Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

I take the computer as he holds it out to me.

I see, we’re going to do a bit of research. Research I’m good at. He sits down on the bed and I sidle next to him.

“So, what should I check the news for, what do we think? Shipwreck? Missing persons? Or maybe robbery gone wrong? What are we looking for?” I ask. I’m not sure. My fingers hover over the keys. We need something to go on.

He looks at the bag again.

“Well, we have a phone.” He lets it hang there.

Yes. Yes, we do have a phone, which means we have a number, we also probably have an email address and emails, and we probably have an actual name.

“Shall we check the phone? See who they are?” I ask.

“Not yet. Wait. Let’s just think logically here, carefully. Are we breaking the law right now? Are we, Erin? Have we done anything? Anything at all wrong so far?”

Like I would know. I suppose my moral compass has always been slightly more true than his, but only slightly.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I ripped the bag. But I ripped it to find out what was inside—to find out who it belonged to. It’s the truth; that should stand up.”

“Why didn’t we give it straight to the police or security?”

“We did. We handed it in to the hotel straightaway but they gave it back to us. And then we got drunk and we thought we’d sort it out ourselves. It’s stupid, but it’s not illegal.” I nod. That sounds all right, I decide.

“But this is wrong now,” I add. I say it as I think it. “We should call the police right now and tell them about it. The gun and the money are definitely red flags,” I say, nodding again.

I study the frayed bag. I can see the corner of the packet of money through the torn canvas. A million dollars. I look at Mark.

“Just a second,” I say. “I remember this. It came up in that Norwegian fishermen film.” I tap away at Google.

“Basically, flotsam and jetsam, maritime debris, salvage, whatever you want to call it, basically treasure, is covered by international maritime law. Here…look at this.” I scroll down and read from the gov.uk website.

“ ‘Jetsam’ is the term used to describe goods jettisoned overboard to lighten a vessel’s load in emergencies. ‘Flotsam’ is the term used to describe goods accidentally lost overboard in emergencies . Blah, blah, blah . The salvor must declare salvaged goods by completing a ‘report of salvage’ form within 28 days of recovery . Blah, blah, blah. A salvor acting within the law is likely to be entitled to the salvaged goods should the owner not come forward . Uh-huh. Oh, wait. Shit! Under the Merchant Shipping Act of 1995 this law applies to all salvage within UK territorial waters—up to the twelve-nautical-mile limit.” British law is totally irrelevant here. I’m not sure whether we’ll fall under French or U.S. law in Polynesia.

I search again. Tapping. Mark stares at the bag, mute.

“Here we go! U.S. Department of Commerce. ‘Flotsam’ and ‘jetsam’ are terms that describe two types of marine debris associated with vessels. ‘Flotsam’ is defined as debris in the water that was not deliberately thrown overboard, often as a result from a shipwreck or accident. ‘Jetsam’ describes debris deliberately thrown overboard by a crew of a ship in distress, most often to lighten the ship’s load. Under maritime law, the distinction is important .” I look up at Mark.

“Flotsam may be claimed by the original owner, whereas jetsam may be claimed as property of whoever discovers it. If the jetsam is valuable, the discoverer may collect proceeds received through the sale of the salvaged objects.” I stop.

Mark looks out of the window across the lagoon, frowning.

When he finally speaks he says, “So, I suppose the question is: is this flotsam or jetsam?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, moistening my lips.

We need to go back there and find out. We need to go back to the paper circle tomorrow and see if there’s a wreck. If the owner went down in the storm and lost this bag, then that’s one thing. If he threw it overboard and ran away, that’s another.

If there’s nothing there, under the water, under all those papers, then we are two million richer.

“If there’s a wreck there, we’ll just put the bag back. Then we’ll report it. But if there’s nothing there…If the bag was abandoned, I think we’re all right. I think we’ll be all right, Mark.” I go to the fridge and grab some ice-cold water. I take a sip and pass it to him.

“Yes?” I ask.

He takes a sip. Runs his hand through his hair.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll go back tomorrow.”

Mark logs the coordinates into the GPS and we head off. It’s another perfect day, deep azure above and below as far as the eye can see.

Last night I Googled news stories about the storm. There’s no mention of any missing yachts, or missing people. Nothing but holidaymakers’ Instagram photos of storm clouds and wind-battered trees.

As the waves fly by on the way there I think of the ghost ship the night of the storm. It was anchored there the whole time, wasn’t it? Could that have been them? Did they leave during the storm? Why would they set sail in the middle of a storm? People don’t do things like that. Yachts have names, their movements are logged; I’m sure we’d have heard by now if a ship was missing. Wouldn’t we? But there is nothing online. No mention of a missing ship.

Who are we kidding? The bag didn’t come off that little holiday yacht. The circle of paper in the water, the diamonds, the vacuum-packed money, the phone, the gun? I’m pretty sure that whoever owns this bag isn’t in the habit of logging their movements. Whoever they are, I don’t think they’ll have left a convenient trail for us to find.

I have the feeling of being too near to something I don’t want to be near to. To something dangerous. I can’t quite see what it is yet but I feel it; it feels close. I feel the trapdoors in my mind creaking under the strain of what lies underneath. But then, of course, it could just be free money and everyone loves free money. Someone might have made a mistake, and if it doesn’t hurt anyone…then we could keep it. Free money for us. And it’s not like we don’t need it.

It only takes us fifty minutes to reach the spot today—something to do with tidal stream and drift, Mark says; I’m not really listening. When we arrive there’s nothing left of the paper circle. Nothing to say anything was ever here. Nothing but water for miles. If Mark hadn’t written down the coordinates on Saturday, we’d never have found this place again.

Ever since Mark suggested the idea of diving to look for a wreck, I’ve had a dreadful feeling lurking just below my thoughts. I really don’t want to find a boat. I really, really don’t. But more than that. The thought that I’m pushing down hardest is that we’ll find something else. That it won’t be sharks hanging heavy in the water this time, it’ll be something different. Something worse.

He can feel my tension. We rig up in silence, Mark throwing me reassuring glances.

He thinks it’ll be about forty meters deep here. Contextually speaking, that’s two meters higher than the statue of “Christ the Redeemer” in Rio. I can only really go to twenty and he knows it. But the visibility out here is damn near perfect, so we should be able to see right down to the bottom without moving a muscle, or at least without having to go all the way down.

Before we slip into the water, Mark warns me again about the sharks. It doesn’t seem that relevant today. I stare off into the cloudless sky, letting his words wash over me. I breathe. Trying to let his voice calm me. We’re both nervous. And it’s not about sharks.