Dark Video

by Peter Church

  “Don’t take them too often,” said Devon. He produced a new phial, green plastic, with white tablets. Alistair had been complaining of drowsiness.

  “You take the blue from the brown when you’re anxious; you take the white from the green when you’re drowsy.”

  “Uh huh, doc. What are they?” Alistair sniffed. His nose had started to run; he wiped it with his sleeve.

  Devon passed him a tissue. “The pills are my own special recipe. A mixture of concentrated ephedrine and Rescue Remedy formula. Working?”

  Alistair rubbed his stomach.

  “Lost your appetite?”

  “A little.”

  “Any other effects?”

  There was one, thought Alistair. The afternoon with the nurse. Which reminded him: her last text was far from complimentary. He wondered if she had a copy of the video. Imagine if it turned up on Watchit. Or Mangle? Nah, it wasn’t much good.

  “How’s it going with Derrick?”

  “Painstaking. He thought snuff was a type of tobacco.”

  “Take your time.”

  Johnny hung his legs over the edge. The boat rocked from side to side.

  “It’s pointless. You can’t see a thing,” moaned Johnny. Murky water slapped repetitively beneath the boat.

  Third launch, bad weather, Devon fiddling with the cameras, adjusting light levels on the monitor. “Just get in,” he snarled.

  The wind whipped in from the north. Everyone was in a bad mood. Richard retched again, a dry, painful heave. Alistair kept his eye on land; he’d been told it helped to prevent seasickness.

  This is a nightmare, he thought. Why hadn’t he walked away from it all yet?

  The boat lurched on a big wave. Richard collapsed onto the floor; Johnny gave Devon another imploring look.

  “Look, we have to be able to get our setup right in any conditions,” Devon said firmly. “We may only get one crack at this. So just get in the goddamned water. Please. I don’t care if we can’t see a thing.”

  Johnny pulled down his mask and fell backwards into the water, stroked backwards until he was several meters from the boat. Alistair lowered the pole beneath the chop. A second later the monitor was displaying murky images, visibility no more than a couple of meters.

  “What’s it look like?”

  Devon fiddled with the controls, moving the lever horizontally and vertically. They could make out Johnny’s legs treading water rhythmically nearby.

  Alistair thought of a scene from Jaws. The view from below of legs beating underwater, the unknowing look on the doomed swimmer’s face, then the hit…

  “Perfect,” said Devon.

  It was far from a word Alistair would have used. He rubbed his forehead, anticipating the drive from the harbor to the hospice, another chapter from the screenplay, then a conversation with a dying man. He stared back at the land. He needed some more of those relaxation pills.

  IN THE WATER

  This time, conditions were ideal: clear skies, a faint breeze barely touching the relaxed waters of the bay, gulls circling above Kalk Bay Harbor, soliciting for scraps.

  They arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon—in two cars, Devon’s Mercedes and Johnny’s Cressida, pulling the boat. It was floated in minutes, their practice runs paying off. Alistair was sent to park Devon’s car down the road, while the others loaded containers, duffel bags, and cooler boxes into the boat.

  The sun was on its downward arc. It was their fourth practice as a group, a quiet Tuesday—a week since their previous outing. In between, Alistair had managed to avoid two excursions to Gansbaai, past Hermanus, along the Cape South Coast, where Devon and Richard had joined cage diving tours to pick up more tips about shark behavior. They’d made a point of not using the False Bay operators—Devon’s caution preventing this. Alistair had managed to worm his way out of the trips, using the excuse that he needed more time to make inroads with Derrick—and he quietly hoped this might be the start of his departure from the group.

  “I think I’m getting somewhere with Derrick,” he said airily, as the boat puttered out of the harbor entrance. “What’s with the two cars, by the way?”

  “Good, good,” said Devon, behind the wheel, ignoring the question. A fine mist sprayed up over the bow as he opened up the engine.

  Alistair moved to the stern, where Richard was unpacking gear, preparing the cameras.

  “What do you think?” laughed Johnny.

  He displayed three pairs of board shorts. “What’s their favorite color? Blood red, sea blue, or my personal choice: yummy yellow.”

