The Elephant Fish

By Lindsay Smith

Steve Foster is a lone fisherman enjoying the solitude of a deserted beach. His peace is shattered when he witnesses a major drug smuggling deal and his solitude turns to a situation of extreme danger.
Kidnapped by the drug gang, he is taken aboard a container ship where his world is turned upside down. What follows is a saga of violent encounters and the horrors of a deadly attack by hijackers in the Java Sea.
This is the story of Steve’s fight for survival and his scheming to take revenge on his captors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528993883

Lindsay Smith

Lindsay Smith is the author of Cold War era espionage novels Sekret and Skandal, fantasy novel Dreamstrider, and Japanese time travel novel A Darkly Beating Heart. She writes on foreign affairs and lives in Washington, D.C.

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The Elephant Fish

Lindsay Smith

Austin Macauley Publishers

The Elephant Fish

About the Author

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

6.00 pm. Sunday 5th April Kaikoura Coast

8.00 pm. Sunday, 5th April Kaikoura Coast

8.40 pm. Sunday 5th April Kaikoura Coast

9.00 pm. Sunday 5th April Saturn Star

Day One: Part One: 6.15 am. Monday 6th April Saturn Star

Day One: Part Two: 6.42 am. Monday, 6th April Kaikoura Coast

Day One: Part Three: 7.00 am. Monday 6th April Domett, North Canterbury

Day One: Part Four: 5.30 pm. Monday, 6th April Saturn Star

Day Two: Part One: 7.00 am. Tuesday 7th April Kaikoura Coast

Day Two: Part Two: 7.00 am AEST. Tuesday 7th April Saturn Star

Day Two: Part Three: 7.30 am AEST. Tuesday 7th April Saturn Star

Day Two: Part Four: Midday 7th April Domett, North Canterbury

Day Two: Part Five: 2.00 pm. Tuesday 7th April Kaikoura Coast

Day Three: Part One: 6.00 am. Wednesday 8th April Domett

Day Three: Part Two: 6.00 am AEST. Wednesday 8th April Saturn Star

Day Three: Part Three: 1.00 pm. Wednesday 8th April Christchurch

Day Four: 8.00am Thursday 9th April Saturn Star

Day Five: Friday 10th April Saturn Star

Day Six: Saturday 11th April Saturn Star

Day Seven: Sunday 12th April Saturn Star

Day Eight: Monday 13th April Saturn Star

Day Nine: Tuesday 14th April Saturn Star

Day Ten: Wednesday 15th April Saturn Star

Day Eleven: Thursday 16th April Saturn Star

Day Twelve: Friday 17th April Saturn Star

Day Thirteen: Saturday 18th April Saturn Star

Day Fourteen: Sunday 19th April Saturn Star

Day Fifteen: Monday 20th April Saturn Star

Day Sixteen: Tuesday 21st April Saturn Star

Day Seventeen: Wednesday 22nd April Singapore Container Terminal

Day Eighteen: Thursday 23rd April Singapore

Day Nineteen: Friday 24th April Singapore

Day Twenty: Saturday 25th April Singapore

Day Twenty-One: Sunday 26th April Singapore

Day Twenty-Two: Monday 27th April Singapore

Day Twenty-Three: Tuesday 28th April Singapore

Day Twenty-Four: Wednesday 29th April Singapore

Day Twenty-Five: Thursday 30th April Singapore

Day Twenty-Six: Friday 1st May Singapore

Day Twenty-Seven: Sunday 4th May Kaikoura Coast

About the Author

Lindsay Smith lives in the South Island of New Zealand where he spends much of his time in the outdoors following his passion of fly fishing and hunting.

Copyright Information ©

Lindsay Smith (2021)

The right of Lindsay Smith to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528993876 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528993883 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

I am filled with gratitude for the patience of my wife, Leigh. Her encouragement and support made the telling of this story an exciting and involving journey.

6.00 pm. Sunday 5th April

Kaikoura Coast

On the south side of the Kaikoura Peninsula, there is a broad sweeping beach running east to west for about seven and a half kilometres. Over millennia greywacke gravel and coarse river sand has been carried fifteen kilometres or more across the narrow plain by the Kahutara and Kowhai Rivers from their sources in the lofty Seaward Kaikoura Mountains. Deposited and spread along the edge of the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean, it has formed the beach and the fertile plain behind it. At its eastern end the beach meets the Kaikoura Peninsula and turns southeast till meeting the small settlement of South Bay. At the western end, it ends abruptly at the Kahutara River nestled against the cliffs and steep bluffs of the Hundalee Hills which follow the rocky coastline for twenty kilometres south to the white-faced cliffs of Haumuri Bluff.

We were about halfway along the beach, where the Kowhai River empties its waters gathered from the slopes of the Seaward Kaikoura Range into the deep waters of the South Pacific. Just off the coast the seabed drops over a kilometre to the dark plankton rich depths of the Hikurangi Trench attracting whales and an abundance of fish and seafood to the area.

The mercury was dropping quickly in the late afternoon. High cirrus cloud hid most of the darkening blue sky and a squadron of much lower cumulus moved slowly eastwards, gathering the low sun and turning the edges a soft rose. A slight offshore breeze ruffled the surface on the low swell of a peaceful sea.

It was early April. Autumn was shortening the days and clearing the beach of the evening strollers who would frequent it on warmer evenings. Ominously, seabirds were scant, a message to fishermen that no shoals of fish were feeding on the surface tonight. A kilometre or two out a couple of fishing boats were heading north to their base at South Bay, putting up white bow waves as they ploughed through the water at a good clip. A few kilometres beyond them a container ship was also heading north, quite a lot further inshore than I’d seen for many years. But still far enough out to keep well clear of the peninsula and the dangers of the rocky reefs which surround it.

