by Carmody, Sam
The swell had dropped from the previous days but a gusting wind still blew over the sea from the west. The water was a cloudy green, the surface speckled with kelp and cuttlebone and flecks of foam from shattered pot floats and other things that the storm had washed in and swept out from the beaches. They pulled the pots on the inside reefs, two and three miles out, always within sight of land. The sun was warm on Paul’s skin and the swells that surged and foamed on the shoals no longer held the same threat, but there was still that dullness in his ears and his stomach still wrenched with each tilt of the deck. By mid-morning he was dizzy from purging.
You shall disappear if you keep that up, Michael said as he returned from the back of the boat to the cabin. You will look like a supermodel. Just teeth and knees, that is all.
Paul attempted a smile.
Michael watched him, as if waiting for him to speak, before returning his eyes to the sea.
You don’t get seasick? Paul said.
Not me, Michael said, looking back at him. My mother, she was in the circus. She used to do trapeze when she was pregnant with me. This big tummy, flipping through the air.
Really?
Michael laughed.
Paul watched the older boy’s face, trying to read him.
If you are hungry, I have some food. My girl Shivani made me lunch. You are welcome to it.
I don’t think I could keep anything down.
Michael scoffed. With the lunches my Shivani makes that is the problem. Are you staying at the backpackers still?
Paul nodded.
Michael groaned. Hot girls, yeah? The German sighed at the thought, almost mournful. Paul didn’t know how to respond.
I thought you would be staying with the skipper, Michael said.
What? Jake?
He and Ruth, they are not family?
They are, Paul said. But I don’t really know them. They’ve always lived up here. We never really had much to do with them. And I guess all that stuff with Jake . . .
He left the words suspended and glanced at Michael. If he knew any more than Paul did, he hid it well. The smile on his face was as inscrutable as ever.
Ruth hates me, anyway, Paul said.
Michael leant down to the deck and picked up one of the crystal crabs he’d earlier removed from a pot, the animal pale from its life at depth without sunlight, twice as big as a lobster. The German held it by its rear legs, away from its pincers, and dropped it overboard.
So, how long you been doing this? Paul asked.
Two months. I found the job in September. Jake needed a deckhand. You know.
Paul nodded.
I was on the east coast before this. I have not seen Stuttgart in four years, Michael said with a proud smile.
Four years is a long time, Paul replied.
It is a long time if you are not moving, if you are just still, in the one place. I have been elsewhere too, not just here. Did the traveller thing, you know.
You like it here?
Working on a boat? Michael shrugged. I could make more money in a mine, he mused. But I would not want that. Life is too short to go digging around in some billionaire’s sandpit, you know? And what a way to die, buried in a mine. Take me to the sea bottom any day. Feed me to the fishes.
Ruth told me the season isn’t going well.
Shit this year, they say.
Why?
Michael reached for the rollie papers in the pocket of his cargo shorts. They are calling this year the windy season. Something about the wind doing strange things. Winter storms still blowing in summer. I don’t know. No fucking fish, anyway. They do not allow many pots. He took off a glove and looked at it, turned it over in his hands. Maybe that is why I enjoy this, he said. The way I see all of this, we will not be doing it forever. People, I mean. One day there will not be this. We will wake up from our dream and there will be no fishing boats in the sea.
Michael rolled a cigarette, turned towards the cabin wall, out of the wind. He lit it, then held the bag of tobacco out. Paul shook his head.
Is Jake worried? Paul asked.
The German let the smoke go from his lips and frowned at the sea, like Paul imagined an old man might frown at the sea. Maybe, he said. But, you know, every man is worried about something.
Paul looked at him, again trying to figure out if the deckhand was being serious or not.
So, Michael said, eyes widening again. You getting pussy?
Paul smiled and shook his head.
My god. The girls that come and stay in that place. I would live there myself.
Don’t you have a girlfriend?
Girlfriend? Michael replied.
Shivani? Who made you lunch?
Shivani? Michael repeated, and paused to think on it. Well, yes. I guess I do.
Paul scoffed. Michael grinned.
She is always packing me lunches, Michael said mournfully. Every day. It is hell.
Why is that hell?
Shivani is Sri Lankan, Michael said. Her parents, they run that Tamil place. You understand? He looked at Paul sternly. They run a fucking restaurant. But Shivani? When Shivani is in a kitchen she is lost. She always has a cookbook like this. Michael held a palm close in front of his eyes. It is like watching a tourist, Michael said. Her head in a map, totally lost. Like one of those tourists in a big city who gets confused and steps out in front of a bus. They do not know which way the traffic runs, which way to look, and everything goes to shit. That is what it is like. I see her in a kitchen and I just want to shout, Shivani, get the fuck out of there before you kill yourself!
Paul listened for Jake, concerned about Michael’s volume.
And she is always packing me lunches, Michael said. I mean, what are the possibilities of that? How is my luck? I find myself a Sri Lankan in this tiny place and she speaks more Aussie than the rest of you, and she cooks like an old man who has lost his mind. Fuck me.
Paul grimaced to hide his smile.
