Big Norman gave a short of contemptuous disgust.
“Well, come on, man!” He grinned callously at the reluctant boy, wide-eyed beside him. “Heave the thing aboard — haven’t you ever seen a dead ’un yet?”
Using the long hook, he reached across with practiced skill and flipped the arm on board. It flopped wetly on the slimy deck and slithered to a halt. The boy shrank back, fingers flying to his mouth, but the big man stopped, wrinkling his nose, his coarse, handsome features coldly curious.
“Fresh as a bit of lamb,” he remarked. “Not been in long.” The boy gulped and Big Norman looked up with a sarcastic grin.
“Don’t just stand there. Shove it in the locker.”
“But — but I can’t—”
Norman laughed then, and took the thing up gingerly by one of its fingers. He hefted it, swinging it closer to the boy, who gave a cry of fear and shrank away. Then, satisfied, Norman lifted a hatch and slid the arm into a broad, empty locker.
They had no radio on board, or perhaps Big Norman might have reported the find, but then again, he might not. Whoever it was could never have survived the slashing that had torn an arm clean off. He had an idea what had happened. Some fool had slipped over the side of a biggish ship and been sucked into the propellers. There was no hurry.
As usual, his boat was solitary, miles from the main group of small craft from his village with their cheerful, obscene chatter and jovial, roughly generous comradeship. Urging the anxious, gaping lad, he rearranged the lines and nets, motoring gently along over the choppy swell. The weather was hot and sultry, the waves oily. The sky had a faint tinge of yellow and the sun peered through, a gathering halo.
Twenty minutes later, they found a torn human chest, the rib cage ripped asunder as if with a mighty ax, the swollen lungs within, bulbous and raw. The lines drew it inexorably to the boat. Big Norman swore angrily and reached out once again with the hook. He gave the human wreckage a shove with the steel tip, pushing it away this time bat the spike passed through the ribs and jammed. He cursed, wrestled a moment, then with a disgusted grunt, swung the load inboard.
“Open the locker, you stupid bastard!”
The boy, stumbling, flung himself across the boat and lifted the hatch. The mangled arm waited in the darkness. Norman dropped the hook and its burden with a smack against the hatch edge. The bloody mess dropped off and the boy, his anxious, ignorant face white, slammed the hatch shut.
Big Norman himself stood panting, the hook in his hand. A red jelly stain moved slowly down its tip. He gave a sudden shudder and swung the hook over the side, swishing it in the sea to clean off the sticky mess.
“Get the lines cleared,” he snarled, then hurried across the deck and into the tiny forward cabin. He fumbled open a box and drew out a bottle. He drank quickly and noisily, belched, shrugged, then returned to the lines.
It was an hour before they found the legs. These came together, still joined by a jagged twist of flesh, palely flickering under the water as if vainly trying to swim alongside. Big Norman couldn’t disentangle them from the mesh, though he beat and thrust, viciously stabbing at the gently waving limbs. He took his knife and sawed at the twisted ropes but the feet floated aside and as he slashed the cut rope ends they snaked round and caught again on an ankle.
Leaning over the boat side, struggling desperately, Norman at last turned a pale, enraged face up to the terrified boy.
“For God’s sake — heave the bloody things aboard!”
But the lad shook his head, eyes bulging with horror. He merely backed, and to placate Big Norman’s rage, lifted the hatch, ready.…
With a frenzied struggle, Big Norman wrenched at the load and lugged the dripping, shattered legs over the side. They slapped loudly on the slimy planks. He heaved again and bundled the legs over the hatch opening, forcing them inside. Within, the pale mess of chest and arm slithered aside under his thrust.
He slammed the hatch shut and stood up, swaying slightly, the bright yellow sun beating on his bare head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then stumbled forward to the cabin and the bottle. For a few delicious minutes, he sat down on the narrow bunk there. His head was hot. The sickly white legs had reminded him — there was even a blue-red oval bruise on the thigh, as if a boot had kicked it — but it was impossible! Helga was gone these two months, with her whining and her thin arms and her bulging belly. He drank again. A vision of Helga came — cowering — as she so often had; pleading, terrified.
Big Norman opened his eyes and drew a stronger breath as the neat spirit warmed him. It was a coincidence, of course. The bruise on the leg would have happened when she — whoever it was — fell overboard.
Stumbling out on deck, he cried oat to the idiot boy who stood clutching the wheel.
“Get the gear in, we’re going back.” He raised a brutal fist, eager to vent his angry fear. The lad jumped to obey, clumsily blundering with terrified anxiety to please. He began to unhitch and draw in the lines as Big Norman had taught him, with so many blows. The man ignored him, breathing heavily.
The nets came aboard. There were few fish, for the disturbance to the lines had spoiled their set. Big Norman spilled them out again, the cowering boy staring in amazement. Instead of carefully folding the tackle as usual, coiling down each line, the big man simply dragged it all aboard in a tangle. As the last lot floated up, Big Norman turned away and stooped over the engine hatch to start the small diesel. It clattered and roared, sending out a cloud of gray smoke. The boy gave a cry, and Norman turned to see him heaving on the last lines, straining. And then another arm, with almost the whole side of a body, down to a crushed and horribly torn abdomen came aboard, writhing as if alive.
Norman gave a great cry and rushed to stop the boy, but it was too late. The thing slopped to the deck and slid slowly and deliberately towards him. On the dead, twisted hand gleamed a dull gold ring. One finger of that hand was gone, but this wound was long healed. Norman’s face went gray with sudden horror, his eyes staring wildly at that familiar hand. He backed away, low animal sounds coming from his throat.
The boy was staring at him, desperately anxious to do the right thing, his dim brain moving slowly. Trembling, he stooped and lifted the hatch. With crazy haste then, he incontinently dragged at the dead flesh, and began to stuff the thing down into the locker.
Norman turned and blundered towards the wheel, jamming the boat into gear, shoving the throttle lever to full power. The boat quivered and thrust ahead. A rush of water gathered under her bows. Within the locker, as the boat surged and rolled, the human remains squelched and jostled each other, a rich smell of salt and blood filling the wet darkness.
As the seas became rougher with a rise in wind, that hatch cover unfastened, clicked and stirred, opening an inch as the bows lifted to a wave, then closing with a snap as they fell into the following trough.
Big Norman steered without a backward glance, his gray face running with sweat, his legs braced apart on the heaving deck, powerful hands clamped on the wheel. The clouds were thicker now, hurrying across a brazen sky. A gray squall of rain was approaching, white capping the tumbling seas ahead. The high-pitched whine of wind grew louder.
Suddenly the boy grasped his arm, shaking it, pointing astern. Big Norman snarled at him, cuffing the hand away, then turned to look. The hatch had pounded open, and an arm had again flopped over the side, swinging crazily with every movement, its pale fingers writhing.
With a mad roar, Norman rushed past the cowering lad. He grabbed the flailing arm and snatched open the hatch, ready to thrust the thing down again into the pale shifting mass of flesh within. The boy saw him press down, striving to close the hatch again, but then stiffening, head hunched, eyes bulging with sudden, stark terror. The big man gave a piercing shriek and beat savagely downwards into the locker, thudding his fist at the dead flesh beneath, struggling as if with a live thing, then crashing the hatch shut with demented strength and heaving his mighty weight on to it. He lay shuddering, his great hands shutting the steel catch tight. For an instant, he remained, quivering uncontrollably, face deathly white, eyes staring, the wide mouth slobbering fear. Then, in a shambling rush he came forward to the wheel, blindly slowing the boy from it just as the bows slewed before a mighty wave, white capped and roaring.