Past the Shallows

by Favel Parrett

  At the end of the drive Harry turned onto the gravel road. He listened for cars. Listened for trucks. He checked for dust clouds up ahead. It was clear.

  After his house there weren’t any houses for a while, not near the river, anyway. The place was thick with trees, black with them, and there wasn’t anything else but trees until you crossed the bridge and went round the long corner. After that, where the road was straight, there was scrub and rectangles of cleared land full of weeds. A few old fire tracks. A few old farmhouses. Not much.

  But that’s where Stuart lived. He lived in a caravan. It was a caravan with a wooden shed attached so it was like a house, really. And Harry didn’t think that it could even move anymore, the caravan, because it had been in one place for so long. It had been there for all of Stuart’s life, maybe even longer, and it had sunk down into the earth so that its wheels were almost buried.

  Stuart’s mum’s white Ford Cortina wasn’t in the drive, but Harry walked up to the door and knocked anyway.

  No one answered.

  Maybe they had gone to set up the stall. Stuart’s mum grew berries, raspberries and blackberries, and she sold them on the road just outside of Huonville. She usually just left an honesty box but sometimes, on the weekends or holidays when there were people from Hobart driving down, she would stay at the stall. Stuart hated it when he had to stay there, but at least he got to go to Huonville and look at all the shops. It was better than hanging around here.

  Harry put the show bag by the door. He rolled it up in case it rained, and then he walked away. But he didn’t walk fast now. He took his time. Stuart and his mum might drive past. They might come back.

  A truck appeared when he was nearly back at the bridge. Harry stood in the ditch and closed his eyes tight against the grit that kicked up in his face, against the wind. And he could smell the sap, even over all the dust. He could smell the freshly cut trees – the smell of crushed leaves.

  When he opened his eyes, the truck was lost in a haze of smoke and gravel and dust. There wouldn’t be another truck for a while.

  He walked onto the bridge and leant against the railings on one side. The dark water of Lune River was moving with a silent speed that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He picked up a rock and dropped it over the edge. It disappeared instantly into the rushing water and didn’t even leave a mark on the surface.

  You would need a million rocks to make a dent.

  He looked for bigger rocks on the side of the road to chuck into the river, and he nearly stepped on a dead bandicoot. It was in perfect nick, its stripy fur and speckled white cheeks still intact. Harry bent down to inspect it closely. Only a dried trickle of blood coming from the corner of its mouth gave away that it was dead and not just asleep. And it must be pretty fresh, because it hadn’t been eaten by quolls or devils or been picked up by a wedgetail yet.

  Joe collected roadkill. Only the good ones, though. He stripped away all the fur and flesh, then rebuilt the skeletons – like the megafauna at the Hobart Museum, only smaller. The biggest one he had was a wallaby, but Harry liked the Tassie devil best, with its big jaw and sharp teeth. Harry wondered whether he should take the bandicoot around to Joe’s place. It wouldn’t take that long, maybe an hour.

  Something moved in the grass ahead. The tail and then the small face of a dog. A pup. It had just come right out of the bushes and it sniffed over the dead bandicoot, looked up at Harry. Harry checked to see if anyone was with the dog, then he knelt down, let the dog lick his face. And he cuddled the dog. It was a kelpie. He could tell because of its smile – the red-brown mouth rimmed by tan, unable to hide its joy. Harry was glad, too.

  The pup wagged its tail, started walking away from the road, and it looked back to see if Harry was going to follow. He did, and the dog led him into a thick pocket of trees. Harry picked up a stick, whistled, and threw it, and the pup grabbed the stick in its mouth and ran ahead. Harry ran, too. He chased the dog through the scrub, chased it all the way out into a clearing. And there was a long bogged-up paddock. There was an old wooden shack.

  Suddenly Harry knew where he was.

  This was George Fuller’s place.

  Kids at school were scared of George Fuller. Harry had only ever seen him once, standing on the side of the road, but he didn’t ever want to see him again. His face was all squashed in and he looked like a monster. Stuart said that he lured people to his shack and ate them. Other kids said worse things. They said that George had killed his parents, burnt them alive, while they were sleeping in their beds, and that he was crazy. Harry never came this way. And if he had to, he was always careful to stick close to the road instead of taking the short cut.

