by Derek Hansen
‘Bloody hell, Rosie,’ he said, recalling her naked in bed and picturing her wet and naked in the shallows. ‘You sure give a man a helluva choice.’
Shimojo Seiichi had blundered. He’d left the winter grounds too early and struggled to make catches that justified his decision to move north. The snapper had begun to gather, but only in small schools which tended to congregate around reefs beyond the reach of his nets. The night raids produced disappointing results as the Shoto Maru was forced to duck and dive around snags. He needed to find a way to boost the tonnage and instinctively fell back upon his most recent experience. He was over longliner grounds and knew that one dory working its way in among the reefs would not just make a valuable contribution but would make the night’s fishing respectable. The tactic involved considerable risk. All he had to fish from was the ship’s lifeboat. Shimojo was typical of Japanese skippers who believed in fortune favouring the brave but also knew it had a habit of turning and biting the foolhardy.
Later that day, the Shoto Maru rendezvous’d with one of the company’s tuna boats out wide, borrowed two spare longlines to cut and adapt for bottom fishing, and began practising lowering and retrieving the lifeboat at trawl speed. At first the crew mistook the nature of the exercise, believing they were practising emergency drills. Nobody thought for a second that their skipper would deliberately flout maritime law, company regulations, or compromise their safety by using their lifeboat for anything other than its intended purpose.
Mickey made his way back down towards the Scotsman’s house feeling simultaneously sixty years old and twenty years younger, elated but exhausted. Rosie had recharged his spirit and his ego as she’d drained him physically. All he wanted to do was fall asleep on the beach until the amphibian arrived. But he had to keep his word, do his duty and call in on the Scotsman. He thought of Rosie lying brazenly naked on top of the sheets as he’d left. She’d be asleep by now and why not? If ever a girl deserved a rest she did. He turned right at the old pohutukawas as directed and kept going until he reached the clearing.
‘Are you there, Angus?’
A head appeared almost immediately at the side window. Moments later the Scot was at his doorway to greet him.
‘Come along, come along, man,’ he urged. ‘Take a seat.’
Mickey collapsed into the chair on the veranda where he could still catch the last of the afternoon sun before it dipped behind the ridge. He sat heavily, his thighs unwilling to support the weight of his body after their earlier exertions. He looked around him, noting the heather and the pohutukawas preparing to bloom. He tried to identify some of the larger trees but botany wasn’t one of his strong points. As far as he was concerned, the bush was to be admired and left to get on with it. He sat up as Angus plonked a bottle of Glenfiddich whisky and two glasses down on the table alongside him. Without asking, he poured a double in each glass. Mickey looked around for water or ice, saw there was none, and knew better than to ask. Angus was clearly a Scotsman’s Scot.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, trying to make polite conversation. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
‘Aye, you could say that.’ There was a mischievous look in the Scot’s eye which Mickey neither liked nor understood. ‘Here’s to your continuing good health.’
‘And to yours.’
The two men raised their glasses to each other and took a sip.
‘Will we be seeing you back here again soon?’
‘No saying, really. Depends on circumstances.’
‘I see. But you could come back if need be?’
‘Maybe. Now, you want to talk to me about the radio.’
‘Well . . . not exactly.’
‘Then what exactly do you want to talk to me about, Angus?’
For all his scheming, Angus struggled to find the right words. How could he explain to the officer that he wanted him to sire Rosie’s child? How could he explain his desire to be not just grandfather but also father to a child he’d never been able to have himself? How could he explain his preference for an absentee father rather than one who lived practically on his doorstep? ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.
‘Then let me help uncomplicate it.’
‘I don’t know if I should tell you this because you’ll probably think it’s none of my business.’
‘Go on.’ Mickey wished the Scot would do exactly the opposite. The sun and the whisky had sapped the last of his energy.
‘Tell me, what’s your opinion of Red?’
‘Red?’ The Scot’s question caught him off guard. Why the hell would the old bastard want to know his opinion of Red? He wrestled lethargically with his dulled brain, trying to find suitable words. ‘I think he had a hard time in the war but he seems to be coping. He handles the radio well enough and I’m sure he’ll be a diligent lookout and a valuable asset.’
‘Aye, I can guarantee you he’ll be that. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What do you think of him as a man?’
‘I don’t think I know him well enough to make that sort of judgement.’
‘Do you think he’s stable?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Do you think he’d make a good father?’
‘How the hell would I know? Why the hell should I care?’
‘Think, man, it’s important!’
Mickey forced his eyes open and looked at Angus. The urgency in the old Scot’s voice demanded his attention. ‘I dunno. He seems to goof off a bit, go absent without leave, if you know what I mean. Given the state of his mind I’d have to say I have my doubts.’
‘That’s the whole point.’ Angus moved in for the kill. He couldn’t see how the Lieutenant Commander could possibly resist having Rosie all to himself and giving her the child she wanted, thereby saving her and future generations from the madman. He took his time and measured his words carefully. ‘Tell me, what do you think of Rosie?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Humour me. I’m not intending to pry. You can keep your comments as broad as you wish. For a start, do you like her?’
