The demise of the flying bass man
Level 7
Note: The characters in this story bear no intentional resemblance to any person living or dead.
Note: This story contains some 'taboo' words and may not be suitable for children.
The small fishing boat hit the drift net just outside the harbour entrance. The motor whirred unhealthily and skipper Bronx cut the power before cursing and switching on the deck spotlight to assess the damage. The big drift boat slowly came towards them, its flashing orange light indicating its work.
Bronx shouted over, 'You're not meant to net the harbour entrance and where the hell are your dan-marker lights?'
The two large men on the drift boat said nothing about that, one of them asking, 'Did you cut the rope?'
'No, but I'll have to cut the net out of the prop.'
Bronx pulled a knife from his overall and leant right over and out the back of the boat and cut the nylon mesh twisted around the propeller. The drift boat turned about and Bronx turned to his Mate sitting on the boat side, 'Bastards must have thought all the boats would’ve have left by now.'
He knew he should report it to the harbour master but that was not what any of them ever did – they all broke the rules and he was no exception.
They had left the dock at two after midnight, only just catching enough water before the receding tide left the harbour boats stranded on the mud until the next flood tide. The harbour had been deserted as they slowly motored down the river with its old jetties and ramshackle pontoons where the cheap yachts were moored alongside long abandoned boat restoration projects; it looked more like a sorry junk yard than a working port. Past the skeletons of rotting boats lying high up on the muddy river bank, then the coaster wharf with its mountains of unloaded ballast and piles of new timber, more old pontoons and finally the Harbour Master's tower before the narrow channel that led out into the muddy bay where the fishing boat was laying its drift net. It was here as Bronx opened up the throttle towards the black open sea that they hit the net.
After this small mishap they slowly took Sato about a mile out to drift with the tide until the light showed and they could motor fast and fly across the rolling surf and into the shipping lane where the bass lurked and the fishing good.
Bronx wasn't much of a talker, said it broke his concentration, much to his chatty crew Mate's dismay. Out here in the endless blue and green of day, the hissing wind and lapping waves was company enough for him.
Bronx and his crew Mate looked out and waited for the day. The night slowly let go as the day pushed through, turning black into an inky dark hue of blue, but the sea still held the night except where an occasional wave broke a ghostly white against the boat. As the stars faded and the eerie hue of twilight suggested the immanent break of day, the first light showed as a gloomy cold white line on the horizon to the East, soon cutting through and chasing away the shadows of the night. This was dawn, and moments later the rising red fireball of a brand new day illuminated the sky, burning away the remains of the night until it was a glorious sun sitting on the edge of the world.
With a huge full sun hanging low over the sea Bronx fired up the motor and with full throttle propelled Sato into the middle of the busy English Channel shipping lane.
The work was always the same - they'd find an old shipwreck of which there were hundreds in the Channel, drift over it with the tide and fish for bass with live mackerel which they’d have caught quickly and easily on the edge of the wreck. Depending on the speed of the tide and wind direction, the drift was usually over in five minutes or so and then Sato was taken up tide and the drift started over again. There was no telling when the bass would feed, sometimes things kicked off immediately and the bass were taking the bait in a frenzy, other times nothing and they had to change wrecks several times before any fish were landed.
The Mate could see Bronx was distracted that day. Usually he had his eyes on his rod as well as the computer screen in the cabin showing the sea bed and wreck, and he also had an eye for the huge tankers and cargo vessels bearing down on them. It was this part that unnerved the Mate, not falling in the sea but being demolished by one of these monsters. Usually the big ships caught Sato on the radar or from the steely eyes of the Watchman with a pair of binoculars and the ships slightly changed course for avoidance. Frequently Sato was sandwiched between two colossal ships so close that you could see them looking out from the bridge probably wondering what the hell a tiny boat was doing working the shipping lane. Occasionally a ship didn’t make the change – Bronx always said if you can’t see the sides of the ship as it bear down on you then it’s on a collision course.
The mate had watched the ship for a while now sides showed whistle blew – perhaps no watchman or they just didn't care.'
'Hey Bronx, that boat's not changing course.'
Bronx looked back but didn’t do a thing. A minute passed and the huge mass of cargo boat bore down on them.
'Hey Bronx!'
