The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  Rearward of the engine-room bulkhead and stretching all the way to the freezer was the main equipment hold where all the spares, the slings, ropes, nets, pulleys and belts and the dry provisions were stored. The vittles’ freezer and the daily-needs refrigerator were also situated in this hold.

  Bluey took pride in understanding and keeping up with technology. As well as all of the legal requirements; he had installed radar, echo-sounder and sat-nav auto-pilot. A high resolution fish finder gave a better definition of prawns on the bottom than the echo-sounder. He had trunk radio and a mobile phone. A computer and printer kept his records. On board, also, was a Honda step-through and a moke for convenience when away from home port.

  Harry Rigby and Mavis gave the Paragon the once-over and decided a ballpark figure of something over a million dollars; it was a wonderful opportunity on young Billy’s horizon. But it would also mean mortgaging the Rigby cane farm. He would have to convince Mavis.

  Mavis’ reaction was, “Sell the bloody farm, by then we’ll want some rest from all the hard yakka, anyway! The boat can support us all!”

  Chapter

  13

  When at sea Reg Williamson ran his Monterey Star as would the captain of a naval vessel and he seemed a bit of a bastard, but only to other bastards. In a calm harbour his real ego took over and Billy found him to be a good bloke. He was never too busy or pre-occupied to impart knowledge.

  Reg’s number one commandment was A place for everything and everything in its place. He schooled Billy in the knots necessary to stitch up a net; how to tie a bowline on the run. Reg taught him how to carry out the manoeuvres necessary to get the cod-ends of the nets from the water to the sorting tray, and back into the water again. He taught him how, when and why to use a mud-rope and how and where to weight it.

  He showed Billy how to tune a pair of otter boards to a net by adjusting the spiders, or the net’s wing attachments. The boy learned how to know if the boards were really tuned to the net by inspecting the shiny areas of the board’s angle-iron ‘shoes’. He learned that he must inspect the shoes after a slight adjustment of the spiders or wing attachments. The new scuff marks on the bottom of the shoes were always mute evidence that the boards’ angles of attack had been altered, as intended.

  A well-tuned pair of otter boards whilst not the most valuable item on board was certainly the most valued. This was because the boards after tuning offered the least resistance to the trawler for optimum boat speed and opening at the mouth of the net. The mud-rope which stretched from board heel to board heel was weighted to skim the bottom and not to plough the mud. The assumption was that the prawn would skip up into seemingly safe water, well above this looming danger, only to end up on the sorting tray above via the following cod-end.

  Reg taught Billy how to approach the dock up current and down current and at the bottom and the top of the tide. He taught him the value of the bowline knot when securing lines or making a loop to lasso a mooring dolphin and how to undo it quickly by easing pressure at a certain point. He taught Billy all about bow lines and stern lines and springers and when to use them.

  If the lad made a mistake, he had to sort it out himself. If that mistake caused damage then he had to repair it. If the repair cost money it came out of his cheque on pay day. What the boy found to be of more value than all of the lessons was the amount of time Reg allowed him to practice them. Until Billy had them all off pat and perfect the skipper never once undertook any of the chores at which the boy was not expert.

  When any boat had its gear down, the bloke at the wheel reckoned anything to port or starboard or up ahead was his concern. And anything happening on the back deck was a deckhand’s problem no matter whose fault it actually was. Reg was no exception to this long-held belief and when one of his nets wrapped itself around the propeller it was, of course, Billy’s fault.

  Fortunately, it happened in the Gulf of Carpentaria which meant Banana prawns and a daylight operation. It may have been a little too daunting if it had been on the east coast and Tigers in the black of night. Billy looked with embarrassment at Reg, he knew the law and he accepted the blame. The old man’s expression didn’t change; he simply locked the controls in neutral and went rummaging in a box fixed to the rear of the wheelhouse. “A place for everything and everything in its place. Remember that, Son?”

