Pescador's Wake (17 page)

‘
Padre
,' the young Spaniard cries.

Roberto is still alive, but is managing only shallow airy gasps. His lips and skin are fading to a bluish white. There is blood at his mouth. He says something quietly to his son and touches his cheek. Carlos is holding Roberto's other hand and feels it release. The wheelhouse falls silent.

José staggers backward, seemingly bewildered by what he has done. He almost drops the gun, but Dmitri takes it before it hits the ground.

‘I did not think you would actually do it, I have to admit,' Dmitri says, slapping José on the back. The young man leans into the furthest corner of the wheelhouse and vomits.

Carlos glowers at Dmitri with wet eyes, his arm flung around Roberto's son. ‘You've taken our friend and this man's father. How will you ever sleep again?'

‘You think this is the first man I have had killed!' Dmitri's laughter hisses like shards of ice in a fire.

José, vomit still clinging to the sparse hairs on his chin, has slunk to the floor, cowering from Dmitri and the angry Spanish crew.

‘And you,' Carlos says, glaring at José, ‘you might try to hide, but you'll be haunted by what you've just done for the rest of your life. You've killed a man, and nothing you ever do will put that right.'

‘Enough!' Dmitri spits. ‘I hope I now have your full attention. There is something important I have to offer you.'

Carlos watches the Russian who has so misjudged his audience. He may have won their fear, but he is as far from gaining their respect as a man can be. How could he have ever thought this would convince them? It occurs to Carlos that Dmitri would be the sort of person to beat his dogs, coercing them into submission. But beaten dogs feign loyalty only while their master is awake. The moment he falls asleep, they'll tear him apart.

‘But before I start,' Dmitri says, ‘you might want to question your loyalty to your
capitán
here.' He points at Carlos. ‘What he is not telling you is that he himself is a murderer.'

‘What?' Carlos clamours, incredulous.

Dmitri tells the Spaniards what he has already told the Peruvians about Carlos and Eduardo's plans to secretly sell
part of the catch. ‘But,' he goes on, ‘it seems that wasn't enough for him.' He eyes Carlos. ‘What better way to secure the full amount than by pushing Eduardo overboard when it was just the two of them on deck.' Carlos feels the crew watching him, narrowing their eyes and the terms of their loyalty. ‘I saw it all from up here. It's a good view, you must admit.'

Carlos is on his feet now. ‘You're suggesting I killed my best friend? These men know that's absurd.' But he senses his crew's allegiances swaying, back and forth. He is losing ground, metre by metre, just as he lost sight of Eduardo in the waves only yesterday. A wall of water, a trough, a wall of water, a trough.

‘We all know Eduardo would never unclip himself from the safety line. It was unclipped from the rail.
You
.' Dmitri glares at Carlos accusingly, ‘reached down and did that for him.
You
killed Eduardo.'

Carlos shakes his head. There's nothing he can say that will help his case. He was a fool to toss Eduardo's empty safety line into the sea. He knows that now. But how could he ever have anticipated that he would need to account for himself? He watches the men slip away from him. They, too, are unclipping themselves from their safety harnesses and sinking. And he can do nothing about it. He wants no more of this trip, or of the fish. He just wants to go home to María and Julia and the baby in her womb.

‘So, men, you decide where your loyalties lie. If not with
me or Carlos, then at least with yourselves. What I am offering is this.' Carlos listens to Dmitri outline the promises he made to the Peruvians: a share of the proceeds from the sale of the fish and the guns, which he still claims Eduardo smuggled on board. ‘But only if you help me get this boat to Mauritius. You decide. But before you go…' Dmitri measures his shoe size against the dead man's foot and orders Roberto's son to remove his father's sea boots. ‘I will take his overpants, too,' Dmitri says. ‘Unfortunately the jacket has a hole in it.'

Roberto's son lunges for the gun, but Dmitri cocks it fast.

Carlos restrains the young Spaniard. ‘Don't!' he shouts at him. ‘He's not worth it.'

The young man squats on the floor, his arm bent across his face, and weeps unashamedly.