Bronx came to and cursed, fired the engine and opened the throttle full raising the front of the boat as it flew through the surf throwing the mate on the floor as the Star of Panama cut the water not 50 feet away, sending a huge wake wave to batter them. Bronx waved a fist but the bridge was too close and too high for them to notice.
'Shit, what is it with you today?'
Bronx said nothing and returned the boat to the top of the wreck to have another drift. It was only yesterday that Bronx was fairly light at heart. They had talked, albeit briefly, about food and sushi and before the Mate knew what was happening Bronx had a mackerel on the line and slapped it wriggling onto the cooler box and filleted one side clean off and dipped the fillet into the sea, cut into two, ate his part and gave the Mate the other which he ate although he didn’t like the bloody taste it left in his mouth. Bronx then cut the other side off the still flapping mackerel and did the same before returning to his fishing duties as if nothing had happened. That was Bronx!
The bass were now feeding and money being earned when Bronx suddenly said to reel in as they were now going to head for wreck Broken101.
The Mate said, 'That ain't been fishing so well – what’s wrong with here?'
'Just wanna give it a go.'
So with that they motored slowly up the Channel towards another ancient wreck lying a hundred feet of so below the surface of the deep blue sea. The mist was rolling in from the West making visibility poor, and by the time Bronx cut the engine it was pretty thick fog.
'Lets get out of the shipping lane.'
But Bronx replied, 'Give it five and then we'll go.'
The Mate knew Bronx was acting odd because usually Sato would have been heading towards shore by now in these conditions.
The shadow of a small boat drifting near them was just visible through the fog, and then it was gone and the sound of a chugging motor was just audible amongst the numerous fog horns the large ships were now blasting.
Bronx checked the GPS and slowly steered to a spot close by where a small orange buoy bobbed.
Keeping the boat steady Bronx said, 'Pull it up.'
the hooked buoy wooden gaff hauled board pulled short rope up that underneath end was lobster pot with a blue dry bag firmly stuffed inside it lay on deck and the mate looked at bronx.
'What’s this?'
'Nothing for you to worry about.'
The Mate pulled the bag from the pot.
'Don’t touch that!'
Bronx looked furious.
'Screw you.'
And the Mate undid the clips of the dry bag and emptied the contents on the deck.
The Mate looked down in disbelief at the gems, mainly diamonds, spread across the deck.
'What you were expecting?'
'I told you not to open the bag.'
'Yeah right – where are these from?'
'Best not to know – put ‘em back.'
'And then what?'
'Deliver them.'
'You shouldn’t have taken me out today.'
'It makes it look normal - the two of us fishing – now you’ve spoiled it.'
'What did you expect – Not to look in the bag?'
'Don’t worry you’ll get some cash.'
'Better do, I’m pretty pissed right now.'
Without
any more words exchanged they headed back to the harbour. The mate had
scooped
up the gems and secured the dry bag again before tidying up the boat as
was
normal on a return trip.
The fog was clearing and only a few wisps of sea mist remained to be burnt off by the late morning sun. They could see the point jutting out with its dead looking, grey block power station and the vast empty shingle banks sweeping back towards the harbour, and the huge white wind turbines turning lazily in the breeze showing strongly against the light blue sky just before the sandy dunes joined the shored up channel of the river mouth. As Sato entered the muddy swirling water of the narrow channel, Bronx cut the motor to six knots. The trawler boats were leaving on the incoming tide, the crews waving at Bronx as they passed by close with the occasional greeting shout.
'Ahoy!' the Mate replied.
The Harbour Master stood at the end of the high channel wall where the river widened and its banks became the harbour. He eyed Sato with a face neither the Mate nor Bronx could fathom. Everyone had an uneasy relationship with him; he was the unwelcome harbour policeman but also the reason things didn’t fall apart. Next to his tower was the long wooden pontoon, raised high out of the water to cope with the high tides and running parallel with the banks, its top walkway littered with nets and coloured buoys.
'Ahoy!' shouted the Mate. After all, this was normal for him.
Bronx shot him a dirty look and then focused on the wide bend ahead. The life-boatmen were out inspecting their craft, and next to their station was the yacht club with numerous members milling about ready for a launch, maybe a race – this was summer and the day warm and in an hour or so the water and banks would be busy with recreational day trippers.
