—
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 girlwith 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.
2:48a.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 thenumbers 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.
