by Peter Church
“Look!” Richard spotted it again, turning slowly and deliberately in a wide arc, thirty meters away. It made for the boat in a direct line now, a small bow wave preceding the dorsal fin and a wake streaming from the thrust of its tail, before it slipped beneath the surface. Devon switched his attention to the underwater camera, full screen: the heavy shape emerged from the murk, thick and massive, pectoral fins like wings at its side, the unmoving grin making straight for the camera, filling the screen. The big shark passed underneath, the boat rocking in its wake. The camera swivelled, catching the thrust of its muscular tail.
“Quickly, Alistair!” Devon demanded. “Other side of the boat. I need to focus on Johnny.”
Alistair obeyed without thought, edging around in front of the tripod stand and projecting the pole camera toward Johnny, bobbing ten meters away. He looked down and dimly registered that he was still filming with the camcorder.
Through a haze of fish entrails, Johnny’s kicking feet came into view on the monitor.
“Come on, baby,” Devon urged. “Now be our star.”
The shark had looped left, slowing down again, and was now heading back toward the stern of the boat, nosing its way through the oily water.
“I’m losing sight of you,” shouted Devon to Johnny. “Swim toward the boat. Splash! Attract attention to yourself!”
A wave of nausea swept over Alistair, as the scene unfolded in front of him. This was sin, big and evil; it would burst through his door and spill down the passage. This can’t be happening, he thought. It’s a dream. I’m going to wake up soon, warm in my bed, in Green 212.
He lurched for the side, vomited into the water, a further ingredient to the soup of chum.
“Keep steady!” Devon ordered. “I must get the shot!”
“Where is it?” Johnny shouted, trying to raise himself out of the water. He spotted the fin to the stern of the boat, heading away from him, then looping left again back toward him, saw it submerge.
Alistair, Devon, and Richard watched transfixed as the dark shadow made a beeline for Johnny, twenty meters away.
“Johnny, for Christ’s sake! The shark! Get out!” Alistair shouted. Johnny was two boat lengths away—fifteen seconds and he could be on board. Fifteen seconds to safety…
But the shark closed the gap with a couple of flicks of its tail.
“Motherfucker, here it comes!” Johnny screamed. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, pulled his legs up to his chest, careful not to leave any limbs exposed.
“Don’t move!” shouted Richard, eye attached to the camera viewfinder.
Johnny lifted almost entirely out of the water and came crashing back down, disappeared as the shark’s wake washed over him, then reappeared a second later.
“I kicked it!” he screamed. “I fucking kicked it!”
“Got it!” shouted Richard. “I got the shot.”
Alistair, on autopilot, had also got the shot, on the little camcorder, the LCD still returning images from the water: Johnny spinning around frantically, looking for the shark, then running his hands up and down his body checking for injuries.
“Fucker, nicked me!” Johnny called out. “I’m bleeding—grazed my ankle, I think.”
“Hurry, Johnny, get the hell out of the water,” Alistair shouted, suddenly returning to his senses. “Swim! Get out now!”
Behind him, Devon remained at the console, reviewing the underwater footage, not saying a word.
The great animal surges into view toward Johnny’s curled-up form, entering the frame from below right in a flash of bubbles and white water, jaws apart, Johnny riding up on the bow wave, makes contact—then, in an instant, the shark alters course to the right, away from the camera, flicks its tail several times and disappears into the green sea. Only Johnny remains on screen, yellow board shorts, white legs pumping as he stabilizes himself.
“Not interested,” said Devon, subdued.
“What? What happened?” asked Richard in a shaky voice, still manning the tripod.
“It’s not interested,” Devon repeated, louder. “Bumped him. Was just checking him out, friend or foe, seeing what he was.”
In the water, Johnny was suspended in a sitting position, back to the boat, legs splayed, paddling only with his hands, peering anxiously below him to his right and left, looking for signs of the shark’s return. Even in the fading light, a distinct puff of red hung in the water, emanating from his lower left calf and mingling with the lingering chum cloud. Alistair couldn’t watch, dropped his head and stared at the camcorder LCD instead, as if the digitally generated pixels might displace him from the reality of the situation.
