EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He'd never known anything like it.

  It's just your jive talkin', you're telling me lies...

  Music that stirred his feet and his blood.

  Tragedy.

  A girl with hair the colour of the rich, red, Gascony soil and eyes greener than pastures in spring.

  When the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy...

  And now this. Scenery whizzing past in a blur, shirt billowing wide, and the wind in his hair—Georges cut the motor. The powerboat went dead.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Madame Morreau,” he said sombrely. “All she wanted was to feel the wind in her hair."

  Instead, Jean-Paul was feeling it in his for thirty francs an hour. Using Madame Morreau's money.

  * * * *

  "That's the first I've heard of any fishing competition.” Irene looked up from her accounts. “Funny time of year, isn't it?"

  Never tell a lie if you can help it.

  "This is something new they're trying out for tourists.” Georges crossed his fingers behind his back. “You're not allowed to keep the fish, you have to throw them back, but there's a prize of—” He'd been going to say a hundred francs. “Three hundred francs."

  "Goodness me, I think I'll dash out and buy a fishing rod myself,” Irene laughed. “Who's putting up the money, do you know?"

  Georges was prepared for this. “The man who runs that new boat-hire company.” He sneaked a peek at the notes scribbled in the palm of his hand. “He says the prize money is nothing compared to what he'll fetch, renting out his boats to the competitors."

  "Sharp,” Irene said admiringly. “Maybe I should try to find something that'll attract more visitors to Les Pins. Afternoon tea? Aperitifs on the terrace?"

  "You will tell Jean-Paul Morreau, won't you, Mother?"

  This was how the conversation had started. With him asking her to pass the message on.

  "I don't really see him as the fishing type,” she said doubtfully.

  "None of the other guests is interested, I've asked,” he cut in quickly, because the last thing he wanted was for her to broadcast it round the hotel, only to discover it was a better work of fiction than the Harold Robbins he was reading. Also..."It would be good publicity for us, too, if he won."

  "Good heavens, Georges, you do surprise me sometimes!” Every mother is proud of her children, but at that moment Irene thought her heart would burst out of her chest. “But you're right, and what young man could possibly resist the lure of such a competition, given the right motivation by his hotelier!” Irene cocked her head. “Pity you're not a tourist. I'll bet you know exactly where the big fish live."

  Bingo! The moment he'd been waiting for.

  "Oh, yes,” he said, unable to hide the big, broad beam that cut his face in half. “I know where to find the winner."

  As the door closed behind him, Irene became aware of hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She couldn't pinpoint the precise moment when her son had grown into a man. But she was fiercely proud of what he had become.

  * * * *

  Fishing is as much about patience as anything else. Having baited his hook, Georges sat back, ready to reel in Jean-Paul, but even he was surprised at the speed with which he bit.

  "Got a proposition for you,” he said, less than one hour later. “You help me catch the winner and I'll go fifty-fifty with you."

  Georges swallowed. “The best time's dusk. That's when they rise to the surface."

  Weasel looked suspicious. “I thought they sank to the bottom."

  Never tell a lie if you can help it. Suddenly, they were trotting out like ants. “Not the big ones."

  "Dusk it is, then.” Jean-Paul rubbed his hands together. “Tonight?"

  Georges studied the sky, confident the weather would hold. “Perfect.” The only thing that could have spoiled his plans was a storm that whipped up the water. But on a moonless night there'd be no tourists on the lake, and with his parents busy serving dinner, there'd be no one around to notice that two men went out, but only one came back.

  * * * *

  "What was that about?” Sandrine asked Jean-Paul, seeing him swagger out of Georges’ shed. She was about to get on her scooter to ride home. He was off to the coast for livelier entertainment than what was on offer at Les Pins.

  "That, my little Gingernut, is about winning a competition, and you know the best thing?” He chuckled as he unlocked the car. “We're going fifty-fifty."

  "What's fifty-fifty?” Sandrine wasn't good with maths.

  Jean-Paul slung his jacket on the passenger seat and winked. “It means he catches me a fish and I give him a hundred and fifty francs."

  "I wish someone would give me a hundred and fifty francs,” she sighed. “I'd buy myself a haircut just like Farrah Fawcett's."