I pulled the woollen beanie down over my ears, turned up the collar of my polar fleece jacket and settled back into the old plastic stack chair, feeling its back legs flex as they buried themselves deeper into the soft gravel. I pushed my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and held onto my hip flask, still almost half-full of its warming fluid. The wind was still offshore and the sun was sinking behind the mountain range behind us. The westerly wind was picking up the cold from the snow that capped the peaks and dumping it on everything in its path. I glanced at Jim, snuggled down in his chair with the hood of the parka pulled forward, giving him the appearance of Darth Vader. The only time I’d seen him move in the past half hour was to take the occasional sip from his flask. He continually stared at the tip of his rod, twenty metres down the beach near the high tide mark, praying for a hook up or at least a bite. But it had remained still and upright beside my own rod, just four or five metres along from his, similarly devoid of movement.

I pulled the flask from my pocket and removing the cap, took a sip of the Glenmorangie, holding its warmth on my palate. Be bloody good if something’d move soon, I mumbled to break the silence. Gotta be something hungry out there.

Jim turned his head towards me and gave a look of complete disdain from within the depths of his hood. The only bloody hungry thing around here is me, he muttered. Just about had enough of this, Steve. Jim wasn’t a beach fisherman. Give him a willow-lined stream and a light trout rod and he’d drop a soft plastic lure on a dollar coin. Put him up a rock-strewn river with a two- metre salmon rod and a silver spinner and he’d cast it exactly where he wants it. And he’d wander up a river for hours, doing it happily while catching nothing. But sit him in a seat on the beach waiting for something to bite and he’s buggered. He comes with me regularly because he’s sure next time he’ll hook into a whopper, though it hasn’t happened yet. But sitting there with a good single malt at his fingertips had him content for a while. However, the fish hadn’t hooked or even had a nibble at his bait and Jim’s patience was waning. It was often like this, but we always enjoyed the occasion, for the first hour or so anyway.

We’d had a couple of sandwiches earlier. I was feeling fine. Tell you what, Jim, I offered. I’d like to hang around here ’til the tide turns which will be an hour or so after dark.

He muttered something inaudible.

If you like, I continued, why don’t you drive yourself back to the bay and the sheilas, eat something, don’t drink too much, and come and pick me up at about nine?

Sounds good to me, he said with more than a hint of enthusiasm. Do you want me to leave my rod out? He knew I usually fished with two rods because I can sit back and observe them both at the same time in their beach spikes, but after dark you can’t even see the rod. It becomes necessary to hold onto just one rod and stay in touch with whatever’s on the end to stand any chance of catching anything. And it’s hard work holding onto two rods at the same time.

No, mate, I said. Just leave me the bait and the gear bag. You take your rod, spike and chair back to the truck and I’ll see you at nine. He pushed himself up off the arms of the chair. He stood there and stretched, then trudged down the beach. He lifted his rod out of its spike and giving it a good jerk backwards to free the sinker from the seabed, retrieved his line at high speed so that the sinker didn’t catch on the bottom. He lumbered back up to me with rod and spike and pulled his flask from his pocket. He tossed it in my lap.

Still half full, mate, he said. You may’s well have it. Plenty where I’m going.

Cheers, Jim, I called after him as he grabbed the chair and made his way up the beach. I’d only just tucked my hands back in my pockets when I heard him stop.

Fuck’s sake. Where’s the bloody car keys, he yelled. They were in my Parka pocket. Don’t say I’ve dropped the bloody things in the gravel.

No, you idiot, I yelled back. You put them in your bag cos you were scared of losing them. Jim muttered something and fiddled in his food bag. He muttered something else I couldn’t hear, picked up his bundle and continued up the beach. I heard a couple of doors slam and the Jeep start. As it left, its lights flashed over the beach as it turned. Moments later, it was gone. Darkness was setting in, so I got up and pulled my inflatable life vest over my head and buckled it. I got my LED headlight from the gear bag and pulled it over my beanie. I’d need the light once the fish started getting interested, I hoped. And I liked to have the vest on when mucking around at the edge of the moody waters of the Kaikoura Coast after dark.

There’s an ethereal magic being on a secluded beach as it darkens and a coloured sky disappears behind you. I’m not a big bloke, just five feet and ten inches, but I feel incredibly small when I’m the solitary living object on a wide empty beach stretching several kilometres in both directions. The smooth surface of the beach was broken only by the silver ripples of the Kowhai River emptying its meagre flow into the sea, fifty or so metres to the south of me. The sea surrounding the area where the fresh water from the river meets the ocean is generally where bait fish accumulate at the top of the tide. That’s why I selected this spot, hoping the bigger fish would come in looking for a feast.

After five or ten minutes I stood and stretched my legs and back. I wandered down the beach to my rod, and pulling it out of the spike, wound the line in to change the bait. I did this every twenty or thirty minutes. Fresh bait always works better. This time the bait had gone, the first time it had happened in the three hours we’d been there. That was a good sign. I baited up quickly with some fresh mussel and secured it to the hook with elastic cotton. Then picking up the rod and adjusting trace length to about three metres, swung it in a wide fast arc, casting the line a good hundred and twenty metres. I held the rod tip high, pointing it to follow the line and get maximum distance, I feathered the braid with my thumb as the spool spun, to prevent an over-run and the resulting birds nest tangle. It was now too gloomy to see the sinker and hook hit the water and I certainly couldn’t hear it that far away because of the waves on the beach, but you can sense it. I flipped the lever over and started backing up the beach, letting the line out until I reached the spike. I pulled the spike out and put it under my arm as I backed my way up the beach to the chair. I now needed the rod beside me where I could feel it if it moved. I wouldn’t see it after darkness set in. I pushed the spike into the stones beside the chair, standing on its step to secure it, then placed the rod in it. I wound up the slack until the tip of the rod had a slight bend to keep tension on the line and dropped into the chair, pulling the polar fleece collar up again and pulling my beanie down. The straps on my life jacket dug into my back, so I adjusted my position for comfort and pushed my hands back into my pockets.

