Part 1: The Flying Bass Man
The small fishing boat hit the drift net a hundred yards 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 came slowly towards them, its flashing orange light indicating 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 over the back of the boat to cut the nylon mesh twisted around the propeller. The drift boat turned about and Bronx turned to his mate sitting on the port 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 Rye dock just after midnight, only just catching enough water before the receding tide left the harbour boats stranded on the mud until the next flood of tide. The harbour had been deserted as they slowly motored down the dark river with its shadows and silhouettes of 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 long 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 long, narrow channel that led out into the muddy bay. 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 first light showed. They could then motor fast and fly across the rolling surf into the shipping lane where the bass lurked and the fishing was good. Sato was a seventeen-foot open deck Portuguese fishing boat, the kind you see in corny tourist posters of some idyllic Mediterranean scene, whose powerful outboard motor raised it up and planed it fast across the water.
Bronx wasn’t much of a talker, said it broke his concentration; out here in the endless blue and green of the day, the hissing wind and lapping waves were company enough for him.
They looked out and waited for the day. As the stars faded and the eerie hue of twilight suggested the imminent 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 again and propelled Sato into the middle of the busy shipping lane where the soft light of morning rippled in the ebbing tide.
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 within five minutes 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 tiny cabin, showing the seabed and wreck. He also had an eye out for the huge tankers and cargo vessels bearing down on them. It was this part that unnerved them most; not falling in the sea, but being demolished by one of these monsters. Usually the big ships caught them on the radar or by the steely eyes of a Watchman, and the ships slightly changed course for avoidance. Frequently they were sandwiched between two colossal ships, so close you could see the buttons on a sailor’s shirt. Occasionally a ship didn’t make the change – Bronx always said if you can’t see the sides of the ship as it bore down on you, it’s on a collision course.
The mate had watched the ship for a while now, no sides showed, no 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.
‘Bronx!’
Bronx cursed and fully opened the throttle, raising the front of the boat high as it flew through the surf, throwing the mate hard to the deck, as The Star of Panama cut the water not fifty 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.
‘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 seemed light at heart. They had talked, albeit briefly, about food and sushi. Before the mate knew what was happening, Bronx had a mackerel on the line, slapped it wriggling onto the cooler box, 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. The mate threw the half skeleton in the sea, watched it spasm and mimic life, before a black headed gull dived in to finish it off for good in one huge greedy gulp. Anyway, 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 101.
‘That ain’t been fishing so well – what’s wrong with here?’
‘Just wanna give it a go.’
With that, they motored slowly up the Channel towards another ancient wreck, lying a hundred foot or so below the surface of the deep blue sea. The summer mist was rolling in from the west making visibility poor, and by the time Bronx cut the engine it was thick fog.
‘Let’s get out of the shipping lane.’
‘Give it five and then we’ll go,’ Bronx replied.
He knew Bronx was acting odd, because usually they would have been heading towards the shore by now in these conditions.
The shadow of a small boat drifting near them was just visible through the fog, then it was gone and the sound of a chugging motor was just audible amongst the numerous foghorns the large ships were now blasting.
Bronx checked the GPS and steered slowly to a spot marked by a small bobbing orange buoy.
Keeping the boat steady, Bronx said:
‘Pull it up.’
Hooking the buoy with a wooden gaff, the mate hauled it on board pulling the short rope up that lay underneath. On the end, a lobster pot with a blue dry bag was firmly stuffed inside. It lay on the deck and he looked at Bronx.
‘What’s this?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Sure there is.’
The mate pulled the bag from the pot.
‘Don’t touch that!’
Bronx looked furious.
‘Screw you.’
Undoing the clips of the dry bag, the mate emptied the contents on the deck.
Looking down in disbelief, he studied the gems, mainly diamonds, spread across the deck.
‘I told you not to open the bag.’
‘Where are these from?’
‘Best you don’t 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 – me not to look in the bag?’
‘You’ll get some cash.’
‘Better do, I’m pretty pissed right now.’
He knew the fishing had been lousy recently and making ends meet for Bronx meant a lot of long hours at sea – but smuggling? That’s not what he had signed up for, but, besides throwing the gems overboard, he was at a loss at what to do, and nothing could be done until they touched dry land.
Without any more words being 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. Huge white wind turbines turned 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. Just past the choppy sea of the inner bay where the strong current of the incoming tide pulls up towards the point, Sato entered the muddy swirling water of the narrow channel and Bronx cut the motor to six knots. The trawler boats were leaving on the flood, the crews waving at Bronx as they passed close by with the occasional greeting shout.
Bronx had hidden the dry bag in the cabin and locked the door as they proceeded as normal, delivering the bass to the harbour fish market, a stone’s throw away from their pontoon. Bronx collected the dry bag, threw it into the boot of the car, and the two men drove away, the mate badly wanting to be dropped off at his usual spot, never to return to the adventures of Sato.