  The dog dropped the stick and trotted closer to the shack. It took a few gulps of water from a yellow bucket then ran straight back to Harry with an old bit of rope in its mouth. It dumped the rope at Harry’s feet. Harry looked at the shack. He couldn’t see any signs of George so, with one eye on the house, he picked up the fat knotted rope and chucked it as far as he could. The dog was fast. It took an aerial leap, had the rope in its mouth before it had time to reach the ground.

  ‘Good boy,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Drop it. Drop the rope.’

  He grabbed one side of the rope and tugged. He pulled as hard as he could, almost lifted the pup off the ground, but the dog held on, growled and pulled back.

  There was a creak, a door opening, and Harry bolted. He ran as fast as he could, only looking back when he had nearly reached the safety of the trees. George Fuller was standing there by his shack, and he was waving.

  Harry’s leg hit something. Something sharp and he fell hard, smacked the ground. Hot pain shot up his shin and he grabbed at his leg. Someone called out his name.

  He jumped up, kept running and he didn’t look back or stop until he made it to the bridge. There he hung onto the rail, caught his breath. He checked his shin. The skin was grazed but it wasn’t bleeding much.

  There had been no one else around.

  How could that man know his name?

  Joe was waiting there for him when the boat came in. Waiting in the orange van. And when Dad said he could go, Miles ran.

  Everything you needed was in that van: surfboards, sleeping bags, fishing gear, tools. Miles opened the door and could smell hot chips and gravy. There was a pile left for him on the middle seat, lukewarm and soggy but still good.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to work,’ Joe said.

  Miles shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  Joe drove fast on the raw dusty gravel and plumes of it billowed up behind them. Scrub and shacks passed the window. Kit homes, most tiny, bare fibro, unpainted. Miles knew them all. Their gardens full of rusty car shells, dead tractors, decaying boats marooned on land. And if you didn’t know better, you’d think that no one lived here anymore. That all these places were abandoned. But people were in there somewhere, hidden and burrowed in. They were there.

  The road began to climb. Less shacks, more scrub, and on the other side was Roaring. Joe stopped the car right on the headland, parked close to the cliff, and Miles looked down at the bluff, down at the reefs. He turned to Joe and smiled.

  There was swell coming in. It was clean. No wind.

  They were going in.

  Miles could get into his wetsuit so fast, even when it was damp and stuck to your skin like glue. You couldn’t wait around when the surf was good. You couldn’t wait around and say, I’ll surf it later, because the wind changed and the tide changed and just like that, it could go onshore. Just like that, it could get fat with the high tide and you could miss it.

  He grabbed his board and ran down the steep track to the beach. He left Joe behind. And all the way down his eyes were out on that break. The right-hander that wrapped tight around the bluff. It was his. He’d get there first, get the first wave.

  The cold water bit at his hands and feet as he began the paddle. Winter brought massive swells, awesome to watch and not much fun to be in,
but today the bluff was still like liquid mercury. Near perfect three-foot lines. The paddle was easy. The waves were easy. The ocean was at peace.

  He sat behind the break, looked back towards the beach. Joe was only just coming down the track, but he was strong. He paddled quick and he’d be out in no time. Miles turned his head to the horizon and grinned. A good-sized line, maybe a four-footer, hit the reef and began to peel. Sometimes you didn’t have to move an inch. The shoulder of the wave lifted his board; he looked down the clean face and took the drop. Miles felt his bones. He carved along the wave nice and loose, flicked up with sharp cutbacks every so often to bring him back up onto the shoulder. He heard Joe hooting from the beach and he knew he was charging.

  Joe and Miles sat together waiting for one last line.

  And then Joe said he was leaving.

  Miles sat still. He looked down at the water. It was one solid dark mass, impossible to see past the surface now that the light had gone.

  ‘The boat’s done. Just gotta get a few things sorted. Pack up the house. Maybe you could come over and help on the weekend.’

