Prologue
March 1980
 
A Mozart requiem played in the background, but it meant nothing to him. The room was narrow, each side lined with elaborate arrangements of fragrant, white flowers. Familiar faces milled about, moving from one awkward conversation to the next. Some were in suits and some were in jeans.

Nothing brings people together in quite the same way as a sudden death. Despite their obvious grief, it was clear that a feeling of outrage still festered below the surface. Some people still looked shocked. The death was so ... unexpected. And because of the circumstances, it had raised many questions, especially in that brief but turbulent period of confusion that immediately followed the grim news.

How did it happen?

That had been the first question people had asked. Some asked it out loud and some to themselves. But no matter how they asked, it was still what they wanted to know.

It was to be expected.

A natural reaction.

After some of the details had filtered out, people had begun to look for an explanation. Some had demanded an explanation.

Why did it happen?

That had been the second question.

It was to be expected.

A natural reaction.

But this question was a lot harder than the first. To find the answer, you first had to look closely at all the details. Examine all the facts. The answers were there if you looked hard enough.

But would they look hard enough?

Would they find the facts?

If they did, it would lead them to ask the most important question of all.

Who was responsible?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

He knew the answer to all three. But it was the last one he was most interested in. That was the big one. It would prompt a great deal of finger-pointing. People were always looking for someone to blame.

It was to be expected.

A natural reaction.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CHAPTER 1
Two weeks earlier
 
The tip of the fishing pole bobbled and an excited cry rang out, loud enough to startle a flock of ibis foraging in the nearby mangroves. The birds fled the area, their honking wails fading quickly in the still, humid air.

“Hey, I’ve got a bite!” Sean yelled as he scrambled over the muddy rocks to reach the fishing pole he had wedged into a home-made crevice. He lifted the rod and placed his right hand on the reel handle and his left on the shaft just above the reel. He was in his ‘ready’ position. The fish was not yet hooked and he had to be patient.

The tip of the pole jerked again, but Sean held back, refusing the temptation to strike prematurely. The coils from the reel were clearly visible in the slack line. Sean started to think he may have missed his opportunity. This was always the hard part, knowing when to strike and when to wait. A moment later there was another bite, and this time Sean thrust the pole backwards. The resistance was immediate, and the fiberglass rod exploded downwards.

“Holy shit!”

He fought to keep the rod upright, grunting with the effort. Whatever was hooked was big and powerful, and it was going down, diving deep for the murky depths of the Caulfield River. Sean’s sweaty fingers fumbled with the dial on the top of the spinning reel as he tried to adjust the drag. The last thing he wanted was to break the line or rip the hook out of the fish’s mouth. The reel buzzed as line fed out, its pitch constantly changing with the speed of the fish.

Justin, who had been sitting on the grass above the river bank, scrambled down the slippery rocks to lend his support. “Keep the tip up. Ease the drag a bit more,” he said. “You’ll break the line.”

“I did adjust the drag. It’s huge. It’s a monster.”

“Shit, Vellacott, it’s probably just a river eel.”

Sean stole a quick glance at his best friend and saw the excitement in his eyes.

“Hah! Jealous bastard!”

Justin’s smile admitted defeat. And Sean’s enthusiasm was contagious. The two of them had been fishing all afternoon, waiting patiently for the river to show them that some sign that marine life still existed in its dirty, malodorous waters.

“Keep the tip up,” repeated Justin.

Sean sounded flustered. “I am, I am. But it’s fighting like hell.”
He was struggling to land the fish. On several occasions he did manage to get the creature so close to the bank that they saw a dorsal fin snaking in and out of the water no more than ten feet away. But just when Sean thought he had its measure, the fish found renewed, panic-driven energy and dove again. All Sean could do was wait for the buzzing reel to stop and begin the exhausting process all over again.

It took thirty minutes of arm-numbing effort before Sean’s patience was finally rewarded. As he dragged the exhausted fish up the muddy bank, he noticed the frayed line just above its mouth.  He reached down and ran two fingers along the loose strands. He was lucky to land the fish at all, let alone get it this far up the bank. His index finger accidentally brushed a catfish whisker. It felt like cold spaghetti. Holding the line twelve inches above the hook, he wrapped it around his fingers a few times. Then he carefully pulled the huge fish up some slimy rocks until he felt he had it a safe enough distance from the water.
Sean had never seen a bigger catfish in his life. There had been many stories over the years of giant catfish lurking in the deepest holes of the river. He had always doubted their tales, mostly because the folk claiming to have caught one had never actually kept one, or even photographed one for that matter. In Sean’s mind, the lack of evidence spoke for itself, until now.

