Shaun Jeffrey: Fangtooth

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.

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.”