Read Online Loss of Separation by Conrad Williams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Conrad Williams
Tags: Horror
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Or maybe he murmured a little prayer before he shot the nets. I was about to apologise. I was doing a lot of it and getting sick of having to pussy-foot it everywhere.
He said, 'And so should you be, son.'
We went back to work. It was time to haul the nets in. I took it easy, but I was enjoying it and I overdid things a little. It was like stretching. You get into a good stretch after a long drive or sleeping in an uncomfortable position, and it feels as though you're rediscovering your body, giving it a freedom it didn't usually enjoy. This was the same. I wanted to haul on the ropes until I felt them burn the skin off my palms and the muscles on my shoulders bulged and sang. I glanced at Charlie's hands and they were like folds of oilskin, the colour of strong tea. He seemed to be palming a million lines: lifelines, love lines, wisdom lines; if he turned his fist over and opened it they might spill out over the deck. I had to rest after a while.
I watched as Charlie pulled in, hand-over-hand, and the silver bulge of the catch glimmered just under the surface, like a furious windsock. It was too heavy for him. He engaged the winch clutches and the bobbins reappeared. Claws, tails and tentacles bulged from the net as it swung over the pound at the centre of the deck. I stared at the dilated lip of the net, drizzling pink water across the boards. I thought I could hear screaming, but it was just the gears of the winch grinding under the weight.
Charlie released the slipknot and it all came slithering out. I reflexively stepped back and slipped on the wash of mucus and blood and brine. I went down hard on my backside as the tide of fish charged into me. Within seconds I was coated in a foam of slime. Charlie was laughing, his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as if he were trying to shrug something off him. But then I saw the knot of confusion tying itself into his forehead. He was staring into the glut of marine life as it arced and shuddered. I stared too.
Charlie radioed to shore and the harbour master and a police car and a contingent of forensic experts were there to greet us when we arrived back at the landing stage. We were questioned, but it didn't take long. The police seemed bored. It became obvious that this was something that happened from time to time.
One of the forensic officers said that it was clear without the benefit of carbon dating that the bones we'd dredged up had been in the sea for a long time, maybe centuries. They had been preserved just beneath the seabed until we disturbed them.
Charlie had seemed in shock. He wouldn't talk to me on the way back to the harbour, but turned to the task of sorting the fish, kicking the runts and the exotica and the bad-eaters over the edge. He kept away from the little clutch of skulls and femurs, tossing a tarp over them when he'd finished. Then he went belowdecks to put the haul on ice. I'd stayed by the tarp on the two-hour journey back, cold through to my own bones.
We went for a drink after the remains had been taken away and the statements signed off. It was late. We didn't talk. We sank our pints and our whisky chasers and walked out of the pub. Charlie kept going, down the beach, to his fish shed. The catch had to be taken to market. The excitement of a good haul - a few kilos of big cod in the main - had been blunted. I watched him snatched away by darkness and stared at the sea, or the area where the sea was, for ten minutes. The sigh of it as it collapsed against the beach. It sounded like relief.
It was midnight when I turned the key in the lock. I listened for Ruth but could hear nothing. I went for a hot bath and crept into bed. I couldn't get rid of the cold, even though the heating was on. I felt too tired to sleep. But then I woke up and I was sweltering, the sweat dripping off me. I felt my skeleton clenched within its juicy prison. My grinning incumbent. White skull.
You know, cannonball, and the like.
I rolled over and my
He said, 'And so should you be, son.'
We went back to work. It was time to haul the nets in. I took it easy, but I was enjoying it and I overdid things a little. It was like stretching. You get into a good stretch after a long drive or sleeping in an uncomfortable position, and it feels as though you're rediscovering your body, giving it a freedom it didn't usually enjoy. This was the same. I wanted to haul on the ropes until I felt them burn the skin off my palms and the muscles on my shoulders bulged and sang. I glanced at Charlie's hands and they were like folds of oilskin, the colour of strong tea. He seemed to be palming a million lines: lifelines, love lines, wisdom lines; if he turned his fist over and opened it they might spill out over the deck. I had to rest after a while.
I watched as Charlie pulled in, hand-over-hand, and the silver bulge of the catch glimmered just under the surface, like a furious windsock. It was too heavy for him. He engaged the winch clutches and the bobbins reappeared. Claws, tails and tentacles bulged from the net as it swung over the pound at the centre of the deck. I stared at the dilated lip of the net, drizzling pink water across the boards. I thought I could hear screaming, but it was just the gears of the winch grinding under the weight.
Charlie released the slipknot and it all came slithering out. I reflexively stepped back and slipped on the wash of mucus and blood and brine. I went down hard on my backside as the tide of fish charged into me. Within seconds I was coated in a foam of slime. Charlie was laughing, his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as if he were trying to shrug something off him. But then I saw the knot of confusion tying itself into his forehead. He was staring into the glut of marine life as it arced and shuddered. I stared too.
Charlie radioed to shore and the harbour master and a police car and a contingent of forensic experts were there to greet us when we arrived back at the landing stage. We were questioned, but it didn't take long. The police seemed bored. It became obvious that this was something that happened from time to time.
One of the forensic officers said that it was clear without the benefit of carbon dating that the bones we'd dredged up had been in the sea for a long time, maybe centuries. They had been preserved just beneath the seabed until we disturbed them.
Charlie had seemed in shock. He wouldn't talk to me on the way back to the harbour, but turned to the task of sorting the fish, kicking the runts and the exotica and the bad-eaters over the edge. He kept away from the little clutch of skulls and femurs, tossing a tarp over them when he'd finished. Then he went belowdecks to put the haul on ice. I'd stayed by the tarp on the two-hour journey back, cold through to my own bones.
We went for a drink after the remains had been taken away and the statements signed off. It was late. We didn't talk. We sank our pints and our whisky chasers and walked out of the pub. Charlie kept going, down the beach, to his fish shed. The catch had to be taken to market. The excitement of a good haul - a few kilos of big cod in the main - had been blunted. I watched him snatched away by darkness and stared at the sea, or the area where the sea was, for ten minutes. The sigh of it as it collapsed against the beach. It sounded like relief.
It was midnight when I turned the key in the lock. I listened for Ruth but could hear nothing. I went for a hot bath and crept into bed. I couldn't get rid of the cold, even though the heating was on. I felt too tired to sleep. But then I woke up and I was sweltering, the sweat dripping off me. I felt my skeleton clenched within its juicy prison. My grinning incumbent. White skull.
You know, cannonball, and the like.
I rolled over and my
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