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Mrs. Olander’s face quickly soured behind the wheel of her Beetle. Despite the absence of any other cars on the road, the old woman drove and acted aggressively in the little car. She jabbed with the gear stick, crunching through gear changes, and habitually left braking and turning until the last possible moment, then stamped on the brakes or wrenched the steering wheel sharply. It made for an exhilarating ride. From the back it seemed to Ben that the little old lady could barely see over the top of the Beetle's dashboard, and he wondered if her tight expression and late reactions were the result of her straining to see the road. Jo sat next to Mrs. Olander in the passenger seat, looking more than a little worried by her driving, but trying not to show it. Ben caught her bracing her knees and hands against the car’s interior, as they lurched back and forth.
“He’s not just a fisherman you know,” said Mrs. Olander, seemingly unaware of the chaos she was causing.
“My Billy’s what they call an entrepreneur. Let's see, there’s the fishing, the cannery, and the tourist trips.” She turned to wink at Jo, before making the Beetle swerve.
“He also sells ornaments. They’re very unusual and they’re a real steal. I keep telling him he prices everything too low. You’ll see when you get there.”
“And this is your son, you say?” said Ben.
The old lady scowled at him in the rear-view mirror.
“Of course, he's my son,” she said. “Who do you think I've been talking about all this time?”
Ben looked away, out through the window at the ocean, grumbling under his breath.
The battered Beetle picked its way down the jagged coast, towards Bill Olander’s tired looking jetty and ramshackle boathouse. A large, abandoned looking cannery, fashioned from sheets of rusting corrugated metal sat a little further along the coast from the boathouse. Screeching gulls gathered and flapped wildly above the churning sea around the jetty in a feeding frenzy. A solitary old fishing boat, a forty-footer, bobbed about on the choppy waters, farting black clouds of smoke from its tired chugging engine. The Beetle pulled up outside the jetty, as sea spray exploded over the rocks ahead of it.
Jo and Ben unfolded themselves out of the car, both looking drained after the journey.
“Make sure you tell him I sent you,” called Mrs. Olander. She then gunned the Beetle’s engine and spun it around, roaring off back towards town in a shower of spitting gravel.
“Of course,” said Ben. “You’re on commission aren’t you, you old witch.”
He and Jo both looked out at the creaking, wooden boathouse and the crashing waves beyond. The structure appeared fragile against the might of the sea. It seemed to lean and shift under duress from each inbound wave. Ben turned to Jo and raised an eyebrow, but she was already walking along the jetty towards it.
“C’mon,” she said. “It’ll make a man of you.”
Ben narrowed his eyes and trailed after her. Each rotten board covering the jetty that led to the boathouse groaned and gave alarmingly under Ben’s weight. A large shadow crawled up over his features and he looked up to see the sun disappearing behind grey clouds. He looked down again, through the wide cracks in the jetty, at the swirling waters beneath them. The swell there was cold and violent. Jo reached the boathouse first and disappeared inside through an open door there. Ben followed her with a growing sense of anxiety. He paused and lingered in the doorway, as if teetering on the edge of some unseen threshold. His eyes slowly tracked around the interior of the boathouse, taking in the mass of collected jumble strewn across the floor and walls. Assorted ropes, fishing lines, nets, paddles, life jackets, rods, winches, crates, tools, beer cans and floats all jockeyed for space with dozens and dozens of bleached shark jaws, which were mounted all around the building. Some of the larger, more impressive specimens were carefully suspended from the walls with an obvious reverence, while others just lay around abandoned, dumped on workbenches, mixed up with dirty overalls. Ben looked at Jo. She was staring at the collection in awe.
“Looks like this is where old sharks come to die,” she said.
“Don’t you think we should’ve knocked?” said Ben.
“I’m going to check up there,” she said, ignoring him. “See if anyone’s about.”
Jo climbed up a rickety ladder and disappeared on to the boathouse’s mezzanine level, before Ben had a chance to complain. He walked in and bent down to examine a huge set of bleached tiger shark jaws. They were armed with multiple rows of serrated, razor-sharp teeth. He slowly leaned in for a closer look, grimly fascinated to see the instruments of death at close range. He tried not to imagine those little daggers scissoring through his flesh.
“I think we should leave,” called Ben. “This Billy looks a bit...unbalanced.”
Ben’s ears then tuned into a distant bubbling sound. He straightened up and limped over to the other side of the room to investigate. He found a large, open vat of boiling water there, its surface thick with a film of rendered fat. He edged closer for a better look.
