Authors: Sam Carmody
They went hard for the first four hours of the morning, propelled by Jake's fury. They were on their sixth run before lunch. Michael manned the winch and Paul emptied and baited the pots. They spoke less to each other, worn out by fighting the roll of the deck.
Jake gave a blast of the horn and Michael gaffed the line. He looped the wet rope around the winch head.
The pot slammed into the tipper and Michael swore.
What? Paul said to him. You okay?
You have a guest, Michael said and slid the pot along the tipper to Paul.
Paul noticed in an instant the lifelessness of the trap, the absence of sound or movement. There were no feelers poking through the slats. There wasn't a single crayfish, just a lone sleek muscular shape that took up the entire pot.
What is it? he said.
That is a Port Jackson, Michael replied.
It looks like a shark.
It is a shark.
What do I do?
Well, it cannot stay in there.
I have to pull it out? Paul asked. With my hands?
I have not heard of any better way.
Paul looked at the shark curled up at the base of the pot, on its side. It was no longer than his arm, but its diamond head looked almost reptilian, like the head of a giant snake. It was marked almost like a snake too, the cream skin patterned into triangles of different shades. He could see its strange mouth, unlike any shark he had seen before. Rows of pointed teeth were clustered together in a ball. The shark's gills pulsed.
Grab the tail. Go on.
Paul put his gloved hand through the entrance of the trap, half expecting the shark to twist on itself and tear his fingers clean off.
We cannot take so long, Michael said. You have to get its tail.
Paul hooked his arm to the top corner of the pot where the shark's tail fin was caught between the slats. He held his breath and clamped his hand down on it.
Hold it right there, Michael said. At the base.
Paul could feel the wrenching muscle against his grip. The shark rolled itself upright.
It will bite me.
Not if you keep away from the teeth.
The shark kicked and its head butted the wooden slats of the pot.
It will fucking bite me, Paul said again.
It does not think you are dinner, Michael reassured him. It just thinks you are an arsehole.
Shit, Paul muttered as he began to draw the fish back through the entrance of the trap, tail first.
Look at you, Michael chuckled. Shark man.
Do I just throw it?
But you are friends now, Michael said.
What do I do?
Put it in the sea, Michael said, and laughed. It is best to do it slow.
Paul held the shark out over the water. He leant as far over the side as he could, arm extended, lowering it until its head and most of the trunk were submerged, only its tail free of the water. The animal arched its head back toward the surface. Paul weakened his grip and the shark seemed to sense it, freeing
itself with a strong kick of its tail. It darted down into the green sea and they watched until it disappeared into the clouds of silt and sand.
I shall call you the shark man, Michael said. He lifted the pot from the tipper and carried it to the back of the deck.
It was only then that Paul noticed he had been shaking. He felt the throb of his heart.
That shark was lucky it found this boat, Michael said, reaching for the bag of tobacco and pack of rollies in his shorts pocket. I tell you what. All the others, they would kill it. Michael stepped near the cabin doors and out of the wind to roll the cigarette. Except for Jake, maybe, he said.
He wouldn't kill it?
No, I do not think so. Maybe our Jake knows what it is like.
To be a shark?
Michael laughed and shook his head. To be despised, he said. Hated. Even a little feared. Maybe he knows that.
Why does everyone hate Jake? Paul asked, realising it was true. I've heard the way people talk about him. Say he's scum.
Michael shrugged, put the cigarette to his mouth, lit it. That is not my point. My point is that men always hate the shark, even more than they hate octopus or stingrays, or any other scavenger that finds its way into the pot of a fisherman. I am telling you, they would always kill the shark.
Michael blew a stream of smoke that disintegrated in the sea breeze beyond the cover of the cabin.
I once saw Noddy cut bits from a shark while it was still alive, the pectoral and dorsal fin, the end of the tail. That is how he sent it back into the water off the jetty, very much still a living shark. I watched it spiralling down into the depths, spinning over and over, like a plane going down. Michael shook his head,
the smile gone. Do you know what it is? he said. Why they hate the sharks?
Paul shook his head.
