Shaun Jeffrey: Fangtooth

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.

Bruce’s mobile phone rang with an insistent shrill. Jack watched his dad rummage in his pocket, holding the phone up like a trophy before answering.

“You’re here, great. I’ll be there in a minute.” He disconnected the call. “The furniture’s arrived.”

Jack shrugged. “And you’re telling me because…?”

“Because I’d like you to help.”

“What did your last slave die of?”

“Jack, I’m not asking.”

“Give me a break. You can’t expect me to help when I didn’t want to move out here.”

Bruce ground his teeth and sighed through his nose. “Okay, what if you have a look around and get to know the place, then you can show me around later. How’s that sound?”