Fangtooth (2 page)

Chapter 3

Waves crashed over the bow of the 70ft
trawler
Storm Bringer
. Trent Zander steered the vessel head on into the
wind, the harness strapping him into the chair digging in as the bow smashed
through the water. In weather like this, a skipper had to put his trust in the
engineer. Zander knew Brad was one of the best, and he would keep the ship’s
engines turning over no matter what. That’s why he hired him. Shockwaves
reverberated through the hull as the bow sliced through the waves,
Storm
Bringer’s
main stern searchlight illuminating a whiteout spray of
swirling
streaks of foam.

Zander pushed the throttle forward, the
bow of the boat thumping monotonously against the surface of the water. Beyond
the insulated wheelhouse, wind screamed around the boat.

The door crashed open, letting the
banshee roar inside. “What do you reckon today?” Jim asked as he leaned into
the wheelhouse, his lips hidden behind a bushy beard streaked with grey and his
dark eyes as lifeless as those of the fish they hauled from the deep.

“We’ll go around the head and try our
luck.”

Jim shook his head. “If it’s luck you’re
after, I suggest playing the lottery. If it’s fish you’re after, I suggest
going further out.”

Zander scratched his stubbled chin, the
bristles of which were only slightly shorter than the brown hair on his head.
Jim had a lot more experience under his belt; had been fishing these waters for
nearly forty years, which showed in the brown coarseness of his skin and the
hardened blisters on his hands, but Zander didn’t like to let his crew dictate,
not when he was skipper. Thrusting his angular chin out and gritting his teeth,
he said, “I’ll make that decision.”

Jim snorted loudly, turned aside and
spat a wad of phlegm that stuck in his beard before the wind caught it and
whisked it away. “You’re the boss.”

Zander watched him turn and leave.
You
got that right.

The screens for the echo sounders and
all the other electrical equipment around the wheelhouse washed everything in a
pale light. First Mate Nigel Muldoon’s chubby cheeks looked sickly pale in the
glow. But Zander knew that wasn’t the only reason for his pallid appearance.
Muldoon’s brother-in-law, Dawson, had been on board the
Silver Queen
when she went down with all hands the other week, the painful loss still a raw
wound to the family. When you die at sea, you’re gone. Those left behind have
nowhere to go to pay their respects.

He couldn’t understand why a competent
old sea dog like Howser hadn’t radioed for help. It didn’t make any sense. The
Silver
Queen
was one-third of Mulberry’s fishing fleet, and it had hit the tight
knit community like a tsunami. He sensed all the men on board were feeling
jittery, but if they didn’t sail, then there was no chance of catching any
fish. He had never known it to be so bad.

The boat pitched and yawed, and the
eardrum-pounding noise from the engines below went up in tone.

Gannets wheeled overhead, brilliant
white as they reflected the early morning sun.

Zander hoped and prayed they would catch
something today, if only to lift everyone’s spirits.

After nearly twenty hours at the wheel,
Zander’s face was red and blotchy, the skin on his nose peeling. The only time
he let anyone else take the helm was when he needed the toilet. The boat and
the men on board were his responsibility, and his alone, and he wouldn’t pass
that burden on to anyone else.

From his position in the wheelhouse,
Zander had an unobstructed view of the stern. The controls for the winching
equipment were laid out before him, and he worked them with an efficiency
gained from years of practice.

Robinson, the youngest of the crew, his
blond hair made to appear black as the spray matted it to his head, had one of
the most dangerous jobs: securing the otter boards used to keep the mouth of
the trawl net open. Any misunderstanding between Robinson and Zander could be
fatal. The massive rusted rectangular iron doors clattered against the derricks
and Robinson quickly attached the restraining chains.

With the boards secured, Robinson
clipped the winch warp into the bridles to take the load, allowing him to
disconnect the backstrop linking the bridles to the otter boards.

Zander operated the controls, drawing
the bridles onto the drum. Gannets and kittiwakes rode the waves at the side of
the net, pecking at the mesh.

The boat laboured, pulling back, and
Zander knew they had caught something. He watched the net slide out of the
water, snaking in the swell, a green translucent line of mesh.

Lines of foam streaked towards the bow
window. Down on deck, Robinson worked tirelessly, only feet away from where the
excess water flowed overboard through the large scuppers, drains big enough to
let a man slip through.