The sky was now quite dark but I could still make out the high cloud covering above me and the visible stars behind me over the mountains, about ten kilometres back. There was a moon, but it was behind the thin cloud casting eerie shadows on the beach. I sat there, looking out to the container ship, still in view, its lights quite clear in the gloom of the evening.

There were ships out there most nights going to and fro, but usually a bit further out. This ship would have been no more than six or seven kilometres away and it seemed to be almost stationary. Weird, I thought.

I’d been sitting there staring out to sea as it got steadily darker for about half an hour when my rod suddenly jerked and bent over. The line started stripping from the spool with a scream. The chair tipped over backwards as I jumped up and grabbed the rod from the spike, excited that at last the fish were moving. Jim would regret leaving when he did. I tightened the drag and slowly walked down to the water’s edge, retrieving as much line as the fish would allow as I went. The fish was obviously quite large and pulled hard. It was difficult to know what it was, but I knew it wasn’t a red cod or a gurnard, and it didn’t feel like a ray or a skate. Perhaps it was a big rig, a bottom feeding very edible shark variety. That would be nice. I could only hope.

It was very strong. It would get close enough to the beach so that I could see the splashing on the surface behind the waves. Then in an instant the line was being stripped from the reel as my fish turned and headed for the horizon. It swam back and forth along the beach allowing me to wind most of the line back onto the reel, then again it would turn, bending the strong graphite surf rod into a tight semi-circle as it again called on its strength and the reel screamed as line I’d retrieved was again stripped from the spool.

Twenty minutes and my arms were tiring, but so was the fish. It was now quite close to the beach and I could see splashing as it struggled on top of the waves, just twenty odd metres from where I stood. I let go of the rod with one hand, clicked my headlight on, and immediately saw a reflected silvery white shape splashing on the surface. It came in easier now as I walked backwards up the beach, dragging it towards me with the assistance of the small waves pushing it to land. As it splashed and struggled into shallow water I moved forward, lifted the rod tip, and grabbed a hold of the heavy sixty-pound trace which made up the last five metres of the line. I put the rod down on the beach with the reel clear of the fine gravel and worked my way down the trace close to the fish and dragged it out of the water and up the beach. With both hands I grabbed the tail and dragged it up another six metres or so. It was a big elephant fish, more than four feet long, and so named because of the large fleshy trunk protruding from the snout.

It lay on the beach flapping its tail against the gravel. I picked up a cricket ball sized stone and gave it a few good whacks on the head which took a bit of the fight out of it. I stood and looked down at it. It was the first time I’d caught one of these on the Kaikoura Coast, though I’d landed a few smaller examples further south. I knelt and extracted the hook which had hooked nicely through the side of the mouth. I turned off my headlight and got hold of the narrow part of the body near the tail and dragged it back up to the chair, picking up my rod on the way. I placed the fish on the stones beside the chair, and wound the last of the line onto the reel before I placed the rod in the holder and dug my flask out of my pocket for a private celebration. This was going to be a good night. I emptied my flask and stuck it down the front of my polar fleece into my shirt pocket and buttoned it in. I picked up Jim’s flask off the gear bag and stuck it in my jacket pocket. I’d deal to that later.

The wind had turned and was now blowing onshore. The waves were increasing in size a little and were breaking onto the beach with a little more energy. It had happened quite quickly. I’d flopped into my chair and reached for the bait box to re-bait my hook when I heard what I thought sounded like a big outboard motor at speed somewhere out in front of me. I peered into the darkness but could see nothing. It certainly didn’t have running lights on. But the noise was getting louder and nearer quite quickly. There was definitely some sort of boat coming towards the beach at quite a high speed and I squinted hard to see against the darkness. It was moving a little to my left. Then, less than a hundred metres along the beach, a quad bike shot out of the scrub and drove down the beach towards the water. No lights on. What the hell! I could just make out two figures on it. The one on the back was pointing a torch towards the water’s edge which they arrived at very quickly. They killed the bike’s engine, got off and stood there talking quietly in the dim moonlight pointing their light out to sea. It must have been for the incoming boat. My mind was racing. This had to be a poaching gang or something. Highly sought after crayfish and paua, or abalone as some call it, offered good profits in the lucrative black market operating illegally along this coastline. Had I stumbled into the middle of something I didn’t want to be part of? I wanted to get away and ring the poaching hotline but I had no phone and I had no car. And I felt vulnerable.

The boat was getting so close that I could now make out the white foam of the bow wave, most probably only a couple of hundred metres out. I pulled the rod from the spike and wound the sinker and hooks around the rod. I grabbed the bait box and tossed it in the gear bag which I threw over my shoulder. I pulled the spike out of the stones and stuck it under my arm, picked up the chair and rod and moved as quickly and as quietly as I could away from the action until I reached the edge of the river where I dropped the best part of a metre down the stony bank into the water. It came only half way up my calf length gumboots. I turned upstream towards the rough track which ran beside the river and led back to road. I’d wait in the scrub beside the road for an hour and a half for Jim to come back and wave him down with my headlight.