‘I said undress him!' Dmitri hollers.

Carlos places a hand on top of the grieving youth's head, before beginning to undress the dead man. Slowly, the young Spaniard lifts his face and whispers to his father. ‘
Lo siento
,' he apologises, before surrendering to the task.

‘And when you have finished, throw him overboard,' Dmitri orders.

‘Let us at least wrap him in a sheet,' Carlos implores as Dmitri squeezes Roberto's boots onto his own feet. The boots are in good condition, probably new. It occurs to Carlos that the old man must have figured he had some years of fishing left in him yet.

‘The fish will not mind how he comes; just get him out of here,' Dmitri snaps. ‘Now!'

Carlos again puts a steadying hand on the bereaved son's bowed head and then says a small prayer, despite Dmitri's protestations. Like pallbearers at a funeral, six of the men help to lift the body.

‘Do not think
you
are leaving this wheelhouse,' Dmitri tells Carlos.

Carlos observes Manuel as the men open the door to the outside. The Spaniard's face is contorted with deep pain. Not just physical pain now but soul pain with its own distinctive ache. Carlos knows that Roberto and Manuel were old friends, and that Manuel will be feeling responsibility for his death. It had been his idea to suggest that they play ‘hard to get'. If it hadn't been for that, Roberto might well be alive. Carlos knows the guilt of not being able to save a friend is almost worse than dying yourself.

Through the ice-lacquered glass of the wheelhouse, Carlos watches the blurred figures carry the body along the deck. He sees them stop and then move in unison, swinging the old man like a wave advancing and retreating, advancing and retreating, until they have built up enough momentum to cast the dark shadow over the rails. The body plummets below the side of the boat out of sight from the wheelhouse, but the men remain reverently on deck for some minutes before drifting, like ghosts, back inside.

Dave Bates is watching through binoculars at dusk when the Spaniards aboard the
Pescador
heave the old man into the sea. At first he thinks it's a bag of evidence such as logbooks and computers, or maybe just kitchen refuse—the sea is littered with it—but something about the way the men carry the weight and the reverential way in which they unload it tells him otherwise. Men don't stand motionless on frigid decks watching the ocean for longer than they need. They have conducted a burial and he is an uninvited mourner, looking on from the outer edges of the graveyard.

Dave keeps the binoculars pinned to the orange shape flashing in and out of the waves like a torch running out of batteries. He loses sight of the body, but then there is a flicker against the dark sea and the torch is again alight. Normally a corpse would be wrapped but, in the middle of a sea chase, Dave supposes there is little time for ceremony. The body rises on a wave and for a sickening moment he considers that the man cast into the sea might still be alive.

The wheelhouse door opens behind him. ‘What you found, boss?' Harry asks, seeing that Dave is focused on something in the water behind the foreign boat.

‘The bastards have dropped a man over.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘I reckon he's dead, but I won't sleep tonight unless I know for sure.' Dave passes the binoculars to Harry and points in the direction of the body, which Harry promptly locates.

‘You gonna launch the rhib?' Harry asks.

‘You're reading my mind, mate,' Dave says reaching for the ship's intercom. ‘All crew on deck. We need the rhib in the water. The
Pescador
's got a man overboard. Cactus to supervise proceedings, please.' He switches off the intercom. ‘It wouldn't be the first time a pirate ship has topped one of its own,' he says to Harry.

The satellite phone rings. It's Roger Wentworth. ‘I've got some good news for you, Dave, mate,' he chirps. Dave hears him smacking his lips as if tasting success. ‘The South African naval vessel the
Bremner
has confirmed that they're set to board—'

‘Good, but I can't talk now. We've got a man in the water.'

‘Christ! You should've said.' The pitch of Wentworth's voice climbs. ‘Who is it?'

‘One of the illegals.'

‘Shit, I thought it was one of ours!'

‘A life's a life. We're just getting the rhib—our inflatable – in the water now to attempt a retrieval.'

‘Be bloody careful. We don't want you losing one of our men for the sake of one of theirs.'

