A Thousand Suns

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘God, no! . . . I work for News Fortnite, it’s a bit like the National Geo—’

  The old man snapped his fingers. ‘I know it. I got some of those.’ He looked at Chris for the first time with an expression one step up from contempt. ‘Do the pictures, huh?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Good pictures in the Fortnite.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The name’s Will by the way.’

  Mark and Chris nodded. ‘Hi, Will.’

  The old man studied Chris silently. The tall, thin English guy with the toothbrush hair seemed good for easy money. His type always seemed to have it. His boat, Mona Lisa, was booked in to Winston Macies Marine to have her refrigeration storage units overhauled soon for the first time in nearly ten years and that would take a week or more and cost a small fortune. He could really do with some extra greenbacks to cover that.

  ‘So?’ said Chris.

  Will donned an expression of painful reluctance. ‘Well, now. On the subject of hirin’. The Lisa here is a fishin’ vessel see . . . shrimps, herring, some cod when we can find it. That’s what we catch round here. We go out in the mornin’ and return late. Sometimes we’ll stay out overnight. I can’t take you out tomorrow, because I got men who work on this boat for the share they get on the sale of the catch. So they can’t afford to miss a day’s work. If you want to hire this boat . . . it’s gonna have to be at night.’

  Chris turned to Mark and spoke quietly. ‘At night, are we okay with that?’

  ‘No difference really. It’s virtually night seventy-five feet down anyway. The question is, are you going to be comfortable with doing that?’

  Chris took a long look up and down the wharf. There really wasn’t a great deal of choice in the matter.

  ‘Sure. If you’re happy it’s okay and safe, I guess I am. You’re the pro here,’ he replied.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to look around? Maybe go find a proper chartering agency?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Hmmm, that’s going to cost a shit load more dosh.’

  ‘Yes. Your call, Chris.’

  Will watched the two men talking quietly. He decided they needed a little extra nudge.

  ‘You’ll find it’s the same with any of the other workin’ boats in this area . . . ’cept I’m ready to sail.’

  He smiled for the first time and added, ‘And I can give you the full ten-cents tour. A little local history, a few stories, eh?’

  ‘Okay. How much?’

  ‘Five hundred dollars should just about cover it.’

  ‘Five hundred!’

  ‘You gonna’ tell me how much you’re gettin’ paid to take them pictures? I bet it’s a lot more ’an five hundred. That’s the price . . . an’ if I hear back from some other skipper that they offered you cheaper, well, more fool them.’

  Chris looked up and down the wharf. There really was only Will’s boat that looked good to go.

  ‘Looks like a seller’s market. I don’t think you’re going to be able to haggle him down any,’ said Mark under his breath.

  Chris turned back to Will. ‘Four hundred and you got a deal.’

  The old man waved at Chris. ‘Been nice talkin’ to you.’ He headed back towards the hatch on the foredeck.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Chris muttered. ‘Five hundred, then.’

  Will turned back round to face them. ‘I’ll take that in bills, if you don’t mind. We don’t do American Express round here.’

  ‘Cash? Yeah, I guess I can do that. So what time can you set off tomorrow night? I’m pretty keen to get over and see the -’

  ‘Settin’ off tonight sound good to you boys?’

  Chris and Mark exchanged glances. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Be back here at nine o’clock then, and bring my five hundred dollars.’ Will winked at Chris. ‘Pleasure doin’ business with you.’

  Chapter 3

  Heading Out

  At nine-thirty the trawler finally chugged noisily away from the wharf and passed Leonard’s Spur, a small rocky island about an acre in size and linked to the mainland by a sandy spit. A single flashing beacon on a tall metal spire marked it out.

  Will hugged the channel tightly and passed close by the wet rocks of the spur that seemed to twitch and move with the pulsing flicker of the beacon’s light.

  Chris watched Port Lawrence slowly recede, shuddering at the thought of the freezing dive ahead of him. He looked at his watch.

  Say, forty-five minutes out to the buoy marking the wreck, half an hour underwater and forty-five minutes back.