  From the box Reg handed Billy a facemask, snorkel and swim fins. He kitted himself out in similar fashion and moved to the transom. “Over the side, Son,” was all he said and Billy aped his antics, spitting in his mask, smearing the spittle and then rinsing it and adjusting the straps. He followed Reg over the side feet first with his heart thumping about in his chest.

  When he hit the surface, his mask dislodged and filled with water. A large dark shape did nothing for his heart when it grabbed him. He hoped it was Reg. It hauled him to the surface. It was Reg and he proceeded to show Billy how to clear the water from inside his mask. He applied pressure with a finger to the top of the glass then tilted his head slightly skywards and breathed out through his nostrils. Billy saw the water level in Reg’s mask become lower and then magically disappear. Reg explained that this operation should be carried out at depth which was the real reason for the demonstration.

  After several attempts the boy was at least able to half empty his mask and together they moved under the boat. The net was wound tightly around the shaft and damage was quite severe. Billy pointed to the knife on Reg’s leg but the old man shook his head and pointed to the surface. As they trod water Reg explained that one of them would unwind the shaft while the other freed the net. About an hour and a half later the net had been roughly repaired and they were back in business. At the end of the day Reg said, “Yer done good today, Son, but always remember, the net and the prop don’t mix.”

  Billy spent the whole of his next lay day and a good portion of the night on the wharf at Weipa repairing the damaged net. Reg spent his lay day hunting wild pig up the Mission River with his skipper mates during the day and grogging on into the night.

  On Billy’s twenty first birthday he felt more like Reg’s son than Harry’s. After one hard day’s fishing he was cleaning up the work area and checking gear when he noticed a dinghy approaching, “Hey, Reg,” he shouted, “here comes the Paragon runabout.”

  Reg appeared on deck wearing a grin, “It’s old Bluey, I just been talkin’ to ‘im on the two-way. Grab ‘is line.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “One of his deckies, I suppose.”

  When the dinghy pulled alongside Reg said “G’day, Blue.”

  “G’day, Reg, this is Mac,” said Bluey, “I know young Billy.”

  Three hours later after a few cans and a lot of talk, Billy said “You mean Mum and Dad knew all about this? They never said anything.”

  “I asked ‘em not to,” Bluey replied and it was an excited and bewildered Billy who changed his address to c/o The Paragon. Mac remained behind on the Monterey Star.

  Chapter

  14

  “Who’s old Mac, Bill?”

  “The deckie off the Monterey Star, they’ve been talkin’ about him on the two-way, he’s been missin’ for the last fortnight. Well whaddya know?” Helen by this time had moved into care mode. She was executing the ritual pulse and blood pressure checks and she fixed Billy with an expectant stare.

  “This’ll probably bore old Sep here,” said Billy, “so I’ll give you the short version of my workin’ life since I left school.”

  When he was finished, he added, “and this bloke’s one of the best deckies on the coast and he’s got a big plus, he knows electrical systems, I’ve never heard of him being stumped by a problem. It’s a bit of a drag for poor old Reg though. He’s the owner of the Star. Before Reg can up anchor, Mac here has to work his way through a string of boats with electrical problems – usually every mornin’ in the Gulf.”

  Helen had no
ticed by this time that Billy used the word ‘old’ as a term of endearment; she asked, “How old is he?”

  “I dunno, thirty five, forty five, what’s your guess?”

  “Well at least we know who he is now, I can register him. And let the police know.” She headed for the office. Billy elbowed Sep in the ribs and shook his head, he mouthed, “No! Stop her.” They took off after her and stumbled through the doorway, into the small room as Helen, pen poised, was about to mark a card.

  “Before you do that Billy’s got something to say!” Sep rattled off as one word.

  “Well…yeah…er…Helen…er…y’see…well,” he mumbled and shifted his feet, “Christ! It’s like this,” and he finally got going, “in the fleet there’s a lot of blokes who are runnin’ away from somethin’. There’s a lot of shady characters and they all get sorted out in time. No matter what they might’ve done in the past, as long as they stay clean after they sign on, they don’t have any more worries. But if they start actin’ up then it’s all over the two-way network, and unless some skipper’s really in a jam they’ll find it tough to get a start.

