‘Take one more step,’ he slurred, ‘and I’ll blow yer brains out!’
Skipper looked as broken as his boat, his face red and splotchy, his clothes as filthy as that motel turd.
And he was drunk – yo ho ho and quite a few bottles of rum – listing from side to side as if the boat was out at sea, being rocked by the waves.
‘Skipper, it’s me – Dom,’ I said. ‘The kid with all the questions.’
The shotgun lowered slightly.
‘You done the right thing deserting like you did,’ he said.
The gun dropped to his side. I took this as a sign I could keep walking.
‘Come inside, have a drink with me,’ he said.
If outside was broken, inside was even worse.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Cleaner’s day off?’
The joke, if you could call it that, didn’t get a laugh from Skipper; he was too busy sloshing Bundaberg rum into two glasses.
Handing one to me, he said, ‘Get that inter ya.’
‘I’m a bit too young to drink,’ I said, looking at the liquid.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You think you’re too good to drink with me?’
I didn’t see I had much choice: I drank it.
Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, maybe a bit rough as it gurgled down my throat.
But when it hit my guts, that was a different story.
Basically, there was a nuclear explosion that sent my internal organs flying in all different directions.
‘Hit the spot, eh?’ said Skipper.
Well, ‘hit’ seemed like the right word.
‘Where’s Mr Bones?’ I said, for some reason affording him an honorific he really didn’t deserve.
At the mention of his name, Skipper pretty much had an apoplectic fit. His face, already red, went even redder.
‘He’s vamoosed!’ he said.
‘Where?’ I said.
‘When we were limping into port, he could see all the coppers on the wharf, so he jumped overboard.’
‘So he drowned?’ I said, thinking how rough the seas had been that day.
Skip shrugged.
‘Who knows. But all that money he promised, I haven’t seen a red cent. And all those bills he said he’d look after, I’ve now found out that he didn’t. They’re all coming after me now.’
And then he launched into a very hard-to-follow story about what a fool he’d been to believe him anyway.
When he’d finished, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I have to get my stuff and go now.’
‘Your stuff?’
‘Yeah, I left some diving stuff on the boat,’ I lied.
‘You better have one for the road,’ he said.
Again, I didn’t feel as if I had much choice.
Again, there was that nuclear explosion in my guts.
But this time I felt weirdly uncoordinated.
‘I’ll latch you cater,’ I said to Skip. ‘I mean, I’ll catch you later.’
‘They’re all coming after me,’ he said. ‘Every last one of them.’
I made my way to where the scuba gear was.
That wasn’t as straightforward as it sounds, because the deck, so stable before, had become less so. And my legs, normally so trustworthy, had likewise become less so.
Eventually I got there.
I picked out a wetsuit, full tank, a regulator, a BCD, fins, mask: a lot of gear. And I don’t think you realise how much stuff you need to scuba dive unless, like me, you’ve had two nuclear devices detonated in your guts, resulting in radiation poisoning to the legs.
I looked around for a bag to put the stuff in – there wasn’t one. How the hell to lug it all up the stairs?
Then I had a brainwave: put some of the gear on!
Which is exactly what I did, though not without some – okay, a lot of – difficulty.
My athlete’s coordination, which had served me so well on so many occasions, had gone and I had a real insight into what it was like to be one of those unco kids, the sort who are always picked last for any team.
Eventually I did it and, with wetsuit and fins in my hand, started climbing the ladder.
A couple of things had happened since I’d come down it: firstly, the tide had dropped so there was much further to go; and secondly, the ladder, so straight on my ascent, was now all bent.
I coached myself up, one step at a time. Until finally, thank heavens, I was standing on the wharf. I took two steps forward and fell flat on my face.
I believe the technical word for this is ‘slapstick’, which sounds sort of funny.
It wasn’t: my nose started bleeding again, and the other people on the wharf, people fishing, families out for a walk, couples holding hands, started looking at me, pointing, whispering.
Some of them didn’t even bother to whisper. ‘I believe that boy is quite inebriated,’ said an old lady.
Dad must’ve seen what was going on, because he rushed over to help me.
‘What the hell is happening?’ he said between clenched teeth.
I giggled, because, let’s face it, it must’ve looked pretty funny: a wobbly kid in full scuba gear being helped by somebody who looked like an actuary.
Dad, I guess, didn’t think it was that amusing, because he grabbed me by the arm – clawed me by the arm – and dragged me towards the Porsche.
Once there, we crammed all the stuff in the back and got the hell out of there.
First we stopped at a servo and Dad bought me some black coffee and a big bottle of water.
‘I thought this only morked on wovies,’ I said as we took off again. ‘I mean, worked on movies.’
‘Just get it into you,’ he said.
Which I managed to do.
Once I sobered up enough, I started working the radio tuner, got online on my iPhone. But breaking news: Zolt Steals Yamashita’s Gold! was nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be heard.
Had Zolt and Zoe really got away with all the treasure and – even more unlikely – got away without one mention in the news?
The former seemed barely possible, the latter almost the definition of impossible.
