Free Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan Page A

We’ll need ten litres. Might take a while with that old egg beater of yours.’
    The women laugh. Pleased with themselves. Three (mostly) kind-hearted and good-natured women, he thinks, automatically excluding the eternally sweet and compassionate Misses Skettle. You’d never guess at the killer instinct lurking just under their skin.
    He finds Jimmy waiting for him on the barge at Cargo Wharf. ‘Ya gunna tell me who died?’ asks the kid, grinning widely, pleased with his witticism. Sam sighs. Wonders if everyone’s reading from the same script. Lets the comment ride. ‘You give that mutt a bath last night, mate?’
    â€˜Yeah, Sam. Used me own shampoo so he smells real good.’ The kid bends to scoop the pup into his arms. He shoves the warm, wriggling mass of fur under Sam’s nose. ‘Go on. Have a sniff.’
    Sam grimaces, reels back. ‘Smells like a bloody fruit salad, mate. You might want to change your shampoo . . .’ The smile is wiped off the kid’s face. He dances up and down. Anxious. Sam wants to cut out his tongue. He back-pedals. ‘Er, deliciously enticing as it is, mate, maybe you should find one that’s more suitable for a dog. Something that works on fleas and ticks. Know what I mean?’
    â€˜Sure, Sam.’
    But the spark has gone out. Sam searches for a way to redeem himself. Guide Jimmy, who gives the smallest, most inconsequential task everything he’s got, back on track. He seizes the pup, holds him high against the empty blue sky, feels his emotions go slightly haywire at the sight of an exposed pink tummy, trusting brown eyes: ‘He’s a lucky dog to have you, Jimmy. And Christ, he smells good enough to eat.’ He holds the dog against his neck, suddenly embarrassed because he doesn’t want to let go.
    Jimmy senses the shift. Grows a little taller. ‘Watch the tide, Sam. You gotta concentrate, cap’n. Where’s this stuff goin’ anyway? You got a sling ready? C’mon on, Sam, get it together: we got work to do.’
    â€˜How much you saved, Jimmy?’ Sam asks, as he does at the start of every job.
    â€˜Not enough yet, Sam.’
    â€˜Well, mate, Rome wasn’t built in a day and cars don’t come cheap.’
    â€˜How long did it take to build Rome, Sam?’
    â€˜Grab the sling. Thread it under the cargo pallet like I’ve shown you. Hurry up, mate. Then I’m leaving you in charge of the Mary Kay for a while, which means I expect her to shine brighter than the stars by the time I get back. You getting my drift?’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir. You want me to work my scrawny backside off. Is that it?’
    Sam smiles, gives the kid the thumbs up, strips to his jocks in the wheelhouse and pulls on his work clothes. They load without another word and set off. Jimmy sits on the pitted deck by the pup’s basket, his skinny knees pulled up against his cheekbones. Every so often, the pup twitches in his sleep. Jimmy rubs a furry ear until he settles once more.
    Just on dark. A low, brooding sky. The smell of rain on the way. Out on the deck of Ettie’s penthouse, the two tired owners of The Briny Café sip frosty glasses of white wine. Ettie bunches her voluminous blue-and-red tie-dyed skirt around her knees, kicks off her sparkly sandals, and hoists her throbbing feet up to the top rail. Her toenails are painted to match her clothes. I’m not entirely losing the plot then, she thinks. She briefly considers investing in orthotic footwear. Then her vanity kicks in and she quickly ditches the idea. Kate rolls up her jeans. Ettie drops her feet, covers her legs to avoid comparing Kate’s smooth young skin with her own battle-hardened extremities.
    It’s been a gruelling afternoon; busloads of dithering white-haired tourists, clumsy on Zimmer frames in small spaces; dripping wet kids on school holidays, impatient to eat and then plunge back into a warm and