Fangtooth Read online

  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.”

  Chapter 3

  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 swirling streaks 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.

  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.

  Chapter 4

  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.”

  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.