Shaun Jeffrey: Fangtooth

“Who’s there?” he shouted. Receiving no reply, he grabbed the door handle and braced himself.

“What was it, dad?”

Bruce held his hand up to indicate silence. Another bang reverberated from the room.

He imagined it might only be a bird or another animal that had taken up residence in the house, anything rather than thinking there was an intruder. He took a deep breath, exhaled and opened the door.

The room was empty. Bruce sighed with relief. He needed a drink. The bang rang out again, making him jump, and he looked across to see an unfastened window.

“It was just the window banging.”

Watermarks and bits of underlay marred the bare floorboards. Someone had daubed black doodles on the blue painted walls. Upon closer inspection, the doodles became grotesque faces with elongated teeth. Bruce shivered. The sooner he started decorating, the better.

Bruce stepped into the room and a floorboard creaked underfoot. He had a sudden recollection of the film The Money Pit , and wondered whether he had bought a similar white elephant.

He turned to walk back out, when a figure stepped out from behind the door and grabbed his wrist.

Bruce’s heart almost stopped. His eyes failed to adjust in time to identify his attacker, leaving the figure a blur of orange and green.

He gagged, raised his free arm to defend himself.

“So you’re the one,” a woman’s harsh voice said.

“Who the hell’s that?” Jack shouted as he ran into the room.

Bruce focused on his assailant. Saw a stick-thin, bitter faced woman aged anywhere between fifty and seventy. She was dressed in a pale orange dress, over which she wore a green cardigan that had seen better days. Two grey streaks marred her long black hair. Liver spots dotted the back of the clawed hand that gripped his wrist, the tendons standing proud as though steel rods had been inserted beneath her skin.

The woman’s piercing grey eyes made Bruce think of storm clouds. Her thin, pursed lips created a gash in the vitriolic mask of her face.

Bruce found his voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He grabbed her wrist and tried to prise her fingers off, but despite her age and frail appearance, the woman’s claws held tight.

“A nice catch,” she hissed.

“Get your stinking hands off my dad,” Jack screamed, his face reflecting his confusion.

The woman narrowed her eyes, snorted loudly, then released her grip. Bruce massaged his wrist where her fingers had stopped the flow of blood. “What are you doing in my house? Get the hell out,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

The woman laughed, then turned and hurried away through the door. Bruce watched her go. His pulse raced and he could feel the blood had drained from his face.

“Shit. Are you okay, dad?”

Bruce nodded without conviction. The woman had shaken him more than he liked to admit.

Seconds later, Shazam came clicking along the hallway with her tongue lolling. “Some good you were,” Bruce said.

Jack shook his head and reinserted his earphones. “Remember Tenerife.”

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 swirlingstreaks 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.