‘I’ve never been fishing.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Can we do some?’
‘Not here.’ I saw the flicker of disappointment, not only at the no, but also at my abruptness. ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘As we’re sailing back we can drag a lure behind us and try to pick up a tuna. Fancy that?’
‘Mmm, definitely, I love tuna.’
‘You love eating anything.’
She gave my ribs a playful nudge with her elbow. ‘You didn’t seem to mind.’
I leaned over and made a slight course change to avoid a motor-launch coming the other way.
‘What’s the name of the bay we’re going to?’
‘Refuge Bay, although we might anchor in America Bay, which is right beside it. Depends how many boats there are.’
‘Can we swim there?’
‘Sure. It won’t be clear like Palm Beach, but probably a bit warmer.’
We rounded West Head, then shortly after, turned south at Flint and Steel Point, and took a direct line towards Refuge Bay.
There were two boats anchored in America Bay when we arrived, both day-trippers from the look of them. We’d be alone overnight. I circled around Refuge Bay dropped the anchor in four metres of cloudy water and used the engine to pull it into the mud bottom.
When I stopped the engine, total silence enveloped us. We were hidden from the other two boats by the small knoll which separates the two bays. There was thickly forested shoreline on three sides and the open entrance to the bay on the other.
Carol was straddling the cockpit coaming, looking around at her new surroundings, relaxed and happy. I watched her until she felt my eyes on her and turned to face me.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. You still looking for a swim?’
She peered over the side at the milky green water, wrinkled her nose. ‘Are you going in?’
My answer was to pull off my shirt, take two steps to the stern, and plunge in. When I surfaced, there was an explosion of water beside me, and Carol’s broadly grinning face disappearing below the surface.
We spent an hour, alternately playing tag round the boat and doing bombs off the bow-rails. To begin with, I forced myself not to enjoy it, telling myself it wasn’t real, that it was just part of a strategy, part of a job. After a while, I gave in to the feeling and pushed away the demons.
Exhausted, we climbed the transom ladder, stripped off and dried ourselves. Her face was flushed, her skin covered in tiny goosebumps, her nipples taut. She’d never looked so good.
She looked at me looking at her, held my gaze and raised her chin. ‘What now, skipper?’
We passed the warm evening eating snacks and sipping whiskey. The urgency had gone and a mellow companionship lingered in the deep twilight.
I found myself wondering how we would have been, sailing together long distance, offshore cruising, island hopping across the Pacific. It was all academic. We’d never do that.
Almost as if she’d read my mind, she asked, ‘What’s it like living this way? You know, sailing around the world as you did?’
‘You wouldn’t like it.’
‘You don’t know what I like.’
‘That’s not what you were saying a couple of hours ago.’
The flush in her cheeks betrayed the innocent look in her eyes. ‘Come on, humour me. Give me a cameo of a week.’
I thought about it for a while before saying, ‘There’s no such thing as a typical week. They’re all different in one way or another, and that’s part of the appeal, but I’ll tell you about a week in Barbuda that I remember well.’
‘Was she beautiful?’
‘Are you going to shut up and listen?’
She mocked zipping her mouth closed, then opened it, said, ‘Go on,’ and zipped it closed again, looking at me with sparkling, expectant eyes. She was beautiful in the warm glow of the cockpit light. There was still a red flush in her cheeks and her lips clung to the cigarette as she slowly pulled it from between them, leaving them parted as she exhaled through her nose and mouth together.
When I got through the story of Barbuda, she was quiet for a while longer, and then said, ‘Wow. It sounds amazing. I had no idea there were beautiful places that were still uninhabited.’ She looked sombre. ‘I’ve missed out on so much.’
‘We all have. You’re no different. While you’re doing one thing, another person is doing something else. We all have to choose: this or that. We can’t have it all.’
‘I guess I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had a good life by most standards, and if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t leave a lot left undone.’
I looked at the black water beyond the transom. ‘I’m glad.’