  “The same goes for ordinary blokes without a past if they start actin’ like mugs.” Helen put down the pen and Billy continued. “Reason I’m tellin’ you this is, if anyone found out that I’d dobbed a bloke in the only deckhands I’d be able to get would be the ones no other skipper wanted.” She sat motionless for a few moments and then slowly clipped the pen into her pocket; she put the card back in the file draw and fixed them with a hard stare. “I can’t keep this quiet for very long. What you’re asking me to do could cost me my job, or worse, my career if it gets out,” she frowned.

  “There’s only the three of us,” Sep said and added, “and Mac, and I’m sure he won’t tell.”

  “He might. He gets drunk.”

  “No, he won’t, Helen,” Billy was breathing easier now, “and I’ll tell you why. When I said Mac knows electrical systems, I didn’t mean he could just connect wires without blowin’ a fuse, any mug can do that. And when I said he never failed to fix a problem that was true, too.

  “But there’s somethin’ else, one day I was havin’ a few beers with old Reg, his skipper, and he said that he walked into the wheelhouse one day when Mac had George in bits tryin’ to find a problem. Mac had gone down into the hold, for more tools or somethin’, and Reg said that spread out all over the floor were sheets of paper with circuits drawn all over them, and algebra formulas with those squiggles and everythin’. Anyway, when he came back, he gathered up all the papers and put them away as though he didn’t want anyone to see them. Reg said he pretended he never noticed the drawin’s but he reckons Mac might be an engineer, or somethin’.”

  “George is the automatic pilot.” Sep explained.

  “There’s one more thing,” Billy went on, “I’m not sure Mac ever gets drunk. Yeah, everyone says that he’s a pis…a drunk and I’ve seen him drink a lot of grog, or seem to, but his eyes are always clear and he’s never crook like I am next day. I dunno.”

  “Well, I’ll not go into the identity bit until he regains consciousness.”

  “Thanks, Helen.” Sep said.

  “And can I talk to him before you do that?” asked Billy.

  “Oh, alright,” she sighed.

  Chapter

  15

  “One of the best deckies on the coast…has to work his way through a string…usually every mornin’ in the Gulf…” A familiar male voice.

  A nice soft voice. “How old is he?”

  The familiar voice again. “I dunno, thirty five, forty five, what’s your guess?”

  “Well at least we know who he is, now I can register him. And let the police know.” The soft voice again, not so nice now.

  Police. Mac regularly had this dream where two cops arrested and handcuffed him. They tried him on the sorting tray and then shoved him down the trash chute into the sea where sharks waited to eat him. But he always woke before he left the chute. Sometimes he was found not guilty but they always pushed him down the chute, anyway.

  He knew Reg would shake him a second time, he always did. Four hours on watch was OK, but four hours off was too short, he’d ask Reg if he could have a six-hour kip. No that’s no good, that would mean Reg would have six hours on and four hours off, that’s hardly fair. It was all too much. He’d think about it later. Reg will give him a shake again soon… Reg is a good bloke…

  Police. He sat up, everything was white. His head hurt. His head throbbed. He grabbed it to stop his brain from falling out and he found a bandage. It’s OK, somebody’s tied it in. He put it back on the pillow. Good old Reg has seen to everything. He closed his eyes.

  Police. He held his head before he sat up. A little better this time. Where was he? What was this contraption connected to his arm? A bottle and a tube. What are all these people doing in our fo’c’s’le?

  “I’m in a hospital. I’m on a fucking drip. What the fucking hell’s going on? Police! Well fuck them. I’m out of here. Where’s my gear? That locker by the bed?” He stooped to open the cabinet door. “Oooh my head.” He straightened up and then knelt. “Better.” He opened the locker door. Nothing. He pulled the draw right out of its slide; it fell from his grasp and clattered about on the polished floor.

