by Derek Hansen
The porpoises came up to investigate the moment he dropped into their realm. Yet another diversion. Their day was turning out better than they’d ever imagined. They followed Red as he swam down the anchor rope, angling in for a good look at the ungainly creature, amused by his presumption. Red kicked with his practised, unhurried action, conserving the air in his lungs as he plunged deeper. At around sixty feet he paused and peered at the landscape beneath him. The water was clear but the light levels too low for definition. Nevertheless, he saw what he’d come to see and it was much as Bernie had said it would be. Silted up and almost hidden by weeds, metal gleamed dully among the brightly coloured sponges and urchins. Nature had begun the job of covering and burying the thousands of Army shells that had been dumped there, but it was patient work and far from complete. Curiosity satisfied, Red set off back up the anchor rope, blowing bubbles to entertain his companions. As he burst to the surface he heard his urgent gasp for breath reprised twice. One of the porpoises brushed his leg to thank him for the game or entice him to do an encore. He hauled himself aboard, wishing he had bait fish to give them for their company. But all he could offer were a few more revolutions from the diesel and a more energetic bow wave.
He turned south, heading not for home but for his crayfish traps. The crays were plentiful when you knew where to look and half a dozen would do him nicely. If he left the traps down any longer he’d only end up putting unneeded crays back, and he couldn’t see the point in distressing them unnecessarily. He didn’t need the money because he was still living off the windfall from the snapper caught in the Jap longlines three months earlier. The porpoises peeled off to look for another distraction as he passed into the lee of Aiguilles Island. Up on the bow, Archie gave up searching for his friends and ducked under the deck for shelter. Red thought back over the morning, pleased to have salvaged something from the day and delighted to have confirmed the existence of the rise. On the right days it would be a magical place to dive and to fish, a marine garden known only to himself. He saw the rise as Bernie’s bequest to him, as fine a gift as he could ever receive, never considering for an instant the fact that it also included several tons of military ordnance.
His first trap yielded three crays, the second three more and the third just one, but it was by far the largest. One for Angus, one for Rosie, and one to share with Archie. The rest would be cooked and frozen, or boiled up with their shells to make stock. As he picked a flat-topped swell to make his exit from the gutter he began to feel uneasy that Rosie would misinterpret the motive for his gift. Would she understand that he was merely sharing his surplus or read more into it? Would she see it as evidence of a growing friendship? He didn’t want that. He wanted things to stay as they were. Co-existence at a distance. He didn’t want to feel drawn to her, to wonder where she was and what she was doing and how she was managing. He didn’t want to think about her when he lay down in his bed at night and arose from it at first light. He didn’t want to think about her at all. Nor did he want her to think about him. He didn’t want the complication. All he wanted to do was the one thing his life had trained him to do – survive.
As he climbed the trail around the ancient pohutukawas to Angus’ bach, he was still wondering whether he should give Rosie a crayfish at all. But how could he give one to Angus and not to Rosie? They were both in his group whether he liked it or not, and in Burma, where they’d grouped together to help each other survive, it was unthinkable to share with some and not with all. He called Archie to heel and paused at the edge of Angus’ garden, two half-drowned creatures shivering and saturated by sea and rain.
‘Hello!’ He didn’t have to wait long.
‘God’s sake, man! What do you think this is? Piccadilly Circus?’ The Scot appeared at his doorway, red-faced and indignant. ‘What is it this time? Get on with it and leave. I didn’t come here to be interrupted every five minutes.’
‘I’ve come to give you a cray, that’s all.’
‘Aye. And that woman just wanted to give me some bread. What do you think I am? Have you two decided I’m senile and need mollycoddling? Or is this just part of a campaign to annoy me into leaving? You may well succeed, let me tell you.’
‘Rosie brought you some bread?’
‘Aye, and don’t you play all innocent with me, laddie. I’ll not put up with it. The two of you are in bed together and don’t think I don’t know it.’
Red stood lost for words. The two of them in bed together? Why would Rosie tell Angus that? He felt mortified and caught, and had difficulty hiding his shame.
‘What’s the matter with you? Afraid to admit it, are you?’
‘No. We did spend a night in bed together.’
‘Speak up, man! What are you talking about? Make yourself clear.’
‘I’m talking about what you’re talking about.’
‘What I’m talking about? I’m just saying you’re in league with that woman, for what purpose beyond interrupting and tormenting me every hour of the day I can’t imagine. What are you saying?’
Red realised his error and indiscretion. He turned away to stare at the ground, hoping to find some inspiration in the mud and puddles. He found none and glanced up guiltily at the Scot.
‘Are you saying she’s already trapped you in her bed, you soft fool?’ Angus asked the question quietly, incredulously, fearing the truth.
Red nodded.
‘Then there’s no saving you, man! You’ll be the downfall of us both! Lord, give me strength and save me from the blunderings of fools!’
‘I had nothing to do with the bread,’ Red said miserably. ‘I just caught some crays. Here, take one and I’ll be on my way.’