She looked at me quizzically.
‘I’m glad you’re content. So many people hanker after things and a life they can never attain. They waste their lives wanting to be someone and somewhere else. Makes me mad.’
‘Well, don’t be mad at me, because tonight, right here, right now, there is nowhere else I want to be, and I’m happy being Carol Todd. And there is no one else I would rather spend it with than Mr Mysterious Micky DeWitt.’
‘Don’t go getting all soft on me, lady. I preferred it when you were trying to get me killed.’
‘Sorry, Humphrey, maybe you’d like to come over here and slap me again.’
‘Maybe I would, and maybe you’d like that.’ Her expression was impossible to read as she smoked slowly, her eyes fixed on mine.
Eventually she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and said, ‘I didn’t try and get you killed.’
‘I guess it just felt like it then. Tell me something. Did you ask Lenny if he knew anyone who could do a job for you, or did you ask him about me?’
She didn’t flinch or try to avert her eyes, but said simply, ‘About you.’
‘Why? Did you know I was a sap with no brains, or was it the way I poured your whiskey?’
A short uncontrolled laugh burst from her and she cut it off almost as quickly as it had begun. She played for time pouring fresh drinks, and lit another cigarette despite having just stubbed one out.
‘I heard what happened with that tosser who runs with Reed; that you’d put his face in the bar. I heard you weren’t part of anything; that you were a freelancer. That’s what I needed. It’s what I still need—and want. We did good on the Bateke job, and there’s more coming.’
‘More?’
‘I think I’ve got another coming off soon. We can have a good life doing low risk, high return jobs. Work a little, play a lot.’
There was a flash in my peripheral vision. I turned and looked for it again. Just as I was about to turn back, it flashed again. Somebody was spotting the shore from a slowly moving boat.
‘What is it?’ She looked into the black night.
‘Pass the binoculars from the chart table. I’ll take a look.’
As soon as she went below, I stood in the companionway blocking her exit. I took the binoculars from her upstretched hand and focussed on the approaching boat. It was the volunteer coastguard, aka Dad’s Army. When they were within fifty metres, they lit us up with the spot. I raised a hand. They held me in the spotlight for several seconds before moving on.
‘Who was it?’
‘Just some nosy do-gooders.’
I watched as they moved away to the north. Carol came back outside.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You seemed on edge.’
‘It’s nothing. I just didn’t know who it was. Strange things can happen in these isolated bays. How about a round of backgammon?’
‘What? You’ve lost enough playing poker already?’
‘I just don’t have enough whiskey left for that. Fifty a point—you want to play or not?’
Too Good to Miss
We departed Pittwater late the following morning. There was little wind, so we motored away from the bay, and then north into the main arm.
When we rounded Barrenjoey, heading south toward
s Sydney, the wind shifted to the southeast and strengthened to ten knots. It was enough to sail in, but not enough to cause the sea to get choppy. ‘Nina’ was performing beautifully, heeled over ten degrees to starboard and punching through the small chop at seven knots.
‘Hey, Micky, how about we do a couple more jobs and then sail away. This is so cool, just blowing along in the wind like this. What’s out that way?’ she asked, pointing east towards the empty horizon.
‘New Zealand.’
‘How long would it take to get there?’
‘Longer than we have today.’
‘But how long?’
‘About a week; it’s roughly a thousand nautical miles.’
‘And beyond that?’
‘Nothing until you reach Chile, if you keep going east, but if you take a hooked course to the north-east and keep going for around thirty-five hundred nautical miles, you end up in Tahiti and Bora Bora.’
‘How long?’ she asked wide-eyed.
‘Six thousand.’
‘No, I mean how long would it take?’
‘From here? Around six weeks.’
‘Wow. That’s a long time at sea in a small boat.’
‘Go look in that cupboard behind the seat on the starboard side. There’s a big yellow fishing spool. Careful of the hooks.’