  He’d be soaking in a warm soapy bath in a little more than two hours’ time. Of course, it was never that easy. It would probably take a little longer to get out there, the dive might only take half an hour, but Mark would insist on a thorough equipment audit before and after. And then there was the task of checking the quality was there on film: process a contact sheet and print one or two of the shots large, and if he hadn’t got the shots he was after, they’d have to go out and do it all again.

  One thing was for sure; when they got back later he was definitely going to have a bath. He was glad they’d ended up checking into the motel up at the pricey end of Devenster Street. It was a little more, and he was paying out on Mark’s room too, of course, but it was better than the couple of guesthouses they’d sneaked a look at. One of them only had one shared bathroom between ten guest rooms, while the other could offer only one room with its own shower, and that had looked pretty shabby.

  Chris watched Mark on the aft deck. He was already at it, unpacking and checking the diving gear. He worked with a quick, silent efficiency, laying out the apparatus carefully in a deliberate order and fitting together the regulators and tanks with a precision that reminded him of a marine assembling his trusty M15.

  ‘Just like those ol’ navy SEAL days, uh?’ joked Chris.

  Mark carried on oblivious, focused on the pre-dive drill.

  Chris watched him for a while longer before making his way forward to the pilothouse. It was dimly lit by a single bare bulb in a wire cage that rattled with the vibration of the engine. Will had the helm in one hand and held a mug of something hot in the other. Ahead through the window he could see the foredeck brilliantly lit by a searchlight on the roof of the pilothouse. It cast a thick beam into the night ahead of them picking out the white suds on the water.

  ‘Hi,’ said Chris. ‘I assume you know which way the buoy is?’

  Will turned and scowled at him. ‘I been fishin’ these waters for nearly thirty years. I know every nook and spit along this shoreline for twenty miles either way -’

  Oh boy, I’ve hit this guy’s squawk button.

  ‘- I can tell you. Hell, I could even tell you how far out from shore we are right now just by listening to the rhythm of the water.’

  Will slapped the engine into neutral and turned it off. The boat drifted silently for a while.

  Chris was a little bemused. ‘Uh . . . are you going to turn that back on now?’

  ‘Shhhhh . . . Just listen to that, do you hear it?’

  Chris could hear nothing but the sound of Mark outside working on the aft deck and the gentle slapping of water on the hull. He saw Mark stand up and come forward to the pilothouse. He opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘What’s going on? Why’s the engine gone off?’

  Chris shook his head and shrugged. ‘I think Captain Salty’s listening to the water,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You hear that?’ Will said eventually. ‘You can tell by the ditty she sings just how far out you are. I reckon we’re about a half mile out.’

  Chris was impressed. ‘You can tell that just from the lapping sound? Sheeez, that’s pretty cool . . .’

  Will smirked and shook his head; he turned the engine back on and slammed her back into gear. ‘Of course, it helps if you got one of these little babies.’ The old man pointed to a small digital Nav-Sat display beside the helm and snorted with laughter.

  ‘Oh, I see. Very funny.’


  Mark slapped Chris on the shoulder. ‘Reckon he got you a good one there, buddy.’ He headed back outside to the aft deck and resumed checking the gear.

  A little after ten o’clock, Will dropped the engine into neutral and panned the searchlight over the still water until he spotted the buoy that marked the wreck. He brought the boat slowly over towards it and let it run the last few yards on momentum only as he left the pilothouse and leaned over the side to scoop up the buoy with a gaff and bring it aboard. He tied it off on a cleat, wrapping it round in a figure of eight and a half hitch for good measure.

  ‘Here you are, boys, delivered safe and sound.’

  Will had been quick finding the buoy; it had only taken them half an hour. A straight beeline out from Port Lawrence, Chris guessed they were about five miles out.

  Chris and Mark sat on the aft deck in the neoprene dry suits Mark had brought along. Chris winced as he adjusted the tight-fitting rubber; it was pulling on his leg hairs.

  ‘Christ, Mark, it’s like going for the world’s worst waxing.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Ah well, you know what it’s like, gotta keep the bikini line nice ’n’ tidy.’