  “Where are my fucking clothes?”

  “I had them burnt,” said that nice soft voice from behind him, “they were filthy. I had to cut them from you.”

  “You had no right.”

  “I’m Sister Bell, I had every right. I’m in charge here. I’ll get you some second-hand ones.”

  “Will you get them now please, I have to leave.”

  “No! Now get back into your bed. You can’t be discharged until the doctor clears you. Now get back into bed or I’ll get some muscle up here. I’ve got to re-insert that drip, and besides, the view from here is disgusting.”

  Embarrassment overcame his panic. He got back on the bed and pulled the sheet over himself. She found his vein with the cannula and secured it with a new plaster. She saw panic creeping into his eyes. She busied herself with the inflatable armband and prepared to read his blood pressure.

  “It’s alright Mac,” she said softly, “we know who you are.”

  “We?”

  “Harry Bernard, Billy Rigby and myself. That’s all.”

  “Billy was here?” Relief overcame the panic in his eyes.

  “Billy’s father and Harry Bernard’s father are friends. Harry’s dad picked you for a fisherman, so Billy’s dad thought Billy might recognise you. How do you feel?”

  Red-faced, Mac answered, “I feel pretty crook about the language, I’m sorry Sister. Apart from that my ribs hurt and my head pounds but I’m glad Billy’s been here. When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I guess Harry will tell him you’re conscious. It’s up to him.”

  “This Bernard guy’s father must be a pretty astute old man to pick me for a fisherman.”

  “He’s a wonderful old Italian-Australian cane farmer.” She gave him an oblique stare. “You don’t sound like a fisherman.”

  He stared back, “Harry Bernard doesn’t sound like an Italian either.” “Thereby hangs a tale,” she sighed, “I’ll be back shortly with some Panadol.”

  When Helen returned with the analgesic Mac said, “I fell over you know, Sister. I just had a few too many and I fell and hit my head. I have to get back to the boat, we’re sailing tomorrow. We’re all stocked up and leaving for Princess Charlotte Bay, we need to be fishing by the end of the week.”

  “Well you won’t be, I convinced Doctor Bramble you’ve been mugged. I convinced him that you were hit over the head and then kicked when you fell. Besides, they took your wallet, you have no money or identification and the doctor is obliged to report the incident to the police. You’ve got until after Billy talks to you before I identify you i
n our records, and to the police.”

  Police. There’s that word again, “I left my wallet on the boat, it’s no big deal. Honest, Sister. I just got drunk and I fell and hit my head. I’ve got to get back on board.”

  “When you fell,” she said sternly, “you hit the front of your head, the back of your head, the side of your head and then it seems you landed on somebody’s boots.” Then she added. “It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s all academic now, your boat left without you two weeks ago. You’ve been unconscious for over a fortnight.” Mac’s jaw dropped. Helen went about her business.

  After the lights went out Mac lay on his back and stared into the darkness. He considered his position. He had to get out of there before the police came asking questions. He’d covered his tracks pretty well over the years but there was always the odd chance he might fail a close scrutiny. If the cops came before he could convince the doctor he had recovered, he would have to have a bout of amnesia.

  Christ! It seemed that he’d lived another whole lifetime since Danny was killed. It was a little over ten years now and yet he remembered his smiling face in perfect detail.

  It all came shimmering to life behind closed eyelids…

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  The foreman rose and supported himself with both hands on the edge of the jury stand. “We have your worship. We find the defendant guilty, as charged.”

  “Was your verdict unanimous?”

  “It was, your worship.”

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, it is a judgement with which I wholeheartedly agree, you have discharged your duties in a most competent and dignified manner. You are now free to go.”

  The jury filed out as Dave Brannigan trembled. He shook his head in disbelief even one person, let alone twelve, could imagine he could harm his brother. In pre-school, in kindergarten, in the schoolyard, later on the sporting field and in life in general, for each of the twins the welfare of the other had always been paramount