Part 1 (1/2)

DEEP BLUE.

by MARK MORRIS.

Part One

Seeing Stars

With a grinding of machinery and a clanking of chains the trawl was winched aboard. As the huge net broke the grey surface of the sea and rose into the air, it looked like a living thing itself. Beneath its thick mesh thousands of fish thrashed and writhed, their silver bodies flas.h.i.+ng beneath the blazing summer sun. When the trawl was clear of the sea, Terry Robson operated the gantry arm and the net swung out over the deck, drooling water which splashed around the boots of the six-man crew.

The Papillon Papillon had been built in the thirties, a decade or so before Terry was born. It was rusted and patched up, its engine in need of constant attention, but Terry's old grandad still referred to it as 'the new boat'. The Robsons had been fishermen for generations, perhaps even centuries, but in recent years Terry's dad, Malcolm, skipper of the had been built in the thirties, a decade or so before Terry was born. It was rusted and patched up, its engine in need of constant attention, but Terry's old grandad still referred to it as 'the new boat'. The Robsons had been fishermen for generations, perhaps even centuries, but in recent years Terry's dad, Malcolm, skipper of the Papillon Papillon, had been muttering with no real humour about there being 'a sea change' on the way.

The big factory trawlers, with crews of up to a hundred and no reason to come ash.o.r.e except for the occasional repair, were putting sole traders like the Robsons out of business.

For the moment they were still making ends meet - just - but Terry was realistic enough to realise that it wouldn't be too long before they would have to diversify. Already many of their friends and neighbours were supplementing their income by taking groups of overfed businessmen for a day's sea fis.h.i.+ng. If it hadn't been so depressing it would have been funny, making executive types pay for the privilege of freezing their nuts off and chucking their guts up all day.

As Joe Tye, Terry's cousin by marriage, released the cod end, sending fish cascading in a slithering heap across the deck, the gulls circling above the wheel house began to shriek with frantic hunger. Terry moved forward to help sort through the catch. A lot of the stuff that the trawl ensnared would have to be thrown back - crabs, eels, pregnant females, fish smaller than regulation size - but there looked to be enough viable fish here, cod and haddock, herring, whiting and plaice, to make this a good haul.

Joe's son, Barry, who at twenty was the youngest of the crew, and who wore his blond hair long like his pop-star heroes The Sweet, was bending towards the ma.s.s of fish slithering around his boots when suddenly he recoiled.

Terry's Uncle Pete, his dad's younger brother, glanced up.

Uncle Pete was a fearsome character, six-and-a-half feet tall, with a bushy black beard, piercing blue eyes, and hands like shovels. Barry was often the - mostly undeserving - b.u.t.t of Pete's abrasive manner, which did little to sweeten the already volatile relations.h.i.+p between Pete and Joe. Terry didn't know why his dad's brother and his sister's husband disliked each other so much. Maybe it was just one of those things, or maybe there was some history between them. The fis.h.i.+ng community at Tayborough Sands was tight-knit, contained within such a small, neat block of the tourist town that it could almost be termed an enclave. In such communities favours were always returned in kind, and often with interest, but by the same token no grievance was ever forgotten. Grudges were worn like insignia and even pa.s.sed down through subsequent generations.

'Something frighten you, lad?' Pete growled. He had a knack of making every sentence he uttered sound as if he was accusing someone of spilling his pint in the pub.

Barry's face creased in revulsion. 'There's another one of them b.l.o.o.d.y fish,' he said.

John Bayc.o.c.k, Terry's best mate and the only non-family member of the crew, piped up with his usual good humour, 'Aye, you tend to get a lot of 'em around here.'

Barry looked at him as if he didn't realise John was joking.

Barry was a good lad and a willing worker, but he was not over-endowed in the brains department.

'No, I mean... one of them them fish. Horrible it is. Ugliest one so far, I reckon.' fish. Horrible it is. Ugliest one so far, I reckon.'

'You sure you've not just come across a bit of broken mirror caught in the net?' John said, making Terry and his dad laugh.

Barry shook his head and shuffled backwards. 'Horrible it is,' he said again. 'I'm 'I'm not touching it.' not touching it.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, you big pansy,' growled Uncle Pete and strode forward through the slimy carpet, beetle-brows knit together in a scowl.

Terry moved forward too. He wanted to get a closer look at the deformity. There had been a lot of them these past couple of weeks. Some said it was to do with the strange light that Bob Elkins had seen land in the sea, but Terry thought it was all down to pollution. These big chemical companies and what-have-you dumped G.o.d knows what into the water these days.

Barry was right about one thing this particular specimen was was the ugliest one so far. Terry saw it immediately amongst its suffocating brethren, and recognised it as a cod despite its hideous abnormalities. Oddly it was not flapping frantically as the other fish were, but was lying still on its stomach, its sides moving slowly in and out, almost as if it had adapted to breathe the air. Its flesh was discoloured and bulging with lumps that seemed to s.h.i.+ft sluggishly beneath the skin, its mouth hung open, revealing small but razor-sharp teeth, and its eyes bulged as if it was glaring at its captors. Most grotesque of all, though, were the black, porcupine-like quills which had sprouted all over its body. Looking at it, Terry felt not just repulsed but uneasy. Perhaps it was the creature's huge eyes, but it felt as though the thing was watching them broodily, as if there was a nasty little intelligence working away in there somewhere. the ugliest one so far. Terry saw it immediately amongst its suffocating brethren, and recognised it as a cod despite its hideous abnormalities. Oddly it was not flapping frantically as the other fish were, but was lying still on its stomach, its sides moving slowly in and out, almost as if it had adapted to breathe the air. Its flesh was discoloured and bulging with lumps that seemed to s.h.i.+ft sluggishly beneath the skin, its mouth hung open, revealing small but razor-sharp teeth, and its eyes bulged as if it was glaring at its captors. Most grotesque of all, though, were the black, porcupine-like quills which had sprouted all over its body. Looking at it, Terry felt not just repulsed but uneasy. Perhaps it was the creature's huge eyes, but it felt as though the thing was watching them broodily, as if there was a nasty little intelligence working away in there somewhere.