‘I'm not planning on endangering anyone.'

‘Okay, do the good-citizen thing, but I need to remind you
again
that we're supposed to keep this chase continuous—'

‘A man is in the water!' Dave cuts him off, irritated. ‘If I jeopardise the damned legal case, so be it. Are you suggesting we do nothing?'

‘I'll let the South Africans know what you're up to. They might even have the boarding all stitched up by the time you're back on the scene. Over and out.'

Harry tells Dave to slow the boat. Cactus is waving at the wheelhouse and pointing to the man in the water.

‘I don't want to run over the poor bugger,' Dave says without taking his eyes off their target.

The man is face-down, being pushed and pulled by the waves, already part of the sea. Dave heads the boat away from the body and feels the bucking ocean taking on a new, smoother rhythm as the boat speed drops. He brings the
Australis
broadside to the waves, creating relatively calm conditions in its lee where the rhib will be lowered. Out of the corner of his eye, he is aware of Cactus preparing the deck crane and attaching the launch. Most of the crew are on deck. He diverts his attention from the body for a moment, to locate William, whom he spots beside the rails. The young lad is wearing Sam's wet-weather jacket with its extra reflectors sewn onto the hood and collar courtesy of Margie, but it is the long coil of rescue rope hanging from William's hand that is alarming Dave. Cactus hands William a lifejacket.

‘Shit, no. Not William,' Dave protests. ‘What the hell does he think he's doing? You go out and give them a hand, Harry. I'll be okay here. And tell William to pull his head in and let one of the more experienced guys go over. I'd tell him over the radio, but I don't want to embarrass the lad. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into.'

But William proceeds quickly towards the deck crane, and boards the rhib with two other crew before Harry gets close enough to tell him to stop.

Too bad if it embarrasses him, Dave thinks as he switches on the deck radio and projects his voice to the outside. ‘I want an experienced seaman over the side. Not William!' But the rhib is already being lowered, and is disappearing from view.

Dave's legs turn to jelly. He sees Sam in front of him, asking permission to use his car: ‘Just while you're at sea, Dad. I'll get my own after that. I promise.' Sam's hand had been on his heart for effect. ‘Yeah, right,' Dave had said, handing over the keys. It was the last conversation he'd had with his son. After the accident, nothing mattered for a long time.

Cactus shakes his head and looks up at the wheelhouse, hands in the air in an effort to ask Dave whether he should bring the rhib back on board.

Harry is at the deck intercom, lifting up the plastic cover that seals the electronics from the weather. ‘We'll lose the body if we try to bring the rhib back in now, Davo,' he says, steady as ever.

‘I know.' Dave's voice over the radio is frail and hollow against the weight of the wind. ‘It's too late.'

He feels the rhib fall as if it's passing through the pit of his stomach. It's as if
he
has gone over. Or Sam. He watches through binoculars for the inflatable to reappear a safe distance from the
Australis.
He sees William holding out the coil of rope. The rhib is almost on top of the body. There is no time.

The body is still floating face-down. William hangs over the side in preparation, and is pummelled by breaking waves. The body hits the side of the rhib hard and seems as if it might go underneath. But William propels himself forward and grabs hold of an arm. The rope is expertly applied, and the body is brought on board with little help from the other men. Perhaps it was his recent practice wrestling bullocks into branding crushes as a jackaroo, but William makes it look easy.

Dave hasn't seen this side of Sam's best friend before. Something resembling pride rises inside him. He remembers Sam telling him how capable William was when put to the test. That he'd scaled some of Tasmania's most challenging mountain peaks with just a set of climbing ropes and a bag of chalk. He had been teaching Sam to rock-climb in the months leading up to the car accident. The pair were planning to tackle Mount Wellington's organ pipes, the dolerite columns that form an imposing primeval mass, like toppling
candlesticks, behind the seaside city. Dave had been quietly proud of his son's adventurous spirit, too, and tried to suppress any feelings of concern. ‘Can't wrap kids up in cotton wool,' he'd told Margie when Sam was growing up. And, as it turns out, he was right. It was more dangerous just letting him get in a car.

