The Savage Shore

by David Hewson

  Use one arm only for the strike, the fisherman said, your strongest. A single, certain aim, at the silver flank close behind the gills. Avoid the head with its giant circular eye. That was too bony for the five spears of the harpoon to do much damage. All that would happen was that the fish would be startled and wounded, but the barbs wouldn’t bite and so the line couldn’t hold. All they would have was a wounded creature, fleeing to the deeps.

  ‘Like this,’ the man said imitating the sudden, short jab of a swordsman certain of his target. ‘Then release.’ His fingers flew open. ‘Imagine you’re throwing a spear or a javelin straight in the neck of the man you hate most. Find the spot and he’s ours. Miss it and you hurt the poor creature for no purpose at all.’

  Santo didn’t argue. These men looked as if they wouldn’t brook that.

  Twenty minutes out the captain on the tower shouted something in a vernacular so crude and local he could barely understand. A long, outstretched arm pointed to a stretch of turbid water a good thirty metres to the right, towards the shore. Something must have been visible from the skipper’s lofty lookout but all he could see was the waves, all he could smell was the sharp and briny sea. Behind lay the waterfront of Cariddi with its tall terraced fishermen’s homes, most with boathouses in the basement. Then Aspromonte rose in a series of harsh, spiking peaks, rock and forest, barely a house or building visible. Somewhere there he and Rosa had met the santina and nothing had been the same from that moment on. Somewhere nearby on the coast Falcone and the team were gathered waiting on him to bring news of the fateful meeting in the hills.

  ‘Maso! Hey, foreigner!’ cried a brisk voice from the mast. ‘You awake down there or dreaming you’re in bed with your boyfriend?’

  He grinned at that, tapped his forehead and held the harpoon high in his right hand by way of answer.

  ‘Good. We got a lady on the bows. You do her justice, nice and quick.’

  Two more steps and he was at the very end of the passarella, balancing like a ballerina against the steady rhythm of the waves. There was something ahead of him dashing through the blue which, now he was close to it, was nothing like the wine-dark sea the book spoke of.

  A flash of silver swept alongside the iron bridge, something skittish about it though the fish was massive and powerful, at least a good three metres long.

  ‘The flank behind the gills,’ someone yelled again. ‘Not the head.’

  The fish was both scared and curious he thought. Then, so quickly he caught his breath, the beast broke surface and he found himself staring at a wide, circular, glistening eye. It looked almost human and was gazing straight at him.

  He jerked back his right arm the way they said, did his best to aim and threw the harpoon, hard and straight, filled his lungs with the briny air again as he watched the rope snaking after it, heading for the fish.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ the skipper yelled from the turret. ‘Did you hear a single damned word I said?’

  Most of the spear points missed. Two caught the swordfish close to the eye, briefly held, then fell free the moment someone behind tightened on the line. The thing made a sound like a baby’s squeal and vanished beneath the surface.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, though whether to the fish or the men behind him he didn’t know.

  ‘Pull it in!’ someone yelled. ‘Pull it in, Maso. That was the lady. You got her husband mad now and he’s coming for you. Pull it in.’

  A second silver shape was scything through the water. It was slimmer, sleeker, a little smaller too. But filled with purpose, swimming towards him faster than seemed possible, like a weapon charged.

  The long sword broke surface, cut a savage shape against the bright blue sea then tore the waves.

  ‘Get the harpoon in your hands, foreigner,’ the skipper bellowed. ‘Do that now. It’s you he wants. Get—’

  He reeled in the rope until he could get his wet and slippery hands clamped round the weapon’s shaft. Thought of what they’d said to him, the fisherman’s instructions, not Santo Vottari’s braggadocio. Like a speeding bullet the male was closing hard. He waited for the moment, then jabbed forward with all his strength, released the stock and watched the five-forked spear tear through the air.

  ‘It was him?’ the man in the Paul and Shark polo asked the shame-faced figure in black by his side. They were in the living room, curtains closed. The air was close and stifling, the day the hottest yet.

  ‘Him. The big bastard.’

  ‘Good. Now go wait in the car. I’ll drive you home shortly.’

