The hatchet fell with a dull thud. It took him several blows to decapitate the taniwha. The head would be his trophy, he decided, dumping it in the stolen chilly bin and sitting on the lid. Ernest heard the peaceful sound of birds calling in the bush, and suddenly began to cry. He felt his head was clearing again, that a feeling of normalcy might at last return. He allowed the monster’s body to slip into the puddle and sink into its black unending depths.
Moments later, there was a hand upon his shoulder. Ernest looked up to see the tear-soaked face of Rangi. “Are you a ghost now too, Rangi?” he asked his son in disbelief. Rangi knelt beside him. “I killed the monster, boy,” Ernest told him. “I finally killed it, after all these years. You didn’t believe it existed. No-one did. But I killed it. I avenged my father, and my poor dog, Jess. You see? There’s Jess’ head – or what’s left of it – over there. The monster spat it at me. But I got him. I got him, son!”
Rangi began to weep, shaking his head. “No, dad,” he said. “That’s just a rock.”
“Eh?” Ernest looked at the dog’s skull again. It did look somehow different from before.
“It’s a rock!” Rangi repeated. “You pourangi bastard! What have you done?”
“My God,” said Ernest. He could see now that the dog’s skull was indeed nothing more than a rock. He screwed his eyes shut, then blinked them open again. He clawed his hair with trembling hands.
“That new species we discovered,” Rangi said darkly. “It’s a parasite like I said. This pool is infested with them. They burrow into the flesh of the eels and hatch their eggs in the host – or whoever eats the host’s flesh. We carried out experiments on rats, and then secretly dogs, to see how the parasite would affect warm-blooded hosts. It turns out they thrive on the extra heat, and produce an addictive chemical that induces the host to unknowingly keep on ingesting more eggs.” Rangi sobbed, clutching at his father’s thigh. “They eat into the victim’s brain, dad, causing increased aggression, powerful hallucinations, and delusions. Don’t you see?”
Ernest was unable to say anything for a while. “Did you find your mother afterwards?” he eventually asked.
“No,” said Rangi. “But I found a note. She said she was especially worried about you this time, and that she’d left to find you, here at the puddle.” Rangi looked into his father’s face. “Have you seen her?” he whispered.
Ernest looked away and closed his eyes.
“We’ll take it from here, please,” said another voice, the voice of a policeman somewhere behind him. Ernest felt two strong hands rest on either of his shoulders. He heard another officer reporting on a walkie-talkie that the suspect had been apprehended. Another looked down at the hatchet, and examined the blood-covered stones beside the puddle. “What’s in the chilly bin, Sir?” he asked, sounding like he didn’t really want to know.
Ernest coughed. He suddenly felt cold and sick. He heard rustling in the bush around the perimeter of the puddle, and eventually saw marksmen in flack jackets emerge from their cover. Ernest remained sitting on the chilly bin. “Don’t open it,” he said. “Please, not in front of my son.”
Brunch
By
James Harris
...these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang – Herman Melville – Moby Dick
Drake kicked his flippers, arms limp by his sides, eyes peering down through his mask at the reef's pools. The Californian sun felt hot on his back, and he occasionally submerged to cool off, blowing out any intruding water from his snorkel like a whale.
Since half-retiring from his yacht construction enterprise (it pretty much ran itself these days), Drake swam to keep the flab away, allocated an hour or so every morning to the reef. He had only step down from his house's decking, and the secluded beach's white sand sprouted out from between his toes, the lapping sea a mere stone’s throw away.
He found the reef's beauty calmed him, took him away from spread sheets and stock control, sales figures and all the rest that he still refused to give up entirely. The reef gave him so much, and he gave something in return. Most mornings, he fished for small fry, chopping them into pieces and dumping them into his freezer. Around mid-morning, stuffing a plastic bag with the previous day's haul, he'd swim out to the reef, watching the silver flashes darting into the clouds of flaking meat as he distributed it, saving the majority for the real reason he ventured out so far.
Drake hung suspended in the water, looking down at the enormous rock with the opening set into it. Within the gloom, he saw the familiar brown and white swirl, and then the amber orb positioning itself into place, staring out. Two tentacles ventured out and extended themselves, then curled and unfurled, like someone clenching and unclenching their fist. Drake didn't know if it was visceral instinct, recognizing vibrations that could be potential prey, or if it was cerebral memorization of his particular movements, because another pair of tentacles appeared, and then effortlessly, his diva emerged, her white suckers unfurling out to him, no threat of attack.
Dance, my beauty, he thought, dance for me, it's time for brunch.
And the octopus opened her tentacles and curled them into springs. He didn't know if the creature was female, but it was so pretty, so beautiful, it couldn't be anything else. Some of her arms twisted and spiraled, and he clapped. Wonderful, he thought.
From his bag, he dispersed the remaining meat, watching the octopus reach out to them. One of her suckered lengths tickled his leg, wrapping itself around his calf, whilst another gently teased his ankle. And as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished like a phantom into her den.