“Just get out of the water,” he heard himself calling.
Johnny didn’t react. He seemed paralyzed but for the sideways movements of his head and the muted paddling motions of his hands.
“Stay where you are,” said Devon calmly.
“Is it coming back?” For the first time that day, Johnny’s voice was brittle with concern. “Where? What must I do?”
“It’s not coming back. It’s already gone, bolted out of here,” said Devon, matter-of-fact.
“You sure?”
“Positive. It was just checking out the smell, didn’t like what it saw. It’ll be a rugby pitch away already.”
“Well, thank fuck for that then…” Confidence returned to Johnny’s voice. “Thank fuck for that!” Then realization; fists pumping above his head. “I won, I won! I’m rich! Yeehaa!”
He extended an arm and stroked back toward the boat, rolling over, several strong strokes and he was there. He reached for the metal ladder on the stern.
“Wait a second, wait a second,” Devon stopped him, flustered. “We need to get a shot of the injury while you’re out there.”
“OK, but hurry up, damn it, I want to get the fuck out of this water.”
Johnny extended himself full length on his back, left leg on the surface so that Richard could get a close up of the wound, head glancing about awkwardly. Alistair focused in with his camcorder, too, the LCD revealing a two inch laceration on the front left of his calf. The blood dispersed like ink in the water.
“OK, can I get the hell out now, please?”
“No! Stay where you are.” Devon’s voice, loud, authoritative—a trace of panic. “Don’t you dare move, OK?”
“What’s your problem, Devon? I want to get the fuck out, I’ve just been attacked by a goddamned great white.”
“The deal was an hour in the water, you’ve got eighteen minutes to go…”
“Fuck that for a bad idea. The deal’s done.”
Johnny swam forward, reached for the ladder with both hands, placed a foot on the bottom rung.
“I’m warning you! Get back in the water!” The boat rocked as Devon lunged forward, taking position above the ladder.
“Jesus, Devon,” Alistair whispered as the gun appeared from Devon’s pocket. A shot rang out, a resounding crack. Johnny fell back in the water. Alistair watched the body splash on the LCD, arms flailing, as if in a movie. It was a movie—but this wasn’t in the script.
Devon held a .38 special above his head. Alistair stared, unable to digest it all.
“Devon!” screamed Richard. “You’ve shot him!”
“No, I haven’t.”
Johnny resurfaced, a body length from the boat, face enraged. “What’s your fucking problem!” Fury and terror combined.
“A deal’s a deal, Johnny. Now stay where you are.” Devon stepped back, looking over his shoulder, moved to the console. Alistair watched, not saying a word, panned the camera from Johnny to Devon at the controls, scrutinizing the monitor, back to Johnny, prisoner in the water.
“Devon, please…” Richard, shocked, trembling, tried to intervene.
“Shut up, Ritchie. Shut the fuck up and concentrate on what you’re doing.” Devon leaned in to the monitor. “Keep the fucking cameras on him. The light’s going so watch what you’re doing. Sixty minutes. That’s the deal. Johnn
y gets out now, we get fuck all. Understand?”
“Dev, just put down the gun. Let him out,” Richard tried again. “We’ve got the shot.”
Devon shook his head.
“Devon,” Johnny pleaded.
“Shut the fuck up, all of you!” Devon raised the gun in Johnny’s direction, squeezed the trigger, another crack as the bullet hit the water. “You take another stroke and I swear to god I’ll shoot you.”
“F-f-f…Hey, this…this wasn’t the deal!” Johnny stammered, his body convulsing, the adrenaline wearing off—shock, hypothermia, the new threats.
“He wants to get out!” Richard screamed.
“Shut up! Everybody, shut up!”
“Devon, please!” shouted Johnny. “I’m bleeding, I’m not sure how much longer I can last.”
Another shot rang out; a small plume exploded in front of Johnny. “Stay where you are!”