Bloody hell! My fish. I’d left it behind. It was a beauty. I didn’t want to leave it for the seagulls to find in the morning and it was fifty metres back across the beach. I stayed in the riverbed and laid my gear out on the bank, still out of sight from the others on the beach. I waded back downstream, crouching as I went. I kept low and shuffled across the beach to where I thought it was. A large inflatable was beached about fifty metres away in the semi-darkness and there were two figures holding the boat while another carried what looked like a jerry can from the boat and placed it on the back of the quad bike. It was quite dark and the cloud in front of the moon had thickened so I kept very low and crept forward looking for the fish. Had it been a sandy beach it would have been easier to find my way to the fish, but the stones on the beach showed no footprints to follow. But the shiny whitish colour of the elephant fish gave it away in the shadowy moonlight and I moved up the beach a few metres to grab it. I retraced my steps back to the river and the rest of my gear, dragging the fish as I went. I got back to the gear and threw the strap of the bag over my shoulder. I pushed my left arm through the gap in the back of the plastic chair and picked up the rod and spike with my left hand. I grabbed the fish near the tail and twisting it round, threw it over my right shoulder. It must have weighed more than ten kilograms. I struggled through the soft gravel for about fifty metres upstream, then with difficulty, scrambled up the loose stony bank towards the track, slipping back one step for every two I took. Finally, I reached the track, hot and bothered and totally exhausted with my heart racing.

To my left, the track went for about fifty metres, then made a right hander back towards the road. To my right it went for about a hundred metres and ended in a rough sort of area where a vehicle can turn around. This was where we had parked the Jeep earlier. On the other side of the track, the ground fell away steeply to a flattened-out area where the locals had built a kart track and which was now overgrown with broom and manuka scrub. I figured it would be better if I dropped down there off the skyline and walked back to the road across the track and through the scrub. I reckoned the quad bike must have got down to the beach by taking another track which ran through a row of pines about a hundred or so metres north, on the far side of the kart track. I wouldn’t go near that. I’d keep to the south side of the track. Once I got to the road, I’d hide in the scrub beside the bridge on the other side of the river until I heard Jim coming. The old Jeep has a pretty distinctive throb from its semi-muffled V8, which I’d hear from some distance.

I climbed down the bank from the track onto the flat area of the kart track and had to push my way through some scrubby manuka. I was making my way slowly when there was a rush of leaves and the crack of branches and this silvery thing came directly at me in the dark. I ducked, but not enough and I was painfully aware that something hard collided with my left eye and head and everything went dark.

I don’t think I was unconscious very long, but as I came round I knew I was pretty second-hand. My head hurt like hell and my eye was closed and I could feel the damp warmth of blood around it. I was being dragged. Someone had their hands under my armpits and was pulling me up the rough gravel. I could hear voices. Now I’m no bloody hero, but I do have a strong sense of survival. There was more than one person and I was conscious enough to realise that at this stage of proceedings I’d be better staying quiet to see what the hell was happening. I was trying to hear what was being said, which shouldn’t have been too hard as they were yelling at each other, but my mind was fuzzy. I was aware of warm blood running into my left eye so kept my eyes closed. Another pair of hands grabbed my legs and they dragged me up the slope onto level ground.

The first discernible thing I heard was the idling of a motorbike engine. I realised that the quad I’d seen was right beside me. It was hard dry gravel under me so I must’ve been up on the track. One of them must have seen me, crept up on me, and whacked me. But why did they drag me up here? The guy on the quad was barking. Where’d he come from?

Dunno, came the reply from the other guy near my head. I saw ’im creeping round the beach when youse were down there. He picked up a bag or something off the beach and crept back to the creek. He picked up some more stuff and went up the creek. So I got me softball bat and clobbered ’im in them trees.

Well, who the fuck is he? The voice sounded Australian. Buggered if I know.

Someone leant over me. Oh, shit. I know ’im, Gibbo, came the voice close to my face. He lives in Goat Bay down the coast a bit. But I didn’t know that when I hit ’im. Not ’til now when I looked closer.

Christ’s sake, Dean. Who is he? the Aussie yelled back. Steve Foster.

So who is he? What the fuck’s he doin’ here? It was the guy on the quad speaking.

I dunno, Rick. He used to root my sister. That’s how I know him. Most probably fishin’ or somethin’.

That struck a chord with me. I knew the bastard. Bloody Dean Samuels. About fifteen or sixteen years ago I took his very sexy sister out a few times until it and she got too heavy. And I saved bloody Dean’s skin once. He was in a bikey gang back then. These days the Samuels have a pretty solid reputation around the place for pinching this and poaching that so I’m not shocked.

How bad is he? asked Rick.

Doesn’t matter how bad he is, chucked in the Australian, Gibbo. He’s probably seen us. He’s obviously seen your ute on the track and’ll know it. Chuck ’im on the back of the quad and we’ll finish ’im off and dump ’im in the sea on the way back to the ship.

My head was getting clearer, though I didn’t move or open my eyes. Not that both would open properly anyway with the blood caked up in my left eye. But my situation was getting graver. No bugger kills for a few crays. There’s more to it than that. Must be drugs. Christ I was in the shit. I had to think this through. My mind was racing and my heart was going even faster. If there was just one of them I might’ve tried to fight my way out, but my head was ringing and agonisingly sore. One eye completely closed, and there were at least three of them. If they put me in the boat, perhaps I could jump overboard while still close to the shore and swim back. But they’d soon catch me. Should I let them know I’m awake and talk my way out of it? I’m just a fisherman and I don’t know what they were doing cos I didn’t see anything, and I’m being picked up sometime later on, though I can’t remember when. Dean will believe me, I think. I’m obviously concussed so my coordination and reaction will be slow. I was bloody worried to say the least.

Get the goods onto the ute, yelled Gibbo. Dean, bring them wheels up here.

I heard Dean shuffle away and one of the others crouched beside me and used his fingers to try to open my good eye. All he got was the white as I feigned unconsciousness. He let go and offered nothing.