  * * * *

  "Bloody dark out here. Sure you can see to row?"

  "I've fished loads of times at night,” Georges said truthfully, but all the same his hands were clammy. “I know this lake like the back of my hand."

  "Not surprised, considering they're the same size,” Jean-Paul sniggered. “Where'd you say the big boy lives?"

  Georges couldn't meet his eye. “Far side of the island."

  Jean-Paul squinted towards a dark lump in the distance. “Wake me up when we get there.” He leaned back and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

  Georges listened to the slapping of the oars and the pounding of his heart. It wasn't too late. He could turn round. Tell Jean-Paul he had a headache or stomach pains, even admit he'd made the whole thing up...

  It's so nice to be able to take a walk, while I'm still able.

  Madame Morreau's sad smile hung in the air like the Cheshire cat's.

  Will you run?Will you, Georges?

  And that was the problem, wasn't it? Madame Morreau was never going to feel the wind in her hair. He looked at the shoreline, growing thinner with each stroke. Glanced over his shoulder, at the island looming closer. She'd never see the sunset from the room where she'd shared so many good times with her husband. Never smell the leather of the seats of her old Peugeot, or run her hands across its walnut dash. She wouldn't even have the chance to chide her nephew, or wonder where he'd got to when she needed him.

  "We're here.” He nudged Jean-Paul with his foot.

  "It's the middle of bloody nowhere!” Lights from the villages twinkled like miniature fireflies around a lake as black as soot. “Still, for three hundred smackers, it's worth getting spooked, eh, Slowpoke?"

  "Stop calling me that, my name's Georges."

  His tone made Jean-Paul look up. “Right.” Both smile and voice were unusually tight. “Georges.” He shifted in his seat. “So how long do you reckon it'll take to track down our little winner?"

  "Depends.” Georges pulled out a flashlight and leaned over the water. “Could be minutes, could be hours—whoa! Look! It's—"

  "Give me that.” Jean-Paul's unease vanished as he grabbed the torch from Georges’ hand. “Where? I can't see any—"

  The rest was drowned by the splash of two giant hands tipping him over the side.

  "Hey! Hey, I can't swim!"

  "I know,” Georges said, rowing out of range with a speed that would have surprised Madame Morreau's nephew, had he not been gulping so much water. “You told me."

  "All right, all right, you've had your fun. You've humiliated me, shown me who's boss, and fair do's. I called you names, bullied you a bit, and now you've got your revenge—but for Chrissakes, man, I'm drowning."

  "No, you're not. Not if you kick your feet about a bit."

  Jean-Paul had nothing to lose. He kicked his feet about a bit, but the fear of being sucked in wouldn't leave. “Enough's enough, you stupid bloody halfwit."

  "You killed her,” Georges said, pulling out a piece of paper and reading it by flashlight.

  "What?” Jean-Paul's arms flailed and flapped in the water. “Is that what this is about? My stupid bloody aunt, you stupid moron?"

&nbs
p; "My mother thinks she had a long and happy life, but Mother's wrong."

  For one thing, Madame Morreau was only sixty-eight. Georges saw her identity papers lying on the table once, and sixty-eight was no age at all these days. Also, reading her diary, he saw that she'd never got over the devastation of not having children, sinking all her love in her husband instead.

  "When he fell ill with cancer, she had no qualms about spending every last centime on finding him a cure.” He didn't know what a qualm was, but it sounded so good that he'd quoted it anyway. “She even mortgaged her house."

  "I know that, you stupid idiot."

  "Not when you killed her, you didn't."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Now listen to me, Georges. You've had your laugh, you've made a fool of me, so come back and pull me out before I drown, you bloody retard."

  "She was too proud to let people know she hadn't got two francs to rub together—” Or, more accurately, too ashamed to admit she'd blown their entire fortune on charlatans and quack cures. “—and like everybody else, you assumed she was well off. You were her only heir, and so you killed her. For her money."

  "Yeah, well, prove it, dumb-ass.” But the fight had gone out of Jean-Paul as the struggle of trying to keep afloat began to tell.