“Devon,” Alistair said softly. He hadn’t moved for several minutes now, the camera pole still wedged under his left armpit, camcorder still rolling, eyes transfixed to the screen, transcending the madness around him. “This isn’t…happening.”
Johnny trod water in the center of the LCD, struggling now, on his back, his face pale, sickly. Alistair watched, watched, straining on the image—then, for a split second, the color of the murky water below seemed to darken.
“Oh Jesus Christ…”
The great white hits hard from below, striking amidships, a blur in the screen as it hoists Johnny clear of the surface, arms flailing, body enclosed in the gaping pink maw between thigh and chest. The huge shark rises with its prey out of the water, crashes down, away from the boat, plunging Johnny head first into the murk from where it has emerged. A mass of churning white water cascades upwards and rains down onto an empty surface. A flash of pale belly reflects for a moment through the frothing sea water as the creature sinks out of sight, before a dark cloud appears from below, casting a pall across the screen. In moments, the boiling sea surface regains its form, a pink sheen replacing bright scarlet, Johnny’s blood dispersing on the swell.
“Johnny!” screamed Richard.
Beneath the surface, the underwater camera catches a shot of the great white, enormous: two meters longer than the previous shark and twice as wide; it circles slowly, eyeing its victim, then turns away nonchalantly and fades from view. The camera tracks back to Johnny’s broken body, suspended below the surface, ruptured like a rag doll, slowly sinking, insides trailing in the bloodied gloom.
Alistair huddled in the corner of the boat, hugging his knees. His retching had stopped; remnants caked his T-shirt, nothing left to bring up. Richard, too, sat in silence, staring straight ahead, consumed by shock. Devon held the .38 in one hand as he dismantled the equipment and packed it into the duffel bags.
The sun touched the horizon. A light wind had picked up, dispersing the chum and the remnants of the attack, all physical evidence of the event deleted.
Devon exhaled deeply as he slipped the gun into his jacket pocket, the calm returning. He scanned the horizon, looked at his watch. “Five more minutes then we can head back.”
Neither Alistair nor Richard looked at him. Alistair hardly heard the words. His mind’s eye was set on action replay: the animal emerging from the sea, Johnny rising out of the water, shocked expression, mouth open, no screams, just surprise. Then the compression of the jaws and violent shake of the head. Had he captured the exact moment of Johnny’s death?
Devon wiped his fringe out of his face. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was going to ruin it. I never thought…”
Richard started to sob. “You should have let him get out,” he cried, almost inaudible.
“What?” Devon slumped back in the captain’s chair. “That was just….That was beyond my control…” He paused for a moment. A pair of seagulls cried out, hovering above the boat. Devon looked up, nodded. “But what’s done is done. We’ve got to hold things together now.”
He spoke to neither Alistair nor Richard; neither made any attempt to respond.
“Right, let’s get our story straight.” Devon got up, unzipped another duffel bag and retrieved three wet suits, fins and masks, and a spear gun. “Fish weren’t biting so we thought we’d get in the water and have a go with the guns.” He knelt at the stern, dunked the wet suits into the water, then threw them on to the floor of the boat.
“We left here earlier, anchored off Miller’s Point. Swam around for half an hour, no luck. The wind picked up and we nearly lost sight of the boat. Johnny was with us but he drifted off. We grouped back at the boat, no Johnny. We saw nothing. No lurking fins. Nothing. Maybe he got cramp or something, swallowed some water. We searched the area until sunset.”
Devon rinsed the fins and masks off, then the spear gun, dropped them next to the wet suits.
“Now for us. We’ve got to get in. It’s got to look like we’ve been diving.” He removed his T-shirt, shivered in the breeze, darkness falling. Standing on the top rung of the ladder, he tentatively eyed the water behind him, then grabbed the railing with both hands and hopped in and out in one quick movement.
“Your turn,” he indicated to Alistair and Richard, still huddled in their respective corners.