Who’s got the money? growled Gibbo. Dean. It’s in the ute.

I heard a rattly diesel fire up down on the kart track and drive off. It went away a little then drove back to our group along the track. A door creaked open and the engine died. Gibbo snapped, Dean, bring the money. Dean didn’t respond but I heard a door open then slam.

How much is in here? asked Gibbo.

Twenty bundles of fifty grand each. All used Kiwi fifties, answered Dean.

What dya mean Kiwi fifties, ya fuckwit, roared Gibbo. The deal was US dollars. You trying to cheat?

Shit no, Gibbo, Dean stammered. We wouldn’t do that, bro. We just didn’t manage to get the US stuff. Hard enough getting it all in fifties as it was. You can still change it or spend it anywhere.

Gibbo grumbled a few curses. Then you owe me another five hundred grand of this fuckin’ monopoly money. It’s not worth half of what the U.S. stuff is. You’re trying to diddle us, aren’t ya.

Fair go, Gibbo. We know we still owe ya. You can tell the chinks they’ll be getting it before the end of the month. Tell ’im, Rick. We got it fixed up already.

Yeah, Gibbo. We’re not gonna diddle ya. Done this before, haven’t we, and we haven’t diddled ya yet and never will. Budgie’s sorting out the other four hundred grand or so already. A couple a sluts are taking it t’ Singapore. You can phone him now if you want. You trust him, don’t ya?

I guess so. But it’d better bloody arrive. Gibbo fidgeted and I heard him unzip something. All in fifties is it?

Yeah, you wanna count it?

Nah. I trust ya. I heard the zip go back. He stepped over to me and gave me a kick. Look, this prick hasn’t moved. Must be stuffed. Help me get ’im on the back of the bike.

Hands gripped my arms and legs. I relaxed and let them lift me, face down. I let my head fall forward and they banged the injured bit on something bloody hard as they lay me across the back of the quad bike. The urge to squeal in pain was only prevented by my fear. Then one of the bastards climbed on and sat on me as we started off. It drove the wind out of me. I was having trouble taking a breath when suddenly the bike jumped around as we went over the edge of the bank onto the beach. The guy on top of me bounced up and down, making it worse. After what seemed ages, most probably ten seconds, we were on the beach and the ride was a bit smoother and my load not so oppressive. The quad slowed and stopped. Then the engine died and whoever was on me got off.

Hey, Sooky, Gibbo yelled. Got any duct tape or rope?

Someone with an Asian accent answered, Only rope. Why for?

We got a fuckin’ nosey parker here an’ he’s hitchin’ a ride to the deep water. Where’s fuckin’ Dean, Rick?

He’s comin’. He’s movin’ the ute and hidin’ it.

Well, gimme a hand here an’ we’ll get this bastard into the boat. Can you pull it round sideways, Sooky? It’ll make it easier to drop ’im in. Stick ’im up the sharp end in front of the console.

I heard them struggling with the boat and Gibbo shouting orders. I sneaked a look in that direction. It was a rigid inflatable about eight or nine metres long with a big outboard and a covered centre console. One of them walked back towards me so my eye closed quickly. I felt something being dragged from under me. Whoever it was walked away. I opened my right eye again in time to see him throw a bag into the boat in front of the console. I guessed it was the money they’d been haggling over.

They came back to the quad and I made myself blind again. The quad started up and moved a few metres forward then went into reverse and backed down the slope. I felt as if I was going to roll off. When it bumped into the boat it jolted me backwards and I slipped off the back into the water. It was about half a metre deep when the waves came in. The auto inflate device in my life-vest activated immediately. Within a second or so my head was lifted clear of the water. I lay there momentarily with my arse on the gravel with water up to my chest until they picked me up. I was now several pounds heavier in my saturated clothes. They pushed and shoved me over the edge into the boat where I flopped onto the floor. My head and shoulders, now comforted by the life-jacker, were against the front side of the fibreglass console. Something lumpy was beneath my arm. I could hear the three of them talking quietly then heard footsteps crunching towards us over the stony beach. Dean fucking Samuels.

Hey, Gibbo, Dean called as he got near. You can’t kill him, alright. One thing to beat up a fella but another to kill ’im. Not going to and neither are you.

Wotcha yappin’ about, Dean. The bastard’s nearly dead anyway an’ he could get us all in the shit.

Nup. Can’t do it, bro. Not gonna kill anyone. Specially someone from ‘round here. If they find a body ’round here, the cops are gonna come lookin’. Maybe someone saw or heard your boat. Maybe someone saw us in the truck comin’ down here. We didn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone who maybe saw us. Then the cops finger us, an’ you know what that means, Gibbo. We finger you and everything turns to shit.

They won’t find him, ya twit. We’ll throw ’im overboard a couple of miles out. The sharks’ll do the rest.

Dean dismissed him. Fuck all sharks out there, Gibbo. Look, he said. He’s been fishin’, right? He had a fish with ‘im when I belted him. So take him back to the ship with ya. When he wakes up, tell him he must’ve fallen in the sea and whacked his head. You saved his life. If he remembers what really happened, tell him he better forget it real fast or we’re goin’ after him and ’is wife.

Christ’s sake, Dean. Wotcha think I’m gonna do with him on the ship? What’s the captain gonna say? He’s not gonna like it one bit. Why don’t ya lock ’im up here and watch ’im?

Tough shit about the captain. He’s getting paid. He should do what he’s fuckin’ told. And if we kept him here, what happens if he escapes or someone else sees or finds ’im, eh? I’ll tell you what. We’d be in deep shit, that’s what. What d’you reckon, Rick?

I dunno, Dean. I didn’t see anyone when we came in.

What if a couple of the local lads were getting their rocks off with some bitch in the bushes?

