Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Scream of the Siren

The Elvis bobbed idly on the ocean. The forty-foot fishing boat was owned by skipper Blenheim ‘Cockles’ Cochran. At this moment Cochran paced about his weathered deck, checking lines as he sang along to the beaten-up CD player lashed to the wheelhouse with thick rope.

‘You in pain again, skipper?’ a squat, broad-shouldered man with a rosy-red face said, grinning. ‘I can get you somethin’ for it, if you’d like? You need a double dose, I reckon.’

‘You’re as funny as chicken pox, Jimbo,’ Cochran replied with a chuckle.

‘And you still can’t sing, Skipper,’ First Mate James ‘Jimbo’ Spirehouse said. ‘You’re gonna have to accept that fact some day. Why not do it now and save my sanity?’

‘Because the King still sings, you heathen,’ said Cochran, jerking his head towards the speaker as it pumped out ‘Jailhouse Rock’. ‘And you were crazy before you ever set foot on this boat.’ The two men laughed heartily.

Half a mile away, the fishing village of Dorsal Finn could be seen nestling in an enclave shaped like a half moon, its cottages appearing to hover in the air like blue, pink and white butterflies settling in the folds of the landscape.

‘How come we’re trawlin’ this stretch of water?’ Jimbo asked, his eyes fixed on the several bright red buoys marking their lobster creels. The round, fat shapes undulated on the ocean’s surface like apples in a Halloween bobbing bucket. ‘I thought the lobster had taken leave from this pitch some time back?’

‘You been asleep this past year, Jimbo?’ Cochran said. ‘You know times are lean. And that means we’ve got to try anywhere—anyhow—these days. The Elvis is all I’ve got in this world. I don’t plan to give her back to the bank without a bit of a tussle.’

‘Well, just remember you’ll always have me,’ Jimbo said with a chuckle.

‘Is that meant to bring me good cheer?’ Cochran laughed. ‘Just drop anchor. Let’s get these pots on board, and see if Lady Luck is wearing her best smile this mornin’.

The two men made ready.

Jimbo pulled on the ratchet brake and released the anchor, which entered the water with a splash.

Once this was done, Cochrane grabbed a long, hooked pole from its safety rack and leaned over the side of the boat. He hooked the first buoy with the kind of ease that only comes from practice, and began pulling the big plastic ball towards the boat. The buoy nudged against the hull with a series of dull, hollow thumps. The two men hauled it over the side and onto the deck where Jimbo stowed it by tying it to a huge brass cleat riveted to The Elvis’ decking.

Cochran pulled at the thick rope that had been attached to the buoy until he could see the wavering shape of a lobster creel just below the ocean’s surface.

‘Give me a hand to pull this little bugger in,’ he called with delight. ‘She’s packin’ some weight!’

‘You got it.’

‘We got the jackpot here,’ Cochran said, pulling on the rope with all his might. ‘Lady Luck’s wearin’ her best frock this mornin’.’

With huge effort the men yanked at the rope, but what happened next almost caused them to drop it in surprise. Just as the creel was about to leave the water, a hissing noise appeared to emanate from it and a powerful pulse of water surged away from them in one huge wave.

‘What was that, Skipper?’

‘Let’s get this creel in then we’ll chat about it,’ Cochran replied grimly.

‘But didn’t that noise come from the creel?’ Jimbo said, uncertain.

‘Just yank that umbilical, Jimbo,’ Cochran said firmly. ‘Or I’ll be goin’ back to port on my lonesome.’

Reluctantly, Jimbo helped pull the creel on deck, both men ending up standing over it with some trepidation.

‘What you seein’, Jimbo?’

‘I’m seein’ only a bunch of lobsters.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Cochran confirmed, nudging the creel with his foot. After a few moments he turned his grizzled face to his First Mate. ‘Drama’s over. Let’s haul the rest of ’em in.’

With reticence they did just that, each man clutching at the ropes as though they were dragging a potential monster from the sea bed. Despite their fears, there wasn’t a repeat of the phenomenon. Soon all the creels were lying on deck in a widening spread of water; laden with lobster of all sizes. Once they had seen the extent of the catch, the fishermen were soon distracted from the incident that had caused them such angst.

‘Right,’ Cochran said, slightly out of breath from the exertion. ‘Let’s get The Elvis back to port, and these little beauties to market!’

He made his way to the wheel-house, slapping the CD player on his way past; the air suddenly filling with bright 1950s rock and roll music. Jimbo cast his eyes to the gull-speckled sky, his intention to make some jibe to his skipper.

But he never got the chance.

No sooner had the CD kicked into life when the music became disjointed and garbled by bursts of heavy, hissing static.

‘First thing I do when we swap lobster for moolah is to trade in this lump of useless plastic for a machine that gives me big beats,’ Cochran moaned, thumping the faltering stereo with a calloused palm. The CD player began to emit a low humming noise, Cochran’s heavy-handedness appearing to make matters infinitely worse.

Then the low hum began to rise in pitch.

‘You hearin’ that?’ Jimbo asked.

‘Hard not to,’ Cochran replied, irritation clear in his voice.

The sound began to oscillate and suddenly the men found its presence uncomfortable, their hands clamping over their ears in an attempt to shut it out. Without warning, the CD player discharged a terrible high pitched, sonic scream that forced Cochran and Jimbo to their knees, their faces screwed into agonised masks.

Just when Cochrane thought he would have to jump overboard to escape the terrible cacophony numbing his brain, the CD player’s carcass buckled before shedding its plastic skin across the deck in a spectacular explosion of sparks and debris.

Unable to comprehend what had happened, Cochran and Jimbo remained on their knees, their breathing heavy with relief.

Jimbo looked at the ruined stereo—now nothing but a misshapen piece of plastic—and then turned to Cochran.

‘I think I prefer your singin’,’ he muttered.

***

You wake up, your skin bathed in sweat. You have had the dream again, the one in which the sky burns and your body is consumed by a will that is not your own. It is as if someone—something—is wearing your skin like a suit, saying words that you would never utter and thinking thoughts that leave your mind feeling unclean and tainted.

The sheets wrapped about you are tangled and damp. Yet you drag them closer in the hope they provide some comfort—some protection—from the ill thoughts still reverberating in your mind.

It has been some time since the dream has been so vivid. You know it will leave a residue, a nasty passenger that you will carry with you throughout the day. Part of you had hoped that you would never experience the terrible images again. But the sensible part, the sensitive part, knows you cannot outrun what is real. This part knows the dream is not a dream at all but a memory of what happened one terrible night when the thing lurking in the shadows of Dorsal Finn stepped out and touched you, marking you for one of its puppets.

You lie back on the small mattress. Your breathing finally slows down, yet your mind races. It is as though you are trying to think of anything other than the obvious. The dream has returned to let you know something is reaching out to you; its minions are searching for your sensitive mind in order to use it once more.

You roll onto your side and weep, for you know time and distance is no barrier to the thing that needs to recall you back into its service.

And once its servants find you in the darkness, you will be powerless to stop them.