  Alistair made circles around his ears with his right index finger. Johnny laughed even louder and lit up a smoke.

  Half an hour later, Devon cut the engines. They were a distance from Seal Island, close enough to just make out the two cage diving operators with the naked eye. He rotated the onboard camera automatically, zooming in on the nearest boat, in time to see a shark cage being winched out of the water. The company name was displayed on the side of the boat in green writing: White Shark Adventures. On board, two men gave each other a high-five.

  “Good timing. Looks like they’re just packing up.”

  He focused on the island behind the boat, a barren mass of granite, thronged with Cape fur seals staring out to sea as if waiting to be rescued. Gentle waves were breaking on the shore in puffs of white.

  “Nice afternoon for a swim,” said Johnny.

  “Are you getting in?” asked Alistair. “Near the island?”

  “You bet.”

  Alistair turned to Devon. “What’s the plan for today?”

  “Full dress rehearsal,” he said, without looking up from his activity. Alistair frowned and turned to Richard, who shrugged. Johnny, alone in the front of the boat, had his shirt off, yellow trunks on; eyes shut as if in meditation, he sucked in deep breaths.

  “Let’s get the rods out, for appearances’ sake,” Devon continued. “We should be good to go in a while, once these guys have left. For now, let’s get the equipment out of sight.”

  Alistair watched Richard lay the camera and tripod down on their sides on the transom, then cover them with towels. Devon rustled about for a rod, cast from the stern into the sea—no bait—then set the rod in a holder. He pulled several beers from the cooler box and handed them around. “I think we could all do with one of these,” he said, settling back into the skipper’s seat.

  Alistair, uncomfortable on a side bench, surveyed the boat, looked out to the island and back. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Relax, Alesandro. It’s all going to plan.”

  The sun had dipped in the sky, teetering as it dropped toward the horizon. Theirs was now the only boat in sight, the cage diving operators having disappeared back to shore, their passengers satiated with closeup visions of the oceans’ most frightening predator.

  Devon cut the engines again, this time as the ski boat assumed a position several hundred meters off the south coast of Seal Island. Johnny, in the front of the boat, released the anchor.

  Devon turned to Alistair and Richard. “Alesandro, when it’s time, you must keep the pole steady under your left arm, but try to get some decent shots with the handheld, too. And Ritchie, keep checking the monitor to see what the underwater camera is doing. Remember, we must be in sync to get the best shot.”

  “What shot are you talking about?” asked Alistair. “What are you talking about?” They’d been at sea for two hours and he still didn’t know what was going on.

  Johnny sat quietly, attaching a length of blue and white cord to his middle. He looked up and grinned widely. “For fuck’s sake! Someone tell him.”

  “Johnny’s going to have a swim with the sharks,” said Richard.

  “What?”

  The boat rocked as Johnny mounted the side, ready to tip into the water behind him. He was enjoying watching Alistair’s reaction. “I’m dying of cancer, Morgan. They’re gonna pay me a bar.”

  Alistair looked to Devon, still
confused. “What’s going on?”

  “Like Richard said, Johnny’s going in. We’re going to film him. Now. With a shark.”

  Alistair raised his hands, appalled. “Here? At the island?”

  “That’s right,” replied Devon calmly. “No point in messing around if we want a shark in the shot.”

  “You guys are fucking mental.” Alistair shook his head in disbelief.

  “Alesandro, if I’d told you what we’re going to do, you’d never have come.”

  “Isn’t that my choice?”

  “No. I don’t think it is. Not any more.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’re in this together. We’ve come too far now.” Devon busied himself at the monitor, not meeting Alistair’s eye.

  Johnny hooted with laughter. “I’ve never seen Morgan like this. Give him some more anxiety tabs, Dev!”

  “Sit down,” Devon commanded Alistair, turning to him. “Look, the deal’s changed. Carlos wants to go with Johnny’s idea. It’s a wager. But everything’s in our favor. If the stupid Americans want to be so thick, then let them be. Turns out Carlos has got some client with a serious Jaws fetish. So we drop a body in the water—Johnny—and we chum and attract a shark. The guy’s desperate for some decent footage of a great white sizing up a human. It only needs to brush him. But it must be visible, a clear shot.”