She stepped quickly downstairs, returning with the big trolling hand-line. The motion was steady, so neither of us wore a harness. She followed me to the aft deck and watched as I trailed the lure astern, securing the spool with bungee cord.
‘You don’t have to hold it?’
‘You’ll know that you have something when the cord stretches out and the spool hits the rail.’
There was childlike enthusiasm in her eyes. She gave the bungee cord a tug, sat on the aft seat and waited.
‘Might be a while; come and have some chippies and a beer.’
After checking the spool one more time, she came and sat in the cockpit beside me.
‘You know, this is pretty bloody cool, Micky. Using the wind to push you and catching your food out of the sea, it feels—I don’t know—natural I guess. That’s not the right word. You know what I mean, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘So what draws you back to the city? Why didn’t you keep sailing and living this way?’
‘I was lonely for getting stitched up.’
She scowled and I braced for the elbow that didn’t come. I rubbed my thumb across my middle and index fingers.
‘Money; the wind is free, but sails aren’t. You still need fuel, as you’ve already seen, plus the thousand other things you and the yacht need to keep going—and too much paradise gets old. You need to feel the edge once in a while.’
‘When your whole life has consisted of edge, that’s pretty hard to imagine.’
‘It’s true anyway.’ I looked up at the mainsail and let the sheet out a touch.
‘The wind’s dropping, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘It’ll be better for fishing. Seven knots was too fast.’
She looked at the speed log and said, ‘Five and a half, is that a good speed?’ She scrutinised the spool for any sign of movement.
‘Relax. Drink your beer and have a cigarette. You’ll know when something strikes.’
Twenty minutes later, as we were drawing level with Long Reef, it did. There was a sound of hammering on the stainless rail around the stern. Carol tossed another handful of chips in her mouth, knocked over her beer can trying to get her legs out from under the cockpit table, and rushed to the stern.
She was still chewing, and pieces of chip tumbled out with her excited words. ‘What do I do?’
Take the spool in your left hand, keeping it pointing to where the line is going into the water.’
‘Like that?’
‘Good. Now grip the line about two feet away and wind that on the spool.’
Her words came through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t. It’s too bloody heavy.’
I went back to the cockpit and rolled in the headsail, slowing the boat down to three knots. ‘How’s that?’
She strained and tried again. ‘I got one turn on. How many are there?’
‘About a hundred and fifty: keep going. I’ll slow us down some more.’ I rolled in most of the mainsail, leaving just enough sail out to keep the boat steady. We were trickling along at one or two knots and Carol made some progress reeling in the fish.
‘Shit! It jumped out! Did you see that, Micky?’
‘Is it a tuna?’
‘How do I tell?’
I sat beside her on the aft deck. ‘Did all your tuna come in a can?’
‘Yes—and my arms are getting tired.’
‘Keep at it; you’re doing great.’
Her face was set with grim determination, her arms surprisingly strong. She was still wearing her cut-off denim shorts, and a short t-shirt that left six inches of her middle exposed. She looked much younger than thirty-eight.
‘Take a rest for a minute. Just hold the spool and let the fish tire itself out.’
The fish leaped out again.
‘Wow! Did you see it that time? Is it a tuna?’
‘A yellowfin from the looks of it. They’re strong, and wonderful to eat.’
She threw her head back and laughed. ‘I love this. It’s so bloody cool!’
I sat and watched her recover more line. She took in another ten turns, stopped, and looked around at me looking at her, a broad smile across her flushed face. ‘What?’
‘Nothing: just admiring the view.’
She raised an eyebrow, pleased with the response. The fish pulled hard again, this time diving deep and kicking furiously. She hung on to the spool with both hands, her bare feet braced against the toe-rail. She was the picture of health and happiness. When the tuna surfaced again, it had lost a lot of its fight, and Carol started to recover line fast.