“It must be four feet long and weigh forty pounds!”

Sean moved up the bank a little and, finding a dry flat rock, sat down and dangled his aching arms. The light blue of his favorite Crystal Cylinders shirt was littered with sweat-darkened blotches.

“My God that thing could fight.”

As Sean savored the moment, the fish bucked, and the line near its mouth finally gave out. Almost as if it sensed a last chance at freedom, the fish began to flap about and even made some progress down the bank. Its efforts brought on a mad and undignified panic from both boys as they scrambled back down over the slippery rocks and tried to grab its slimy tail. In the end the fish helped contribute to its own demise by wedging itself firmly between two large rocks.

“Thank God for that,” said a relieved and panting Sean. “The bloody thing never gives up.”

Both boys looked at each other and laughed. Justin bent over to take a closer look at the fish. He prodded the exhausted fish with a grubby index finger.

“Stink, don’t they?” he said, screwing his nose up. “But you have to admire their fighting spirit.”

Sean looked at Justin and asked, “What do you think we should do with it? Keep it or put it back?”

Raising one eyebrow in a habitual pose, Justin replied, “How about I stick it up your arse?”

“Hah, those barbs will be a treat,” said Sean.

Justin was more than amused at the visual image and laughed for almost a full minute. When he finally showed signs of stopping, Sean’s demeanor became more serious. 

“Should we put it back?” he asked.

Justin stared at his friend. “Are you for real? After all you went through? Look at it. Wait til the others see it. Everyone’s going to shit their pants.”

“It just seems like a ... like a waste. It’s not like we can eat it or anything.”

Sean looked down at the slow, gasping pulse of its gills. He bent down. Justin was right about one thing: they do smell bad. He grabbed its tail, but trying to lift the massive fish from between the two rocks wasn’t easy. Like most species of catfish, the fork-tailed variety emits a generous film of slime. They also have three venomous spines, one in its back dorsal fin and one in the pectoral fin on each side.

Justin moved around to face his friend and held up a hand. “Hey, wait a minute, Sean.”

Sean let the slippery fish fall back to the mud.

Justin looked down at the fish, then back up at Sean. “Before you do something you’re going to regret, just take a minute and think this through. You should start by picturing Bill Beatty’s face. I know it’s unpleasant, but have you got his ugly dial clear in your mind? Now think about what would happen to that face when he sees what we have here. Come on, how can we possibly pass that up?”

Sean looked unsure. “He’ll still hear about it. And if he doesn’t believe us, well, so what? It just seems to be the right thing to do, that’s all. Shouldn’t it be back out there?” He waved a hand in the direction of the river. “Like you said, the way he fought, his fighting spirit. We could always catch it again.”

Justin smiled. “Beatty’s face versus the odds of ever catching another like this. Hmmm.”

It was a smile that had launched a thousand persuasions, a smile that made Sean suddenly feel embarrassed at his desire to save the fish. Of course they should keep it. Justin was right. They’d be the envy of the neighborhood. They had the proof that the stories were true; that monster catfish did exist.

Sean placed his right hand on its tail and one around its massive belly and began to drag the catfish back up over the rocks. Justin stepped aside, looking satisfied. But Sean had only moved the fish a few feet when it bucked violently. The hand that Sean had around its torso lifted off in panic, and the dorsal spine speared into the fleshy part of his palm. He yelled in pain. The catfish slapped its tail into the wet mud, and drops of silty water splashed into Sean’s eyes. He staggered backwards in the soft mud and through blurred vision he could just make out the desperate thrashings of the fish as it flopped about, trying to make its way back to the river. But before Sean could even think to react, Justin had sprung into action and placed a well worn sneaker between the fish and its salvation. Then, wedging his shoe under the fish, he sent it sliding back up the muddy shore with a kicking motion. The fish had no more fight left, and it lay quietly on the mud, its gills pulsing in and out to an ever-slowing rhythm.

Sean’s puncture wound was only small, but the barb had pierced deep into his flesh.

“Christ, that hurts like a bastard,” Sean said as he held his hand out to avoid dripping blood over his khaki shorts.