Zander continued to work the controls,
but he sensed something wasn’t right. The previous sense of drag had gone and
he had to adjust the controls to compensate. He watched in anger and
frustration as the net rose out of the water, the mesh tattered and shredded.
He had seen plenty of nets torn before after being snagged on rocks or
shipwrecks on the seabed, but this … this looked as though it had been cut,
chewed even
.

“Muldoon, take the wheel.”

Zander flung open the door to the metal
cabinet at his side and yanked out his shotgun. Then he stormed down onto the
deck and opened fire at the waves, the act of shooting relieving some of the
tension that knotted his muscles.

At his side, the net flapped in the
wind, mocking him.

Chapter 4

The first thing Bruce planned to do was
change the locks.

He’d solved the electricity problem when
he found the fuse box underneath the stairs: the switches had been turned off.
Probably a safety precaution.

He looked at his watch. The movers
should have been here by now with the furniture. He took out his mobile phone
and keyed in the number they had given him. The call was answered on the eighth
ring.

“Mr. Holden. Yes, we’re stuck in
traffic. We’ll probably be about another hour at the least.”

Bruce’s stomach rumbled, reminding him
he hadn’t eaten since starting out this morning. “No problem. It’ll give us
time to have dinner. Let me know when you’re here.” He disconnected the call
and put the phone back in his jeans pocket. Hopefully he could find a shop in
the village that might have a lock.

Jack squatted against the wall across
the other side of the room. Bruce mimed taking the earphones out. “The movers
are going to be a while yet. Do you want to see if we can find a bite to eat in
the village?”

Jack shrugged. “Whatever.” He stood up
and walked out of the room without waiting. Bruce followed.

At the door, Bruce took the keys from
Jack and ushered Shazam back inside. “You stay here, girl. There’s some food
and water in your bowls,” he said as he locked the door. It might not do any
good if someone already had a key, but it made him feel better to leave Shazam
on guard.

Jack stood by the car.

“Let’s walk instead,” Bruce said.

Jack grimaced. “It’s miles. I’ll drive
if you want.”

“Not until you're old enough you won’t.
And it’s not that far. The fresh air will do you good. You’ll sleep better for
it.”

Jack rolled his eyes and kicked at the
gravel
,
then started walking with his head
bowed.

Bruce fell in step as they walked out of
the drive. The cove was visible at the end of the lane and seagulls wheeled
noisily overhead. Fluffy white clouds dotted the sky. It was certainly going to
be better jogging around here than in the city where he got a mouthful of
exhaust fumes every time he inhaled.

The small cove looked like it would be a
real sun trap in the summer. High cliffs arched around it, and the sea lapped
gently against the sand. A small outcrop of rock protruded from the sea about
two hundred feet out. Bruce wasn’t a bad swimmer, but he’d never liked swimming
in the sea. Hopefully, living here, he could combat his fear. He decided to
make the outcrop his target.

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“It won’t be so bad here, Jack. Not if you give it a chance.”

Jack shrugged him off. “Are you asking
me or telling me?”

“It’s for the best.”

Jack dragged his heels. “Not for me it’s
not. What am I supposed to do out here?”

“There’ll be plenty to do, you’ll see.”

The main road through the village
followed the coastline. The village itself curved around the harbour, while a
few houses higher up clung like barnacles to the hillside.

One thing that struck Bruce was the
peace and quiet. It was like being in a vacuum.

The two anglers were still fishing from
the harbour wall, but the boat the other men had been on had sailed. There were
a couple of other boats moored up, yachts and rowing boats.

Bruce peered up the side streets they
passed, but couldn’t spot any shops. On the main road, there was a bar called
The Sheet and Anchor, which looked in need of decorating. The sign swung in the
slight breeze bidding welcome. A man rolled barrels of beer from the back of a
lorry parked outside. The barrels clattered as they rolled along the road
before disappearing through a hatch in the pavement outside the premises.
Further along was a shop with holiday gifts and buckets and spades, then a
small cafe and a hardware shop that also sold gifts.

Bruce headed for the hardware shop. A
bell above the door jangled as he entered. Jack trudged in behind him. Just
inside the door, racks stocked with chocolate, sweets, postcards and tacky
souvenirs held Jack’s attention. Beyond these were more shelves filled with
household items. “You’ve picked a nice day for a visit,” the man behind the
counter said. Bruce smiled; usually it looked more like a grimace, but he could
see by his reflection in a seashell-decorated mirror above the counter that
this time, he looked genuinely happy.