  Joe’s boat was finished, the one he had been building all these years. It was ready to sail, ready to take Joe away.

  ‘She’s a fucking bitch,’ Miles said. And it was true, Aunty Jean was a bitch. Granddad had left the house to Joe. He had lived with Granddad since he was thirteen. Aunty Jean stole it from him, contested the will.

  ‘You know she’s going to put money aside for you. For you and Harry. Anyway, it’s not even about the house really. It’s –’

  ‘It’s what?’

  Joe splashed some water on his face. He didn’t answer.

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Time,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just time.’

  Everything was dark blue now. The cliffs and the beach and even Joe’s face were all blurred and hazy. Miles wanted to tell Joe that things were bad at home. He wanted to tell him that working on the boat was bad and that he didn’t know what to do. But he didn’t say any of that. He just said he would come and help on the weekend. Come and pack up the shed and house. Because he wanted to stay at Granddad’s. He wanted to stay with Joe.

  ‘We’d better go in,’ Joe said. ‘It’s freezing.’

  Miles had started to shiver, but he couldn’t really feel it.

  It was still dark outside, but light was coming in from under the door and Miles was coughing.

  ‘Are you sick?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Shut your eyes for a sec. I’ve gotta turn the light on.’

  Harry closed his eyes tight but the burst of bright light still made his eyes water. He opened them carefully, held one hand up to shield them. Miles coughed again from somewhere deep, and he had black bags under his eyes. They were puffy.

  ‘Are you sick? Maybe you can stay home?’

  If Miles stayed home they could put the fire on and watch TV, and Harry could make him cup-a-soups and lemon drinks. Miles squeezed a jumper over the top of the one he already had on and put his beanie on.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want my scarf?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  The air was cold and Harry was glad he didn’t have to get out of bed. He let his body lie back down. Dad called Miles from the lounge.

  ‘Maybe you’ll get to finish early today?’ Harry said.

  Miles was looking for something on the floor. He picked up some socks and slipped them on over the ones he was already wearing.

  ‘I’d better go.’ He coughed again and turned the bedroom light off.

  Harry heard the toaster pop, then the front door shut. Miles had left the lounge light on for Harry so it wasn’t dark. He curled up in his doona, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep now. He was already awake. He was thinking about that dog. The puppy that wanted to play with him. And he knew he was going to go back and look for it. He knew that’s what he was going to do. Maybe not today, but soon.

  They had finished up early.

  All the tubs were full – their daily quota reached – and they would get back to the wharf by eleven, have the boat cleaned and ready by twelve, maybe. Miles was thinking that he’d walk around to Joe’s from the wharf and see if he was home. Because when the boat had passed Tasman Head the swell had been running straight south-west and if it stayed that way, and if the sea breeze didn’t kick up, there’d be good waves at low tide at Lady Bay or on the bluff at Roaring. It would be perfect.

  Martin poked his head out of the cabin and the engine cut.

  He’d seen salmon.

  Miles ran to the side, looked out the back. Atlantic salmon were massing in a giant ball – a feeding frenzy – and they were huge, probably escapees from the salmon cages in Dover. An easy catch.

  Dad grabbed a rod and cast out. The metal lure only floated for a second before he yanked it back and a salmon hit the deck with a thud, gills flaring. Miles ran over and grabbed it. The fish fought hard against his hands but he managed to unhook its jaw and chuck it in a plastic tub. As soon as the line was free, Dad cast again and just as quickly, there was another fish. Jeff grabbed a rod, too, and now fish were flying in every few seconds. Miles scrambled around on the deck, unhooking fish and sliding them into the tub. Within minutes the first tub was full. Miles knelt down and watched the fat salmon writhing, their sharp little teeth trying to find something to bite. Atlantic salmon were vicious little bastards.

  Martin came over and with a swift stab to the bottom of the head, he killed the fish one by one. It wasn’t cruel if you did it properly, but Miles wasn’t very good at it. He always hesitated at the last minute and he was glad he didn’t have to do it today.

  Martin put his knife down.

  Something made them both look up.