  Alistair couldn’t think of anything to say, his mind racing. He stared blankly at Devon, then over to Johnny, grinning on the side of the boat.

  “We’ll get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Alesandro. That’s over two million rand at the current exchange. Johnny gets the first mill. After that we split the difference four ways.”

  Two fifty. The previous deal had been the same for an attack, double for a breach. How desperate had Carlos become?

  “You can’t be serious?” he said eventually.

  It was a trick; it had to be. He regretted taking the tablets that morning. They seemed to be affecting his logic. Next thing they’d all start laughing and slapping him on the back.

  “You better believe it, Morgan,” shouted Johnny.

  It wasn’t like Devon, thought Alistair. He was too careful. They were only on their fourth trip. What if the sharks didn’t come? They hadn’t even seen one yet. What if one came but they screwed up the take? What if it…

  It was too horrible to imagine.

  “Relax, Alistair. You’re looking at earning close on three hundred grand for sitting on a boat and aiming a camera,” said Richard. “We’ll all be laughing this evening.”

  “Hey, Morgan!” whooped Johnny. “Get in with me and I’ll cut you a deal!”

  Alistair ignored him and turned to Devon. “No way, Devon,” he implored.

  “Look, I can’t argue now. Johnny’s indemnified us. You can try talking him out of it if you really want. But I promised Carlos a deal. We’re lucky he wanted to negotiate.” He turned to Johnny. “Hey, where’re your car keys?”

  “On the dash.”

  It didn’t add up, thought Alistair. It wasn’t Devon’s style.

  “Johnny,” said Alistair.

  “Fuck off, Morgan. Don’t fuck this up now. Where’s my mask?”

  “No mask,” said Devon.

  “What the hell?”

  “You want the bet or not? If you want it, you comply with their requirements. No wet suit, no goggles. They want to see the shark eat a human, not a frogman.”

  But there’s not supposed to be any eating, thought Alistair. What do we get if…? He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question.

  “The fucking shark won’t eat me,” said Johnny, almost reading his mind. Alistair shivered. The heat from the sun had disappeared; dusk was approaching: hunting hour.

  Johnny grinned and let go of the side, emerging several meters from the boat. “Project Grey Suit, scene one, act one,” he declared, floating onto his back, hands sculling at his sides, the blue and white rope an umbilical cord between him and the boat.

  “This isn’t happening,” Alistair muttered to himself. What was this? Silverman was right. Something big had been growing and it wasn’t fun any more.

  Devon extracted a silver bladder from one of the duffel bags, once a reservoir of box wine. He held it at arm’s length over the side and slashed it with a knife, smelly red and brown liquid dripping into the water, an oily slick coating the smooth surface.

  “Didn’t you wonder what the stink was, Morgan?” Johnny shouted.

  Alistair shook his head, watching as the light breeze tugged at the slick, dispersing it downwind. He knew it was no joke. He realized why they’d sent him to park Devon’s car.

  “Is it cold?” called Richard, nervously scanning the horizon.

  “Not too bad.” Johnny stroked tentatively, one, two, three meters. “I’ll put up with it for a million fat ones.”

  “Further,” instructed Devon. “Let’s get some shots of you far out, looking helpless. But we’ll need you closer to the boat when the action starts.” He checked the underwater camera. Visibility was good, around twelve meters.

  Johnny rolled back onto his stomach and rolled his arms over, each smooth movement an extra meter of ocean between him and the boat. “Sixty minutes,” he bellowed.

  Devon acknowledged his shout by pushing a button on his watch. “Richard, get a shot of him bobbing in the distance. Make him look as far away as possible.”

  “You getting tired?” Richard shouted to Johnny. Ten minutes in. He had settled into position now, two-and-half boat lengths to the rear, slightly to starboard, in range of the underwater camera.

