“I must be mad,” I exclaimed as I prepared to jump into Cosmeston Lake for the first time. The lake was frigid enough to freeze a fireball, and the wind was whipping over the water like a whirlwind.

“Stop being a wuss. It’s the last Sunday of the month and the Cosmeston Scuba Club always dives on this day, come rain or shine,” replied Annie.

“Where’s Horace?” someone asked. There were a dozen people at the edge of the lake, none of whom, it appeared, answered to the name of Horace.

“I’ve been doing the month-end dive for twenty years, and I’ve never seen him miss one,” shouted someone else.

 

Ten minutes away, Horace was trapped in the tangled wreckage of his green 2CV car, with very little chance of being anywhere except in a great deal of trouble. In a shaking voice, he was pleading to anyone that might hear to please help him out, as he had an important delivery to make.

 

I was wondering what the fuss about Horace was, so asked Annie. “He’s never, ever late, never mind completely miss the month-end dive,” she replied.

“Perhaps it’s too cold?” I asked.

“Don’t be daft. He always blathers on about how important it is that he makes this dive. Goes on about how it’s his duty, or burden, or something like that. To be honest, we all think he’s a bit crackers.”

 

A mile away, Horace finally extricated his arm from underneath the collapsed roof of the car. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small package. He croaked a final few words ‘this needs to go into the lake’ to no-one in particular before expiring. As his hand relaxed, the contents of the package – two bulls eyes purchased from the local butcher the day before – tumbled out into the ditch that the car was wedged into.  Horace would be discovered by a passing cyclist three hours later, by which time it was too late.

 

After the dive, the scuba club members were sitting in the Captain’s Wife, a pub ten minutes from the lake. News of Horace’s demise was yet to reach them.

“It’s strange him not even ringing,” said Steve, the bald-headed electrician wearing a red Wales Rugby cap. There was a lot of nodding. “Apparently his dad used to do the month-end dive before him, and he never missed one either. I reckon that must be the first time in fifty years neither of them made it along.”

“He always used to dive with that little package in his belt,” said Annie. “I asked him once whilst we were playing darts what was in it and he mumbled something about hitting bulls-eyes, or something like that. Made no sense to me.”

“Perhaps he was giving an offering to the lake demon,” joked Steve. Everyone laughed.

 

The creature pulled its gigantic, terrible frame up from the bottom of the lake and bellowed, “WHERE ARE MY BULLS EYES? I WARNED YOU LOT…..”