  A moment the bruised and battered thug hesitated then he was gone.

  Falcone started talking, not that Peroni heard much. He couldn’t avoid Teresa Lupo’s miserable stare, the one he always got when he’d done something wrong. Even Silvio Di Capua looked out of sorts. The mission was delicate, dependent upon their invisibility. And he’d broken cover so brutally, for them with so little reason.

  ‘Besides,’ Falcone finished, ‘it’s time we spoke direct to your side. Face to face.’ He hesitated. The visitor hadn’t even given a name. ‘You are?’

  ‘Rocco Bergamotti. I’m the son of the man who’s seen fit to offer himself to you. If anyone else in the ’ndrina knew you were here.’ He raised his shoulders in an expression of dismay. ‘We risk everything and you fools play games like this.’

  Teresa’s judgmental stare turned on the newcomer at that point. ‘You took Nic. You and your sister. You played those games with Rosa. Terrified her.’

  Another shrug. ‘And now the Indian woman’s gone.’

  ‘You’re watching us.’

  ‘Of course they’re watching us,’ Peroni snapped. ‘In our shoes … wouldn’t you?’

  Rocco sighed and took a half-smoked cigar out of his jacket pocket, then lit it and waited.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peroni said. ‘I shouldn’t have hit him. I tried to warn him off. If he had half a brain he’d have listened.’

  ‘If I had half a brain I’d cut you all loose. Get rid of that man you sent us. He still sticks out like a sore thumb.’

  Peroni nodded at the windows to the terrace. ‘He’s out there now. Trying to catch a swordfish for you.’

  Rocco grimaced.

  ‘As if that’s enough.’ He leaned forward, frowned again. He’d already decided what he was going to do. Peroni understood that. All the same he had to pretend this was some kind of negotiation. ‘So how am I supposed to handle this? We tell you to keep your heads down. Stay anonymous. Instead one of you beats up a foot soldier of mine. It’s not something we can ignore. Ordinarily …’ He smiled at Peroni. ‘You’re a big guy. I’d have set three on you. Just to be sure.’

  ‘Three?’ Peroni asked. ‘They’d need to be good.’

  ‘They would be—’

  ‘Enough of this.’ Falcone was getting mad. ‘We’ve been sitting here for days waiting on you to come up with a date. You’ve got an officer of ours—’

  ‘You don’t have the faintest idea how hard this is. We’re offering you Mancuso. Do you think he hops in a cab the moment we send him an invitation? He plays games. Checks us out. Then, when – if – he decides he’s coming gives us twenty-four-hours’ notice if we’re lucky. They’re Sicilians. They don’t own that island any more, not the way we own this place. They’re nervous.’ He shook his head and cast another dark glance at Peroni. ‘I should throw this big bastard to the wolves, the rest of you along with him. And the guy you gave us.’

  Falcone couldn’t think of anything at that moment. Or Teresa. Silvio kept his head down. He was a backroom guy. This was probably as close as he’d ever got to a real-life hood and the sight seemed to petrify him.

  Honour, Peroni thought. It meant something here, still.

  ‘You haven’t asked why I did it?’

  Rocco laughed. ‘He said you got pushy. It matters?’

  ‘Pushy. Pushy? You think I look that sort?’

  The Calabrian seemed interested.

  ‘The woman over there
in the bar,’ Peroni went on. ‘She had a husband. A fisherman. Paolo. Someone murdered him. Scratched his face with nails. Like a mark. Maybe he pissed off you guys. Wouldn’t pay—’

  ‘Paolo was one of ours,’ Rocco cut in angrily. ‘Don’t talk about him like that.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got into an argument with some idiot from the ’ndrina in Locri. Over a bet. The moron killed him.’ That shrug again. ‘He paid. He won’t be back. We’re even.’

  Peroni nodded. ‘Paolo Gentile was one of yours.’

  ‘Like I said.’

  ‘So I guess that bar is too.’

  ‘You people will never understand,’ Bergamotti replied. ‘You can’t. We all own a little of everything here. This is our land. We share.’