Because they have convinced themselves that a shark might be the cause of all the trouble for them. It is the reason why there is no lobster, they think. The reason there is no fish. It is responsible for everything. The shark is their shit luck. The shark has made them poor. It has made their wives not want to fuck them. So when they get hold of a shark, they finally have all of the shit things in life right there in their hands, in their control.
Michael drew on his cigarette then exhaled.
And you know, he said, there is nothing more hereditary than fear. Nothing. A man passes it on like the colour of his hair. You have seen the boys at the jetty? They are worse than their old men. It has been handed down. They throw those little sharks alive on to fires. Stab their eyes. They will saw the heads off them. Not to eatâjust to extinguish it, the fear.
It was true. Paul had seen the severed heads on the beach near the jetty, the coarse skin sun-wrinkled.
That is why we are all doomed. And there is no use worrying. Nothing can be done. Fear is in our design, a virus planted in every one of us. And we cannot rid ourselves of it.
Paul waited for a smile but there was none.
PAUL WATCHED THE GERMAN'S EMPTY
pint glass dry on the counter. Michael had sculled it when his phone rang and in minutes the mist had cleared and thin rings of froth were streaked around the inside. He studied its changing atmosphere and thought of Kasia, waiting for her to return. He heard Roo Dog's screeching laughter at the other end of the bar, Arthur's coughing, and ignored it.
Kasia appeared to collect the glass and Paul looked down at himself and inhaled as if he might just say the line he'd been putting together in his head, a question about Christmas, if it snowed where she was from, but he didn't say a word, and by the time he raised his head she had already disappeared into the kitchen.
Michael stood outside the bar doors with his phone to his ear. He looked almost divine, facing the darkness, straight-backed,
with the sea breeze in his hair and his silhouette lit orange under the veranda lights. Shivani sat on the brick wall in front of him and cupped his arse with her hands.
A stunning reek grew around the bar.
Ha! Roo Dog laughed. Merry Christmas, you fucks.
Kasia returned from the kitchen balancing three plates of lamb shanks. The men down the bar from Paul shifted in their chairs and Arthur lifted his eyes from the counter. Someone made a sound of delight as she placed the meals in front of them and there was no question that it wasn't because of the food.
Order? she said to Paul as she neared him.
Steak sandwich, he said after a pause.
Kasia gave him a curt nod then returned to the kitchen.
Fuck! shouted a deckhand they called Tea Cup, the curse directed at Arthur but summoning the attention of every ear in the building. The entire tavern turned towards him, the locals and the dozens of tourists seated in the tavern restaurant.
You see all those arseholes today? Tea Cup continued, volume elevated once more, buoyed by the attention. Town's blocked up like a shitter.
What? Arthur said from the side of his mouth, the word sounding like a curse.
In town, Tea Cup replied. Fucking circus. You seen it?
No, the older man grumbled.
Oh Jesus, Arthur. You've never seen so many useless cunts in one place. Can't drive or park for shit.
Arthur muttered something, the words inaudible. His red eyes were locked on Kasia's arse.
Saw a four-by so bright yellow it could have been radioactive. Some Toyota piece of shit. Gutless as all fuck but dressed up with kit like it was a bloody Hummer. Fuck me. What a waste of
plastic. I mean, why would you make a car that big? No shit, it's like they're planning on hitting a roadside bomb.
Arthur rolled his food over in his mouth, no longer listening.
Swear to God, Tea Cup said. It's like a fucking dam has broken.
You've been asleep, Roo Dog muttered. The dam busted years ago.
Good thing too, Jules said, squaring her body up with Roo Dog's. Wash all of you out of here.
Come on, Jules, Roo Dog said, unsmiling. I know you want it. I can smell your pussy from here.
Arthur grunted in amusement, eyes pointed gleefully into the trench of the bar where Kasia was refilling a fridge. Paul wanted to ditch his glass at him.
It was after ten when Paul sat in front of Michael and Shivani's place and called home, buttocks warm against the street kerb, the concrete still hot from the day's sun.
Dad.
Yes, his father answered.
