Pescador's Wake by Katherine Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

plates. Only last year a German freighter, experienced in Southern Ocean transport, was crushed in the pack, all lives lost.
    â€˜It’s no bloody wonder a couple of pirate boats go missing every season.’ Harry shakes his head.
    Dave thinks of the crew aboard the Pescador, no doubt hired as little more than slave labour by some foreign owner with his feet up in a comfy pad somewhere nice and warm, maybe Spain; all the owners seem to come from there. He imagines the crew’s fatigue, their hunger, their smell. ‘It’ll be on my head if we push the poor buggers to their deaths.’
    â€˜And what about us?’ Cactus pipes up. ‘The suits up there in Canberra-land wouldn’t ’ave a clue what an iceberg was if they had one stuck up their proverbials! And if the rotten illegals do reappear, d’you reckon Canberra’ll call the naval frigate back from Timor for the boarding?’
    Dave remains silent as Cactus’s derisive snort hangs in the air like a sick joke. Finally, he responds. ‘Like I said before, we’ll see what back-up’s on offer, but for now we pursue the boat for as long as we can.’ Dave hopes he has managed to conceal his own cynicism. ‘They’ll have to head north at some point, and we’ll be here when they decide to reappear.’
    â€˜A wild goose chase! Our lucky day,’ Cactus sneers. ‘It’s not as though it’s the first bloody boat to take somethin’ for nothin’ down ’ere. There’ll be another ten pirate boats rippin’ the guts out of what’s left of the fishery while we’ve got ourbacks turned playin’ politics. It’s just not…substainable what they’re doing.’
    Dave, quietly amused by Cactus’s attempt at ‘sustainable’, maintains his focus. For now he’s just relieved the wind has dropped, its monstrous howl having paused to catch its unholy breath.
    â€˜Righto, Cactus. Pull your prickles in and grab the helm, mate. I’m going down for a kip while things are relatively calm.’ Dave pats Cactus on the back a little too hard and notices the acrid smell of nervous sweat. ‘Harry, you right to stay here for a bit?’
    The first mate agrees.
    â€˜You’re worth your weight in hot cocky poo,’ Dave jests before climbing down the stairs from the wheelhouse. He passes the officers’ deck where his cabin is located, and descends another flight of stairs to the crew’s accommodation. There are twenty-one men on board, but only half are in their bunks. The others are out on deck removing polar ice from the rails. It’s a constant job, but critical. Boats can capsize under the weight of frozen water.
    Dave steps into William’s shared cabin, which welcomes him with the stench of stale wet-weather gear and a recently used toilet. William emerges from the adjoining bathroom and makes his way warily to his bunk, not a mermaid’s tit in sight. The smell in the room suggests he has probably just had a bout of diarrhoea, the kind that strikes when raw nervesturn bowels to water. William shivers as he lifts the bed clothes up over his face.
    â€˜It’ll all have blown over by morning, kiddo,’ Dave says.
    â€˜I hope so,’ William’s voice groans. ‘I don’t think my stomach can take much more of this. There’s nothing left to vomit up or shit out.’ He sticks out his head and Dave sees how pale he has turned.
    â€˜Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m not sure how much more we can take of your stomach, either!’ Dave laughs, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Nobody light a match.’
    William’s roommates chuckle quietly to themselves. ‘I thought we’d sprung a gas leak,’ one of them guffaws.
    â€˜That’s enough now,’ Dave says before continuing quietly to William. ‘Actually, when I said it’d all blow over, I meant that