The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
heard a sound that caused him to interrupt his climb. At first it was just a hesitant rustle in the wind, then it got clearer as it approached. The chattering of distant rotor blades was unmistakable. Jack caught his breath and felt his heart miss a beat - Presswood's here!!
A voice said: "Hey, Jack, you coming, going, or you gonna hang around on that ladder all day?"
His head and shoulders were just protruding through the hole in the deck. He was staring at a grubby pair of jeans. He followed them up. The voice belonged to one of the roustabouts. "Sorry," Pierce mumbled and climbed the last few steps.
Pierce stood aside from the companion-way to let the man go down. Eric wasn't far behind his mate. He hurried to the stairs and after extending the diving super a curt nod and a smile, began his descent. He reached the bottom and broke into a shuffling trot along the catwalk. "Mike!" he called out. "Wait up!"
Mike glanced back and sighed - fucking Sutcliffe was just what he didn't need right now! He stopped beside the ladder which led into the moon pool and waited. A disturbance in the water caught his eye. He leaned over the guard rail to get a better look. There were just a few ripples on the surface which dissipated almost immediately. Mike straightened up and resumed walking.
"What did you see?" asked Sutcliffe, falling into step alongside.
Mike shrugged. "Dunno. A fish, maybe."
"No fish in there," declared the other man with conviction.
"What would you know Fuckwit? It's the sea ain't it? There's fish in the sea."
"I suppose." They were nearing the end of the catwalk when Sutcliffe asked: "Aren't you gonna watch the chopper land?"
"I'm on my break and I'm starving. Fuck the chopper!"
"But the new toolpusher's supposed to be coming in," insisted Sutcliffe.
Mike pulled up sharply and turned. "So? You want to kiss his arse, go ahead. The amount of shit comes out of your mouth already, nobody'll notice. You comin' or not?" Mike started walking again.
"Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"What kind, d'you reckon?"
"What?"
"Fish - what kind of fish d'you reckon you saw?"
"How the fuck do I know? Maybe it was the big bastard that swallowed that diver, MacFarlane!"
"D'you reckon?" enquired the other man, glancing nervously through the rail at the water below.
Mike groaned. "You're a fuckin' idiot, Sutcliffe, d'you know that?"
"Nah!" Sutcliffe wasn't referring to Mike's comment which he had apparently missed, but was deciding for himself on the question of the fish. "Couldn't be the same one. Must be big, but." He appeared to think for a moment, then said: "You go on Mike. I'll see you later."
"Where you goin'?"
"Aw, nowhere," lied Sutcliffe unconvincingly.
"Suit yourself." Mike quickened his pace. Positive he could hear heavy footsteps thudding on the steel grating behind him, he turned in time to see Sutcliffe running back the way they had come. "Dickhead!" mumbled Mike as he left the area.
A dark shape moved below the waterline at the base of the ladder. It looked like a head. Something smaller rose beside it. The glassy surface trembled as the second object reached up and latched onto the rail of the ladder. It was definitely a hand and would have appeared human but for the green/brown colour and puss-like texture which were disgustingly vile. As it slid up the rail a few inches, an area of slimy tissue caught on a rung and fell away to reveal a patch of raw, weeping pulp beneath.
Another hand reached up to catch the rail on the left side. Still submerged, the head tipped back and twin ellipses of violet light shone out from cavernous eye sockets. They moved from side to side, looking up through the water and beyond the surface, searching for signs of life which it wasn't quite ready to contact - nay fer a while. Cannay give the game away yet.
All seemed quiet. It started to move slowly up the ladder. The head and shoulders heaved and broke the surface. As it continued to climb, water ran in streams from the pustular flesh, clouding the immediate vicinity at the base of the ladder with oily excreta. Each time the left hand contacted the metal of the rail, there was a click which echoed faintly around the moon pool area. The source of that small noise was a gold band encircling one of the digits of the hand. And on the widest part of the band, engraved with precision was the letter 'E'.
It heard something! The shape that used to be Eddie MacFarlane paused. The presence within it listened.
Eric 'Fuckwit' Sutcliffe hurried back along the catwalk, chuckling and talking to himself. The sound of his own voice and movement came back to him as an echo. "Sshh!" He giggled like a naughty child and continued on, treading more quietly.
Standing motionless on the ladder, the thing that was no longer Eddie waited. Globules of the muddy puss dripped from the putrefying cadaver and plopped noisily into the water. The approaching human might hear and that wouldn't do because it would spoil the surprise. Carefully, silently, it lowered the body of its host back into the pool.
Sutcliffe reached the ladder and knelt on the steel floor beside it. He glanced out at the moon pool and spoke to the fish he was now positive was down there, somewhere: "I'm gonna get you, you big fat bastard!" Then he chuckled as he set to work with clumsy fingers, rigging and baiting his hand line. "I hope you like steak," he muttered and chewed on his protruding tongue to aid concentration while he drove a 9/0 Mustad hook through a lump of meat as big as his fist.
His preparations completed, he stood up and positioned himself. He swung the weight on the end of the line a few times like a pendulum, then heaved it towards the centre of the pool. It went in with a splash and he watched the ripples extending out across the shiny surface.
The line tightened and the sinker drew the bait down until it finally settled almost directly below him. "I wonder how deep you are?" He re-wound a metre or so of line onto the plastic spool. "Let's try that for starters."
Eric settled himself with his legs dangling over the side of the pool, then leaned across to the ladder. He whipped a few turns of line around the hand-rail and tied it securely. "Mike'd go spacko if he saw me. 'Don't tie it off, you fuckin' moron,'" He mimicked with a chuckle. "'What you gonna do if it runs?'" He beamed. "Ain't gonna run Mike, not 'less it takes the fuckin' ladder with it."
He pulled the line up and down a few times to excite the bait then held it still with the nylon draped over his crooked index finger. "Come on, you big sod. Let's show Mike how a fuckwit can catch fish."
2
Liz had been on Del's mind for the entire trip. Apart from regrets concerning his young son, he had thought of little else. Then as the Sikorsky was easing down onto the pad, he happened to look out at the waiting faces and one in particular caused his euphoria to split wide open.
The face was older now and may even have appeared wiser to the un-initiated, but a pile of shit was still a pile of shit, even after five years. That was how long it must have been since he'd locked horns with Meyer and from what he'd heard on the grapevine, Les was an even bigger bastard now than he had been then. Jumping feet first onto Olympian might not be as advantageous as he'd imagined after all.
Del was the third man out. As he stepped onto the pad, most eyes were glued to him, not because he was the new toolpusher, but because no-one had been expecting a man with so many lumps and bruises on his face. Meyer seemed eager to take a closer look and bustled his authoritative way through the crowd to Presswood. He made sure he halted two metres away, providing himself with a margin of safety, and grinned slyly. "I heard you were having problems." When Presswood merely responded with a sigh, he figured it was safe to move closer and shake hands, which was, after all, the civilised thing to do.
Del watched the hand extending towards him. It wasn't a display of friendship. More likely the