Dave watches William turn the body over to face him. Even from this distance, he can tell the man is dead. The contrast couldn't be more stark: William's supremely fit form and bronzed face beside an old man bleached alabaster. Life and death entwined in a boat together. The rhib is driven back towards the
Australis
and disappears from view.

Within minutes, the deck crane delivers the rhib and its cargo home. Cactus turns to face the wheelhouse, carving his finger dramatically across his throat to let Dave know the retrieved man is indeed dead, as if there was any doubt. The rest of the crew are slapping William on the back, registering their approval.

Dave, relieved to see William back on board in one piece, forgets to turn off the deck radio and barks, ‘Thank fucking Christ!' It's the first time that most of the crew have heard Dave swear and he imagines them smiling at the novelty of it. ‘Superb effort, William,' he says, correcting himself.

Dave knows that William will be cold and numb, but recognises from his body language that he's on a high. The young man has risen to the challenge, adapting his skills to
the job at hand. His legs will be shaking beneath his plastic overpants from shock and relief. Dave remembers Sam admitting that after a climb they could barely walk from delayed nerves.

The corpse is lifted from the rhib and brought on deck. Dave turns his binoculars to it. It occurs to him that, if this chase is a war against illegal fishing, then this body belongs to the enemy. Suddenly their foe appears fragile and human. The dead man is no youth. His hoary mane is longer than men his age typically wear their hair in Australia. It resembles well-used steel wool, matted from seawater and the struggle to get him into the raft. His mouth and one eye are open as if surprised, awoken from the most permanent of slumbers. In this light, against the backdrop of the ocean and sky, his white skin is so pale that it's almost blue—the colour of the icebergs that dot these frozen realms. Dave doubts whether the body would bleed if the flesh was cut, and notices that the fisherman, while still wearing a wet-weather jacket and thermal long johns, has no overpants or boots. His naked feet are even whiter than his face. William and three other crew lift the body and carry it along the deck and up the stairs to the wheelhouse. Cactus, Dave notices, is keeping his distance, focusing instead on resecuring the rhib.

Dave hasn't seen a dead body since he saw Sam at the hospital morgue, and is overcome with a crippling dread. The men lower the sodden mess of a man onto the floor
respectfully, like hunting dogs delivering their punctured prey to their master. ‘Jesus,' Dave says. ‘Poor bugger.'

‘I know.' Harry's voice is almost a whisper. The men have all fallen quiet, the shock of death having silenced their collective tongues.

Dave begins to move the boat forward again in the direction of the
Pescador
and the South African vessel that has come to their aid. ‘Wonder what happened to the poor old bloke,' he continues. ‘Maybe he just died of natural causes. A heart attack or something. He's no spring chicken.'

‘Why'd they throw him in, though?' William asks.

‘I don't imagine we'll ever know,' Harry replies. ‘You'd better keep your theory of a heart attack to yourself, Davo. Cactus is already scared shitless about having a coronary at sea.'

‘Well, at least he knows we wouldn't toss him into Davy Jones's locker in his undies.' Dave flicks a look at the dead body, and then back at William, who is shivering more acutely now. ‘You go below and get warm, lad. There's not a lot we can do for this poor bugger. Glad you're okay, though.' He turns to face his first mate. ‘Harry, see if there's anything in the bloke's pockets to identify him, would you, mate?'

William is at the door of the wheelhouse when Harry unzips the dead man's sea jacket and stops stock-still.

‘What you got there, Harry?' Dave asks.

‘This tear here's a bit suspicious,' Harry says, jerking back the jacket and hoisting up a heavy woollen vest.

William steps back into the room.

‘And look here.' Harry uses his finger to trace the outline of another hole, this time in a woollen undergarment. ‘Just thought I'd see where it leads…' He manages to raise an oldfashioned thermal singlet, which the sea had twisted tight, to expose the dead man's chest.

‘Holy shit,' William rasps. A large hole washed clean by the ocean gapes back at them. ‘He's been bloody shot.'