  “Nah, I’m fine.” Johnny treaded water lazily. He had settled on a routine, remaining in one place for a couple of minutes, then swimming around slowly to relieve the monotony and work different muscles. He was fit, a water polo player back at school, played rugby now and studied physical education—an ideal candidate.

  Alistair shuddered to think of Derrick Young in the water. How could he have tried to con a dying man?

  “One million bucks,” Johnny called out.

  The boat rocked gently with the swell. Devon scanned the horizon with binoculars, watching for unwelcome attention from passing boats. He checked the monitor, then over to Richard manning the onboard camera and Alistair, with the pole wedged under his arm, gazing into the distance, wishing he was a thousand miles away. “Just hold your nerve, you two,” said Devon. “Maybe try some shots with the handheld now, Alesandro.”

  Alistair looked down at the small camcorder in his right hand, flicked it on for the first time that day. An image appeared on the LCD: his foot, the transom, a patina of chum against the white of the boat.

  Devon reached into a cooler for a beer. “Drink, anyone?”

  Alistair declined, gazing numbly toward land. Richard wasn’t interested either, focusing intently on the camera viewfinder. How could he be handling this, thought Alistair. Richard! But he seemed to be operating on another level, focused, detached from reality.

  “What’s the sixty minutes got to do with it?”

  “It’s the agreement I’ve made with Johnny.” Devon volunteered nothing further.

  “So if nothing happens after sixty minutes we can get the hell out of here, right?”

  Devon put his hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “Calm down, Alesandro. Do you know the chances of us pulling a shark?” He made a zero with his fingers. “Next time you don’t have to come if you don’t want.” He turned back to the sea, following the slick to the horizon, scanning intently.

  “How about a cold one for me, fellows?” shouted Johnny.

  The underwater camera produced a surprisingly clear image of Johnny’s feet, gently kicking against the green waters of False Bay.

  It arrived from the deeps: silently, alone, unnoticed on the underwater monitor. A ripple of white water five meters off the stern preceded the scythe of its dorsal fin before its massive black torso gently broke the surface.

  “Fu
ck! Fuck! Look!” Richard shrieked, first to spot it.

  The great white came at an angle, steering slowly through the water, rolling over slightly to get a view of the boat as it passed on the port side.

  Alistair rushed to the edge for a better view, peering over, heart thumping. More than three meters, almost as long as the boat, the shark was much broader than he had anticipated, yet its movements were deliberate and graceful, almost as if in slow motion. He could make out the distinct cuts and abrasions on the dark grey skin as the clear water flowed off its back.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered, sucking in his breath and aiming the handheld camera at the huge animal as if by instinct.

  The shark dropped beneath the surface, a long black shadow now, and veered to its left, a series of S-shaped movements taking it out of sight to the port of the boat.

  “Hey! What’s happening?” Ten meters away on the opposite side, Johnny strained to see what was going on.

  “We’ve got a visitor,” Devon said calmly, his voice carrying clearly across the water. “Everyone, get a grip now and do your job properly. Alistair, make sure the underwater cam is in the water on the right side.”

  “Come on!” Johnny yelled, eyes wide, adrenaline pumping. “Take one!”

  Devon untied the cord connecting Johnny to the boat, fixing a large sack of fish guts and entrails to it. Reeking brown juices ran down his arms and onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Alistair asked. He felt like an outsider, unrehearsed.

  Devon dropped the bag into the water. “Pull,” he called to Johnny.

  “Devon,” said Alistair horrified. “You’re crazy!” He scanned the water for the shark. Nothing.

  “It has to bump him,” Devon replied calmly. “That’s the agreement. Otherwise this is all a waste of time.”

  Alistair stared, speechless. Agreement? What was the agreement? What was going on?

  Johnny winched in the bait, grim-faced, getting ready for the show. A red soup of stinking entrails filled the distance between him and the boat.

  “Keep it as close to you as possible,” Devon yelled, as he frantically scooped more brown liquid into the water, reaching into a cooler box and ladling it into the sea with a plastic bailer. The supply depleted, he quickly rinsed his hands in the water, then settled in behind the monitor, flicking to the split screen, trying to locate the shark.