  "You smothered her with her own pillows, then tried to make it look like natural causes, and because she was old and because you convinced the doctor that she had a bad heart, you thought you'd got away with it."

  "All right, all right, I killed the old bitch, so what? She was like a bloody succubus, Can you fetch this, I forgot that, Would you mind giving me a hand to the table. I lost my temper that night and rammed the pillow over her face, all right? She was sick and old. I was doing her a favour—oh God, help—"

  The water glugged and gurgled as it covered his head. Georges felt his stomach turning somersaults.

  "Please,” Jean-Paul said, bobbing up at last, and Georges could tell that he was crying. “Help me—"

  "You didn't lose your temper. You planned to kill her long before you left Paris."

  "I swear to God, it was the heat of the moment. For God's sake, don't let me die! I'll give you anything. The car. Take the car..."

  "You brought the medication with you. That's premeditated murder."

  "Whatever you want, name it, it's yours."

  "A confession,” Georges said. “I just want to hear you admit it."

  "All right, all right.” Jean-Paul was spluttering words and water in equal amounts now. “I thought she was rolling, I bought heart pills from a chemist's in Paris, I held the pillow over her face and—"

  "Did she struggle?"

  "Yes, of course she bloody struggled! I had to wake her up to get her to unlock the door, spinning some cock-and-bull story about needing to talk, put her back to bed, and guess what? No pillows."

  "She used to pile them on the floor."

  "I know that now, but at the time I had to search for them, so yes, the old bitch put up a fight—oh, Christ."

  His head went underwater, and once more, it took forever before it surfaced. Even Jean-Paul, who couldn't swim, knew the third time was his last.

  "You don't know what it's like,” he screamed. “Do this, do that—"

  "You wanted her money, you just didn't want to earn it."

  "I'm young! I'm not cut out for fishing false teeth out of glasses, just because the stupid bitch forgot to put them in before going down to dinner! I killed her, and the only thing I'm sorry about is that she didn't have the money. Satisfied?"

  "We certainly are,” boomed a voice from nowhere, and suddenly the night was filled with blinding sunshine. It took Jean-Paul a few seconds to realise they were searchlights from other boats.

  "Help,” he spluttered, and it didn't matter the water was swarming with police uniforms. He was saved. “Help me, I'm drowning!"

  "No, you're not,” Georges said. “If you put your feet down, you could walk to the island."

  * * * *

  Autumn came, and the leaves on the trees turned the colour of her hair, fluttering across the ground like the freckles on her skin. Out on the lake, grebes dived, the last of the swallows fattened up on flies, and in a rowboat a young couple talked of wedding rings and babies.

  Irene was already converting the old barn into a cottage.

  "I'm so proud of you,” Sandrine said, dabbling her fingers in the water. “The way you went to the police, told them the only way to prove Madame Morreau had been murdered was by a confession by her killer, and then offering them a way that they could get it."

  She hadn't cut her hair like Farrah Fawcett, why would she? Not when a big man with a broad smile loved to run his fingers through it, telling her it shone like fire and smelled of lollipops and roses.

  "I may have thought up the competition, but you gave it substance by saying your father was sponsoring it.” He'd had to lie, telling Sandrine that Madame Morreau confided in him on their walks. But this would be the last lie he ever told, he promised himself. “Without you to hold my hand, I'd never have plucked up the courage to walk into the commissariat."

  "In that case, come over here and show your appreciation properly,” she giggled.

  "I'd rather do it improperly,” he grinned back, “but first."

  He prised the master key from his ring and, with great solemnity, consigned it to the lake. As it sank, a breeze sprang up, rippling across the open water and ruffling his hair. Georges swore it smelled of aniseed. l

  ©2009 by Marilyn Todd

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  Fiction: THE SHIPBREAKER by Mike Wiecek

  After his graduation from college, Mike Wiecek spent a good part of ten years in Asia, mostly in Japan, where he began by teaching English and eventually found work in a publishing house where he was the only Westerner. His travels took him to many other parts of Asia, which may explain his comfort in employing a setting such as that of the following story. He is a Shamus and multiple Derringer award winner for his fiction, and someone to watch on the mystery scene.