He'd been visiting this part of the reef for over a year, and the exhilaration never dulled, never became anything like habit. It was a new experience with every swim. She'd been the size of a football when he'd first noticed her, and now, still accepting his generosity, she'd bloomed to the size of a basketball, her arms the length of his legs.
Now the show had been performed, and the diva had returned to her dressing room, Drake returned to shore, every stress banished, every muscle worked and sun-soaked.
As he breathed in a methodical rhythm with his limbs, he hoped another beauty would put in an appearance, another reason for mornings and brunch.
And as luck would have it, just as Drake sat down to coffee, a silhouette appeared in the distance. He sat up from his recliner, and like the octopus recognizing his signature vibrations, he made a similar connection with the silhouette, the dark shape that induced a spurt of adrenalin to wash in his gut.
“Morning,” he called out. He waved. “Joining me today?”
The silhouette was now close enough to discern a trim body, slender limbs, long black hair that framed a heart-shaped face. She jogged over, her top half bobbing in time to the hair lifting from and falling back onto her tanned shoulders.
Drake was pushing fifty, but the sight of this woman exhumed feelings not felt since the days of Airfix clippers and destroyers. “Coffee and croissants?”
Her name was Jenna, a woman living farther down the beach. He'd seen her around, and for the past few months she'd trekked onto his part of the beach on her jogs. He didn't mind one bit. She replied with a smile, and nodded approval.
Drake usually liked younger women, his ex-wife fourteen years his junior. He loved their athletic bodies, their bubbly personalities, but all the girls since his divorce had eventually become tiresome accessories. Even though Jenna was of a similar age to himself, he loved her company, admired her outlook on life, simplistic, not like the diamond-studded dolls hanging from the arms of the entrepreneurs living along the coast. And of course, she had the exercise-sculpted body of a thirty-year old. Like him, she'd lost her partner (an art dealer), and they often talked about loneliness and loss. Although Drake's wife walked out because of his obsession with his busines
s, all those years before he'd learned to relinquish his fevered grip, Jenna's husband died from liver failure - champagne liver, she'd once called it.
Out of breath, Jenna bent forward and gripped her thighs. “Morning,” she managed. “Just give me a minute.”
Drake thought she could just about take as long as she liked – the view was spectacular. She always wore Lycra, and he imagined the day he’d catch her in a skimpy bikini, or even better, naked. Even when their conversation turned somber, subjects turning to her late husband, and her daughter living in New York, his eyes couldn't help but wander. “Coffee sound good, or how about water?”
“Coffee,” she panted.
And they sipped and talked, any silences filled with longing stares out to sea, the twinkling blanket offering hours of contemplative thought.
Jenna broke one of those silences with: “Don't you think we're lucky living out here.”
“I guess,” Drake replied, “although I like to think I've earned it.”
“I'm not saying you haven't. I mean it's such a lucky thing to be able to wake up to all this.”
“It is beautiful.”
“And the sunrises. When the sky is pink, like it’s streaked with cotton candy.”
“Just a tad too early for me these days.”
“Oh, you really should set your alarm one morning.”
Perhaps, he thought, they'd both wake up to it one morning. “I might just do that. Croissant?”
“I'm watching my figure, but thanks anyway.”
He nearly told her that he'd be more than happy to watch it for her, but caught himself. It wasn't the first time he restrained from corny chat-up lines over the past month – he had to keep reminding himself of the fact this woman had been widowed only eighteen months.
Jenna cupped her chin in her open palms. Her dark eyes twinkled. “What's your favorite aspect about living on the beach?”
Drake wanted to tell her how damn cute she looked, an inquisitive child asking a silly question. “I love the reef, all her creatures, to swim amongst them.” He stopped, amazed he'd never mentioned it before. “I have this place I visit every morning. There's this rock-” He paused, added, “You like swimming, right?”
She managed to frown, smile and nod at the same time.
He pointed out to sea, announced, “I'll show you the most beautiful sight you'll ever witness. It's beautiful, exotic, exquisite!”
Jenna flashed her teeth. “I'll need my bikini, then?”
Drake, you old dog, he thought. “Of course.” He tapped the face of his diving watch. “About this time tomorrow morning.”
Jenna appeared on time, just as Drake had expected. And she was indeed wearing a bikini. It was of the simple black variety, but there was nothing simple about the overall look – he thought she looked like a movie star.
Drake held out a mask and snorkel. “Ready?”
“They'll complement my outfit,” she replied.
“I haven't a spare pair of flippers, so you'll have to grab on.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I'm a strong swimmer.”
In the wash, they dipped their masks, and entered the reef, Drake leading, Jenna close behind.
Every so often, Drake slowed and released pieces of fish, gesticulating and pointing as silver clouds exploded around them, or if a particularly unusual species crossed their path. She would smile, and grab onto his arm as they tread water, and the trek to the rock was over before he knew it.
He spat out his mouthpiece. “Down there,” he said, pointing to the crevice.
She placed her face into the water. Her eyes widened.
“Isn't she beautiful? Watch.”
The octopus' approach was a wary one, but she eventually extended her tentacles, and appeared from her den.
“Dance for me then,” he said. “Earn your brunch.”