Bronx spoke:
‘No one knows you down the harbour, you’re just a face with no name – I don’t even know your last name – if this goes wrong you gotta lie low until it blows over.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Bronx seemed nervous.
‘Just see this out and I’ll see you alright.’
‘See what out? Just give me some cash and drop me off – we don’t have to do this again.’
‘I’ll pay you five grand.’
The mate hesitated.
‘Five grand, for what?’
‘Just come with me today– something don’t feel right.’
‘You done this before?’
‘A few.’
‘Jesus, what’s different about today?’
‘If you don’t know then you can’t tell.’
‘Just drop me off.’
‘Ten grand.’
‘To get killed or banged up?’
‘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.’
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, turning away from the small town and into the marsh, passing the old sandstone sea cliffs that ran alongside the river. They crossed the river and followed the canal to the Isle of Oxney, which had once 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. On the way down the other side, he indicated 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.
The mate knew this place – Chapel Bank – an old graveyard on a mound that the Vikings used to row to. Now it was some kind of amazing secret spot, lost and hidden in the nothingness of the marsh, with its ditches and dykes.
They stopped by a farm. A few old wrecked lorries lay about; small shrubs and trees grew through them.
Bronx got the dry bag from the boot and they 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 their sweet smells and endless insects.
Near the top where the rape gave way to long grass and nettles, the first indication that something was up showed – a helicopter whirring in the distance.
Bronx stopped briefly and then continued, but immediately stopped again, saying:
‘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 gravestones littered the top. Some tombs had trees growing right out of them, but one stone was painted bright shocking yellow. He had no time to ponder this, looked opposite 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 coming up the chalky track, and then another at the Ferry Inn straight below across the marsh by the old drainage sewer.
Bronx arrived quickly, 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 and some kind of village fete in a field near the lane with scores of people everywhere. They dived into the rape and crawled downhill hoping the helicopter, which 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.
The dogs appeared, went straight for Bronx, pulling him down. As he tried to fight back, he dropped the holdall. The mate scrambled back to help but there were shouts nearby, so he grabbed the holdall, leaving Bronx to his fate, and hastily headed down the hill to 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. Soon he was shoulder deep in water. Squeezing the holdall with one arm tight against himself, he submerged 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 snaked through the shallow water towards the people that 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 Isle of Oxney. Soon he was travelling along the hedgerows up towards the top. If the helicopter came by, he got inside a 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 isle and back onto the
marsh.
He wondered if Bronx had been right – no one knew him at the harbour. As long as Bronx kept quiet, he ought to be ok, but then Bronx didn’t even know where he lived or who he really was – just an early morning pick-up on the edge of town. He had got the job by asking around the boats. It had all seemed so casual and easy, but now it seemed crazy and on a knife-edge – would he be lucky and the trail go cold?
The rest of the overland hike went without a hitch and after a few hours, he was home.
Emptying the bag on the kitchen table, he couldn’t believe the amount – all in Euros, looking used and still soaking wet. Bronx was in much deeper than he thought.
The local news had the incident covered in some detail, it was an exciting story – they had recovered the gems, had the ringleader 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.
He learned Bronx was not his real name, In fact, the name Bronx was never even mentioned – so who the hell was he and why the hell had he got the mate involved?
His pondering was short lived and quickly broken by a gentle knock, which set him panicking, but on recognising familiar features through the netted window, he soon calmed and went over to the door.
He left the bag and contents sprawled out across the table and some of it on the floor.
A pretty, smiling face greeted him, full of excited gushing fervour:
‘Did you hear all about the palaver at the port?’
He came out onto the driveway, closing the door behind him, saying:
‘Sure – it’s all over the news.’
It was a marvellous still evening with a slight breeze, refreshing here inland, but which he knew would be strong at sea, making peaks and troughs and the going rough – but that stuff was all over now, he wouldn’t be going out there again in a hurry.
He tried to smile, hoping it would somehow be convincing.
‘Did Bronx know that guy?’
‘Don’t think so – but as I told you – that guy doesn’t say much about anything.’
And right there and then he knew Bronx or whatever his name was wouldn’t be saying a thing about him or anything else.
‘Did the police ask you anything?’
‘No – we were gone by then – you know, it’s best not to mention my working down the port.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I get paid cash – don’t want any questions asked – could mean trouble. After all, we’re trying to save up.’
‘Oh, suppose you’re right.’
He was still in a bit of a fix with her and needed something extra.
‘Do you want to go to France this weekend?’
She beamed hopefully:
‘Can we afford it?’
‘Had a good haul.’
She threw her arms around him and kissed him.
‘I’d love to.’
He had to get her away from the house, so added:
‘Come on – let’s go to the country and have a drink and get something to eat.’
As they made towards the car, he said:
‘Be nice to buy a boat – you know down on the Med somewhere.’
‘You’ll need more than a few good hauls for that!’
Tales from the Marsh