‘That’s highly annoying,’ said Dad as I changed radio stations yet again. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘Something by Justin Bieber,’ I said, laughing uproariously at my own joke.
Monday
Wild Animals
When Dad dropped me off at home around five and said he had to head straight out for some work thing, I resisted the temptation to say something smart alec – Office do, is it, Dad? You and the broken photocopier? – because him taking off like that suited me perfectly. Fortunately, there was nobody else home. Mom was still in Beijing and Miranda and Toby were … actually, I wasn’t sure where they were, but they weren’t home.
I rushed up to my bedroom and got onto Skype. Making sure I had the ‘record conversation’ option on, I rang Sealands.
I could’ve used my iPhone, but I wanted the call to be as anonymous as possible.
‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Saffrron,’ I said, making sure I pronounced the extra ‘r’.
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘Yes, it’s Sebastian Ovett,’ I said, combining the names of the two English champion runners of the eighties.
‘Just a minute, Sebastian.’
I was put on hold; whale sounds played.
Then Saffrron’s voice. ‘Hi, it’s Saffrron.’
Again I made sure ‘record’ was on, but said nothing.
‘Hello, is anybody there? It’s Saffrron here.’
Still nothing from me.
‘Is anybody there?’ said Saffrron a couple more times, before she eventually hung up.
I copied the resultant mp3 into Audacity, and looped it until I had half an hour of Saffrron talking. Then I transferred this mp3 onto my iPhone.
Next, I checked the weather.
There was a strong wind warning, a high seas warning – perfect for my purposes, because the fewer people
around the better. Still, no matter what the weather, it seemed to me that there was always somebody on the beach doing something: surfing, swimming, walking, fishing, something.
I found a large sports bag and crammed in all the gear I’d liberated from the Hispaniola. Then I called a taxi, and asked the driver to drop me off at the Mermaid Beach breakwater.
It was risky, but I didn’t see any other way of getting there.
Fortunately she wasn’t one of those nosy drivers. The only words she said, as she drove me to my destination, then processed my card, were ‘thank you’.
Hoisting the bag over my shoulder, I made for the breakwater where the sun was setting in a sort of eerie haze. The sea was chopped up, a flurry of white. And the sand, whipped up by the wind, stung my face.
No time to be at the beach. But of course there was somebody there. A kid suddenly materialised out of the swirling sand.
He sat huddled on the sand, a hoodie stretched down over his knees.
‘Hey,’ he said as I struggled past with my bag. ‘Can you please help? I’m really sick.’
I kept walking, and the figure became less distinct, almost spectral, as the sand swirled around him.
His disembodied voice followed me, though: ‘I think I’m going to die right here.’
I stopped.
I didn’t believe him. Not for one second. He probably told people he was going to die, right here, in that pleading, whining, cajoling voice of his, about a thousand times a day.
But what if he did die, right here? What if he did?
I took out my iPhone.
Rang triple-O.
Told the operator that there was somebody lying on the beach just south of the Mermaid Beach breakwater. She told me to stay with them. She told me that they’d now logged my number and they would use that to contact me when they arrived.
‘Hey, there’s somebody coming,’ I called back to the indistinct figure.
There was no answer from the person. So I retraced my steps. He was gone, though I could just make out the indentation in the sand where he’d been sitting.
‘Hey!’ I yelled out. ‘You there?’
But there was no reply, so I rang triple-O again and told them what had happened.
‘Prank-calling triple-O is a very serious offence,’ said the woman.
‘I wasn’t prank-calling,’ I said. ‘Seriously, there was this sick kid here, but now he’s gone.’
I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not, but again she reminded me that my number had been logged.
The breakwater wasn’t really living up to its name; white water chopped and churned around it.
I unzipped the bag.
First I stripped down and put on my wetsuit. Clipped on my weight belt. Then the BCD with tank and regulator attached. I put my iPhone in the waterproof pouch and attached it to my belt. Same with the waterproof torch. I strapped the knife to my leg. Mask on. Fins on. I piled some rocks on top of the bag, hiding it from view, and I was ready to hit the water.
I knew vis wasn’t going to be good – how could it be with all that messed-up water? – but I didn’t realise how not good it was going to be until I went under.
Basically, there was no vis.
Basically, the sea was soup. And not one of Toby’s clear, fragrant consommés, either; this was pumpkin soup, this was lentil soup, this was pea soup.
And there was quite a strong current, headed seawards.
I’d planned to swim in a more or less straight line from here across the bay to Sealands. But that plan wasn’t going to work. If the current took me, if I missed Sealands, I’d eventually end up in New Zealand. I’d already been to New Zealand, on a school trip last year, and wasn’t keen to return. Especially not without a passport and plenty of spending money.
So I’d have to go the long way round and follow the arc of the coast.
I kept to the bottom, using my depth gauge to make sure I wasn’t going too deep, that I wasn’t wandering off course. It was hard, exhausting work. And when the light faded and I had to use my torch, it became spooky work as well.