  At dawn, the monsoon rains eased, and the long shantytown of Bhatiary grumbled to life. Low voices in the hostels, feet slopping through mud, occasional clanks from teapots on firebrick, all subdued in the damp, heavy air. Trucks groaned along the frontage road. Later the clanging and shouting and commerce would raise a constant roar along the beach, overcome only by the heaviest lashings of rain. But for now, a certain peace.

  Mohit Kadir walked lightly, cheerfully. He smiled at the murky sunrise; glanced affectionately at poisonously bright chemicals in the runoff ditches. A day or two longer as a gang laborer, and then he was out, advancing to apprentice cutter—a promotion so difficult and so rare that strangers had come up and murmured their envious congratulations. Today, Mohit felt like he could haul a ton of steel singlehanded and go back for more.

  The foreman, Syed Abdul Farid, yawned at his door.

  "As-salaamu alaykum, Mohit.” He had gray hair and the solid build of a more-than-adequate diet. “You appear happy this morning."

  "Yes, saheb.” Mohit felt himself grinning. “A fine day."

  They walked through the slum, collecting other members of the crew. Most lived together, six or seven men in scavenged huts. All came from the same town, Ghorarchar, in the far north of Bangladesh, a region of famine and desperate poverty. Mohit nodded greetings.

  "Kamon achhen?"

  "Bhalo achhi."

  The men wore similar lungis and cheap shirts, the thin garments uniformly tattered and stained, little more than rags. Their faces were gaunt, their arms thin to emaciation despite the appallingly heavy labor of their days. And they knew they were the lucky ones, the chosen. Ghorarchar offered nothing but slow starvation. Here on the long, trampled beach of Chittagong, they could earn sixty takas a day breaking ships, and be glad for it.

  The ships! Five years since Mohit first saw them, colossal hulks of rust and steel, driven onto the strand and looming like mountains overhe
ad. Half-dismembered, in the mist and rain of the monsoons, the dead ships seemed too massive, too huge to have ever been built by men. But now they were scrap, worth nothing but their metal, and other men were slowly taking them apart. For ten kilometers up and down the beach they sat one by the next, thirty at a time, slowly cut down with hand torches and carried away by barefoot gangs.

  "How do you feel, Mohit?” Farid said as they crossed the frontage road, a brief pleasure of asphalt before their feet sank back into endless mud.

  "Feel, bhaiya?” Mohit could be more familiar now, but Farid was still fifteen years older, and his boss.

  "I'll be sorry to lose you, my best of workers."

  "I will not lie.” Mohit raised his eyes to the hull before them, leaning his head so far back, to see the top of the forepeak, that he stopped walking. “Once I'm up there, my only memories will be of my friends. I am happy to leave this behind."

  "Cutting is dangerous work."

  Mohit laughed. Five years he had worked like a Gulf-states slave; five years he had painstakingly put aside fifteen takas a day; five years he had deprived himself of the occasional glass of tari, or carrom wager, or bit of meat. He had saved 25,000 takas, a fortune by anyone's standards, all to buy his way into a cutter's crew. Tomorrow he would be free of the mud, slung high among the beams and steel, with a torch, a tolerable wage—and a better life.

  "Pay close attention to Hasan.” Farid was still in his role, father-figure to the young men of Ghorarchar. “He has agreed to take you as his apprentice, and he will teach, but you must learn. Remember, you want to drop the plates onto the beach—not onto your head."

  "Nor yours."

  Mohit, orphaned at three years old, could not say he'd been a lucky child. But unlike so many other men in Bhatiary, he did not have to send money home to his family, for he had none. As a boy he had not a single toy; as a youth he survived by catching small fish from the rice paddies. Conditions that destroyed so many others had somehow granted him, instead, a determination to better himself. Today he was almost there. He had a plan: the cutter's job would let him save real money. Someday, by the will of God, he would have enough to buy a truck!—and then he would be a rich man, an independent operator ferrying scrap to the rolling mills. His cab would have the finest decorations, the best paint, the most brilliant chrome. Perhaps even ... a house of his own. Such dreams were painful, and Mohit did not let himself imagine them often; but they drove him all the same.