He never knew why he was afraid, nothing had happened in his childhood to create the fear.  It had always been there, a deep sense of primal dread.

The Thames was not mere water, it was a living thing, a grey magnificent beast, moving and rising; its scales grinding against the stone walls of the Thames bank.

He both feared it and loved it.  He would sit beside the needle and feel the pulse rise in his body, his heart would race, his palms would perspire as the panic took hold.

He had come eventually to love the fear; for he had recognised he was in control with the beast contained within its own banks.  He would lie on the wall, close his eyes and listen to the beasts sounds moving menacingly beside him and he would imagine himself rolling over to be devoured whole and his body would convulse and his ligaments burn.

This was his Thames.  It made him feel alive.