Bullshit, Dean. It was too dark to see us anyway.

Dean yelled. It’s you that’s fuckin’ bullshit, Rick. What’re you gonna say when the cops come knockin’? Is that what you want?

’Course it’s not, Dean. Maybe he’s right, Gibbo.

Don’t talk shit, yelled Gibbo. I’m not gonna serve time cos some fuckin’ nosey bloody mate of yours sticks his nose where it shouldn’t be. This arsole is history as far as I’m concerned and you’re in deep as me.

Gibbo, Dean spoke back slowly and seriously. You know what happens if you fuck with me or my family. We’ll fuck with you and your family, won’t we? We’ve never had to yet cos we never do somethin’ stupid and right now you’re being fuckin’ stupid. We still got four hundred grand of yours, eh? You fuck with us over this and you won’t see that. In fact, you won’t see another deal here and you know how close we are to the Oz gangs. We’ll have a word in their ear too. You kill Steve and you won’t get the money, okay? An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else, if you kill ‘im, you may’s well cut your bloody throat. Cos I’ll do ya in ya bastard. You won’t do any more deals here, and I’ll tell me bro Sonny abou’cha. He’s in the Comancheros in Sydney and they’ll soon put you outa business in Oz. You make sure this bastard lives, an’ make sure you can prove it. If he steps outa line, then it’ll be for us to deal with it. Not fuckin’ you. Got it?

Okay, smartarse. We have this guy here who we can put back on the beach and his mates will come and find ‘im and he’ll say he saw some guys loading something out of a boat and he saw your bloody ute here. Now you’re in the shit. Wotcha going to say when Mr Plod comes knockin’, Dean?

We jus’ gotta use our heads here a bit, eh. Hey, Rick, are you with me on this?

This was getting interesting. Dean Samuels was showing some compassion. It’d gone quiet and my heart had slowed a beat. And if it kept going in this direction, I’d have to wake up and let them know that I was okay. If they thought I’d just woken up, I’d feign memory loss, giving them the chance to bullshit me and tell me they were taking me to Kaikoura to the hospital and I could play dumb and thank them for doing me a favour. I must have had walked into a tree or something. But prudence told me to wait.

Rick spoke. I think Dean’s right, Gibbo. I don’t wanna kill one of Dean’s sister’s mates. Too much trouble. Can’t we plan something else to get ’im out of the way without killing ’im?

Yeah, Gibbo. Can’t we organise something else, quipped Dean. He most probably won’t remember what happened anyway. He didn’t see me. He walked straight into the bat. Why don’t you get him back on the ship and watch ’im ’til you see if he knows what happened. As I said, if he does remember, tell him that if he talks, you’ll deal to him and his wife. That’ll shut ’im up.

Well, one thing’s for sure, grumbled Gibbo. If we don’t get back pretty bloody soon, the ship’ll leave without us. It’s been the thick end of an hour already. Let’s get ’im back on board, lock ’im up and then see what happens. I don’t think Jansen will complain too much. He’s getting a hefty whack for this. I’ll talk to him about it.

Wait on, said Dean. How do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know you won’t deal to him on the way back to the ship?

Dean, me old mate. Have I ever let you down? Have I ever broken my word? Tell you what, mate, when we get to where we’re goin’, I’ll send you a pic with him in it. Alive and kickin’. And besides, he’s worth four hundred grand, isn’t he? That’s if he lives when we get him on board.

That’s what I’m worried about, Gibbo. Hey, Sooky. You’ll watch our boy, won’t ya?

Sure, Sooky shot back. I’ll look after him.

Okay. Gibbo stepped over to the boat. We’re outa here. Sooky, get this thing going. You two gi’s a hand to push it out. Tide’s come in a bit. Should be easy.

I felt the boat lean over as it was pushed out and then levelling as it floated free. I heard the brief farewells as they pushed off and the motor started. Then we were underway and the boat was up on the plane quickly. I guessed if we were doing 25 knots, it would take us about twenty minutes or so to reach the ship. What could I plan? Where was I going to end up? On some foreign shore without money or passport? I had nothing, just the clothes I was wearing with my empty hip flask in my buttoned down shirt pocket plus my Swiss Army knife in its leather pouch fixed to my belt. I hoped it was still there. I couldn’t feel Jim’s flask in my polar fleece pocket. It must have fallen out when they dragged me up to the track. My LED headlamp had fallen down around my neck. My beanie was gone.

The ride was smooth and my still inflated life jacket provided me with a pillow of sorts. I was in front of the console. Peeking out of my semi-closed good eye I could see that the guy named Sooky was at the helm and Gibbo was sitting beside him. I couldn’t make out their features but a small Asian looks different to a big Australian.

I felt up under my shoulder and found the lumpy thing was a sports bag with a zip. Before I even checked I knew what it was. This was the loot. I could feel the bundles of notes through the vinyl. Holy shit. A million bucks in cash. Some of this may be useful to my escape if I can get my hands on it. My mind works like that. Turn every disadvantage to advantage if you can. Right now I was in the shit. But in that bag was a bed of clover.

Given the circumstance, I was reasonably comfortable. I was aware the boat was travelling quite fast and was handling small waves and low swell easily. We were making good time for about ten minutes when the boat gave a sudden lurch and the bow dived. The brakes went on big time and the motor cut out. We came to a standstill.

What the hell’s happened? yelled Gibbo.

We run over rope or net, Sooky yelled back.

