Brian Pringle had fought the marlin for almost an hour and recovered more than 500 metres of line. But the fucker was still dancing hard, 300 metres from the game boat.
Despite wearing a kidney harness, his back was sore, shoulders aflame and hands arthritic claws. Yet, he wouldn't give up. No bloody way.
The captain of the game boat, Dick Ventry, stood next to him and said: "You've got a real brawler there. Just keep the tension on the line. Remember, pump and wind, pump and wind."
Ventry held a beer can up to Pringle's lips so he could take a few big sips. Tasted like honey.
The marlin jumped high out of the water and Pringle felt the line go slack. He wound it in fast. Still slack. The hook had fallen out. "Shit, I've lost him."
Ventry patted him on the back. "Bad luck. Not your fault. Sometimes, they suddenly change direction and throw the hook. There's nothing you can do about that. You want to go back in?"
It was five o'clock and Cairns almost an hour away. Pringle nodded. "Sure."
Ventry went forward to tell the helmsman to return to port.
Pringle took off the harness and rose gingerly from the game chair. Christ, he'd taken a beating. Be sore for days.
Despite that, he felt great. Life was good. He sold Pedro Garcia's coke for $1.5 million, taking his slush fund to $5.5 million. Then he did a squeal deal with the Police Integrity Unit. In return for ratting on some colleagues, he got an indemnity and a slot in the witness protection program.
Cutting that deal was a master-stroke. It meant he could hide from that bastard Maddox and leave his shitty family behind. Didn't even leave his bitch-wife a note. She found out he'd gone from the newspapers. And, in a couple of years, when he'd finished giving evidence, he'd get relocated overseas, where he could enjoy his ill-gotten gains without a care in the world. His best years were ahead of him. They'd be golden years alright.
At dusk, the game boat nudged against the jetty. Gulls flapped around, waiting for fish scraps to be thrown overboard. They were out of luck.
Pringle thanked the captain and climbed off the boat, carrying his rod and a small bag holding his gear. Halfway along the jetty, leaning against a pylon, was a flabby guy about fifty years old, neatly dressed in a polo shirt, canvas trousers and deck shoes. His face was lobster red.
As Pringle drew abreast, the man straightened up and spoke in a posh English drawl: "Excuse me, sir, I just saw you get off that boat. I want to hire one. Tell me: is the captain any good."
"Yes, he's very experienced - knows where to fish."
"How much does he charge?"
"About $1000 a day."
"Mmm. I might speak to him. Any other skippers you'd recommend?"
"A few."
"Maybe, if you're not too busy, you'll let me buy you a beer, while I get their names."
Pringle hesitated. Fucking tourists. Always asking stupid fucking questions. Most didn't know their arses from their elbows. An Ashes Test Match was being played in Perth. Pringle loved cricket and was anxious to get home and watch the last session of the day's play.
"Can't, I'm afraid. Got an urgent appointment."
He strolled into a large car park, got into the late-model Holden sedan the Witness Protection Unit had supplied and headed for home.
Most houses in Cairns were known as 'Queenslanders'. Their timber-built living areas and verandahs sat on a raised platform. Pringle resided in a particularly impressive Victorian-era Queenslander which occupied a large block on the side of a hill.
He parked under the platform and trotted up the wooden front steps. He opened the front door and reflected on how wonderful it was to be living on his own. If his wife was around, she'd have kept interrupting him while he tried to watch the test match.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and strolled into the high-ceiling living room. After turning on the overhead fan, he looked around for the remote control device. He thought he left it on the couch, but found it on the coffee-table. Getting forgetful.
He dropped onto the couch and pressed the power button on the remote. The world turned to heat and light.