After the coaster wharf there was a bit of no man’s land where the old abandoned boats lay on the West bank and on the East the marsh flood plain was covered in sheep munching the lush green grass, and on the muddy banks below that the tide had yet to cover, the wader-birds pecked and flew about. Opposite was the refinery whose stink mixed with odours of sea and mud.
In silence they passed the tributary crammed with small yachts and houseboats, passed the apex where the two rivers joined which the Mate called ‘scrap island’ due to all the junk, and then alongside the main fishing dock where Bronx moored Sato against a rickety pontoon just before the small commercial dock.
Bronx had hidden the dry bag in the cabin and locked the door as they proceeded as normal, delivering the bass to the market a stone throw away and then packing all the gear away. The Mate stood by the car, Bronx collecting the dry bag, throwing it into the boot of the car and then the two men drove away.
Bronx spoke. 'Seems ok – you got all your things?'
'Yeah – why?'
'No one knows you down the harbour – I don’t even know your last name – if this goes wrong you gotta lie low until it blows over.'
Bronx seemed nervous.
'Just see this out and I’ll see you alright.'
'I don’t want to – just drop me off as usual and then we never have to meet again.'
'I’ll pay you five grand – you’re kind of in it now anyway.'
The Mate hesitated, and then said, 'No I’m not - five grand for what?'
'Just come with me – it don’t feel right today.'
'Today? How many times....?'
'A few - a lot.'
'What's different about today?'
'If you don't know then you can't tell.'
'Shit Bronx - just drop me off.'
'Ten grand.'
'You bastard - what do you want me to do.'
'Just come along – a few hours only - watch my back.'
'From whom - from what?'
'I don't know right now.'
'I don't want to be killed or go to prison.'
'Fifteen – today in cash.'
'No one pays that sort of money.'
'I promise – in two hours you’ll have it and that can be that.'
'I still don’t understand.'
'Best not.'
'God you're a shit.'
The Mate said nothing more, he would go along with it and hope for the payout. Bronx had been pretty good like that when it came to the fishing.
They headed inland and turned away from the small town and into the marsh passing the old sandstone sea cliffs that ran alongside the river, crossed the river and followed the canal to the old island that had once long ago been surrounded by sea but now stood high and proud in the endless green of the marsh. Bronx turned here and drove to the top where the views were magnificent and on the way down the other side he indicated to another island, very small and gentle jutting out of the flat landscape; it was a smooth mound, much lower and smaller than the one they were crossing.
'Chapel Bank.'
The Mate knew this place - an old graveyard on a mound that the Vikings used to row to - or so it was said. Now it was some kind of amazing secret spot, lost and hidden in the nothingness of the marsh with its ditches and dykes.
Bronx didn't stop at the Ferry Inn as the Mate thought as it was the usual route up, but way before by a farm full of long abandoned buses and lorries with shrubs and trees growing in and around them.
They got out of the car, Bronx getting the dry bag from the boot, and walked in silence towards the mound along a chalky track. It was too late to complain or change a thing now and the Mate hoped all this would soon pass like a bad dream where everything was just fine once you had woken up.
The few trees at the top of the mound swayed gently in the breeze as they passed between two ditches full of water before veering off up through the bright yellow rape fields which surrounded the entire mound with its sweet smells and endless insects.
Near the top where the rape gives way to long grass and nettles the first indication that something was up showed – a helicopter whirred in the distance.
Bronx briefly stopped and then continued but immediately stopped again and said, 'Find the tomb opposite the yellow stone and drop the bag in and take whatever is there.'
'What about you?'
'I'll watch out.'
The Mate hurried to the top where the mound levelled off. Old dilapidated grave stones littered the top, some tombs had trees growing right out of them, but one stone was painted bright shocking yellow. The Mate had no time to ponder this and looked opposite this day glow and saw a tomb behind some ancient rectangular metal fencing hidden amongst some trees. He dashed to it, heard Bronx curse, and quickly pushed the flat top stone to one side; inside he saw a holdall in the shadows, grabbed it, threw in the dry bag and shut the top again.
Bronx had seen a police car down by the farm and coming up the chalky track, and then another coming the other way and stopping at the bottom of the mound and then some more at the Ferry Inn straight below across the marsh by the old sewer which was now a large drainage ditch.