‘Of course I like her.’
‘Do you find her attractive?’
‘What man wouldn’t?’
‘Do you think she’d make a good mother?’
‘I think she’d make a wonderful mother, but, for God’s sake man, what are you driving at?’
‘Rosie wants to have a child. She wants you to be the father.’
‘What?’
‘Aye . . . I thought that would make you sit up. The beautiful Rosie has chosen you.’ Angus smiled, pleased with himself. Now he just had to steer the Lieutenant Commander around the problem of Red’s presence and insist that he stake first claim on her.
‘Are you serious?’ Mickey gazed at Angus, eyes bulging open, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Aye. I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Mickey exploded from his chair. This was not the reaction the Scot had anticipated.
‘Aye,’ continued Angus, suddenly uncertain. ‘I thought you should know so that we can take the appropriate measures.’
‘Oh dear God, sweet Jesus!’ Mickey reached across and grabbed Angus’ hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘Thanks, mate. But Christ! Why didn’t you warn me this morning? Why did you wait till after I’d dipped my wick?’
Angus stood stunned, speechless and dismayed beyond measure as the Lieutenant Commander galloped back down the trail, alternately cursing and thanking him profusely.
Rosie hadn’t fallen asleep the instant Mickey had left her. Instead she’d picked up Norma’s letter and read it. Norma wasn’t much of a letter writer and never took up her pen without good reason. Rosie had read and re-read the letter until the news had sunk in. Norma was getting married. She’d fallen pregnant and decided to take the plunge. Rosie put the letter down feeling unaccountably miffed.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Mickey arrived at his office in a foul mood after another sleepless ni
ght spent tossing and turning, wondering whether his little swimmers had hit the target. As much as he liked Rosie, he didn’t want to be bound to her in any way, nor did he want the responsibility of a bastard child. What would Gloria think of that? If no other good had come from Angus’ revelation, he had at least been forced to acknowledge his feelings towards his young assistant. He wanted more from her than just her body. He wanted all of her. Forever. Her love, her respect, her companionship. And the fear he’d felt as the Scot had dropped his bombshell was the fear of losing her. He’d damned Rosie a thousand times every creeping hour as he’d lain awake, yet he still found it hard to accept that she’d deliberately set out to trap him. She just wasn’t like that. She was too straightforward and honest. But something was up, something that had turned the cantankerous old Scot into a fawning fool who wanted to be his best mate. Something was definitely going on, but he was at a loss to know what. Mickey felt used, abused and confused. If Rosie wanted to have a kid that was all right by him. But she should have made him aware of her decision and given him the choice of volunteering or declining to be the father, in which case he would have declined. Even if she’d only wanted him as a sperm donor. The child would still be his and have rights to the love and affection and care of his or her biological father. Mickey would not turn away from his own flesh and blood. He realised he’d have to stay in touch with Rosie, find out if what the Scotsman had said was true, whether she was pregnant and if he was the culprit. He slumped at his desk and put his head in his hands.
‘Damn the woman!’ he said in a heartfelt but barely audible whisper.
‘Morning, sir.’
He looked up to see Gloria with his mail. She couldn’t have heard, couldn’t have. But if she had, that would just be his luck.
‘You look awful,’ she said.
‘You look wonderful.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Mickey held her eyes momentarily then turned away. Dear God. Was there anything she could do for him? He felt mortally ashamed and stupid in the face of her innocence. Nobody had the right to look so fresh, youthful and radiant, so adorable and utterly irresistible. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and propose to her. Without looking, he held his hand up towards her, willing her to take it, to take his hand and hold it. He waited, not daring to turn around. Then, mercifully, he felt her hand take hold of his and hope welled up. Then he felt two fingers searching for his pulse.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Mickey couldn’t help smiling. She was so naive. What on earth had he been thinking of? He turned around and saw the concern in her face. ‘Yes, thank you nurse. Just keep taking my pulse and stop when you’ve counted to three million.’
‘Sir?’
‘At ease, Third. Was there any other reason you came to see me?’
‘Yes, sir. The Cormorant has been ordered south to baby-sit the Shoto Maru as Lieutenant Commander Scriven requested. We also have reports of a dory fishing in close which doesn’t tie in with anything we know about. The local fishermen say it isn’t them, and we have no reports of a longliner in the area.’
‘Big round filing cabinet, Gloria. Anything else?’
‘Lieutenant Commander Scriven wants to see you.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘I understand there’s another large Japanese trawler just outside the twelve mile on the west coast, obviously after snapper. Lieutenant Commander Scriven is concerned that we may have another phantom.’
‘Another Shoto Maru,’ Mickey corrected.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is he in yet?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah. In which case, I’d better run along.’ He rose from his chair.
‘Sir . . . ?’
‘Yes, Gloria?’
‘About dinner tonight, sir.’
‘Yes?’ Mickey had forgotten about his hopeful invitation. Given the state of his mind, he would have preferred she’d forgotten as well. All he wanted was to go home, open a tin of something, watch television in bed, and hopefully pass away in his sleep.