“Actually, we’ve just bought the house
on Millhouse Lane.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “The old
Johnson place?”

Bruce frowned. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Great. I hope you’ll be very happy. My
name’s Duncan. Duncan Roberts.” He held his hand out and Bruce shook it. “Now
is there anything in particular you’re after?”

Putting Duncan’s momentary surprised
expression down to the state of the property, Bruce said, “I’m after a new lock
for the house.”

Duncan stood up from his stool and
walked around the counter. He looked a jovial man with a balding grey pate, a
round face and rosy cheeks. He carried himself as though well accustomed to his
paunch, which didn’t stop him squeezing between the shelves to the rear of the
shop.

“Here you are. Household locks.” He held
up two locks in dusty plastic cases. “I’ve got your standard mortise lock, or
there’s the five lever deadlock.”

“I take it you don’t get much call for
locks.”

“Don’t get much call for anything. It’s
like we’ve dropped off the map since the new resort opened up the road.”

Bruce recalled the lively, arcade-strewn
promenade a few miles back up the coast. “I’ll take the deadlock, please.”

Duncan put one of the locks back on the
shelf, then motioned towards Jack. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Yes.” He made a point not to mention
that his wife had died as it usually elicited fake condolences. He could never
understand why people said ‘I’m sorry’ about someone they never knew.

“You’ll find it’s quiet around here. Not
much goes on, but we’re a friendly bunch when you get to know us.”

“I don’t know about that. When we
arrived here there was an old woman in my house ranting and raving.”

Duncan’s cheeks seemed to go slightly
redder. “Did she have two grey streaks in her hair? Thin old woman?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“I’d pay her no heed. That’s just
Lillian Brown. She’s what you might call the local fruitcake. Some folk say
she’s a witch, but then some folk say I’m a Lothario.” He winked. “I prefer to
think of myself as someone who helps those in need, if you get my meaning. A
man in his prime like me can get a lot of action around here.”

Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “Is there
anywhere we can get a bite to eat?”

“We’ve only just met, so don’t get
fresh.” He winked again. “The bar along the road does a nice meal.”

“That sounds great. How much do I owe
you for the lock?”

“It’s pretty expensive, I’m afraid.
£30.00.”

“No problem.”

They made their way back to the cash
register. Jack was standing by the window staring at a bunch of teenagers over
by the harbour.

Bruce took out his wallet. As he counted
the money, he noticed the four-leafed clover he kept behind the see-through
plastic pocket. It had turned dry and brittle, but he couldn’t pluck up the
courage to throw it away in case it brought bad luck. Next to the clover there
was an I Ching coin decorated with Chinese symbols and a tiny silver lucky
leprechaun that he’d found on the pavement a few years ago.

After paying for the lock, he thanked
Duncan for his help and walked out of the shop with Jack in tow.

“You see, there are young people here
too,” Bruce said, indicating the small group by the harbour.

Jack screwed his face up.

“Why don’t you go and introduce
yourself?”

“Are you crazy? They’ll think I’m a sad
case.”

Bruce shrugged. “Come on then, you can
keep your old man company and get some dinner.”

Jack pulled his cap down to shield his
eyes and then followed Bruce to the Sheet and Anchor bar.

Bruce entered first. The interior was
brighter and more appealing than the outside suggested. A real fire roared away
in the hearth. The walls were freshly painted a pale straw colour and there
were plenty of nautical whimsies on the walls, including sharks’ jaws, a ship’s
wheel, an old diving helmet, netting, a harpoon, starfish and shells. The
oblong tables had been covered with glass, underneath which were ancient sea
charts and examples of how to tie knots.

The barman
cleaning glasses behind the counter looked as though he had stepped right out
of the pages of
Moby Dick
or
Treasure Island
. A black patch
covered his left eye, and he had a thick black beard and bushy eyebrows. He
wore a cream coloured fisherman’s sweater and a shark’s tooth dangled from a
chain around his neck.

“And what can I do
you for?” the barman asked.

 “I’ll have a beer. Jack, what would you
like?”

“One for me too.”

“Nice try. He’ll
have a Coke. And one for yourself.”