  A change in light – a sudden stillness.

  There was a giant mako in the sky, its mouth closing in on the salmon at the end of Dad’s line.

  Miles tried to stand, tried to move, but Jeff pushed past him and he fell face first onto the wet deck. The whole boat quaked, tipped and Miles slid until he smashed hard against the railings. And water was coming in; coming in or coming over, and when he looked the ocean was right there, right next to his face. He was pinned, the side of his body numb. He turned his head slowly and the thick, steel blue skin of the shark was touching his arm, touching his skin. It was squeezing into him, thrashing wildly. The shark was right on him.

  He felt something grab his legs. It was Martin, pulling hard – so hard it hurt. Miles’s ribs felt like they were going to cave in, let everything give way, and there was a sickening crack. Miles waited for the pain. He waited for the air to be sucked out of his chest, but someone else was yelling. Someone else was broken.

  The shark’s tail had hit Martin’s legs and he was down. Down on top of Miles.

  Now Miles could hardly even move his head. All he could do was watch the shark beside him fight. It was jerking itself back, inch by inch, in the direction it had come. Miles could see the curved teeth that spilled out in every direction, teeth that brushed against his skin. And the shark’s eye was on him now, full of strength and pride. The eye of a champion – a wolf of the sea.

  ‘We’re going over!’

  Dad was yelling from the far side of the deck. The boat must have been up on some crazy angle because he seemed to be hanging from the rails.

  They were going over, tipping over.

  They were going to go in the water.

  A crack ripped through the air, an explosion that blew his ears apart. The shark began thrashing harder, stronger, and Miles could hardly breathe.

  ‘No!’ Martin shouted. He was trying to drag his body up and cover Miles. ‘Don’t shoo –’

  Another crack and someone was laughing. Jeff was laughing.

  Miles could see a bullet wound, blood oozing from the mako’s head. It shook and jumped, every movement bringing the water closer, and Jeff was closer now, standing right above Miles on a weird angle. He was still laughing when the
shark’s teeth gnashed across his shins, ripping his skin open. Jeff made a hissing sound, cocked his rifle and fired again.

  Miles shut his eyes, sure that this bullet would lodge in his head, sure that he was dead now.

  And he didn’t move.

  But he felt the boat move, right itself. He felt all the weight that was crushing him lift away. Someone dragged him to his feet. Dad. He was saying something. It looked like ‘You OK?’ or ‘You’re OK’, but Miles couldn’t hear the words. His ears were gone, stuffed full of ringing.

  He stood there and watched Dad scramble to rescue debris that had been flung off the boat. The abs and salmon were gone, the tools and equipment. Almost the whole deck was cleared except for the ten-foot mako that now took up the whole mid-section of the boat. Miles looked down at his arms, his body. That shark hadn’t hurt him – not even a scratch.

  She lay on her side, her blue skin already turning grey, and Miles felt sick as he watched Jeff slice through her white underbelly with ease. Her stomach and insides slid through blood onto the deck.

  She was pregnant.

  Jeff hacked into the full womb and three pups spilled out; two dead and half eaten, the other trying to swim in its mother’s blood against the hard surface of the deck, tiny gills stretched open, black eyes searching. Jeff bent over and stabbed it through the head, grinning as its body came up on the long knife, still fighting. He chucked it at Miles and laughed as he wiped blood off his face.

  Miles caught the baby in his arms. It was dead now, black eyes fixed.

  It was fully formed, more than half a metre long, maybe only days away from being born. It would have survived if Jeff had just let it go, let it slide off the back of the boat. It had made it this far, battling its siblings, killing and feeding off them. Waiting. It would have been born strong, ready to hunt, ready to fight.

  Miles felt the engine through his boots. They were moving, but Jeff was still busy with his prize, busy decapitating her. He hooked the head on the winch and started pulling it up. The grotesque and bloodied thing rose, bullet wounds clearly visible; all three to the head, the last right between the eyes. With a metal rod, Jeff slid the rest of the hacked-up carcass down and off the back of the boat, leaving a trail of blood and flesh in the water for the birds to pick through.