‘One minute. You’ll not leave here without some gherkins. I’ll not be indebted to you or any man. Or woman! Bring the jars back, mind, and their caps.’ He disappeared indoors while Red plucked a reluctant cray from his sugar sack. Every leg and feeler seemed snagged in the weave. But Red prevailed and the cray snapped its tail in anger and indignity. Angus reappeared with two large jars. ‘Slice one onto your bread with whatever you’re having for dinner. Doubtless that harridan’s left a loaf for you, too.’
Red climbed up onto the veranda and made the exchange. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Aye. And if you’ve any skerrick of brain left inside your head you’ll give that woman a wide berth. She’ll use you as her own personal handyman until you’ve no life left of your own. She’s nothing but trouble, man, I’m telling you. For God’s sake, keep your trousers on or we’ll never be rid of her!’
Red turned and made his way back down the trail to where it forked up the hill towards his place and Rosie’s, feeling cold, miserable and, worst of all, riddled with uncertainty.
Angus watched Red’s retreating form and nearly sobbed with despair. He hadn’t considered for a moment that the woman would take either of them into her bed, certainly not so soon, and certainly not the madman. Part of him wanted desperately to deny the truth, the part bruised, beaten and humiliated by the women who had rejected his advances, and those others who’d refused his offers of money. But the truth sat there, naked and undeniable. She’d taken the madman into her bed when it could have been him! The chance of making the boy child he’d longed for had beckoned and he’d spurned it. His pride and fear of rejection had pushed Rosie away from him, lost him any hope he might have had. He wondered desperately whether it was too late to make amends, to make his peace with her. What if he was less rude to her? What if he helped repair her guttering? What if he befriended her? Would she not also take him to her bed? What woman wouldn’t prefer him to the madman?
The flapping of the crayfish in his hand dragged him back to reality. A half-filled page sat in his typewriter, stopped in mid-sentence. But Angus knew there’d be no more writing while possibilities nagged and jealousy and self-disgust ate away at his heart. Dare he try once more? Could he endure another rejection? Had he already gone too far? He screwed his eyes tight in anguish and tried to
deny the forces that urged him to her. It was just not meant to be! His fate, like that of the crayfish, was already decided and he was just deluding himself. He put water on to boil. ‘Damn you!’ he shouted. ‘Damn you!’ Why had the woman come to tease and torment him and try to make him believe things could be otherwise?
Rosie had cleaned the metal parts of the old anchor with Brasso and steel wool and begun oiling the woodwork. By no stretch of the imagination was this her most pressing task, but it was one that offered the most satisfaction. The hard, weathered timber gleamed softly in her hands. She was so involved in her efforts, and in trying to imagine its history, that Archie’s warning barks startled her. Red? She rose to meet him and almost laughed out loud when she saw him in his rubber diving suit with the sugar sack over his shoulder. But then the implications of the sack dawned on her, and she had a sinking feeling that her scheme to build up a debt of gratitude had faltered before it had begun.
‘Afternoon, Red,’ she called, sounding far more optimistic than she felt. ‘Now I know why you wander around naked. Whatever you wear makes you look ridiculous.’
‘Afternoon, Rosie. Angus said you’ve dropped off some bread for me. I’ve brought you a crayfish in return.’
‘How very thoughtful of you,’ said Rosie. She loved crayfish, but, given the choice, would have swapped it gladly for two hours with a good plumber. She gingerly grabbed hold of the crayfish’s feelers as Red handed it to her, live and kicking. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do now?’
‘Boil it. I have to keep moving, Rosie, or I’d show you. I have to get Archie dry and warm. We’re both frozen. See you.’
‘I’ve hot water for a bath. Come in and show me afterwards.’
‘No thanks, Rosie. I’ll manage.’
‘I know you will, Red, but will I?’ Rosie watched him head back the way he’d come, her crayfish held at arm’s length, knowing that she was wasting her breath. It was too much to expect the lure of her bath to work twice, especially when the lure of the bed would almost certainly follow. If that was what he wanted, he would have been back sooner. Nevertheless, his quick refusal disturbed her. Had she scared him off? She’d done that to men before but was it for the same reason? She went inside wondering where to turn next.