Justin came over for a closer inspection. “Give me a look. Oh come on, it’s just a pin prick.”

“There’s poison in those barbs.”

“Yeah, real deadly stuff. Well, you’re not getting any CPR from me.”

“I’d rather die anyway.”

Justin laughed loudly and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “You feel good, right? About keeping it, I mean? You’re now the official catfish hero of Byfield. Come on, I think after all that effort we deserve a smoke,” he said and
reached into his pants pockets. The battered packet of Winfield Blues was flattened, and the top flap had completely fallen off. Removing one without breaking off the filter was a delicate operation.

Sean held up the crumpled cigarette. “What the hell happened to these? Did they go through the wash or something?”

Its wrinkled stem was bent near the tip and some tobacco had fallen out, but it wasn’t broken.

“No, Dad’s been searching my room a lot lately, so I have to keep these on me all the time. He knows all my regular hiding places.”

“I’m surprised he doesn’t search your pockets.”

“He does.”

“So where do you ... oh never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Justin laughed and produced a Bic lighter out of the same pants pocket. There was a brief flare-up as the paper at the tip of Sean’s cigarette burst into yellow flame. Squinting through the smoke, Sean drew back and immediately winced in pain. The first cigarette of the day was always the hardest. He coughed and wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could possibly enjoy the sensation of molten buckshot being injected into their lungs by a thousand tiny syringes stabbing at their wind pipes. The only thing that mattered to Sean was that Justin smoked. As much as he hated it, Sean would rather take the pain than run the risk of losing his friend’s respect. And acts of rebellion were one of Justin’s favorite pastimes.

After Justin lit his equally decrepit looking cigarette, he drew back deeply and showed none of the signs of discomfort that Sean felt. Together, they moved up from the rocks to the higher, grassy area of the river’s bank and sat down. Below them, the chocolate-colored river was slowly receding, revealing an elongated mud bank that rested between the waterline and the rocks. This far upriver, the tidal flow was modest, rising and falling just enough to change the riverbank’s landscape by a few feet. When the tide was out, the mud carried a smell that always reminded Sean of the time their septic tank overflowed.

Justin started to blow smoke rings. It was another of his favorite pastimes, and he was good at it. Three perfect rings wafted up into the still humid air, and Sean could only look on in awe as their form stayed intact for a long time.

“What will your dad do if he catches you smoking again?” Sean asked.

“The usual bullshit. You know, cut my allowance, grounded. Same tired old shit.
The worst thing is I’d have to suffer through another of his never-ending bloody sermons again about how I’m fucking up my life, or how I’ll never get into Forsythe.”  Justin looked at Sean and raised one eyebrow, making Sean laugh.

“I’ve been getting a lot of those lately. They’re the worst part, much worse than the actual punishment. He just goes on and on and it’s never anything new. He just finds different ways to say the same old shit.”

“You poor baby. Wait, I think I’m getting a little tearful,” Sean said, pretending to cry and smiling at the same time.

“Laugh it up, piano-boy, but I’ll be getting my own back next weekend.”

“Please don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.”

Justin laughed. “Mate, you crack me up. Lighten up, will you? It’s just a name.”

Sean fell silent as he thought about Justin’s party planned for next Saturday night. The Bennetts would be out of town from Saturday morning until Monday lunchtime. For the last three weeks Justin had been in planning mode. Sean wondered if his friend had any idea about his own nervousness about the party. He didn’t think so, but you never knew with Justin. He certainly knew how to surprise. It wasn’t that Sean didn’t want to talk to Justin about it, but ... it was just a matter of picking the right moment.

Justin finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the muddy rocks below.

“Come on, let’s move the fish up to higher ground and get out of here.”

“Are we just going to leave it here?” Sean asked.

“It’s too big to take back with us. We’ll go back to your place and get your camera. I reckon once we get a picture of it, we’ll have all the proof we need.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Sean said, jumping to his feet. He flicked his half-smoked cigarette in the same direction of Justin’s.

The afternoon had been a success. Sean was suddenly proud of his catch. The throbbing in his hand from the catfish barb now felt more like a trophy than a wound from a clumsy accident, all thanks to Justin. Only he had seen how important it was to keep the fish. And Sean liked the idea of a photo. No one would be able to refute such evidence. It was hard for Sean to see what could possibly go wrong with such a simple plan.