  Mark snorted, typical Chris. The guy would last about five minutes with the sorts of ex-navy jocks he spent a lot of his time with, before being branded a faggot, or a geek, or maybe he would just get off being branded ‘weird English guy’. Mark liked that about him, though, you got a little bit more than just locker-room humour out of him.

  ‘These are smart,’ Chris said, picking up one of the diving helmets.

  ‘Yeah, I thought you’d like these, rather than the usual. This way we can talk to each other instead of sign. I think this’ll be better for you. If you lose sight of me you’ll still be able to at least hear me.’

  ‘Not planning on deserting me down there, are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be on your back all the time, watching you do your thing.’ Mark gestured towards Chris’s underwater camera.

  Will finished up in the pilothouse and joined the two men on the aft deck.

  ‘You got a lot of expensive-looking toys there,’ he said.

  Mark absent-mindedly rested a defensive hand on one of the helmets. ‘Yes, some of this stuff is pretty expensive.’

  ‘How much are those funny-lookin’ space hats, then?’

  ‘The best part of five thousand dollars each,’ said Mark.

  The old man pursed his lips in surprise. ‘Lotta money for a goldfish bowl.’

  ‘Hang on, that reminds me,’ said Mark, ignoring the jibe and delving into one of his canvas kit bags. A moment later produced a small black box and handed it to Will.

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have, it’s lovely,’ the old man said sarcastically. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Radio receiver. It’s just for safety. You can listen in on us talking. This way, if something does go wrong, you’ll be ready when we surface,’ he said. Chris looked up anxiously. ‘Just a precaution,’ Mark added.

  Will turned the black box over in his hands. ‘How does this damn thing work?’

  ‘It’s just a receiver. Switch it on at the back,’ said Mark. Will did so and grimaced as he was met with a warbling shriek.

  ‘Damn thing’s broken.’

  ‘No it’s not. It just needs to be tuned in. Give it to me.’

  Will passed it back to Mark. ‘So, this plane you’re goin’ down to see . . . old wartime bomber, eh?’

  Chris nodded. ‘One of your B-17s.’

  ‘You reckon on findin’ any of the crew?’

  ‘Don’t know the story yet, whether the crew bailed out or went down with it.’

  Will nodded. ‘Well if you do find them, treat them with a bit of respect, eh? The waters here have claimed a lot of souls. Ain’t just your plane down there. There’s a lot of older wrecks, sailing ships and the like.’

  ‘Uh-huh, we’ll be respectful, Will, okay?’

  ‘They say when a squall whips up, it’s the dead below reminding the living to tread careful.’

  Chris looked at Mark and gave him a discreet wink.

  ‘Look, Will, uh . . . you’ve caught me out once already with the ol’ salty sea dog routine -’

  The old man glanced sternly at him. ‘I don’t joke much about dyin’ at sea. There’s many a bad story from this stretch of water, without me making stuff up to add to it.’

  They were preparing to go down to the graveside of some poor souls, and despite the photographer’s assurances, they were going to disturb it, poke it and prod it. He was uneasy. It felt a little too much like grave-robbing.

  ‘Let me tell you something that happened out here.’

  Chris looked up at Mark, who was smiling.

  Here comes the ten-cents tour.

  ‘- there was a ship come over from England, this is way back . . . eighteen hundred an’ something, back when England was as tainted with the slave trade as we were. This ship was called the Lady Grey; she was due for Charleston, but winds had blown her up north a ways.’

  ‘She was carryin’ a few dozen payin’ passengers and two or three hundred negro slaves. She hit ice comin’ in. She was only half a day’s sailin’ from shore. They had a small hole, but water was comin’ in faster than they could bail it out. She was goin’ down all right, but slowly. Still, they got within a mile from shore when they decided to call it a day and abandon ship. The crew, the payin’ passengers, even pretty much most of the more expensive items of cargo, were ferried in row boats from the sinkin’ Lady Grey to the shore. All the while she’s slowly goin’ under.