Although he had never been deep-sea diving, Terry knew a couple of lads who had. They came into the Mutton for a pint or two most Friday nights. The words of one of the drunken conversations he had had with them came back to him now.

He remembered them telling him that divers were more worried about cod than they were about sharks, because whereas sharks would ignore you most of the time, cod were vicious little b.u.g.g.e.rs. They would latch on to your face with their teeth if they could, then spin themselves round and round until they'd torn off a circular chunk of flesh. Terry remembered making a joke about it, telling the lads that the cod were only getting their own back for all the fish and chip suppers eaten over the years. Now, though, the recollection filled him not with amus.e.m.e.nt but alarm, and as Pete bent forward, extending a hand towards the fish, he couldn't help blurting, 'Don't touch it!'

Pete paused and half-turned, his blue eyes drilling into Terry's own. 'What's up wi' you? Don't tell me you're as much of a la.s.s as s.h.i.+rley Temple here.'

'No, it's just that... you might catch summat, that's all. We don't know what's wrong with it.'

'Terry's right,' said Joe. 'At least get yourself some gloves. I don't like the way that b.l.o.o.d.y thing's looking at you.'

Pete shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. 'I don't believe you lot. You're like a bunch of frightened kids.

It's only a -'

'Look out!' Barry screeched.

Moving so swiftly that it was almost a blur, the fish launched itself at Pete. He span in surprise, hand raising instinctively to protect his face. The cod opened its mouth wide and clamped its teeth around his upraised fingers. Pete yelled in pain and fury and swung round in an arc, the fish clinging to him like some grotesque silvery glove that he was unable to shake off. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so alarming, if the fish hadn't then dropped some ten yards away to the deck with a squishy thud, and if Terry had not looked at Pete's hand and seen only ragged stumps gus.h.i.+ng blood where three of his fingers should have been.

Pete held his hand up in front of his face, his mouth wide open, and the furious roar died in his throat like a wave spending its strength on the sh.o.r.e. For a moment the sea was reflected, a dense grey, in his wide, astonished eyes before they glazed over, his eyelids flickering.

'Catch him, lads, he's going down,' Malcolm shouted, breaking the stunned silence.

Perhaps it was his skipper's words that revived Pete, perhaps just sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness. For even as his fellow crew members moved forward, stretching out their arms to keep him upright, giving the spiny, malformed cod a wide berth as they did so, Pete roared like a battle-charged warrior and thundered towards the fish still some ten yards away.

Terry wasn't sure what his uncle planned to do - perhaps mash the fish to pulp beneath his boots and retrieve his bitten-off fingers from its gullet. But whatever his intentions, Pete never got the chance to realise them.

The lumps that had been moving sluggishly beneath the cod's scaly skin suddenly seemed to coalesce into a single bulbous ma.s.s at the apex of its spine. The cod opened its blood-smeared mouth and let loose a shrill and raucous cry, almost like the caw of a crow, which made Terry's skin crawl.

Almost simultaneously the fishy lump swelled and the skin ripped open from the pressure like cheap cloth. Barry let out a squeal of horror and Terry felt a surge of fear as several long, spiny, crablike legs quickly unfurled from the rent in the creature's back.

Pete might still have caught and crushed the thing beneath his size twelve boots if he had not stumbled to a faltering halt at the sight. The newly hatched legs stretched out, four on each side, clicking like knitting needles as they found the deck. Gaining strength, they flexed, grotesquely lifting the body a few inches upwards. They quivered for a moment, then, moving with astonis.h.i.+ng speed, scuttled the creature away towards the prow of the boat.

'Hey!' Pete yelled, as if to a purse-s.n.a.t.c.her, and gave chase once more. It was too late. The mutant halted a few feet from the prow, bent its spiny legs in a crouch, and sprang over the side. It hit the grey water with a splash and was gone.

For a few moments n.o.body moved. They stared at the patch of churning, foamy water that briefly marked the creature's pa.s.sing, transfixed with mouths agape and eyes wide, until the sea smoothed itself over as if to deny the existence of such a monstrosity. His voice clotted with awe and dread, Malcolm said slowly, 'Twenty-eight years on the sea, and I've never seen anything -'

Pete interrupted him with a rattling groan. Then he keeled over face-first, cras.h.i.+ng to the drenched, slippery deck like a felled oak.

Terry realised with a guilty start that for the past moments he had forgotten about the terrible damage to his uncle's hand. For the first time he saw the blood pooled and spattered around Pete's p.r.o.ne body. There was an alarming amount of it, and the wound was still pouring with blood.

Terry rushed forward, skidding to his knees beside his uncle at the same time as John Bayc.o.c.k and Joe Tye. A few moments later they were joined by Malcolm, who thrust the first aid box from the wheel house into his son's hands. Only Barry hung back, his face ashen.