A sudden thud made Ben flinch and straighten up. He looked around to see a machete embedded in the adjacent wooden work counter, wobbling back and forth. A shadow fell across his face as a large, burly man advanced on him. The middle-aged man’s face was craggy, weather-beaten and inscrutable, and his cold blue eyes had a vacant stare. Ben couldn’t tell if there was aggression behind those eyes or just indifference. He glanced down at the approaching man’s overalls and rubber apron. They were both slick with blood and fish guts. The man quickly closed in, bearing down on him like a rockslide. Ben backtracked as fast and as far as he could, right up against the cauldron of scalding fat.
“I can’t see him,” called Jo.
“Down here,” shouted Ben.
Ben and Olander both looked up, as Jo peeked over the edge of the mezzanine level’s banister.
“Mr. Olander?” she said.
Bill Olander returned a curt nod and grunt.
“Your mom said you might be able to take us out today.”
“Fishing?” said Olander.
“Yeah,” said Jo.
There was something both obtuse and brutish about the expression on the man's face. Ben still couldn't work out if he was slow, or just naturally aggressive. Then Olander’s broad, ruddy face slowly turned to Ben again. A smile gradually creased along the fault line of the fisherman’s mouth, as he realized there was money to be made.
*
Ben and Jo sat aboard Olander’s fishing boat, The Lady Ann, both bundled up in bright orange life jackets. They were only half a mile out, with the coastline still in plain sight, but the strong waves here rolled them around like marbles. Ben already had a greenish tinge about him and the focused expression of a man trying to hang on to his breakfast. Jo seemed unaffected by the choppy seas. She watched with excitement, as Olander emerged from the cabin with a white bucket and made straight for the stern. The fisherman dug a trowel into the bucket with a meaty squelch. When he pulled it out again it was bright red. He grinned at Ben and leant over the side, as he proceeded to chum the water.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t be long. Not in these waters.”
Olander kept his eyes on Ben, as he shoveled the chum overboard.
Sadistic, thought Ben. That’s it. This guy’s a sadist. Then his next thought was one of panic as he felt the contents of his stomach quickly rise.
“Looks like there’s something wrong with your man,” said Olander, grinning.
Jo glanced over at Ben, but he’d already turned away with his hand over his mouth. He leaned over the side, unable to hold back any longer.
“I wouldn’t let him do that if I was you,” said Olander.
Jo smiled for a moment, then realized the fisherman wasn’t joking. She quickly pulled Ben back from the edge and stared grimly into the waves.
*
A dark slick of chummed water trailed far behind The Lady Ann, as she bobbed about under grey skies off the coast of Sweetwater. Olander stood at the stern, looking out to sea proudly, and yet somehow blankly, surveying the horizon for some unspoken sign. Ben, having finally found his sea legs, along with a sense of apathy, smoked and looked at the horizon too. Though his was a look of boredom, cut with slight worry, as he watched dark clouds gather where the sun had once been. Even Jo’s enthusiasm seemed to have waned, though her eyes remained fixed on the ocean too. Olander caught their expressions and frowned. He marched off into the cabin and returned moments later with two large fishing rods and large coil of rope.
“Fishing around here’s easy,” he said. “It’s not like those dead waters further up the Bight. Here, you just bait and wait.”
Olander motioned for both of them to stand. He then handed them a fishing rod each.
“Say, would you folks like to try out my new tourist thing? Maybe let me know if you like it before the season starts?”
Jo saw Ben’s face crease, as if he was trying to swallow away a bad taste.
“Obviously, today’s trip would be on the house if you did...”
Ben looked at Olander for a moment, then at Jo. There was a big, hopeful smile swelling on her face. He turned back to the fisherman and reluctantly nodded. Olander grinned at him and lifted up the rope. Then, in one swift, fluid movement, he slipped it over Ben and pulled it up tight across his chest and under his arms. Ben dropped the rod and stared at Olander with a stunned expression. Olander paused, and for a second, Jo and Ben made eye contact and swapped confused looks.
Maybe this was a joke, thought Ben.
But then Olander grabbed hold of Ben with both hands and ran him to the stern, throwing him head-first over the side and into the water. Olander then calmly turned to face Jo. Her eyes were wide and uncomprehending.
“Yep,” said Olander. “The fishing here’s real easy. The real trick though is to haul your catch out of the water before everything else down there takes a bite out of it.”
Ben broke the surface of the freezing cold waves. He snorted away the salt water that had flooded his throat and sinuses, but he was still left with a thick, deafening sound rushing through his ears. He wiped his hair out of his face and opened his eyes. Panic was already setting in. He made sharp, scared about-turns, revolving in the water, quickly scanning the surrounding sea for threat. He saw blood in the water all around him, and realized he was slap bang in the middle of the chum trail.
“Oh God,” he whispered. “Oh God.”
His hands instinctively reached for the rope lassoed tightly around his chest. He glanced up at the stern of The Lady Ann. The fishing boat was already drifting away from him. He saw Jo lean over the boat’s edge. She was shouting something at him with a terrified expression.