Red had come, briefly raised her hopes and dashed them just as quickly. Her attempt to build a bank of debts had failed. Angus had handed her abuse and a jar of gherkins in return for her loaf. Red had also negated her gift with one of his own. Where did that leave her? Back at square one with a leaky roof, a smelly loo, and no immediate remedy in sight. But she wasn’t beaten, not by a long shot. She didn’t know what she’d try next but she’d think of something. In the meantime, she’d boil her crayfish for dinner and learn how to do that in the process. As much as she loved crays, she preferred them brought to her mornay or thermidor, or warm in a salad and with a glass of wine. Well, at least dinner was taken care of. Warm crayfish with Heinz mayonnaise, fresh garden salad with sliced gherkins sprinkled though it and freshly baked bread, thickly buttered. Probably exactly what her neighbours would prepare for themselves. Red to share with Archie. Angus to share with Bonnie. And herself to share with her leaking roof. She allowed the morning’s depression to sneak back up on her momentarily, unaware that a possible solution to her problems had already announced itself. It had tapped on her consciousness, rhythmically and insistently, but she was deaf to its call. For that matter, so were her neighbours. Red, quite unwittingly, was solving her problems for her.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
One thousand miles south of Auckland, the captain of the Taiwanese trawler Yu Shan was cursing the gods, the spirits of his ancestors and the pox-ridden son of a Japanese whore who’d dropped a container overboard from his ship. The container had settled, its bulk underwater and invisible to both eye and radar. But one corner was sufficiently buoyant to surface occasionally in the trough of a wave. It was that corner which had bent the Yu Shan’s propeller shaft and rudder. The captain cursed again. He was a superstitious man and believed that bad joss always struck in threes, and what had happened only confirmed his beliefs. First, he’d lost three nets he could ill afford to lose. Second, he’d hit the container in his very next incursion into territorial waters. Now he had to face the prospect of a storm building in the Southern Ocean. He had no choice but to make for port as quickly as he could, and the only port nearby was Lyttelton, within a few miles of where he’d left his nets. The captain of the sister trawler had offered him a tow, but there was no point in both vessels risking impoundment. He had little doubt that representatives of the New Zealand Navy would be waiting for him. Besides, if the wind picked up there was a strong chance he’d have to radio for assistance. He cursed the gods again and wondered which of his enemies had brought this misfortune upon him.
Mickey Finn looked down at the chart on top of his desk with a growing sense of resignation. Lieutenant Moffat, the commander of the Shearwater, had been briefed and was ready to put to sea as soon as darkness had fallen. His instructions were to take up position ten nautical miles north of Aiguilles Island. The Cormorant had radioed in its position thirty miles due east of Whangarei, eighty miles to the north, and was steaming south awaiting further orders. Between them lay the fishing grounds in which Mickey Finn hoped the Shoto Maru would make its last trawl in New Zealand waters. At least, its last trawl for some time. A clean capture within the three mile limit – never mind the twelve mile limit – and the severity of the breaches of international agreements and laws could result in the Shoto Maru being tied up in Auckland for some time.
The trouble was the two glider clips representing the patrol boats were in position, but in position for what? More erasers, tops from Biros, and three pieces of PK gum fresh from the packet represented possible grounds that the Shoto Maru could choose to trawl. It didn’t matter where Mickey placed his glider clips, he was never in position to cover more than two options, and even then with only an outside chance of actually making an arrest.
Yet the excitement around the base was electric. As he’d expected, there’d been no shortage of volunteers to staff the phones, run messages or keep the coffee coming. Others asked if they could just hang around and watch and feel part of the action. Mickey sighed and pushed back his chair. So many people set up for disappointment. He wondered if there’d ever been a group of people anywhere more hungry for success, for the chance to strike a blow and do something that mattered, that changed things. That was why young people joined up and senior officers stayed on.
Even the met. people had been infected and were sending him updates on the hour although they indicated little change. At least he now knew that the northern edge of the rain storm lay on the thirty-sixth parallel, just south of the Mokohinau Islands, Great Barrier Island’s distant northern neighbours, and was tending more towards the south than north. A glance out his window confirmed the report. As hard as he looked, he couldn’t see the outline of the destroyer moored little over two hundred yards directly in front of him. If the Shoto Maru ran south of the Mokes it could fish wherever it liked and they’d never even know it had been there.
The thought stopped him in his tracks. The Hauraki Gulf, playground of Auckland’s sailors and fishermen, home of spawning grounds and snapper nursery, gaped open on the chart in front of him, bounded on one side by the east coast beaches, at its base by the Thames Estuary, and on its eastern boundary by the Coromandel Peninsula and Great Barrier Island. A wave of apprehension washed over him, turning to acid in his stomach. Who was he up against? How bold was he? He’d never really considered that any skipper would be rash enough to attempt a trawl through the Gulf, but what was there to stop him? Mickey’s heart began to pound in his chest. What would he do if he was the skipper? The rain cover was heaven-sent, and good catches guaranteed. Sure the fish would be undersized, but the Japanese often preferred them that way. The Shoto Maru’s gaping nets would reap havoc. But would the skipper be crazy enough to attempt i
t? Why not? Where was the risk? The Sunderlands were grounded and his spotters would be useless. Who was he up against? The Japanese Embassy had yet to respond to his requests and he could still not put a name to his adversary to help him develop his tactics. He mentally ran through his list of suspects, paused on the name Shimojo Seiichi, but again dismissed him as a longliner. He moved one of the erasers into the Gulf and stared at it. Once inside, the trawler would have three escape routes. One east of Little Barrier, the Gulf’s lofty guardian, one west and one through Colville Channel, which separated Great Barrier from the Coromandel Peninsula. His excitement blossomed as he realised the potential for trapping the Shoto Maru, provided he could get the Cormorant far enough south in time.
He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the scenario in front of him. It was madness, insanity and a magnificent stroke of genius. But if he targeted the Gulf and the Shoto Maru was spotted fishing its favoured grounds up north, he’d be defenceless when the operation was post-mortemed. Targeting the Gulf meant ignoring all other options which no one would ever regard as sound naval procedure. He looked around at the drab walls of his office, the ancient, flyspecked print of the Achilles and the remains of a poisonous cup of coffee, and wondered what he really had to lose.