Bronx quickly arrived, he looked ashen and slightly out of breath from his run to the top. He took the holdall whilst urgently hissing, 'Quick - police!'
The Mate hesitated but Bronx grabbed his arm and they speedily headed to the other side of the mound. They could see the sewer as it wound its way around the mound, another farm and a church, but also more police below on this side as well. This was a well planned operation. They dived into the rape and crawled downhill hoping the helicopter, which they knew now was the police and was now somewhere above, hadn’t spotted them. They heard dogs and desperately tried to increase their speed whilst scrabbling and scuttling to get below and into some good cover.
A dog was on them, growling and seething mad, playing out the game it had been rigidly trained for, and then another dog and both were on Bronx pulling him down and as he tried to fight back he dropped the holdall and as the Mate was scrambling back to help there were shouts nearby so he grabbed the holdall and left Bronx to his fate and furiously headed down hill to the bottom of the hill where the rape petered out. He looked out and across a short piece of open grassland over which lay a ditch. If he could use the ditches then the dogs wouldn’t get a scent but it left him exposed to the heat sensor of the helicopter. The whirr was away slightly to one side and he made a dash across the grass keeping low and was soon shoulder deep in water and then submerged himself completely as the helicopter sounded close again. He held on to the weeds, keeping himself down until, gasping for breath, he surfaced, panting as he watched the helicopter move away towards the North where the sewer wound its way around the mound.
He knew they weren't stupid, knew that they knew he hadn’t gone far, couldn’t have gone far and would limit their search to the immediate area whilst cordoning off all the roads.
He thought fast as he swam towards the police he had seen from the top of the mound. Cows were on the banks and some were even lolling in the ditch; this was his chance, the dogs were barking in the rape and as the helicopter came back high he crawled out of the ditch and hunched up in the reeds amongst the inquisitive cows. No way would they spot him with the sensor amongst this lot. He was right, and as soon as they had passed overhead he again made a dash, heading towards the large old island and was soon travelling along the hedgerows up towards the top, and if the helicopter came by he got inside the hedge or under anything that would shield his heat.
It was late afternoon, the sun still hot and the sky still when he finally got off the island and back onto the marsh. He had avoided people and didn't think he had been seen. The helicopter had passed nearby many times but now he out of the immediate vicinity and he could be anyone having an afternoon stroll. He wondered if Bronx had been right - no one knew him at the harbour and as long as Bronx kept quiet then he ought to be ok, but then even Bronx didn't know where he lived or who he was – just an early morning pick up on the edge of town – he had got the job just by asking around the boats. It had all seemed so casual and easy but now it seemed so crazy and on a knife edge – would he be lucky and the trail go cold?
He was a long way from home and knowing that he couldn’t ask for help and not wanting to be stuck out for the night in an exposed spot he decided to cut across country and sleep at the old crayfish pools, all overgrown and difficult to get to even if you wanted to – he could easily hide from the helicopter under the rail bridge there.
The sleepless night went without a hitch and in the morning he caught a bus to his area and walked to his home. He hoped he hadn’t looked too much like a desperado.
So that was it?
He emptied the bag on the kitchen table – he couldn’t believe the amount - all in Euros and looking used. Bronx was in deeper than he thought.
The local news had the incident covered in some detail, it was a real exciting news story - they had recovered the gems, had the ring leader behind bars and were looking for an accomplice whose identity was unknown. Apparently there was a dirty trail from Africa to Moscow, across Europe to here – some bad things had happened and some bad people were involved.
Who the hell was Bronx?
He learned over time that Bronx was not his real name and he was saying nothing and subsequently got 17 years in jail because of the mayhem the gems had caused since being dug out of the African earth. Sato, that flying Bass Man of a boat had been confiscated and broken up to obtain evidence which never transpired.
Why had Bronx had taken him along to chapel Bank. What was he expecting there? Did he know that it was going to all go wrong? Did he want someone to go down with him? Someone to hold on to the loot?
He would never know and Bronx would never talk – he didn’t like talking at the best of times!
And the Mate wondered what to do? He could have no contact whatsoever and couldn’t wait for Bronx to be released, and even if he did, then what?
And as no one had paid him a visit, he knew was that he was soon going on a very, very long holiday.