I heard them move towards the stern and both of them cursing. We had gone across a craypot line or set line and Sooky had not seen the buoy in the dark. I felt the movement as the two of them mucked around at the stern. Sooky came back to the helm and I heard the outboard being raised. I risked a peek around the edge of the console. They both had torches on and were leaning over the stern, shining them down at the prop. An opportunity for me to check things out. I raised my hand and felt my face and head. My eye was swollen shut and I had a gash over my eyebrow. The blood was sticky and there was plenty of it but it didn’t seem to be bleeding much now. There was plenty of cursing and swearing coming from the stern. It had to be a commercial craypot line or even a set line to be this far out, and they’d obviously done a real good job of winding the heavy rope around the prop.

The first thing I thought of was the money. What to do. I unzipped the bag a little and pulled out a bundle. They were bank notes all right. The bundle seemed to be about four inches thick. I zipped the bag back closed and put the bundle of notes on top of it. I raised myself a little. Even if the others looked forward they wouldn’t see me behind the fibreglass console. I figured that if the rope had gone around the prop enough to stall a couple of hundred horsepower, freeing it would take a while.

The cowling at the front of the console had a side hinged large hatch. I gingerly raised myself onto my knees, twisted the latch and opened the hatch a little. Holding the hatch door with my right hand, I used my left hand to find the head light around my neck which had slipped down the front of the inflated life jacket. I pulled it over my head, taking care to avoid my closed eye. I held it inside the hatch where the light wouldn’t spread out of the hatch, and turned it on. It was a large cupboard about one and a half metres square and sloping from over a metre at the front to a metre and a half high at the rear where the steering gear and instrument cables were. Big enough to hide two or more people. There was a whole lot of stuff in there. There was a twenty-litre red plastic petrol container lying on its side. I guessed the yellow cylindrical containers were probably flares and there were life jackets and some other stuff which looked like old T-shirts, most probably rags. I put the headlight on the floor of the hatch and reached out and grabbed one of the rags. I wrapped it around the bundle of money and pushed it into the front corner of the hatch then threw a couple of other rags on top of it. I turned the headlight off and closed the hatch. Pulling the headlight back over my head I made myself comfortable in much the same position as I’d been when they threw me in the boat and waited.

From time to time I could hear the cursing of Gibson, yelling about something. It was a full five or more minutes before I heard a splash followed by the motor being lowered back into the water and fired up. We were on our way again. I was so bloody cold. My clothes were wet. My gumboots were full of water. My beanie had long gone, and the wind chill out on the sea felt like freezing point. I began to worry about Rachel. It must be close to nine now and Jim would go back and report me missing. Rachel will fret. I was glad Jim and Sarah were there with her. They’d ring the police and sooner or later they’d find my gear. And my fish! And then what. Would they think I’d gone back to the water for something? Would they find the tracks of the quad bike? I doubted it. Quad bikes tear up and down that beach every day. I just needed to get myself in a situation where I could send a message or call.

After about fifteen minutes the engine slowed and there was some radio chatter I couldn’t understand, obviously just short range ship to ship. Two minutes later there was some clanging above us and the whirr of machinery. I wanted to look around to see what was happening but didn’t want to reveal my consciousness. Not yet anyway. Either Gibbo or Sooky clambered past me and attached something to the floor of the boat forward of where I lay, then clambered back again. There was shuffling going on towards the stern as well, then Sooky yelled out something in another language and the machinery started again and with a lurch the boat began to rise. I could feel the boat swinging as it rose and it seemed to go on forever until it stopped with a jerk. We just sat there swinging and again there was yelling in another language. I imagined they were straightening the boat. Then it was lowered until it stopped with a clunk, presumably in its cradle. Almost immediately I heard the drumming rumble of the ship’s engines increase as the ship got underway or increased speed. I didn’t know which.

8.00 pm. Sunday, 5th April

Kaikoura Coast

Dean and Ricky stepped backwards out of the shallow water at the edge of the low waves and watched as Sooky lowered and started the outboard. The boat reversed into deeper water, turned 180 degrees and headed away from the beach at high revs, getting up on the plane quickly and disappearing into the darkness.

Both men were thickset, about thirty-five years old, and of average height. Dean was a Kaikoura Maori but his gang membership had excluded him from visiting the local marae. The Kaikoura runanga had made it quite clear he wasn’t even welcome in Kaikoura. He had been a patched member of the gang for sixteen years and he’d done a third of that incarcerated at various penal institutions for crimes from theft, prostitution and supplying drugs, to assaulting a police officer. Ricky was a North Island Maori. He’d been with the gang almost ten years and had spent a similar amount of time to Dean behind bars for similar offences and one for grievous bodily harm. They stood watching until the boat was out of sight.

Me fuckin feet are wet. So’s me pants, Ricky grunted and shook each foot.

Wotcha expect, dumb arse. A bloody jetty?

Let’s get the fuck outa here, Ricky muttered, and they both walked back to the quad bike and climbed on. Ricky sat on the carrier facing backward. Dean fired the engine up, clonked it into gear and they trundled up the beach and over the rocky area onto the track. A hundred metres or so up the track Dean turned right and took the quad down the steep bank into an area of scrub. Ricky fell backward with his feet in the air and his head knocking into Dean’s shoulder. Where the fuck are you going, you mad bastard?

Hid the ute down here. Didn’t want nobody finding our stuff, did I? Dean manoeuvred the quad through the scrub in the darkness and pulled up behind the ute. They got off, leaving the quad running and went to the back of the deck. Dean pulled two six foot long ten by two planks off the back and leaned them on the deck at an angle. He hopped back on the quad and reversed up about five metres and lining up slowly drove the quad up onto the deck. Dean switched the ignition off as Ricky grabbed some ratchet tie-downs off the front of the deck and hooked them from the quad to the rails each side of the deck, tightening them and securing the quad bike. Dean got off and pulled the planks in beside it. He jumped down off the deck, reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Pall Mall. He held it out to Ricky who took one, pulled out a Bic lighter, and lit up. Dean popped a cigarette in his mouth and stepped towards Ricky for a light. As they stood there a moment drawing on their ciggies Dean stepped over and opened the driver’s door. He reached in with both hands and lifted out a twenty-litre red plastic petrol container and hoisted it up onto the deck against the front frame.