Amazing butt, though, he said, and gave Paul a serious look. My goodness.
Paul laughed at the earnestness in his eyes, couldn’t help it.
Michael smiled. No, no, he said. I love that girl. Very much. Michael stretched. I need coffee, he declared. You?
Don’t think I should risk it, Paul said. It had been almost an hour since he had last been sick.
Michael walked away up the deck, pausing to take his gloves off. You know, he said over his shoulder, we have got a spare room, me and Shivani. Piece of shit, our place, but cheaper than that backpacker joint. No good you wasting all your money there, even if it is full of girls.
Paul opened his mouth to thank him, but the deckhand had already entered the cabin.
There were long hours during which the deckhands said nothing to each other, when there wasn’t a word said anywhere on the boat. Michael smiling into the breeze; Jake lurking on the bridge, like Quasimodo in his tower, unseen. It was something like calm. You could retreat into yourself and it was acceptable. Expected. The work was good for that, Paul thought. Still had your thoughts to deal with, but at least you didn’t have to share them, or hide them. You didn’t have to communicate at all.
By five o’clock Arcadia had completed six runs and the deck was empty of pots. They were heading back to Stark, and Paul was relieved at the relaxed pace Jake was going. It was a rare thing. Paul was sitting in the cabin, his eye locked on land to manage the seasickness, when he felt the engines kick under the deck, heard the rumble of them. The boat lifted in the water as it gained speed, the deck slanted upwards towards the sky. Michael jumped down from the bridge ladder and stepped into the cabin.
More pots? Paul asked.
No, no, Michael said hurriedly, one arm in his backpack. Something is out there. Jake wants a look.
How far?
Michael either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore the question. Got it, he said to himself, and pulled his camera from the bag.
They headed north-west for twenty minutes, away from town.
Paul felt the nausea descend on him again, a heaviness that swept through his limbs. Michael paced the deck. At last the boat slowed and the German roared with excitement. Paul stumbled out from the cabin.
Michael was leaning over the gunwale, talking to himself, eyes wide. Paul didn’t know what they were seeing, and he struggled to focus his eyes on the water. It looked at first as though something had been spilt over the sea, like the fuel from a wreck. But he saw the thickness of whatever it was, like a giant bluish rug that had been dumped into the ocean, laid out and floating, inexplicably, on the surface, its edges torn.
What is that? he muttered.
Moby Dick! the German announced theatrically.
What? Paul asked.
Not much left of him, though, he said, grinning.
As the boat neared the whale carcass, the smell flooded Paul’s nostrils and he instantly retched. Michael bellowed.
Jake cut the engine when they were alongside. He heard the German exhale.
Paul gazed into the thick, ruffled carpet of white tissue. The stench seemed to warm and thicken the air, like the smothering fumes of petrol.
And then he saw the flesh tighten, drawn flat by some great force at its far side.
See that? Michael gasped, his voice a high-pitched wheeze, as though someone had him by the throat. Up on the bridge Jake hooted.
Big fish down there, the deckhand muttered. Jesus.
Paul could sense movement in the water but all he could make out were shadows. His vision flickered.
Fuck, eh?! Jake yelled down, head over the railing. Get up here, Michael. Think there’s two big sharks. Fucking whites, too.
Paul turned towards Michael. He thought he might pass out. Michael gave him an almost crazed look, tongue out, eyes huge, and laughed. Should throw over the handline, he shouted to no one in particular and then hurried up the ladder to the bridge.
The boat bobbed and danced in the water, and Paul settled his hands on the gunwale, head over the sea, waiting to purge. And he could hear the sharks, moving their huge bodies around the carcass. He expected the sound of ripping and tearing, like knives through upholstery. But there was only the shushing of water. Muffled. Benign. He could hear Jake and Michael above him, delirious. And he forced himself to open his eyes, shuffling along the gunwale, trying to get a clear sight of them, the shadows sweeping underneath.
Circus
MICHAEL ATE WITHOUT SPEAKING. Paul still felt the hollowness in his gut that was with him all day on the boat and he was suspicious of it. He dismantled his burger slowly and picked at his chips.
Men from another crew filed into the tavern and sat on the bar stools next to them.
German, a red-haired deckhand said to Michael, sitting down next to him.
Noddy, Michael said matter-of-factly, and shook the man’s hand. He returned to his pizza, his eyes on his food.
You boys saw a white? Noddy asked.
Yep, Michael replied through a mouthful. We saw two.
Two? Noddy turned to the men next to him. Hear that? Two white sharks.
There was a pause, the crew silent as they considered Jules, the barmaid marshalling the beer taps.
That’s not normal, declared someone up the end of the bar, a smoker’s voice growling each word. Not this far north, and so many of them. Fucking sharks have been hanging around all year. It’s like they’re homeless.
It was a dead humpback, eh? Noddy asked, turning back to Michael.
He nodded.
There you go, Richard, Noddy said, looking down the bar again. Rotten whale. What do you expect?
That’s not the only rotten thing down there, the man growled. Whole coast is a corpse.
