Chapter 28
Two a.m.
Showtime.
The shed hums with noise.
I hang back near the door, watching the drunk girls tumble off the boat, landing hard on their feet. It’s tense now, charged with anticipation. The blood men are restless, sweaty with adrenaline, elbowing one another in their meaty ribs, a menacing edge to their voices.
The porridge-faced man reappears, body coiled, eyes flickering like a patient snake.
He slithers behind me, guarding the door, hands twitching at his sides, breathing heavily into the back of my neck.
I step forward but I’m blocked in again, sandwiched between bodies, too tight to maneuver my way forward or back.
No one moves. No one can.
2:07 a.m.
“Hurry the fark up!”
“I don’t have all night, boys!”
“Wasting my farken time!”
The shed pulses with each shout. I sweat hard, feeling like the walls are constricting. Every curse, every shift of weight, a spark. If we wait any longer, the whole damn shed feels like it will burst into flames.
Then I see them. Standing together near the stage. Trav. Terry. The older man’s hand rests on Trav’s shoulder, not heavy but steady, reassuring. Reminds me of my first night back in the Roo Bay pub when Terry reached out for Heath, fatherly hand on his shoulder.
I duck lower, hoping they don’t see me, as an ironic cheer erupts, so loud I feel the echo in my ribs.
I peek over the man’s shoulder, eyes on the stage, watching a struggling man ascend the steps.
He’s hunched over, waddling like a duck, straining under the weight of what he’s carrying.
His face is contorted with effort, veins in his neck bulging, shoes squeaking as he inches forward.
Two red-faced men at the side of the stage urge him on, raising beers, eyes glazed. “Good on ya, Dave-O!”
“You got this, matey!”
The man onstage grunts with effort, pouring sweat under the shed lights, reminding me of a weight lifter.
He pauses, shifting his grip, and his drunk mates urge him on, slapping their knees, yelling encouragement.
The blood men raise up a cheer like a cresting wave, and it’s so loud, the walls rattle.
Urged on, the man grunts again, heaving and struggling to the end of the stage where Luke awaits, microphone loose in his left hand.
I tug my cap down, but nothing could pull Luke’s eyes from the man.
Luke’s laughing his holy shit laugh, slapping his stomach, delighted.
Finally, the man staggers to the finishing line—the weigh-in platform.
He heaves the catch down and the thunderous cheer crashes into the air, erupting all at once, as if the blood men had been waiting and waiting to let it loose. The man straightens up, rubbing the small of his back, his smile huge. But my eyes are on his mako shark.
Showtime.
The shark has small black eyes, a sharp nose, long, narrow teeth protruding from the mouth.
Looks like absolute hell. A shortfin mako is a speed-swimming shark, the fastest on earth.
Three to four meters in length, weighing anywhere from 60 kilograms to 150, and capable of leaping clear of the water when hooked.
They can even land in the boat if you’re not careful.
Sometimes one will play dead when hooked on a longline, only to spring to life once you’ve got the bastard in the boat.
They’re highly sought after as a game species, if you can get them.
The fillets are pale pink, like flake. A good eating shark.
And the thing is, it’s not illegal to catch them.
So why the hell are we here?
Public weigh-ins take place on the boat ramps.
We have two in Kangaroo Bay, both with fish cleaning tables and a fish weighing station.
News travels fast when someone’s caught a big mako.
You gather your mates up, stop at the bottle shop, then head down to the boat ramp.
You offer the fishermen a Carlton Draught each, then watch the weigh-in, half drunk and envious.
Then you stand on the sidelines like pelicans, watching them slice the fillets into thick steaks of pearly meat.
Maybe they offer you a few fillets, maybe they don’t.
After, everyone gets shitfaced and violent at the Roo Bay pub.
I look around the shed, willing my heart rate to slow down, but it keeps speeding up. Why are they holding the public weigh-in here? Away from the town? Away from everything?
I inch back, sweat dripping down my knees as the man ties a rope around the mako’s crescent-shaped tail and Luke winches it up. As the digital scale tallies up the weight, shouts call out.
“Seventy-five kilos!”
“Sixty-four!”
“Hundred kilo, just like ya mum!”
Beery laughter rings out, and I look desperately for another exit. I scan the faces at the front of the stage for Heath, but I don’t see him.
“Sixty-eight kilograms!” Luke calls when the scale numbers stop flickering. “Nice one! Dinner’s on Dave-O!”
