by Derek Hansen
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
The stars were in full retreat as the lifeboat crew hauled in the last of their longlines. Their weariness and the number of fish slowed them in their task. The helmsman glanced anxiously towards the east, expecting the sun to break free of the ocean at any moment. The indigo veil lifted and the sky became translucent. Already the Shoto Maru would have run north to safety beyond the twelve mile mark, leaving them with a long, uncomfortable run home. The winch strained under the weight, the line sang and crackled as it wound around the drum. His two companions were unhooking the snapper as quickly as they could. The lifeboat’s deck was covered in boxes of fish, some of the snapper still flapping and protesting as they finished hauling in the last line. As soon as the weights were aboard he engaged gear and pushed the throttle hard forward. The two crewmen went aft where it was dryer, sat and took a well deserved rest. The sky was brightening by the minute, increasing their vulnerability. The sun’s rays struck the upper slopes of Arid Island, painting the high pastures vivid emerald. Slowly the island came to life as the colour seeped down towards the cliffs. When the sun finally popped free of the horizon it dazzled them with its intensity. Because of this the helmsman didn’t detect the movement immediately but in response to a shout from one of his crew.
The man was pointing directly into the sun. The helmsman squinted through his fingers as he’d done one time before, when his nightmares had come hurtling in at him. He gasped. The foam white boat was blocking his way, and somewhere inside it the devil was howling at them, its unearthly cries carried on the wind. He swung the boat left. This time he didn’t have the luxury of the lighter, faster dories to make his escape. The Red Devil rose up above the sides of his boat. The awful, blood-red spectre raised an accusing arm and pointed at them, damning them, cursing them, howling retribution. In terror the helmsman tore his eyes away, thumped the throttle hard against its stops, and prayed that whatever power they had would suffice.
Archie was barking once more and someone was calling his name.
‘Red! Red!’
He wondered dully how long he’d been unconscious this time. His head swam and he had trouble focussing. His boat rolled sluggishly, gears engaged but motor silent, having run out of fuel after describing endless circles on the ocean. He tried to drag himself up to peer over the gunwale to see who was calling, but the moment he raised his head dizziness overwhelmed him. He forced his eyes open. Archie was standing on the forward deck, barking, wagging his tail.
‘Red! Red!’
He could hear a motor putt-putting towards him. Diesel. Another boat. He wondered if this one would also run away from him. He remembered trying to stand, trying to wave, and falling. Archie howling, standing over him and howling as he slipped back into dreamless sleep.
‘He’s there! I can see him, I can see him!’ He heard the triumph and then the despair. ‘Oh God, Angus, there’s blood everywhere!’
Blood? Of course. The stickiness, the sickly sweet smell. Red wondered idly whose it was, knew it was his, but it didn’t matter anyway. He felt a bump on the side of the boat. Heard a noise. Archie whining. A wave of tiredness swept over him, taking him with it, carrying him blissfully away.
‘Red! Red! Can you hear me?’
He felt himself being pulled back against the undertow, nodded so that the voice would stop and he could continue to drift away.
‘He’s alive!’ Rosie reached down and gently turned his head towards her. He opened his eyes, saw her and tried to smile. ‘Red! Look at me, Red. Red!’ Her face was close to his, staring into his eyes. But they were too heavy to keep open. She was shouting at him, calling his name, but her voice kept fading away until he could hear it no more. It had been a long time since he’d known such peace.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Shimojo turned south once he’d cleared the twelve mile zone, narrowing the distance between the Shoto Maru and the lifeboat. The morning was beginning to warm up despite the gathering nor’-easter. Even though the process line was already working at full capacity, he resolved to repeat their trawl the moment night fell. His instincts had proved right and he’d located the main school of snapper. But he was also aware that the school would probably move north and on into the Gulf within two or three days. His refrigeration space was almost exhausted and he was due to rendezvous with the transporter the following day to off-load. If he didn’t return that night, there was a risk he’d miss two nights. No one could say where the snapper would be by then.