Paul looked at the quarter-eaten burger on his plate and knew another bite would make him sick. He closed his eyes and felt the room move around him, as though his chair was being lifted off the floor, drawn perpetually to the ceiling. He pressed his palms hard against his eyelids. The voices swum around him.
Was it that freak show? someone asked.
Circus, another voice said, confirming the name. That fucker still loitering around?
Yeah, Circus, said another. The retard. We saw him last week, didn’t we, Robbo? His big, lazy mouth all over the hull like he’s got dementia. Swear he looks like my pop.
Was it him? Noddy asked, turning back to Michael. The bar quietened.
Different sharks, Michael replied, uninterested in the conversation. We just saw two regular, able-bodied great white sharks.
The group gave a tired laugh and went quiet as Jules put the orders on the counter. Paul could smell the reheated chicken. His gut recoiled.
That shark, whatever you call it—Circus—isn’t retarded, the older man grumbled. There’s nothing dumb about it. It’s hungry, that’s what it is.
Circus is retarded, Richard, Noddy said. No doubt about it. Taking a propeller like that. It’s got a hole the size of a laundry bucket where its eye should be.
Won’t last long like that, said a deckhand that Paul had heard the men call Elmo. Paul could guess why. The deckhand’s face was permanently flushed red, bloated and shining as if he had been hanging upside down
The men fell silent again as Paul heard the shuffle of boots coming from the doorway. He removed his hands from his eyes and recognised the men he had seen on his first night in Stark. They took the stools underneath the televisions.
Paul nudged Michael with his elbow. Who are they? he whispered.
Arthur’s boat, Michael replied without taking his eyes from his pizza. Deadman.
Deadman? Paul repeated. I haven’t seen it.
You probably would not.
Why?
They moor it further up the inlet, upriver.
Why?
Michael returned a slice of pizza to his plate and breathed out impatient. I have not asked them, he said.
Paul glanced towards the crew, careful not to be seen staring.
Roo Dog, Michael said, anticipating the incoming question. He looked at Paul. And Anvil, Michael continued. Those are their names. It is best to stay far from them.
Which is which?
Roo Dog is the one like a skeleton, the one who looks sick. His brain is not well. Anvil is the big one. Not so smart, not so nice either.
Elmo overheard Michael’s words and grimly nodded in agreement, eyes wide.
There was something magnetic about the Deadman’s crew. They had everyone on alert, all eyes inexorably drawn to them. The old captain sat in the middle like a ringmaster.
Arthur, Jules greeted him. Good day?
The old man shrugged. Things stay like this I’m gonna have to start prostituting myself.
Anvil grunted.
Give them my lovely arse, Arthur added, and sculled his beer, pleased with himself.
Oh yeah, Jules said. Real gold mine.
Arthur cackled. A girl walked out from the doorway behind the bar and immediately the gallery went quiet in a kind of perverted reverence. Kasia. Paul recognised her. It was the girl who had been in the hostel kitchen the night he had first arrived in Stark. He had seen her there again the night before, pouring milk from a carton with her name written in black.
She pushed a mop and bucket across the concrete towards him. He didn’t look, but Paul could sense the men were watching them. Kasia looked up, her eyes square on his as she drew the mop from the water, wringing it out against the wire arms of the bucket. The bleach drifted hot from the floor and bit deep in his nostrils. He noticed the lightness of her blue eyes. They were almost fluorescent against her dark hair and the brown of her skin. The girl raised her eyebrows comically at his staring, and he willed himself to say something to her.
Hey, fuckwit, take a photo, a voice boomed from the other end of the room.
Kasia looked down at the mop head and he saw her smile.
I said hey fuckwit, the voice came again, louder.
Paul looked searchingly up at Michael.
The German winked at him. You shoul
d be going, he said.
Deadman
ON MONDAY AFTERNOON HE SAW DEADMAN moored in the inlet. It was where Michael had said it would be, away from the other boats, where the inlet hooked into the cover of the rivergums and sandstone gorge.
Paul went there alone, as soon as he and Michael had loaded the crays into the freezer truck on the jetty. He didn’t tell Michael where he was going. He knew it wouldn’t make much sense. He walked along the beach of the inlet, below the tavern beer garden. Beyond the town the beach narrowed to a thin bank, and the beach sand gave way to firmly packed clay. He felt the breeze, confused in the mouth of the gorge, as if trying to turn back towards the sea.
The boat was moored in shallow water, the river dark red with tannin. Deadman flew two Stark Vikings football club flags, the black cotton stressed and frayed. A sheep’s horned skull was tied to the bow rail, sun-yellowed.
He stood there for fifteen minutes, boots in the river mud, just watching.
Three afternoons in a row, when Arcadia had returned to Stark, Paul did the same thing. Walked into the shadow of the river, watched Deadman. There was no sign it had left its mooring. Nothing had been moved on deck.
On the fourth day, Deadman was gone.
Every night out in that desert I listen to the President while he has those bad dreams. The big fella grunts like he is dying, makes sounds like he is crying. When I say his name he doesn’t wake but he stops for a while.