Were you asleep?
No. Working.
Can I talk to Mum?
She's looking after your gran.
Okay, Paul said.
There was a pause.
How's the dog? Paul asked.
The dog is still a dog.
Paul managed a polite laugh at the old line.
Ringo is good, his father said. Think he misses you kids. Doesn't get enough of a run with just me around, poor bastard.
How long have you been on your own, Dad?
There was a pause. Your gran, Paul. She's not well. Your mum is good to go look after her. She's staying with her for a while.
Then why aren't you staying there, too?
She's not my mum, Paul, he said with something like a laugh. And who is going to look after Ringo? You're up in the middle of nowhere.
Gran could stay with you guys. My room's free.
Paul, he said gently.
What is going on with you and Mum?
His father sighed. Please Paul, he said again. This is not easy, mate. We're doing our best.
You shouldn't be alone.
I'm okay. Don't you worry about me.
Elliot wouldn't want this, whatever this is with you and Mum, Paul said. He wouldn't want Mum up at Grandma's. It's crazy.
Paul, his father said, sterner. We're doing our best, he repeated.
Yeah, Paul said. Alright.
PAUL STOOD WITH HIS FACE TURNED INTO
the stream of the shower. The cold water found the cracks in his lips, like water to scorched earth. He gazed down at Shivani's bathers looped around the shower handle. It was enough to make him feel like he was losing his mind, the urge just to touch them. He turned his back on them and scrubbed hard at his fingers with the pumice stone, digging the sharper edge into his palm until it hurt, as if he might also scrape away the thought of Shivani scrunching her bathers in her hand and standing free-breasted and bare-arsed right where he was. But it was hopeless on both counts. His fingers reeked proudly of fish guts and his cock had become as hard as the shower rock. He muttered to himself and cut the shower.
At the bathroom sink he noticed the reflection of flesh in the mirror wedged behind the taps. The frame was only the size of the rear-vision mirror in a car but he saw the line across his lower
abdomen, a ridge of muscle that began at the point of his hip, on both sides, and ran towards his groin. He stared at it. He heard Michael and Shivani laughing at the TV, looked back instinctively to check no one could see him. He shuffled backwards some more and saw his chest. Then he dropped the towel and moved further back until he was standing on the low wall of the shower. He crouched down, abdomen tensed, curled like a Greek statue. In the small frame of the mirror it was all new visual information. Ropes of muscle ran across the back of his arms and along his shoulders. He didn't yet have the bulk of Elliot's body but at least now there was some definition. He squared himself to the sink and studied his cock.
He stepped down from the wall and leant towards the mirror to stare at his face. His eyes peered back at him, alert but steely, like a man's eyes. And for the first time he saw Elliot in the mirror. He and Elliot had always been so different, as close to opposites as family could get. But there he was, his brother, looking back at him. Not anywhere near a replication, of course. But in that odd, passing moment he knew he saw Elliot. There was no doubting it.
JAKE LOOKED AT NEITHER OF THEM
as they skipped along the windy inlet. His right cheek was marbled purple and his eye was blood red, and there was a graze down his right forearm, as if he had fallen somewhere. Even with the stink of the river around them Paul could smell the alcohol on the skipper's breath, the sweat in his clothes. There was a persistent turmoil in Jake's face even then, tranquilised as he was underneath a hangover, his face slackened by what Paul guessed was nausea. Something like anger drifted just below the surface of any expression, never leaving.
That look always reminded him of a dog that stalked the front yard of a dilapidated house down the street when he was little. Paul had seen the men who lived there kick and hit the dog, and whenever the dog saw Paul and Elliot walk by its teeth were bared. It growled at any sound, at any stimulus at all, always
feeling itself under threat. Even if the boys spoke softly to it, it would rage at them through the gate, ears flat, spitting with an anger that was hard to comprehend.
Aside from Richard's busted boat,
Hell Cat
, which had a broken steering cable,
Arcadia
was again the last to leave the inlet. An hour south, the sea was a dull green. Sediment rippled the water and surf bristled and growled on the bomboras.