He watched the lifeboat bludgeon its way through the rising seas towards them. He gave his helmsman a heading which took them further east, so that the trawler could provide shelter for the lifeboat as they took it aboard. Given the conditions, a wise man would have brought the trawler to a halt, but they were in mid-trawl and catching fish. He put his binoculars on the lifeboat as it motored past, preparatory to turning and coming in alongside. He could clearly make out fish boxes piled high with snapper. The Shoto Maru rolled and wallowed as it took the swells on its beam, seeming to pause as the weight of the net checked its progress, then surging forward as the propeller bit once more. Overhead, seagulls battled the wind, burning off energy as fast as they replenished it, diving, wheeling, jockeying for the processing line waste, spectators of a drama only just beginning.
The trawler yawed and rolled alarmingly as the lifeboat drew alongside. Even in the lee the waves were chopping up deceptively, standing high and pointed like pyramids, then falling away to nothing. They lifted and dropped the lifeboat with bone-jarring suddenness. Never before had the crew tried to recover the lifeboat in such rough seas. The davit cables hung ready and were eagerly seized and secured.
The lifeboat jerked violently as the Shoto Maru rolled away, snatching it from the water. The crew braced themselves for the inevitable crash back into the water as the trawler tilted back towards them. The lifeboat seemed to hover weightlessly then drop like a stone. The cables bellied out with slack. Once again the cables snapped tight and wrenched the lifeboat free of the sea. And again it hung weightless as the trawler steadied before reversing its roll. Down it fell, tipping on landing as it slid into the trough between the steep chop. Timbers cracked and seawater gushed in over the gunwales but eventually the lifeboat steadied and settled. The damage had been done but the crew were slow to realise it. The seawater doubled the weight within the overloaded lifeboat and exceeded the capacity of the winches to haul it aboard. At first there was just a jerk, like something had failed to engage. Then the clutch on the forward winch began to slip. The seawater followed gravity, heading irresistibly towards the lowest point, and compounded the problem. The forward cables slipped again, jammed, snapped. The bow of the lifeboat dropped like a stone, hurling the hapless crew to the deck. Two crewmen from the trawler immediately shimmied down the cables to take control of the wallowing boat before it foundered.
Shimojo watched grimly as the men motored away from the trawler, working the bilge pumps and baling furiously. He had no choice but to end the trawl and try to recover the damaged lifeboat in calmer waters, provided it didn’t sink first. What then? What of his injured seamen? What of the school of snapper he’d worked so hard to find?
‘What?’ Mickey Finn couldn’t help himself. He noticed both Gloria and the radio operator wince and rub their ears. He made a mental note not to get so excited.
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, man! The scoundrels who rammed Red. They’re coming back! They’re just off Arid now.’
‘Are they fishing, Angus?’
‘How the hell would I know? It’s no bloody picnic out there, let me tell you.’
‘What speed is the Shoto Maru making?’
‘Ahhh . . . I can’t tell you that. They’re some way off, you understand. Not one boat, two. The trawler and their dory.’
‘Trawler and dory?’
‘Aye, you heard correctly. What do you think they’re doing if they’re not fishing? S
ightseeing? Do you think they’ll risk arrest just to take in the scenery? Perhaps they left some lines out.’
Mickey tried hard to absorb everything Angus was telling him but not a lot made sense. Why would a trawler use a dory? Why would they risk fishing inshore in broad daylight? What on earth was Shimojo up to? He couldn’t guess, but if there was any truth in what Angus was saying, they stood a good chance of nabbing the Shoto Maru in territorial waters in possession of freshly caught fish or, unlikely as it seemed, with fishing equipment in use.
‘Right, Angus, we’ll get on to it straight away. Now, is there anything else we can do for Red?’
‘Aye. If you can spare an amphibian and an armed detail you just might be able to force him to go to hospital. Rosie says he needs his skull and ribs X-rayed. She’s stitched up his face but it’s swollen something terrible, and you can’t see his ribs either for swelling. But it’s the concussion Rosie’s really worried about. How about the pharmaceuticals she asked for?’
