elbow to the solar plexus then edge of the fist to the throat. My mistake. The Egyptian waiter was hurled backwards, the tray of chilled oysters flying out of one hand, the bottle of champagne he’d just tapped me with tumbling out of the other. He hit the sand and lay still. I looked past him – and there was Goldfish, waiting for me at our favourite table with the two iced cocktails he’d just ordered. I shook my head. I was more on edge than I thought. Maybe I needed this holiday after all.