Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [1]
Barry‟s face creased in revulsion. „There‟s another one of them bloody fish,‟ he said.
John Baycock, Terry‟s best mate and the only non-family member of the crew, piped up with his usual good humour,
„Aye, you tend to get a lot of „em around here.‟
Barry looked at him as if he didn‟t realise John was joking.
Barry was a good lad and a willing worker, but he was not over-endowed in the brains department.
„No, I mean... one of them fish. Horrible it is. Ugliest one so far, I reckon.‟
„You sure you‟ve not just come across a bit of broken mirror caught in the net?‟ John said, making Terry and his dad laugh.
Barry shook his head and shuffled backwards. „Horrible it is,‟ he said again. ‘I’m not touching it.‟
„Oh, for Christ‟s sake, you big pansy,‟ growled Uncle Pete and strode forward through the slimy carpet, beetle-brows knit together in a scowl.
Terry moved forward too. He wanted to get a closer look at the deformity. There had been a lot of them these past couple of weeks. Some said it was to do with the strange light that Bob Elkins had seen land in the sea, but Terry thought it was all down to pollution. These big chemical companies and what-have-you dumped God knows what into the water these days.
Barry was right about one thing this particular specimen was the ugliest one so far. Terry saw it immediately amongst its suffocating brethren, and recognised it as a cod despite its hideous abnormalities. Oddly it was not flapping frantically as the other fish were, but was lying still on its stomach, its sides moving slowly in and out, almost as if it had adapted to breathe the air. Its flesh was discoloured and bulging with lumps that seemed to shift sluggishly beneath the skin, its mouth hung open, revealing small but razor-sharp teeth, and its eyes bulged as if it was glaring at its captors. Most grotesque of all, though, were the black, porcupine-like quills which had sprouted all over its body. Looking at it, Terry felt not just repulsed but uneasy. Perhaps it was the creature‟s huge eyes, but it felt as though the thing was watching them broodily, as if there was a nasty little intelligence working away in there somewhere.
Although he had never been deep-sea diving, Terry knew a couple of lads who had. They came into the Mutton for a pint or two most Friday nights. The words of one of the drunken conversations he had had with them came back to him now.
He remembered them telling him that divers were more worried about cod than they were about sharks, because whereas sharks would ignore you most of the time, cod were vicious little buggers. They would latch on to your face with their teeth if they could, then spin themselves round and round until they‟d torn off a circular chunk of flesh. Terry remembered making a joke about it, telling the lads that the cod were only getting their own back for all the fish and chip suppers eaten over the years. Now, though, the recollection filled him not with amusement but alarm, and as Pete bent forward, extending a hand towards the fish, he couldn‟t help blurting, „Don‟t touch it!‟
Pete paused and half-turned, his blue eyes drilling into Terry‟s own. „What‟s up wi‟ you? Don‟t tell me you‟re as much of a lass as Shirley Temple here.‟
„No, it‟s just that... you might catch summat, that‟s all. We don‟t know what‟s wrong with it.‟
„Terry‟s right,‟ said Joe. „At least get yourself some gloves. I don‟t like the way that bloody thing‟s looking at you.‟
Pete shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. „I don‟t believe you lot. You‟re like a bunch of frightened kids.
It‟s only a -‟
„Look out!‟ Barry screeched.
Moving so swiftly that it was almost a blur, the fish launched itself at Pete. He span in surprise, hand raising instinctively to protect his face. The cod opened its mouth wide and clamped its teeth around his upraised fingers. Pete yelled in pain and fury and swung round in an arc, the fish clinging to him like some grotesque silvery glove that he was unable to shake off. It would have been funny