In which a good catch is caught.
Meanwhile, in the chandler’s shop, Ralph had the chandler in a throat hold with one hand, and held a harpoon in the other with the arrow tip dangerously close to the other man’s eye.
‘You’re shafting me,’ Ralph growled, and spit dropped from the side of his mouth.
‘Honest, I’m not!’ The chandler pleaded. ‘You ain’t paid me nothing gone ten year. That’s what you owe.’
‘Well, I ain’t paying it. And while I’m here, I’ll take more tackle for the boat. Got it?’
‘No, you can’t. If you carry on like this, I’ll be out of business.’
The harpoon’s endblade moved even closer to the man’s eyeball.
‘Alright!’ He gave in. ‘Take what you want. I’ll sneak out one night and put a hole in your keel. You won’t notice it until you’re going down three miles out.’ The grip on his throat tightened. ‘Why did I tell you that?’ he choked.
‘Because you’re a scumbag, like the rest of them. Your great-great-grandfather came in from Sealand Bay, didn’t he? You’re not one of us.’
‘I’ve lived here all my life.’ A life which was about to be cut short.
‘You’re a fucking foreigner. Not one of us. So, I’ll just take what I need, and you can stuff your ten-year-old bill.’
‘Just get off me.’ The chandler ran out of breath. His face was red, and his vision blurred.
‘Yeah,’ get off him.’
Ralph spun. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he said, his face mashing up like a gargoyle. He dropped the whimpering chandler among the bait buckets.
Mark was vulnerable. He was in a shop he had never been into before, he didn’t know where anything was, and he had the worst of the worst bearing down on him with a spear. He only had a vague idea of what he was going to do next.
‘Just come to tell you that you’re late for the festival,’ he said.
‘What’s that got to do with you? Nothing, that’s what. Clear off out of it.’
Ralph pointed the spear in Mark’s direction.
Mark held his ground. ‘Got something else to tell you an’ all,’ he said. ‘You’re barred.’
‘I’m what?’
‘You, and all your inbred fisher friends. You’re barred from The Fisherman’s Arms. We don’t want your sort in there no more. Got it?’
‘What the hell you talking about? It ain’t your pub.’
‘It belongs to me and my mother now, and we say who comes in. And you lot are not welcome no more. Got it?’
Mark’s heart pumped fast and loud. His fists were ready, his eyes keen. He didn’t know how far he could push this fisher-thug before he broke, but he had to push him to the edge.
Ralph laughed at him and turned his attention to the tackle.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Mark persisted. ‘You and your cronies. Those bearded old twats who stink of fish. None of you are ever gonna drink in our pub again.’
‘You’ll go out of business,’ Ralph said. ‘What do I care?’
‘We don’t need your custom. I’m working on a website, and we’re going to advertise. Bring in tourists, offer out rooms, turn the inn into a decent hotel. Loads of incomers then.’
It worked. Ralph believed him. The fisherman rounded on him. His face was cerise with fury, his toothless gums beat together, his eyes flamed. He lifted the harpoon like a javelin and took a step forwards.
Mark ran, aware that at any moment he could find himself speared through the back.
He needn’t have worried. The chandler, seeing an opportunity for revenge of his own, grabbed the back of the harpoon so that when Ralph tried to thrust it forward, his hand slipped along the shaft and the endblade cut into his fist. He dropped it and swore loudly, but he still gave chase.
Mark hoped that he could remember which of the cottages he was heading for. He sprinted, and the downward slope gave him speed, but Ralph was right behind him, swearing and breathing hard. He yelled out threats, and Mark was impressed by the inventiveness of what he was going to do to him when he caught up. He had no doubt that the man was capable of carrying out the threats and they spurred him on faster.
He nearly stumbled on the cobbles but kept his balance. There was the open door ahead. There was no sign of Billy. Everything looked fine, except now Ralph’s fingers were groping close to his collar.
Mark remembered a football manoeuvre he had learnt at school. Skidding to a halt on the side of his feet, he kept his balance with his arms outstretched as he turned, put out one leg and leant to the side. A good old-fashioned sliding tackle.
Ralph tripped on the leg and went beard over waders, smack into the stones.
Mark righted himself and ran into the house, pausing on the step just long enough for Ralph to see where he had gone. Halfway up the stairs, he waited until the man’s large frame filled the doorway.
‘I’m gonna rip your guts out your arse and shove them down your throat…’
The hall was immediately alive with the most descriptive swearwords Mark had ever heard. He took the last steps up to the landing and looked for an open door. It was right there, exactly as Billy had said it would be, and he ran to it.
He didn’t have to wait long for Ralph to come blundering up the stairs, his face now bloodied from the fall, his hand slashed and dripping.