Objects suddenly appeared out of the murk. An old motor festooned with weed. The ribs of a sunken boat. In clear water, during the day, I probably wouldn’t take a second look at them, but in this context they became sinister, malevolent.
They were out to get me.
So it was a relief when finally, after about an hour, my torch picked out the mesh of the Sealands net. I’d thought that I’d have to cut through the net itself – hence the knife – but now I could see that there was a much simpler way to get on the other side.
The thick rope at the bottom of the net was tied at regular intervals to what looked like lumps of concrete.
I used the knife to saw through one of these anchor points. I was now able to push the net up enough so that I could just squeeze through underneath. There were no sirens. No sounds. I’d made it!
A shape flashed past. And then another one.
They’re checking you out, that’s all, I told myself.
Another shape. But this one stopped. And looked. It wasn’t a dolphin.
It was a shark, a grey nurse, its mouth overcrowded with snaggled teeth.
Immediately I understood what had happened. Despite my precautions, the current had swept me past the dolphin enclosure to the shark enclosure.
Something brushed my leg.
I screamed into my mouthpiece, causing it to pop out. Water started entering my mouth. My mask was filling.
You’re going to drown, I told myself.
But I also remembered what Maxine had said: It’s what you do when things go wrong, that’s when all that training kicks in.
Obviously, I was better off with the mouthpiece back in my mouth. Breathing air, not water. So I did that.
And I had no trouble clearing my mask.
I could see again.
See the sharks that were now circling me.
A small shark, less than a metre long, smudges of white on the tips of its fins, swam right up next to me. So close that I could see how horribly black its eyes were.
And it bit me on the arm!
I’m not kidding, it bit me, gave me the sort of half-playful nip that a puppy would give.
And I thought: I’ve just been bitten by a shark!
And nothing has happened. I’m not dead. I’m not bleeding. I’m not on the front page of the Gold Coast Gazette.
And it was almost as if the white-tipped shark was on my side, because the bite sort of released me from the fear that had been paralysing me.
Dom, you need to get out of here, I told myself, as I quickly assessed my options. This didn’t take long, because there weren’t very many.
Either I went back out the way I came, or I found the dolphin enclosure.
So I started swimming, with long powerful strokes of my fins, towards what I hoped was the enclosure. And the sharks – there must’ve been at least ten of them now – swam with me.
Eventually I reached the net, except it wasn’t really net, more like mesh. Steel mesh.
My sharks and I looked at the mesh, wondering what we could do next. The mesh seemed to go all the way to the bottom.
I swam down, dug around it a bit. It was buried.
There was no way under there. I could try and pull myself over, but that would mean I’d be exposed.
Or I could retrace my aquatic steps.
‘What do you reckon?’ I asked my companions.
But then I realised that I no longer had any companions, that all my little sharky mates had disappeared.
That’s strange, I thought. Maybe they know something I don’t know.
And suddenly, from deep within the ancient part of my brain, came this urgent warning: Get the hell out of here!
I reached up, grabbed two mesh handholds, and hoisted myself upwards.
Keraang!
A huge grey torpedo smashed into the mesh just below me, where my legs had been a second ago.
&nb
sp; Cedric the White Pointer!
Except now his name didn’t seem quite so comical.
I was half in the water, half out of the water. Out of the water, it was stunning; the water, protected here from the wind, was smooth and burnished by the moon’s dull light.
Under the water, it was hell. Another keraang! as the white pointer came at me again, smashing into the mesh next to my right hip.
I knew that if I didn’t get the rest of my body out, then the shark would claim it.
I’d outdo Gus then. Leg missing? Whatever. Both mine would be gone.
I frantically felt for some more handholds, and when I had them, I heaved one leg up, and over. Now I had enough purchase, I starting pulling up the other leg.
Keraang!
The water was a swirl of shark, of leg, and fin.
I got my leg free of the water.
The bottom was missing! Bitten away.
But then I realised that it was the fin – not flesh, not blood, just high-grade graphite silicone.
I tumbled over into the other side of the mesh, into the dolphin’s enclosure. And the biggest white pointer in captivity gave one last keraang! before he disappeared into the darkness.
Relief, and lots of it; I’d made it.
I let my body unwind, uncoil.
But then a dolphin headbutted – or nosebutted – me right in the guts.
It was the second time I’d been pile-drived in the guts. The first time it had been unexpected but not unsurprising – Tristan was a random punch-in-the-guts sort of guy. But this time it was both unexpected and completely surprising.
Dolphins are our friends.
Dolphins rescue drowning fisherman.
They don’t nosebutt us humans in the guts.
‘Rack off, Flipper,’ I wheezed.
But again it came at me, so I pushed its nose away and swam off.
As far as I could see there were no guards, no dogs.
Still, as I hoisted myself onto the wharf I half-expected a siren to go off, a guard to yell out, but there was nothing, just the rhythmic sound of water lapping. It was exactly as I’d hoped – they hadn’t factored in the possibility of a seaborne invasion. I checked my watch. Despite the mix-up with the enclosures, the altercation with Cedric, I was still on time.
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