Dave-O gives two thumbs-up to the crowd. He saunters off, slapping high-fives to the front row, and Luke brings the microphone to his mouth, eyes alight, announcing, “Bring on the next!”
—
I stare at the final mako, strung up by its tail, bleeding from its mouth. There were three of them. The biggest, seventy-four kilograms, caught by a shitfaced trio of fishermen spoiling for a fight.
Dave-O’s crushed. His mates are steel-jawed and edgy and trading harsh words with the sneering trio.
There’s a fight in the air; everyone feels it.
Luke doesn’t seem to notice or give a shit.
He’s crouched at the front of the stage, smiling, talking easily to the girl with the scorpion tattoo.
Behind him, the trio size up Dave-O’s mates, faces etched with aggression.
Watch out, Luke, I want to yell. For once, take something seriously.
The head of the trio is being held back by his friends, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. The shitfaced duo yell back, accusing him of cheating. Luke shoots them a glance, but that’s it. He doesn’t say, Easy now! Or, Come on, boys, calm down. Like Heath would.
Luke just watches with interest as they yell insults. Looks like he wants to say, Ooh, keep going! I dare ya.
Heated seconds tick by. The head of the trio strains hard against his mates, who are struggling to pull him back.
The crowd comes alive again, sound bouncing off the walls, swirling around the room.
Someone is about to get hurt and I want to get out of here before that happens.
But no one’s leaving, and I don’t know why.
2:48 a.m.
Do something, Luke.
He doesn’t.
Someone else does.
The girl with the scorpion tattoo climbs the stage.
The room quiets for a moment, and she curls her lips into a subtle smile, aware of the effect she’s having on the male-heavy crowd.
Their bodies seem to stretch forward, gazes fixed on her.
Even the trio behind her falter, murmuring appreciatively, skirmish forgotten as they stare at her tanned thighs.
She blows the crowd a kiss, and Luke holds the microphone up to her lips.
She reaches for it, but at the last moment, he lowers it until it’s level with his crotch.
The drunk front row thinks it’s hilarious, slapping each other’s backs, whistling and hollering.
Smiling, she bends down and grasps the microphone firmly in her fist. Egged on by Luke, she brushes her lips over the microphone head, whispers seductively, “Get ready for the real show, boys!”
It happens fast. Behind me, the porridge man screams, “No photos! You hear me? Keep your phones in your farken pockets!”
Luke quickly ushers the men offstage, and the scorpion girl hurries next to the weigh-in, body vibrating with anticipation.
What the hell. What the hell.
I dart a glance behind me, inching my body sideways, stomach plummeting. The crowd shifts, murmuring restlessly. Even the temperature seems to rise. They know what’s coming. I don’t.
I take another step back, trying to weave through the press of bodies, but every movement is a battle. I nudge my heel back, shifting my shoulders as I try to push through. But the crowd doesn’t part, and the harder I push, the tighter the space becomes. A knot forms in my chest. I’m stuck.
A call rings out: “Here she is, boys!”
I wait for the crowd to erupt in noise. Whatever they were waiting for is finally here. But it’s deathly silent. The hum of conversation fades; shoulders straighten as a charged silence settles over the room. Time seems to stretch, and there’s no sound at all now, just the steady pulse of waiting.
Then I see it.
What they were all waiting for.
I see it. But I can’t believe it.
My mouth falls open. The man in front of me holds his breath, shaking his head over and over.
Eleven men stagger up the stage, buckling under the weight of a massive, slick shark.
Its death-gray tail swings wildly as they struggle to maintain their footing.
Their voices are terse, communicating in sharp, quick words, hunching under its massive weight; every step forward is a battle.
They grunt in exertion, heaving and hauling, trying to hold on.
The crowd finally responds, cheering them on, shouting encouragement.
But I just stand there, frozen, pulled back to my first night in Kangaroo Bay. The night Rachel Sutherland was attacked.
Another great white spotted in Kangaroo Bay.
Beasts from the deep.
The exhausted fishermen reach the scale to thunderous cheers. Dazed, I watch them tie the rope to the tail, the winch groaning under the massive weight. The roar of the crowd is deafening as the numbers on the scale shoot up, and Luke screams out, “Six hundred twenty-four kilograms!”
But it’s not a mako.
It’s a great white shark. Protected. Illegal.
“No photos!” the porridge man keeps screaming. “No photos!”
They’re not keeping the sharks away at all. They’re bringing them in.
So many sightings. So many attacks. And now I know why.
Because here in Kangaroo Bay, they’ve been hunting them all along.