‘You filthy piece of foreign trash… I’m going to…’
There was something to do with entrails and eyeballs, and a lot of fucking, but Mark didn’t listen. He blocked everything out apart from his plan, waited until Ralph’s hands were an inch from his throat, and then ducked.
Ralph stumbled into the room. Billy, waiting behind the door, kicked it shut.
Mrs Lumpsucker sat up on one elbow. She was naked, and her blubber overflowed the side of the bed with as much abandon as her enthusiasm.
‘Oh, Ralph,’ she cooed. ‘I knew you would choose me. Come to your mermaid.’
‘Now!’ Mark shouted, and then everything happened in a blur.
Billy shoved Ralph from behind, and the fisherman staggered forward. Another special football tackle from Mark, and he was face down among the rolling hills of Mrs Lumpsucker and her recently mowed front lawn. Billy threw one end of a net to Mark, and they lifted it up and over the bed. It was secured at the bedhead before Ralph knew what had caught him.
‘Oh, you’re so keen,’ Mrs Lumpsucker said, wrapping her legs around Ralph’s back so that he had no chance of escape. ‘No, don’t get up. Keep squirming.’
There were muffled sounds from the fisherman, but the more he spoke, the more excited the woman became until, by the time the boys had tied the net to the sides and foot of the bed, she was preorgasmic.
‘He’s not going nowhere,’ Mark said, trying not to look.
Amid the sounds of satisfaction from Mrs L and the sounds of suffocation from Ralph, Mark heard a crowd of people singing about high tides and bad weather, raging storms and mermaids.
‘You have to go,’ he said.
Billy was gawping at the hideous sight.
‘No, don’t look at that, Billy. Come on.’ Mark seized him by the arm and yanked him from the room.
They pelted down the stairs and out into the lane.
‘Right!’ Old Sam said once the applause for his shanty had petered out. ‘Sea’s been blessed, we’ll be fine for fish another year. Vicar’s said his piece. It were a bit different this year, and that’s fitting. This year we’re breaking with tradition, and we have a change.’
The crowd mumbled, wondering what this news was to be.
‘Alright, shut your traps,’ Sam ordered. ‘This is how it is. We ain’t having the youngest fisherboy as our merman this year, we’re doing it our way. And our way means we got Ralph as the merman. You all know Ralph. He’s the bloke what’s kept our fleet going, what’s made sure our village stays as it is. He looks after us, so this year…’
He broke off as another sea of mumbles washed through the crowd. The villagers parted as Billy walked towards the platform.
‘What you want?’ Old Sam called.
Billy didn’t answer. He walked confidently in silence. Stepping up, he set both eyes on Old Sam’s only one and stared him out. It was easy, he was, after all, at an advantage. Sam squinted and grumbled, but couldn’t see Ralf anywhere. Mumbling, he threw up his hands and stepped down. Billy faced the crowd. His time was now.
The villagers took a while to calm and shush, and he used those few seconds to reclaim his breath. He tried not to imagine what he’d left behind, and tried not to worry that Ralph could be, even now, fighting his way out of the net. They had tied it tight, but Ralph was strong. He focused his mind. He had his speech to make, but now he was there, he had no idea where to start. The villagers fell silent.
Miss P had watched the two boys coming down the hill, laughing together, with Mark pulling Billy along by his arm. They had reached the shore road and stopped, bent at the knees, panting and grinning. Once they had righted themselves, Billy looked at the podium. They stood just behind Miss P as Sam finished his song, and the audience applauded, and she had heard their conversation clearly.
‘There you go,’ Mark said. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘I can’t do it,’ Billy replied. ‘What do I say?’
‘Whatever’s in your heart, or some shit like that.’
‘Even if you won’t want to hear it?’
Miss P’s ears had pricked up at that. She knew the time was drawing near.
‘Look, mate,’ Mark said. ‘This is your village, I know that. We’re never going to be villagers like you. We’re never going to be locals. But we accept that, and we’re not going to try to change anything. We just want to live here away from our troubles and do what we can to help you with yours. That’s it. That’s all I have to offer. The rest is up to you.’
Mark slipped away to join his mother, now standing closer to the podium, but still only looking on. As soon as Mark arrived there, he slipped his arm through hers and held her hand.
On the platform, Billy stood, pale, with his mouth open.
Now was the time. Miss P lit one of her cigars and took a drag. The smoke she let out filtered away across the heads of the crowd, settled among the villagers, and disappeared into the ether.
Miss P stubbed the cigar out on her tongue and popped the remainder into her mouth for a good chew.
‘There,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s done.’ She sauntered over to listen to the speech with Sandra.
As Mark had said, the rest was up to Billy.