“I’m not getting in,” Richard snivelled, fear becoming a reckless anger. “No way! You can shoot me if you want.”
Devon looked at him, shaking out his hair.
“Me neither. Not a chance.” Alistair, quietly.
“Fine.” Devon reached for the empty cooler box, earlier swimming in fish entrails, dipped it in the water and poured it over Richard’s head. Alistair, next, had the presence of mind to undress first.
Devon threw them each a towel, then picked up his cellphone from the console. “One more problem to solve.”
Devon knew that the expected action in their situation would be to call the emergency services immediately, which would bring NSRI, the National Sea Rescue Institute, to their assistance. They would be dispatched immediately to search for the body, by powerboat and possibly helicopter. But this would place their boat and its contents under scrutiny. He immersed his cellphone in sea water.
“Anyone else brought their phone? No? Good.”
Alistair remembered Devon’s instructions to leave their cells in the car. “What about the radio?” he asked, as he dried himself.
“Faulty. Conveniently stopped working after we put out to sea. See for yourself if you want.”
Devon assumed his position at the console, started the engines, pulled the boat around and headed south, parallel to the shore, in the fading light.
Alistair pulled his soiled T-shirt back over his head; it flapped in the wind. He felt numb. He had to get off this boat.
Lying down on the transom, a pale corpse, Alistair realized that the really hard moments were still to come. A thumping headache couldn’t erase the images in his head. It was the blood that had shocked him; how it rose to the surface, how bright it was. That, and the expression on Johnny’s face as the life was crushed from him. He glanced at the duffel bags with the camera equipment; the camcorder he’d used was in one of them, his memories stored in digital format.
“Twenty minutes and we’re on shore,” said Devon, navigating in a wide loop, to approach the harbor from the south rather than the east. He picked up Johnny’s Camels off the deck and emptied the packet into the sea.
Evening in Kalk Bay. On their return to harbor, Richard was ordered to contact the emergency services on his cellphone—in the open, in case anyone was watching. Devon quickly transferred the black duffel bags to the boot of Johnny’s Cressida. The rest of the diving kit went in to the back seat, more conspicuous. The boat was loaded onto the trailer.
Within half an hour members of the NSRI and Simon’s Town Police and Fire Services were on the scene. Devon repeated their story to three separate officials: arrived in the victim’s blue Cressida, cruised around, fished without luck, went for a dive, visibility reduced as the wind picked up, no
sign of Johnny on return to the boat.
“No point in sending a team out now,” said Captain Burger of the Simon’s Town Police Station, looking up at the evening sky. “We’ll have an NSRI team out at first light. I hope you understand.”
“Certainly, certainly.”
Devon gazed out to sea. Waves rolled in to the wall of the harbor, tide coming in. More rescue people arrived, disappointed at how little they could do.
“Bloody kids went out without a working radio,” he overheard Burger tell his second-in-command.
The press was soon at the harbor: two reporters, a photographer. Devon intercepted them before they picked out the other two.
“The sea was calm this morning. How could you lose a swimmer in that water? Could he swim well?”
“As far as I know,” said Devon. No need to elaborate.
“How long between the time you last saw him and when you realized he wasn’t with you?”
“About half an hour or so.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Just snorkeling around. We hadn’t had any luck fishing, so we decided to get in. A couple of us had spear guns.” He gestured toward the back seat of the Cressida.
“Where exactly were…”
“Could a shark have taken him?” interjected Alistair, huddled inside a towel. The reporters and service personnel spun on him; he felt the blaze of Devon’s black eyes.
“The water was quite clear, visibility wasn’t too bad. I sensed an explosion, you know, like you feel when you are underwater in a pool and someone heavy jumps in. A displacement of water.”
“Was there blood?” asked a police diver skeptically.
“No, nothing,” shot in Devon, wresting back control of the story. “We saw a few seals bouncing about, but nothing untoward.”
“You weren’t near Seal Island?” asked Captain Burger. “That would be crazy at this time of the year.”
“Or ever,” muttered someone else.