  Peroni thought about that and said, ‘So that’s why your friend in black kept pestering Elena Sposato for money she didn’t have? For favours? That’s why I caught him trying to rape her in that poky little storehouse they’ve got while her damaged little son sat crying on the beach.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘All this crap about honour and how you guys are like some caring, responsible alternative regime or something … that’s just bullshit. Because one of your small-time hoods can pick on a helpless widow and try to rape her. Would have too if I hadn’t come along and dragged him off.’

  ‘Gianni.’ It was Teresa. ‘I think that’s enough.’

  ‘No.’ He got up. ‘It’s not even a start. Tell me, Signor Bergamotti. Or whoever you are. Is that what honour means round Cariddi? Some foot soldier of yours gets himself killed and it’s just fine that one of your hoods goes round and makes his widow’s life a misery? Taking what little money’s she got? Drinking his caffè corretto for free? I guess she’s just a woman. And they don’t count much round here except for bed.’

  The Calabrian puffed on his cigar and glared at him.

  ‘If I’m wrong,’ Peroni added, ‘just say.’

  ‘I need one of you,’ he said as he finished the cigar and threw it out of the open window onto the terrace. ‘A guest.’

  ‘A hostage you mean?’ Peroni said.

  ‘A sign of goodwill. A guarantee you’ll behave better in future.’

  Peroni couldn’t take his eyes off the man. That brief lecture about honour had affected him.

  ‘And Elena Sposato?’ he asked.

  ‘Signora Sposato is the widow of one of our men. She’ll be treated with all due respect. We do not let our people starve. Nor do we tolerate their abuse. By anyone.’

  ‘Good—’

  ‘You didn’t hear me. I need one of you.’

  Peroni rubbed his big hands and said he’d pack a case.

  Rocco laughed. ‘Not you. I got other plans for you.’ He nodded at Falcone. ‘And him. Your friend in our midst needs to kill more than a fish to win his honour. We’ll organize a little theatre. No.’ He smiled at Teresa. ‘She’ll do.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Peroni told him. ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘Gianni.’ She got to her feet. ‘If it’s just a question of a few days with strangers I’m fine with it. Besides the atmosphere round here …’

  ‘No.’ It was Silvio who spoke up. ‘You’re needed here—’

  ‘We’re all needed! We’re one down as it is.’

  ‘I’m just handling email and phone calls. Anyone can do that.’ The little technician looked terrified but determined all the same. ‘If you’re going to take anyone take me. It … it will be comfortable? Won’t it?’

  Rocco Bergamotti laughed. ‘Good Aspromonte food. Coarse company. When this is over you’ll have such tales to tell.’ The smile vanished. ‘Not that you’ll tell them, of course. It will be as if it never happened.’

  Teresa still didn’t look happy but for all her squawking her deputy remained dead set on going. While she was in the middle of her rant about why he couldn’t, Silvio walked out and came back two minutes later with a small bag.

  ‘I don’t suppose I can take my phone?’ he added.

  ‘No,’ Bergamotti told him. ‘No phones. Clean mountain air and a hard bed. A week I think at most. You’ll lose some of that fat and see a different world.’

  ‘Sounds like a holiday,’ Silvio answered. ‘More than this place.’

  Teresa went and hugged him. ‘You don’t have to do this. We don’t have to give this man what he wants.’

  The Calabrian sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Today we set these wheels in motion. Or not. He comes with me or it’s best all of you leave this place directly. Nor will you see the friend we have again. That will be impossible. We’ve extended a great degree of generosity in your direction. A little gratitude is now in order.’

  He waved his hands: you choose, the gesture said.

  ‘I’ve never been without a phone,’ Silvio moaned. ‘Not as long as I can remember.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to start. Go wait outside in the car. It’s the red Alfa.’

  One more embrace from Teresa, a long one and she was close to tears, then Silvio Di Capua was gone. Peroni didn’t know what to say any more. This was his fault. All of it.

  Bergamotti waited until the front door closed then pointed at Peroni then Falcone. ‘This afternoon you’ll take a drive. To Reggio. Give me a phone number. I’ll send you a map.’