‘On the ferry to Fitzroy.’
‘I suppose that’s something. I’ll call back if there’s anything else Rosie needs. Now do something about that trawler.’
‘Go take care of Red and leave the rest to us.’ Mickey passed the microphone to the radio operator to sign off. He turned to Gloria. ‘Come with me, Third. I want a word with you before you go see the MO.’ Mickey set off back to his office with Gloria in hot pursuit. He briefly examined his options. What could he do with no patrol boats in reserve and none in the area? What could he do with an airforce that wouldn’t come out to play? The last thing he wanted was to ask Gloria’s father for more help. It would show weakness on his part, an inability to cope, and it would torpedo whatever relationship he had left with Lieutenant Commander Scriven. There had to be another way. ‘Close the door behind you!’ He didn’t intend to snap at Gloria but that’s the way it came out. She didn’t seem to mind. She loved the tension and being in on the action.
‘I’m sure Daddy won’t mind if I called him on your behalf.’
Mickey closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Dear God, it was ‘Daddy’ now. ‘I’m sure you mean Commander Wainscott.’
Gloria blanched. ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
Mickey waved aside her apology. At least she’d eliminated one option. Mickey could just about accept the possibility of contacting Commander Wainscott if that was the only way to get a plane, but there was no way he could ring ‘Daddy’. His colleagues would never let him forget it. ‘If in trouble, if in doubt, phone Daddy to help you out.’ He could imagine the legend scrawled on the back of toilet cubicle doors. Amost hear the sniggers. And then he’d have a volcanic Phil Scriven to deal with. But that still left him with the problem. Justice demanded retribution for what had happened to Red. He had the opportunity, if only he could find the means. He looked to Gloria for inspiration. Dear God, he thought to himself, she’s sulking. God save me from sulking women!
‘If you don’t want me to call the Commander, you could see if Captain Ladd’s amphibian is available.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. Sir.’
‘Gloria you are a bloody genius! Well don’t just stand there, get Fred on the phone! Now!’ He sat back thinking as she grabbed his phone and began dialling. That was one of the great things about Gloria. He could take her from hero to zero and back again in seconds and she never bore grudges. Next question. Would the Airforce let him have one of their photographers? He began to plan their approach using Mt Hobson as a radar shield, before swooping down over the Japanese and catching them red-handed, before they had time to get their nets in, and before they could obscure the name of the boat.
‘I have Captain Ladd on the line.’
‘Freddie? Can you drop everything to help us nail a Jap trawler? You can? Good man!’ As Mickey began to fill in the details, Gloria rose in response to a knock on his door. There was a message from Signals. Gloria read it quickly and tugged on his sleeve.
‘What is it? Hang on Freddie, there’s a signal come in. Oh, sweet Jesus! Fred, I’ll have to call you back.’ Mickey slumped over his desk. ‘The bastard! The bastard! The bastard!’
In his hand was another request for assistance from the Shoto Maru.
Rosie had lost count of the number of times her patients had fallen in love with her. Sometimes they were old men already married for what seemed to her a millennium, sometimes lonely, frightened returned soldiers, sometimes even other women. She was well aware of the phenomenon and felt neither flattered nor offended; instead she smiled and joked and gently deflected their attentions. But sometimes the phenomenon worked in reverse, and Rosie suspected she’d fallen victim to it herself. Perhaps it was the overwhelming relief she’d felt at finding Red alive when she’d feared she’d lost him. Perhaps it was the way he’d surrendered to her care, his absolute trust and dependence on her, his hurt-puppy vulnerability. Perhaps she was just admitting to feelings that had been developing over months. Rosie tried hard to find a beginning but couldn’t. She only knew what was, and that she wanted to share the rest of her life with the confused and broken man asleep on her bed. She felt simultaneously foolish and weepy, anxious and elated, and more worried than she cared to admit.