Wanna have a look? The cigarette in his mouth bounced as he spoke.

Nah. Too dark anyway. We’ll get it back to the house and see what Budgie wants us to do.

Dean grabbed another tie down and strapped the container to the headboard, securing it tightly. He used the long tail of the tie-down to tie it back more securely and pulled the cigarette from his mouth laughing at Ricky.

No bastard would know there’s a million fuckin’ bucks in there, would they? Budgie and the gang’ll be real happy. He threw the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. Let’s go.

Both chuckled as they climbed in the ute. Ricky wound down his window and held his ciggie outside while Dean put the ute in reverse and dropped the clutch. The ute rocked slightly and the wheel spun but the ute didn’t move. He shifted into forward gear and did the same with similar results.

Fuckin’ stuck, he cursed and got out, leaving the motor running.

Ricky opened his door, got out and went to the rear wheel on his side.

Bloody thing’s dug in. Fuckin’ two wheel drive hunk a shit. What the fuck did you bring it so far in for?

So it wouldn’t be found, ya dipstick.

It’ll be found alright if we don’t get the bastard outa here. Grab some of the shit from around and stick it under the wheels and I’ll give it a push to see if we can get it moving.

They gathered up sticks and the occasional stone and forced them under the rear wheels. Dean got back behind the wheel while Ricky leant back against the front of the ute with his hands under the bumper.

Make sure y’in reverse.

Dean gave it some revs and let the clutch out and Ricky put his back into it. The wheels just spun and the ute went nowhere except further into the soft ground.

You got any ideas? Dean asked as he got out. You got your phone?

Yeah, but Budgie’d kill us if we involved anyone else. Noone’s meant to know we’re here. Remember?

Well. What’re we gonna do then? Can’t sit here talkin’ about it all fuckin’ night.

Dean looked sideways at him. Well, it’s obvious, eh. We get the bloody quad off the back and use it to tow the ute out.

Ricky rocked on his feet. Yeah, guess that’ll work. Need to use the tie- downs as a tow rope.

They loosened and removed the tie-downs securing the quad then laid the planks against the back. Dean climbed up onto the quad, started up, then reversed slowly down. Ricky threw the planks back onto the deck while Dean turned the bike around and backed the quad bike to about two metres behind the ute and fixed the two tie-downs to both vehicles. You drive the ute, he called to Ricky. Stick it in gear, and when I yell, let the clutch out slowly. And keep the revs low so the bloody wheels don’t spin. And for fuck’s sake make sure you’re in bloody reverse.

The ultra-low gearing of the quad bike, with the assistance of the ute’s own traction, did the job easily. The two vehicles moved slowly back onto firmer ground. Rick got out of the ute and removed the tie downs. He carefully reversed the ute back another twenty metres or so onto the firmer ground by the track then jumped out and put the planks back out. Dean rode the quad up onto the deck. They repeated the loading procedure in silence and tied it down once more.

They walked around to the front of the ute and lit up another cigarette.

Dean blew a plume of smoke. Do you think Gibbo will stick to his word with Steve?

Dunno. Really doesn’t matter, does it?

Yeah, it does. Steve got me outa the shit once. Saved me from a fuckin’ good hiding and probably more time in the can.

Why, what’d he do?

Well, we were doing a coke deal with the Head Hunters about ten or fifteen years back and it went sour. I fucked off home to Kaikoura to hide but some of the pricks tracked me down. I hid in the garage but they found me and started laying into me. Steve arrived home with my sister and you shoulda seen that bastard go. There were four of the bastards kicking the shit out of me one minute, and then there were fucking arms and legs and bodies in all directions. Shit that prick could fight. Must’ve been judo or something but they didn’t hang round. Just shouted threats and pissed off. Those black shitheads woulda killed me if Steve hadn’t shown up.

Why’d ya smack him with the bat then?

Cos I didn’t know who it was in the dark, ya stupid prick.

Yeah, well that was then and now is now. And if he knows what we’re up to, we’re in the shit.

Know all that, Rick. But I hope he doesn’t remember and if he does, something can be worked out. You’d be the same.

Maybe. But we’d better piss off anyway before some other fucker comes. They threw their cigarettes on the ground, climbed into the ute, and drove back up onto the track. They were nearly to the main road when a Jeep with lights on full beam swung in from the road right in front of them. Dean hauled the wheel to the right to avoid it and the ute slewed off down the bank into the grass with one of the rear wheels still in the air. The Jeep stopped and the guy driving it jumped out and ran towards them. Rick was first out of the ute and jumped up the bank cursing.

Wotcha think ya fuckin’ doin’, ya mad bastard? he bellowed.

Hey, sorry, mate, the guy answered. But I couldn’t see you without your lights on.

Yeah, sorry, bro, Dean yelled back getting out of the ute. Shoulda had ’em on, eh. Forget it, Rick. Come on, let’s get outa here. He climbed back in and slammed his door. Rick glared for a moment then took a couple of steps back to the ute and climbed in, also slamming his door. The ute revved up as Dean tried to reverse but the one rear wheel on the ground just spun. The driver of the Jeep stood back watching. The ute sat there doing nothing for a moment then the driver’s door opened again. You got a tow rope?

I don’t know, mate, the guy said. It’s not my car but I’ll have a look.

He went to the back and raised the lift gate. Looks like you’re in luck, he said, holding up a flouro green strap. He walked to the Jeep’s door and got in. He