Jenna still had her face down, and as the creature performed, twisting and unfurling all her tentacles, she placed a hand to the small of Drake's back.
His face was now submerged, and the look of wonderment on Jenna's told him his idea to bring her along was a good one.
After the dance was over, Drake released the pieces of fish, and they watched the diva pluck at her reward. After a minute or so they lifted their heads.
“That was the most incredible thing,” Jenna said. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank-you.”
Stunned, Drake managed, “No problem,” and placed an arm around her waist.
He was about to ask if she wanted to head back, perhaps have a spot of lunch, when her eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but by the time he'd summoned any air, she'd vanished.
Drake plunged under, the image framed by his mask paralyzing him. Wrapped around Jenna's ankles, four suckered lengths held fast, the remaining gripping at the inside of the rock's opening. Her eyes were all questioning, all whites. He dived down, grabbed at Jenna's arms, and kicked his flippers, but she wouldn't budge. He burst through the surface, filled his lungs, and looked down. The octopus had disappeared, along with her remaining tentacles and Jenna's feet, ankles and shins, into her den. Jenna's arms flailed, and her body twisted, but she only sank farther into the crevice.
By the time Drake managed another two dives, trying to pries the suckered arms free, Jenna was up to her chest, her arms limp, her eyes shut, tiny bubbles pirouetting to the surface from her open mouth.
All of Drake's nightmares had finally come true. He squinted out into the distance, watched the figure padding up the beach.
He was tired, hadn't slept properly since the decision that left the dead entombed, undiscovered. He thought he was loosing his grip on reality, and smiled stupidly.
Three weeks had passed since the incident, and every night came embellished with images of lily white suckers, monsters from the deep, the undead emerging from angry waves.
When he'd made it back to shore that morning, he'd grabbed his filleting knife, and dashed back towards the reef. But something, instinct perhaps, made him stop in the wash. He stood listening to the hypnotic lullaby of the sea. It was a vast blanket of mercury, its waves gentle undulating humps. He looked left, then right, the beach empty. The numbed silence was surreal, made the past quarter of an hour seem like it hadn't existed. With his heart pounding in his chest, he took another four hesitant steps. Again he looked around him. He imagined the sea full of frogmen, saw police cars out front of his house. Another two steps, now up to his knees, and he saw a frogman carrying the corpse from the sea like a hero rescuing a maiden, saw the local rag's headlines, heard the gossip inside the club houses, clubs that watered the kind of clientele that bought yachts. Now up to his waist, he stared blindly out to sea. He briefly imagined what he would find if he ventured back out, deciding that he'd probably find nothing but the dark crevice, didn't even want to think about what was inside. And absurdly, having the most profound affect of all, he imagined not seeing his diva perform again. When he finally turned back to shore, head hung low, his shoulders raw from the sun, he whispered, “She was jealous.”
The figure approached, a familiar shape, the unmistakable bounce in its step. Drake laughed out loud, said, “Jenna, you've returned. Fancy a spot of brunch?”
But as the figure neared, he squinted, thought she looked better dead.
“You were sleeping with her,” the girl snapped. “Admit it!” A book was slammed down on the table, making his coffee cup momentarily dance. On its cover were the gold-leaved letters spelling DIARY.
This girl was the splitting image of Jenna: slender limbs, black hair, eyes like pools of melted chocolate.
“Ah,” Drake laughed, “you must be Penny.” The relief was profound, and he hadn't meant to laugh.
“How the hell do you know who I am?”
“You look just like your mother.”
This rocked the girl, and her face softened. Not for long though. “Just give me one good reason why I shouldn't go to the police with this?”
Drake swallowed, prepari
ng another flurry of lies.
But he'd had some practice with the police a few days previous. They'd eventually come knocking, just as he knew they would. It had taken longer than he'd suspected, but then she was living alone, he surmised, and only spoke to Penny at weekends.
He'd explained that, yes, he did indeed know her, had seen her for coffee on the odd occasion. When asked about his last sighting of her, he recalled the last time he'd returned to the rock. The diva appeared as usual, but as she left her den, she stirred the water inside, shifting what looked like bones into passing the opening. With the two officers standing in his living room, he looked vacantly out to sea, brushed a hand through his hair, and answered, “Well, let me see. It must've been a week or so ago.” That, he thought, made it over a week after the incident. “Jogging up the beach, like most mornings. Why? Something happened?”
Drake regarded Penny with a feigned expression of dismay. “She's still missing?”
“Yes, she's still missing,” she said, “and you lied. You told the police you only saw her once or twice a month.” She tapped the book, “This says otherwise.”
“Our relationship,” he began, “was nothing more than a chat over coffee. Two lonely people looking for someone to confide in. You can understand that. Nothing more. And if you don't mind my asking, but why haven't you gone to the police if you think I'm guilty of something?”
“Because I want to hear an explanation now,” Penny replied, “not after lawyers have twisted the truth.” She opened and flicked through the diary. “Over the last eight weeks before her disappearance, you saw each other nineteen times. And does this look like the ramblings of just a friend?”
Drake read the hand-written entrance for 11th July, a week before their swim:
Dead Bait Page 7