  Immediately Peroni scribbled his on a piece of paper and handed it over. This was his game now.

  ‘I’ll call in a little while and give you your orders,’ Rocco Bergamotti added. ‘If you know what’s good for you, for that little guy outside, that man of yours on my boat … you follow them. Every last detail. This is my world you’re in. My rules. My say-so. Do this right and the guy we’ve christened Maso Leoni will be bringing you good news very soon. Get it wrong and I got nothing to offer. Nothing you’ll like. You understand me, policemen?’

  ‘They do,’ Teresa said and didn’t wait to see him go.

  Falcone sat in a chair, brooding. Peroni went back to the terrace. The bar across the beach was open. Elena Sposato was out front on the phone. She saw him then she turned away and he wondered what he’d truly done.

  Upstairs he heard noises and he knew straight off what they were. Teresa clearing his things out of their bedroom, throwing them into the tiny space with a single bed next door.

  Five sharp barbs bit into the fish’s side, deep into the silver flank behind the gills. Someone cheered. The creature seemed to let out a sharp high scream, twisted once in agony trying to free itself, failed, then arced like an acrobat, diving deep beneath the boat.

  Rope began spinning out all around his ankles, feeding into the thrashing waves.

  ‘Jump, you fool,’ Santo yelled as the crew began to flock around the loops left on the deck.

  Just in time he managed to hop into the air as the line was about to snag his legs. The remaining loops vanished over the side, dragged into the sea by the fleeing swordfish. Breathless, looking at the bright shower of bubbles rising from below, he leaned over the passarella and tried to understand what was happening beneath the vessel.

  ‘Cut the sightseeing,’ the skipper yelled. ‘Get over here. We’re not done yet.’

  He took the horizontal iron ladder step by unsteady step back to the deck. The rope was still spinning out, the speed diminishing though none of the men came near. It was still fast enough and rough enough to tear the skin from your hands or tug the unfortunate over the side.

  The man atop the tower clambered down, patted his arm, then offered him a draft from a hip flask. He took it: a bitter, medicinal shot of booze caught fire in his throat and mingled with the salt spray there.

  ‘Took me five goes before I struck good,’ the man said, beaming at him. He had crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, a good few missing. ‘You got him second time. Shame about the lady. She’ll be looking for a new mate now. If only …’ He glanced at the rope still spinning slowly over the side. ‘If only those barbs of yours will hold.’

  The rope was thick, the colo
ur of the tobacco on his teeth, and tethered to a winch by the foot of the tower. All the men were waiting for the moment the length ran out and he understood immediately why: at that point the harpoon might break free from the fish’s flank and the catch escape, wounded but at large.

  ‘If you know a prayer,’ the captain muttered, ‘that fish is yours …’

  No prayers, he thought. None at all. But then the rope tautened, shuddered and groaned like the string of a gigantic instrument played by an invisible bow. No one breathed for a second or spoke a word.

  It held.

  ‘Silent prayers are the best,’ the skipper declared with a grin. ‘Now … take a break. You look done in. The rest of the work is ours.’

  The best part of fifty minutes it took. The injured swordfish fought to begin with, so hard it rocked the boat from side to side at times. As the minutes passed its strength waned. A good half hour after he first stabbed the harpoon into its side they saw it again, a gleaming shape, moving sluggishly beneath the limpid surface, a red stain of blood leaking in its wake like ink behind a paintbrush.

  Not long after they pulled the creature to the boat side. A good fish, the skipper said, big for a male, powerful and still angry. Two men took to the sharp sword with oily clothes while another stabbed claw hooks into the side and landed the still-thrashing creature on the deck.

  The skipper seemed to be reciting some kind of prayer. He thought he heard the words ‘San Marco è binidittu’ in coarse Calabrian. After that the coup de grâce was delivered with a swift, sharp blade, straight behind the neck into the brain. The fish had beautiful eyes, clear as glass, a dark and lustrous blue. They dulled at that. Then, covered in blood and slimy scales, the captain bent down and with his four outstretched fingernails carved a lattice cross on the bright silvery blue of its right cheek.