‘I’ll get the gaff,’ I said, and went forward to where it was stowed, thinking as I did, what a situation this was to be in. When I’d first met her in the bar, she’d come across as a hard-playing dame with a narrow streak of vulnerability. When she’d told me about being used by Barry Hedges, she’d seemed almost soft and broken. Then when I found out she’d conned me, and tracked her down to the mountain, she was hard and cunning. Sitting there on the aft deck, pulling in a tuna with crumbs and spilt beer down her front, she looked gorgeous. Could I really kill her after these past couple of days? The only thing that prevented us sailing away was Ray’s threat to hurt Meagan. Would he really do that once I was gone? It seemed unlikely now that I thought about it. She was the main reason the bar did so well, and like all criminals, money was their main concern. It was all about the money, so it was unlikely they would chop her up if I shot through. I could sail away with Carol, or without her, and a have a few weeks, months, or years with no financial worries, playing in the Pacific and beyond. It was May, the right time of year to head north to the Pacific Islands. If I were to provision with food, water, and fuel, we could depart immediately and leave the world of Ray, Mitchell, and Lenny behind. As she sat on the aft deck, feet braced and arms taut, it would have been easy to say yes, just do it. Go and have some fun. Live hard and watch your back.
Her voice pulled me out of my reverie. ‘Kill me now, Micky?’
I hesitated, wondering if my mind was messing with me. ‘Say what?’
She turned her head and laughed. ‘I said, are you glad you didn’t kill me now, Micky.’ She looked at me and laughed again.
The tuna had tired and she had it within ten feet of the transom. I stepped over the rail onto the folded swim ladder and had the hook ready for when she brought it close enough. It was a good size, probably ten kilos. She put three more turns on the spool. It kicked hard in a last desperate attempt to free itself and then I had the hook under the gill cover. As I pulled it up the transom and onto the aft deck, I thought I saw something in the water just behind us, looked again, but couldn’t see anything.
<
br /> Carol was leaning back on her elbows, exhausted but thrilled. She looked so happy, as if she’d never been part of that grey world where we’d met.
The fish started thrashing wildly, spattering her with scales and flecks of blood. Holding the gaff hook with one hand, I opened the hatch of the starboard lazarette and took out a half-full bottle of gut-rot rum. Carol looked at me questioningly.
‘What’s this, a celebratory drink?’
I tucked the bottle under my arm, unscrewed the lid, and tipped a shot into the tuna’s open gill. ‘Yes, but not for us.’ The fish gave two more hard slaps and lay completely still.
From the same locker I took a knife and cutting board, turned the fish onto the board and sliced through the neck, letting the thick, rich blood spill across the deck and run into the sea.
That was when I first heard it; no more than a soft sloughing noise and the suggestion of a shadow on the water. I turned my attention back to the fish. The blood was gone. I opened the gut cavity, hauled out its innards, and dropped them over the quarter.
There it was again, louder this time. I peered over, and there, just below the surface, was the unmistakable profile of a hammerhead shark. Carol must have seen me looking, because she appeared beside me, staring down at the menacing shape.
‘Shit. Is that a—’
‘Hammerhead? Yes. Watch this.’ I removed the tuna’s head and dripped blood into the water. There were two of them now, the second much bigger at around three metres. When I dropped the head, the two sharks collided in their frenzied thrust. The larger of the two bit off more than half and the smaller came in to clean up the scraps. Carol was leaning over the rail, trying to get a better view. I laid my hand on her back, which was soft, warm, and moist from the exertion of winding in the fish. She leaned in against me and I ran my hand slowly up and down, feeling the smooth curves.
It happened almost before I realised. I gave her one quick push, and then helped her legs over. When she surfaced, she looked confused, as if I’d slipped, had somehow thrown her in by mistake. Something bumped her and her face fell into pure white terror.
‘MICKY?’
She tried to reach the swim-ladder. She almost made it. When the first one hit her, she let out a cry as if she’d been badly winded. It took her down a few feet, shook furiously, and tore off most of her right leg. Her blood stained the water. I’d seen enough. She was gone.
Flank Street Page 17
