Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [44]
‘I hate porridge,’ Ianthe said.
‘Eat it or go hungry,’ Granger replied. ‘Decide which one of those two you hate the most.’
‘There are fish in the canal,’ she said. ‘You could catch us some supper.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Please,’ she wailed. ‘Just for an hour. It’s so dark and smelly in here. I can tell you where to cast.’
Granger found himself considering this, despite himself. He hadn’t gone fishing for months, and it was a nice night. His prisoners weren’t likely to go anywhere. ‘It’s too risky,’ he said. ‘If someone sees us . . .’
‘They won’t,’ Ianthe insisted. ‘I’ll be able to sense them long before they can see us. Please, please, please.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s final.’
An hour later he was standing on his jetty with his fishing rod, casting a line out across the canal waters.
‘Not there,’ Ianthe said. ‘There!’ She pointed in the direction of Cuttle’s jail. ‘There’s a shoal of angel fish around that pontoon.’
‘That’s where I cast,’ Granger insisted.
‘No you didn’t.’
Granger reeled in the line again, grumbling. He’d been at this for half an hour already.
Hana was lying on her back, stretched out on the jetty planks, breathing deeply of the fresh night air as she gazed up at the stars.
Ianthe let out a moan of frustration. ‘Mother! I need you to watch me.’
Hana’s gaze flicked to her daughter. ‘I’m sorry, Inny.’
Granger flicked out the line again. This time, his bait plopped into the water a yard beyond Cuttle’s pontoon. Ianthe scrunched her eyes up and seemed to be concentrating. After a moment she said, ‘You scared them away.’
‘You told me to cast there.’
‘Not right on top of—’ She paused. ‘Wait, there’s something else coming. Something . . . it’s swimming straight for the bait.’
Granger stared into the canal, but could see nothing in the black depths. ‘A fish?’
‘I don’t know what it is!’ Ianthe exclaimed. ‘It isn’t looking at itself, is it? It’s going for the bait . . . now.’
A splash disturbed the waters out by the pontoon. Granger saw something large and silvery flash in the gloom, and then his line gave a sudden jerk, bending the fishing rod near double. This was a good-sized fish.
Hana sat up. ‘You got one?’
‘Of course he got one,’ Ianthe snapped.
Granger grunted and pulled back on the fishing rod. He began to wind in the slack. Out in the canal, the fish exploded out of the water and then thrashed across the surface. The creature was about three feet of solid muscle, with a blunt, fist-like head crammed with teeth.
‘A grappler,’ Granger growled. ‘Get back, both of you – it’s likely to splash brine everywhere.’
The woman and her daughter retreated away from him along the jetty.
Granger fought hard against the line, his rod bending under the strain. He lowered the rod, reeling in as he did so, then heaved it back again. The fish burst out of the water a second time, flashing white and silver in the starlight, spraying foam everywhere. Again Granger lowered the rod, working the reel. Again he pulled back. His pulse was racing. With weary arms he dragged his catch inch by inch closer to the jetty.
The fish stopped suddenly. It felt like a dead weight. Cautiously, Granger pulled back on the rod and reeled in another yard of line. The waters settled. Granger could feel his palms sweating inside his gloves. He reclaimed another yard. Still no reaction from the canal. The line vanished into the black water twelve feet beyond the edge of the jetty. Granger paused, breathing heavily, and eased his goggles down over his eyes. He nudged the landing net closer with his foot. This was the dangerous part.
The fish bolted again, but Granger was ready to take the strain. He leaned back. When he felt the line slacken, he dipped the rod and reeled in once more. Twelve feet became eight, then six, then he could see the creature’s fat silvery