Red hadn’t complained, except when she’d told him she was going to evacuate him to a hospital in Auckland. She’d felt his anguish when he’d begged her not to, and reluctantly bowed to his wishes. Medically she knew it was the wrong decision. The crack on his head concerned her. There was a chance his skull was fractured, his brain haemorrhaging and building fatal pressures she had no means to alleviate. Yet she couldn’t send him away. She’d had one stroke of good fortune. Red’s blood had splashed everywhere in the lifeboat and he’d desperately needed a transfusion. All ex-servicemen know their blood group and Angus had been outraged to find that the same type of blood flowed in the madman’s veins as his. He’d reluctantly rolled up his sleeve when Rosie had explained the situation, sat, sipped his tea and railed at the perversity of nature.
‘Maybe a pint of my blood will bring some sense to the man,’ he’d said.
Rosie had taken more than two and wondered how senseless that left the Scot. Foolish enough to climb the ridges an hour later to contact Mickey and complain about light-headedness afterwards. Red moved his arm in his sleep, groaned softly but did not wake up. Rosie wondered at the effect of the blankets she’d covered him with on his cracked and broken ribs. There were few things more painful, but at least the splinters hadn’t punctured anything vital as far as she could tell. She stroked his hair and deeply regretted her foolishness with Mickey. She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her. Right then there were only two things she wanted from life – her flawed hero back on his feet and for him to father her child.
Angus decided it was not weakness on his part to rest on his bed awhile. He’d rescued Red, helped carry him up from the beach to the woman’s, climbed the ridges twice, and given up more of his blood than he cared to think about. He settled back against his pillow and accepted that the rest was earned. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to shut out any distractions. His mind was a whirl of unaccustomed activity. The activities of old – violence and conflict, duties and obligations, things he’d hoped he’d left behind forever in the hands of younger men.
When he’d become a policeman, he’d imagined his job was to protect society from murderers, thieves and madmen. He’d soon learned that his job was to protect society from itself. There’d been times when he couldn’t help wondering if society deserved protection. He’d spent a lifetime dragging violent husbands away from battered wives, violent parents from battered children, violent drunks from each other. He’d pulled lifeless, broken bodies from wrecks of cars because some damn fool drank too much and drove too fast. Pulled out bodies of wee bairns, still warm and seeping blood, who lay limp in his hands like broken dolls.
He’d caught the whiff of corruption and manipulation, seen the guilty set free and the innocent jail
ed. Dealt with murderers, rapists, sodomites and paedophiles. He’d seen the side of human nature that makes mockery of notions of decency, and learned the simple fact of life. The closer he got to people the more they disappointed. He’d done his duty and thought it enough, but had somehow allowed himself to be dragged into the madman’s private war. There was no sense to it. The madman could never win and he’d only get himself beaten up in the process. The events of the day were ample proof of that. And Rosie! He clenched his teeth when he thought of the changes she’d wrought upon him. Had any grandfather sacrificed more for the sake of a grandchild? There was a limit, and she pushed him to it at every opportunity. He longed for the quiet days when all he had to concern himself with were his writing, his basic needs and the odd feral cat.
However, some good had come of it all, he had to concede. He’d abandoned his story of how the boy, Hamish, had pacified the two fractious Maori tribes and become their leader. Instead, he’d begun a new Hamish story set during the Second World War. It told of how the boy had become a volunteer coast watcher for the Royal Navy on the wild and bleak island of Stornaway, after his uncle the lighthouse keeper had fallen and broken a leg. (Hamish had devised a splint using his cricket bat and two stumps and reset the bones.) Hamish looked out for U-boats while Angus scanned the seas for foreign trawlers. Every time the old Scot climbed the ridge with the radio, he lived Hamish’s adventures and gathered material for his book. The radio had become a treasured possession. Gradually his exertions and his generous gift of blood took their toll. He fell asleep wondering who would bring Red’s pharmaceuticals around from Fitzroy – Col or some unwilling fisherman? It didn’t matter who came, he decided. Neither would be welcome.