‘Do you still want me to make the booking?’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘Dinner for two. At the Gourmet restaurant.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Very good, sir.’ She turned smartly and left him gaping open-mouthed.
Mickey wandered down the corridor towards Phil Scriven’s office wondering why women always got the better of him. Why they always refused when he was desperate for them to accept, and accept when he was desperate for them to refuse. How did they know? He wondered if women were born with an innate sense of how to keep a man off balance, or whether it was a skill they acquired. He smiled ingratiatingly at Phil Scriven’s secretary. He’d heard a rating describe her as a life support system for a pair of tits and saw no reason to take issue. He knocked on the door.
‘You wish to see me?’
‘Ah . . . Mickey, come in, come in. Help yourself to coffee. It’s freshly brewed.’
Mickey poured, stirred, and closed his eyes as he sipped. The aroma was heavenly, the taste divine and the caffeine exactly what his body was crying out for. The day was beginning to look up. Perhaps he’d be able to stay awake right through dinner and even be charming and witty. He pulled a chair over and sat down opposite his superior. Lieutenant Commander Scriven wore his over-confident expression which immediately warned Mickey that he’d reached a decision. Mickey’s spirits sagged. Philip Scriven was one of those people who should never make decisions, especially on their own.
‘We have a latent incursion.’
‘A latent incursion?’
‘You know the sort of thing, identifying a problem before it actually occurs.’
‘What exactly is the problem we don’t have?’ Mickey’s sarcasm was wasted, as he knew it would be.
‘Jap trawler by the name of Tsushima Maru has moved into the west coast snapper grounds. Two-and-a-half thousand tonner at least. The Egret spotted her on the way down to the grounds off Taranaki. Think we may have another of these slippery fly-by-nights, another midnight phantom. There’s no point in it being there unless the skipper intends to trawl in close. I’ve moved the Shearwater south to shadow her, see what she’s up to.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How long is the Shearwater going to shadow this trawler?’
‘For as long as it takes for the skipper to get the message.’
‘What if it’s a decoy?’
‘What?’
‘There are two longliners working further north. Who’s watching them? And who’s watching the two longliners on the east coast while the Cormorant baby-sits the Shoto Maru?’
‘I take your point. But a two-and-a-half thousand ton trawler can take more fish in a night than a longliner can in a week.’
‘That’s true. Except when the fish are scattered in close and around reefs, which is where they normally are this time of the year. The fact is we don’t have the resources to assign a patrol boat to every foreign fishing boat, and the problem is it won’t take long for those boats without escorts to realise they have a totally free hand.’
‘You’re forgetting the aircraft.’
‘There are no aircraft to forget. Until the Airforce have the Orions on stream they’ll be no help to us. It won’t take the foreign boats long to work out there are no eyes in the sky waiting to nail them.’
‘Well damn it, Mickey, we can’t just let them come here and steal our fish willy-nilly.’
‘No Phil, we can’t. Particularly when they’re stealing them right in front of the eyes of the press.’
‘Then we only have one option. We’ll just have to set up a routine of patrols like before and have our boats constantly on the move up and down the coast.’
‘Won’t work, Phil. Hasn’t in the past and won’t in the future. The only way to stop them is to catch them. Getting caught costs them money and that’s the on
ly thing they understand. If you mount patrols they’ll just watch our boats safely out of radar range and move inshore. But plant the fear of ambush in the skipper’s head and it’s an entirely different story. Look, we’ve just made two arrests. Make two more and the bastards will be too wary to come in. We have to lure them in where we can trap them. Get them overconfident and then strike. Two more and we’ll have them on the run, forever looking over their shoulders. We have to give them something to worry about.’
‘Like you did with the Shoto Maru.’
‘The Shoto Maru’s escape was a fluke. We had them cold, Phil, and you know it. Those sorts of things only happen once every hundred years.’
‘Every hundred years, eh? And how do you explain that boat you let get away off Great Barrier? Another hundred-year fluke? I’m sorry, Mickey, but I can’t agree with you. I’m not prepared to have the Department of Marine around my neck again, plus every newspaper in the country, all because you want to play Errol Flynn. I can’t afford another botched operation. I see no alternative to patrols. Prevention is always more effective than apprehension.’ He paused to review and admire his last sentence. It had a nice ring to it. He mentally shortened it. Prevention not apprehension. Yes. It would make a nice heading for a report. It was also a damned fine encapsulation of his strategy.
Mickey sighed. They were heading down a familiar road. They’d argue for the duration of another two cups of coffee until Phil pulled seniority. At least the coffee was good. It would help him make it through the day and, hopefully, see him through the night as well.
The Cormorant patrolled the twelve mile line directly inshore of the Shoto Maru. The trawler worked around the clock while the crew of the patrol boat grew increasingly irritable with each other, and more hostile towards Naval Command. The morning of the fourth day brought relief from the tedium. The Cormorant was ordered to return to Devonport before resuming patrol duties further north.