“That’s mighty
generous of you. Are you on holiday, or just passing through?”

“Actually, we’ve just moved here.”

“I see,” the barman said. “Well, if you
keep buying me drinks, you’re welcome here any time.” He laughed, a deep sound
that reverberated around the empty room. “I’m always open to new neighbours. My
name’s Graham by the way.”

“Bruce.” He shook Graham’s hand. “Is it
always this quiet?”

“It picks up in the summer when we get
the fair-weather sailors and the sightseers. ’Bout now’s the quietest it’s been
in ages.”

Bruce picked up a menu from on the bar
and scanned down the page. Graham scratched his beard. “If you’re after a meal,
we have everything on there but the fish. Seems the boys have had trouble
catching anything of late.”

“Really?” Bruce arched his eyebrows. “I
would have thought you’d be swimming in fish this close to the sea.

“It happens now and again. Perhaps
there’s some truth in this fishing story the government’s been spouting–but
don’t let the locals know I said so. Fishing was the lifeblood of this village.
Now even the few tourists we used to get are being poached by the new resort.”

Bruce looked over the menu, finally
deciding on chicken in a basket. Jack was going through a vegetarian phase, and
he settled for the vegetable lasagne with fries.

After ordering, Bruce picked up his
drink and walked across and sat at a table in the corner by the window where he
had a view of the harbour. The aged map under the glass on the table was
decorated with sea monsters and faces with puffed out cheeks blowing a gale. As
Bruce set his glass down, he noticed that one of the sea monsters looked
remarkably like the graffiti scrawled on the walls of his house, its long teeth
in the process of taking a chunk out of a boat. He shivered.

Jack sat staring
through the window at the teenagers by the harbour. Bruce remembered his own
teenage years. He didn’t think he’d been as surly as Jack, but then his father
would cuff him around the ear if he showed any sign of being rude.

Bruce sipped his beer. He stared out the
window, the top panes of which had circular indents like portholes. A small
boat was heading into the harbour. Bruce watched it slice through the water.
Eventually it disappeared from sight below the wall of the quay.

Not long after, he saw three figures
climb onto the harbour and head towards the road. All three were dressed in
thick black coats. They crossed the road and out of sight. Moments later, the
door to the bar opened and the figures stepped inside, bringing with them a
babble of chatter.

“Back again, I see. What can I get you?”
Graham asked.

“Three pints of beer,” a tall man with
blond hair said as he shucked off his coat.

“That saltwater gives me a raging
thirst,” said a shorter man with brown hair. He slipped his circular glasses
off and wiped them on his sleeve. He breathed on them, held them up for
inspection and then wiped them again.

“Kev, just listening to you moan gives
me a raging thirst,” said the third person, a woman.

Bruce looked at the newcomers. The woman
had her back to him and all he could see was that she had long, wavy red hair.
He watched as she removed her coat to reveal a slim physique clothed in a blue
jumper and black pants.

Feeling slightly voyeuristic, Bruce
looked away, caught Jack staring at him with his lips pinched tight, and his
eyes narrowed.

“What?” Bruce demanded.

Jack shook his head, sipped his Coke and
turned to look back out the window.

“I don’t suppose you have a light do
you?”

Bruce looked up into the greenest eyes
he’d ever seen. The woman smiled down at him with pale pink lips. Around her
late twenties, she had a cream complexion and her forehead was speckled with
faint freckles. Her face was narrow, her hair damp from the sea spray. She
reminded him of John Everett Millais’ painting of Ophelia. His pulse increased
and he felt hot and clammy.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” Bruce said. His
face felt flushed, and he hoped she thought it was through the heat of the fire
and not his embarrassment.

“Here, I’ve got one.” Jack thrust out a
lighter.

Bruce scowled at his son. “We’ll talk
later.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll bring it back
in a minute.” She walked out the front door. Bruce watched through the window
as she lit a cigarette and then left it smoking in the ashtray as she walked
back inside. “Thanks.” She passed the lighter across, her gaze fixed on Bruce.

Bruce took a long swallow from his pint
in the hope it would cool his face.

Although he knew he should reprimand his
son for carrying a lighter, Bruce took one look at Jack’s angry expression and
relented. For the first time since Veronica’s death, Bruce had looked at
another woman with something more than indifference and it was only when he
looked down that he realised that he had purposely covered his wedding ring
with his free hand.