Peter Abrahams: Lights Out

“Jack?” he shouted over the wind.

No reply.

He swam back, out to sea, pausing once or twice to call, “Jack? Jack?” and heard no answer. He found him among the litter left behind by the speedboat, not swimming.

“Jack. For Christ’s sake.”

“It’s too far.”

“It’s not.”

“The sharks will get me anyway.”

“Swim, Jack. Like in the pool. You were the best.”

“That was a long time ago. I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow it.”

“Then how come we’re here?”

A wave broke over Jack’s head, left him coughing.

“Swim, Jack.”

Jack started swimming, in the right direction, but so clumsy. His arms barely came out of the water, his legs hardly kicked. Eddie stroked along beside him. Twice he looked back. The first time he saw El Liberador moving south. The second time it was out of sight. He raised his head, looked the other way, toward the lights of Saint Amour. They had receded. Either it was his imagination or they were caught in a current. Eddie swam faster, found his rhythm again. The next time he checked, Saint Amour seemed a little closer. He looked around for Jack; and didn’t see him.

“Jack,” he called.

All he heard in reply were the countless sounds of sea and wind. He turned back.

He found Jack again, treading water, rising and falling with the swells, his eyes on the moon.

“Jack. You’re not trying.”

Jack looked at him. “How much did you get away with?”

“It’s on the bottom.”

“You had it all in that pack?”

“Yes.”

Jack shook his head. “Bro. Even an ordinary bank account would have been better.”

“Swim,” Eddie said.

Jack treaded water. “Your plan was good, though,” he said. “I was the one who fucked it up. You’re smart, Eddie. Smarter than me, in some ways.”

“That’s not true. Swim.”

“I’m tapped out, bro.”

“If you’ve got the energy to argue, you’ve got the energy to swim.”

Jack’s lips chattered. As soon as he saw that, Eddie’s lips started chattering too. “I don’t mean tapped out that way,” Jack said. “I mean financially. If the money’s on the bottom, what’s the point?”

“Please.”

But Jack wouldn’t swim. The wind blew harder, driving the sea wild. The moon disappeared. Without moonlight, he wouldn’t be able to find Jack again. “Swim,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, right in Jack’s face.

Jack’s eyes widened. He tried a few strokes, swallowed a mouthful of water, came up coughing, swallowed more, went under. Eddie dove down and got him.

“Swim.”

Jack shook his head.

Eddie rolled onto his back. “Hold onto me,” he said.

Jack put his arms around Eddie’s neck, lay on top of him. The sea absorbed some of his weight, but Jack was heavy all the same.

“Just hold on,” Eddie said. He began paddling toward Saint Amour, Jack’s arms around his neck, Jack’s head on his chest, Jack’s body pushing him under. He had to kick hard just to keep Jack on the surface.

Eddie paddled. He looked up at the sky, moonless, starless, dark. Arms up, dig down, pull; arms up, dig down, pull. How far did they go on each cycle? A yard? Eddie counted five hundred strokes, then said: “How’re we doing, Jack?”

Jack raised his head. The movement drove Eddie under. He swallowed water, came up sputtering, Jack’s arms still tight around his neck. “Gettin’ there,” Jack said.

“You can see the lights?”

“Billions of them.”

Eddie turned toward Saint Amour. He could barely make out the lights at all. They were farther away than ever. He lowered his head, kicked hard, paddled. Arms up, dig down, pull. Arms up, dig down, pull. Jack held on.

Eddie counted two thousand strokes, forced himself not to look, began two thousand more. Jack said something. Eddie could feel Jack’s lips moving against his chest, couldn’t hear him.

“I can’t hear you.”

Jack raised his head, looked into Eddie’s eyes. “I said forget it.”

Eddie stopped paddling. The sea tossed them up and down, the wind sang all around. “Fifteen years, Jack,” Eddie said. “I was jealous.”

“Of me and Mandy?”

“No, no. I didn’t give a shit about Mandy. It was you.”

“Me?”

“Sure. Always so fucking happy. Even now, you’re not really bitter.”

“I’m bitter,” Eddie said.

Jack didn’t hear him. He went still, his arms around Eddie’s neck; Eddie treaded water for both of them. A faraway look appeared in Jack’s eyes. “Remember how I used to hog the puck from you? And you’d be skating around yelling, ‘Pass, pass,’ and not even knowing I was ragging you. Just pleased as punch to be out there. I wasn’t like that, bro. Sorry for calling you bro. I had resentments, like everybody else I’ve ever met.”

“That’s all bullshit,” Eddie said.

“See? You haven’t changed a bit.” Jack laughed, a strange sound out there in the wild night. Then he brought his head up a little and kissed Eddie’s face.

Eddie could have cried, but he didn’t. He leaned back and started paddling. Arms up, dig down, pull. He was on stroke two thousand six hundred and fifty-three when Jack went stiff and said: “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Eddie said; his lips were numb, and the words came out ill-formed.

“That bump.”

“I didn’t feel any bump.” Eddie lost his stroke count but kept paddling.

“A fish,” Jack said. “A big fish. Down there in Davy Jones’s locker. They can smell blood.”

“There’s no blood,” Eddie said.

“Dream on.” Jack tightened his grip on Eddie’s neck.

Eddie paddled. That was all he had to do. Keep them safe from Davy Jones. Paddle and count. His job. Jack’s job was to hold onto his neck. Arms up, dig down, pull.

“Are you doing your job, Jack?”

No answer.

Arms up, dig down, pull.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

No answer.

Arms up, dig down, pull.

“Answer me, bro.”

No answer. But Jack’s arms held him tight. He was doing his job. He just didn’t want to talk about it, that was all.

Eddie paddled. He counted twenty thousand strokes. He refused to stop and look, didn’t want to see Saint Amour slipping farther and farther away. He did his job. He didn’t notice the sky paling, the sea growing gentler, the wind dying down. He paddled and counted. Sometimes he yelled at Jack and called him bad names for not answering. But he had no right to be angry at Jack. Jack was doing his job perfectly, holding on tight. He just didn’t want to talk about it.

Eddie started on a fresh twenty thousand. Arms up, pull, dig down. Was that right? He got mixed up, began again. Pull down, dig up, arms. Arms, arms, arms.

“Jack. I’ve forgotten the stroke.”

No answer.

“What’s the stroke, Jack? I’ve forgotten the goddamn stroke.”

No answer. Eddie started to cry.

He lay motionless in the water, Jack on top of him. He felt something bump the back of his head. Something big and powerful; it wasn’t his imagination.

“Davy Jones is here,” he told Jack, and held his brother close. They were each other’s albatross. Maybe everybody had one.

He heard a voice. “What’s that over there?”

Davy Jones had a strange voice. A woman’s voice. He sounded like a woman, and not just any woman, but a woman Eddie knew.

Maybe he was already dead, or having one of those dying experiences people talked about on TV.

Davy Jones came nearer. “There. Just past those rocks.”

Eddie whispered: “Jack. Do you hear him?” He looked down at his brother. Jack was sleeping.

Davy Jones spoke, very close. “Oh, my God.”