Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

For a moment he wasn’t sure whether the old man was going to take that literally.

The old man appeared mildly impressed with the press card. ‘What magazine? Not the Enquirer, I hope. I can’t stand that kind of rubbish.’

‘God, no!.. I work for News Fortnite, it’s a bit like the National Geo — ’

The old man snapped his fingers. ‘I know it. I got some of those.’ He looked at Chris for the first time with an expression one step up from contempt. ‘Do the pictures, huh?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Good pictures in the Fortnite.’

‘Thanks.’

‘The name’s Will by the way.’

Mark and Chris nodded. ‘Hi, Will.’

The old man studied Chris silently. The tall, thin English guy with the toothbrush hair seemed good for easy money. His type always seemed to have it. His boat, Mona Lisa, was booked in to Winston Macies Marine to have her refrigeration storage units overhauled soon for the first time in nearly ten years and that would take a week or more and cost a small fortune. He could really do with some extra greenbacks to cover that.

‘So?’ said Chris.

Will donned an expression of painful reluctance. ‘Well, now. On the subject of hirin’. The Lisa here is a fishin’ vessel see… shrimps, herring, some cod when we can find it. That’s what we catch round here. We go out in the mornin’ and return late. Sometimes we’ll stay out overnight. I can’t take you out tomorrow, because I got men who work on this boat for the share they get on the sale of the catch. So they can’t afford to miss a day’s work. If you want to hire this boat… it’s gonna have to be at night.’

Chris turned to Mark and spoke quietly. ‘At night, are we okay with that?’

‘No difference really. It’s virtually night seventy-five feet down anyway. The question is, are you going to be comfortable with doing that?’

Chris took a long look up and down the wharf. There really wasn’t a great deal of choice in the matter.

‘Sure. If you’re happy it’s okay and safe, I guess I am. You’re the pro here,’ he replied.

‘You sure you don’t want to look around? Maybe go find a proper chartering agency?’ asked Mark.

‘Hmmm, that’s going to cost a shit load more dosh.’

‘Yes. Your call, Chris.’

Will watched the two men talking quietly. He decided they needed a little extra nudge.

‘You’ll find it’s the same with any of the other workin’ boats in this area… ’cept I’m ready to sail.’

He smiled for the first time and added, ‘ And I can give you the full ten-cents tour. A little local history, a few stories, eh?’

‘Okay. How much?’

‘Five hundred dollars should just about cover it.’

‘Five hundred!’

‘You gonna’ tell me how much you’re gettin’ paid to take them pictures? I bet it’s a lot more ’an five hundred. That’s the price.. an’ if I hear back from some other skipper that they offered you cheaper, well, more fool them.’

Chris looked up and down the wharf. There really was only Will’s boat that looked good to go.

‘Looks like a seller’s market. I don’t think you’re going to be able to haggle him down any,’ said Mark under his breath.

Chris turned back to Will. ‘Four hundred and you got a deal.’

The old man waved at Chris. ‘Been nice talkin’ to you.’ He headed back towards the hatch on the foredeck.

‘Bollocks,’ Chris muttered. ‘Five hundred, then.’

Will turned back round to face them. ‘I’ll take that in bills, if you don’t mind. We don’t do American Express round here.’

‘Cash? Yeah, I guess I can do that. So what time can you set off tomorrow night? I’m pretty keen to get over and see the — ’

‘Settin’ off tonight sound good to you boys?’

Chris and Mark exchanged glances. ‘Sure.’

‘Be back here at nine o’clock then, and bring my five hundred dollars.’ Will winked at Chris. ‘Pleasure doin’ business with you.’

At nine-thirty the trawler finally chugged noisily away from the wharf and passed Leonard’s Spur, a small rocky island about an acre in size and linked to the mainland by a sandy spit. A single flashing beacon on a tall metal spire marked it out.

Will hugged the channel tightly and passed close by the wet rocks of the spur that seemed to twitch and move with the pulsing flicker of the beacon’s light.

Chris watched Port Lawrence slowly recede, shuddering at the thought of the freezing dive ahead of him. He looked at his watch.

Say, forty-five minutes out to the buoy marking the wreck, half an hour underwater and forty-five minutes back.

He’d be soaking in a warm soapy bath in a little more than two hours’ time. Of course, it was never that easy. It would probably take a little longer to get out there, the dive might only take half an hour, but Mark would insist on a thorough equipment audit before and after. And then there was the task of checking the quality was there on film: process a contact sheet and print one or two of the shots large, and if he hadn’t got the shots he was after, they’d have to go out and do it all again.

One thing was for sure; when they got back later he was definitely going to have a bath. He was glad they’d ended up checking into the motel up at the pricey end of Devenster Street. It was a little more, and he was paying out on Mark’s room too, of course, but it was better than the couple of guesthouses they’d sneaked a look at. One of them only had one shared bathroom between ten guest rooms, while the other could offer only one room with its own shower, and that had looked pretty shabby.

Chris watched Mark on the aft deck. He was already at it, unpacking and checking the diving gear. He worked with a quick, silent efficiency, laying out the apparatus carefully in a deliberate order and fitting together the regulators and tanks with a precision that reminded him of a marine assembling his trusty M15.

‘Just like those ol’ navy SEAL days, uh?’ joked Chris.

Mark carried on oblivious, focused on the pre-dive drill.

Chris watched him for a while longer before making his way forward to the pilothouse. It was dimly lit by a single bare bulb in a wire cage that rattled with the vibration of the engine. Will had the helm in one hand and held a mug of something hot in the other. Ahead through the window he could see the foredeck brilliantly lit by a searchlight on the roof of the pilothouse. It cast a thick beam into the night ahead of them picking out the white suds on the water.

‘Hi,’ said Chris. ‘I assume you know which way the buoy is?’

Will turned and scowled at him. ‘I been fishin’ these waters for nearly thirty years. I know every nook and spit along this shoreline for twenty miles either way — ’

Oh boy, I’ve hit this guy’s squawk button.

‘- I can tell you. Hell, I could even tell you how far out from shore we are right now just by listening to the rhythm of the water.’

Will slapped the engine into neutral and turned it off. The boat drifted silently for a while.

Chris was a little bemused. ‘Uh… are you going to turn that back on now?’

‘Shhhhh… Just listen to that, do you hear it?’

Chris could hear nothing but the sound of Mark outside working on the aft deck and the gentle slapping of water on the hull. He saw Mark stand up and come forward to the pilothouse. He opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘What’s going on? Why’s the engine gone off?’

Chris shook his head and shrugged. ‘I think Captain Salty’s listening to the water,’ he said quietly.

‘You hear that?’ Will said eventually. ‘You can tell by the ditty she sings just how far out you are. I reckon we’re about a half mile out.’