There was no sign of Olander.
Ben treaded water and shook his head from side to side. A sudden plunging sound rushed through his ears and popped hard, as he felt his sinuses clear. He could then hear Jo screaming at him.
“Swim!” she shouted. “For fuck’s sake, swim!”
Ben tracked the eye line from her horrified expression and quickly spun around a hundred and eighty degrees in the water. A wave of saltwater smacked directly into his face disorienting him. He coughed, spat and wiped it away from his eyes.
Then he saw it.
A huge dorsal fin broke the surface of the blooded waters less than eighty feet away. He watched it cut towards him, closing in on his direction. Then it sank below the waves. Ben continued to stare straight ahead, his whole-body shivering. He caught a last glimpse of the pointer, as its dark tail flicked at the water and it dived under.
“Swim Ben!” shouted Jo. “Quick, swim!”
Ben suddenly spasmed against the water, as he broke out of his trance. He immediately turned and pushed himself forwards against the current, throwing arm over arm, trying to drag his dead leg back to The Lady Ann. His shivering breaths came harder and faster, as the thump of pumping blood and rushing water filled his ears.
Then he stopped.
Sensing he was out of time, he slowly turned on the spot, expecting to see the trailing predator closing in at any moment.
But there was nothing.
Ben floated there like fish-food on the surface, as confusion flooded his stressed brain and prevented him from trying to escape. He slowly lowered his head and peered down into the dark depths beneath his feet. His stomach turned over and over with the vertiginous sense of someone standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into the abyss. His eyes grew wide, as they began to make out a contrast moving in the depths below him; taking shape. It was a hulking dark mass with a ghostly white underbelly charging up to greet him. He watched in horror as the breaching pointer’s jaws opened wide and its black eyes rolled over white, preparing to bite.
A whipping sound sliced through the air towards him, and suddenly he was being hauled backwards at great speed, with foaming water crashing into his face. The Lady Ann powered along at full throttle, as Ben was keelhauled behind it, skiing through the surf like a speeding lure. It was all Ben could do to hold his breath and nerve, as he rushed headlong through the water, expecting to feel a hundred sharp teeth slice through his torso at any moment.
Just as suddenly, the violent, rushing water dropped away to nothing and Ben slowed and floated to a halt. He bobbed around on the surface for a moment, before he managed to open his eyes and focus on Olander watching him from the stern of The Lady Ann.
“How was it?” called the fisherman.
Ben frowned at him in cold confusion. He swallowed and tried to get his bearings. He then saw Olander jump up and run back to the bridge in a hurry.
Ben was jerked back into sudden awareness of his predicament, He tried to scream, but couldn’t. He forced himself to look around, just in time to see the huge dorsal fin of the great white approaching again.
Fast.
Ben instinctively tried to gulp in air, knowing what was coming next, but it was too late. Again, he was snatched away and hauled along by the taught rope, rushing headlong through the water, gasping for breath.
This second burst of keelhauling lasted much longer than the first, as Olander gunned the fishing boat’s engine and steered one way, then another, in a desperate attempt to shake off the pursuing shark. Ben felt himself being thrown about from left to right, and back again, as he rode through The Lady Ann's wake and more and more waves smacked into him.
When Olander finally cut the engines and circled around to pick Ben up, he was barely conscious. Ben floated upright, with his eyes closed, his face just above the waterline. He was too exhausted to panic or scream, but he felt a silent terror swell deep inside, as he waited in agony and counted the seconds to the moment he would be dragged from the water. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, The Lady Ann appeared alongside, and Olander and Jo hauled his sodden, bedraggled form aboard.
Olander handed Jo a thick blanket, which she wrapped around Ben. She rubbed his body vigorously through it to warm him up and stop him slipping into shock, but he was a shivering wreck. Olander stood next to them, watching, waiting impatiently.
“Well?” said Olander. “What do you reckon? I was thinking about all those extreme sports fellas. I reckon they’d go a bundle on it, don’t you?”
Jo turned and stared at Olander with raw, naked fury. The fisherman just stared back, almost innocently, seemingly bemused by her hostility.
“You’re always reading about them,” Olander said. “Jumping off this, crashing into that. Well, this would be right up their street, eh? What do you think?”
Ben slowly raised his shell-shocked features to stare at Olander, still struggling to keep his shaking under control.
“I think,” he said. “You’re going to need a faster boat.”
Olander stared at him in confused concentration, trying to digest the comment for meaning. Seemingly beaten, the fisherman just frowned and raised his eyes to the dark, foreboding sky brewing above their heads.
“We better head in,” he said. “Looks like there’s a storm coming.”
“Another storm,” said Ben, still shivering. “Of course there is.”