  ‘People from Port Lawrence gathered on the beach kind’a helpin’ out, maybe even helpin’ themselves to a few choice things. This ferryin’ went on for the best part of the day, and all the while you could hear it from the shore, the hammerin’ of hundreds of palms against the inside of her wooden hull, and hundreds of voices wailin’ and screamin’ to be let out. Finally the question is asked of the captain, “What about them negro slaves locked up below decks?” He says, “Leave ’em. The condition they’re in, them negroes would be worth more on shippin’ insurance than sold at a slave market.” He says the valuable cargo’s already been saved. People up here hadn’t much to do with negroes back then, many had never even seen one. They were pretty shocked at the captain’s answer.

  ‘That evening, the Lady Grey finally lists to one side and quickly then she jus’ slides under. All the while the people on the beach could hear the hammerin’ and screamin’. The story goes, you could still hear them slaves for a while after she’d gone down.’

  The old man struck a match and lit his cigarette.

  ‘I presume there’s some hackneyed moral to that tale?’ said Chris, a little uneasily.

  ‘They say them slaves are still down there screamin’. When folks go missing at sea round these parts, they say “the slaves have got ’em”.’

  Chris nodded sincerely. ‘Right, okay . . . I’ll keep my eyes peeled for them, then.’

  ‘You hear that distant hammerin’ and screamin’ and you’re in big trouble, boys.’

  ‘If I hear hammering and screaming down there, trust me, Will, I’ll be back in this boat and halfway home before you can say scooby-doobie-doo,’ said Chris, smiling nervously.

  Mark shook his head. ‘No you won’t, you’ll be spending five minutes decompressing with me on the way up. Then you can run away.’

  Chris nodded at Mark. He was right, and now wasn’t the time to be goofing around.

  Will smiled, perhaps reassured that his little story had sobered things up some. ‘You enjoy your dive, boys. And mind you treat that wreck with the respect it deserves.’ He headed back towards the pilothouse and poured himself a steaming mug of something from a thermos flask stashed beside the helm.

  Chris shivered. ‘He could have offered us one, the tight git.’

  ‘I guess that would cost extra.’

  ‘Yup. On that note, care for a swim?’

  Mark pulled his
helmet on and twisted it until it locked with a reassuring clunk. Chris did the same.

  ‘You hear me okay?’ Mark’s voice sounded tinny over the helmet speaker. Chris gave a thumbs-up.

  ‘You can talk, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Okay, Mark, you can take point.’

  Mark rolled off the stern of the trawler and splashed into the Atlantic.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Chris as he followed suit and disappeared into the ink-black water, leaving behind a circle of splash suds that were quickly washed away.

  Will turned off the floodlight that bathed the aft deck and turned on a fan heater and his FM radio. It was tuned to a station that played classical. The soothing melody of Cavalleria Rusticana quickly eased away some of his misgivings as he watched the faint glow of submerged torchlight slowly recede.

  Chapter 4

  The Wreck

  The reinforced-plastic diving helmet felt infinitely less claustrophobic and uncomfortable than a regular diving mask and regulator. They were Mark’s latest equipment purchase, his pride and joy.

  It’s like being an astronaut, going EVA.

  Chris looked around. He was immersed in total darkness. Above him there were only a couple of flickering shards of light from the trawler. Suddenly a strong blue shaft of light cut the world in two in front of him as Mark aimed his torch upwards.

  ‘You might want to turn your torch on,’ Mark’s voice hissed out of the speaker. Chris fumbled for the switch on his torch and found it.

  ‘Whoa, that’s bright,’ he said, panning it around, admiring the power and length of the light beam.

  ‘Two-hundred-watt halogen bulbs,’ said Mark proudly. ‘Only got about forty minutes charge time on the battery pack, though.’

  Mark shone his torch at the buoy’s line.

  ‘Okay. We’re going to follow that down.’ He kicked his legs out and began to swim down, holding the line in one hand and torch in the other. Chris followed suit, keeping an eye on the dwindling beam of Mark’s torch below.

  ‘Not so fast, mate,’ he said with an edge in his voice. ‘You’re leaving me behind.’