Dead Man's Fingers

"Where did he get the damn fool idea to go out to Croucher's Bay anyhow?"

"Darned if I know, Pete. You know how it is with these city boys; get an idea in their head and there ain't no gettin' it out."

They were on the long route out to the bay, the choppy water making them steer as wide as they could round Dead Man's Fingers, the sharp rocks that clawed out along the east coast of the bay.

"I got to say though, Tommy, your brother-in-law's got some balls on him, coming out here in those waters what we had yesterday."

"Don't I know it. It's those balls that always gets him though, my sister'll tell you that much."

They plotted a loop up and down the mouth of the bay, not wanting to drop anchor with the weather still so rough. They scanned the open expanse, looking for flashes, the tell-tale of a piece of hull or floating metal. On calmer waters, they might put out the dingy and scavenge the rock lines that encased the bay but there was no chance of that today.

"God-damned waste of a boat too, if you ask me, Tommy. He bought that thing what, a month ago?

"Yeah. That'd be about right."

"City boys"

"I know it, Pete"

"The thing I don't get is if he hit trouble why he ain't fired his flare. You told him 'bout the flare, didn'tcha?"

"I did, Pete, I did. Perhaps he used it and nobody saw"

"Nope. If he fired it, sure as shit somebody saw it. Every man in this town got an eye to the sea when a storm comes in. You sure he even had a flare?"

"I'm sure"

The wind rose and flicked the spray up into their faces, making it harder to see. The old boat rocked and swayed but the two men paid it no more mind than they would the rising sun; this was their home.

"There! Tommy, by Dead Man's Fingers"

Tommy saw it too and they revved the gurgling motor and ploughed through the furrowed, grey sea. They were wary of the rocks; this wasn't some idle folklore, whispered to quivering children around the fire. This place deserved it's name. They saw the flash again and now there was no mistaking it. It was a gleaming watch, still clasped tight around a wrist.

They eased in closer, as carefully as they could and Pete leant over the side with a long pole, hooked at one end, and he swept at the floating body, hoping to catch on the clothes. After a few long minutes they managed to get a net down and thye hauled it up onto the short stretch of open deck.

"That's him, Tommy"

"Yup"

Pete laid him straight and arranged his clothes, pulling the white shirt back over his belly and then closing his eyelids. Through the soaking cotton you could see something in the top pocket so Pete pulled it out and unfolded a sodden photograph.

"That's him and your sister, I suppose. You can't real make her out"

Tommy grunted

"They in Vegas?" Pete asks, pointing to the neon hotel in the background, "I didn't know he'd taken her to Vegas"

"I guess"

As Pete stared sadly at the photo, he felt the wind rise and before he and Tommy could do anything more than turn, he saw a wave pluck up the boat and race them in towards the rock. Pete dragged himself to the wheel and gunned the engine but it was too late, they were caught; wedged between two jutting spikes. Pete grabbed the radio but before he could say anything he saw the lights on it flicker and die. He searched behind the wheel for the flare gun and climbed to the highest point of the ship. He held it aloft, pointed at the blackening sky, and pulled the trigger. A damp spark whimpered from the gun.

"God-damn it! These damned things are supposed to never fail."

Tommy crawled towards a steel box, secured to the deck.

"Tommy! What we gonna do?!"

The wind almost ripped the words from his mouth. Tommy didn't turn to him but continued to struggle desperately with the box. Could he even hear him?

"Tommy! Tommy! The flare didn't work"

The box jerked open and Tommy thrust a hand inside.

"It's okay, Pete!" he shouts and waves the thing in his hand, "I brought a spare."

Je t'adore, mon armure

Warm, so warm. Warm and smooth, her body was laced with the soft smell of jasmine, which seeped into her clothes. The clothes, in turn, bled into her skin, the new die leaving delicately smeared traces where she had sweat. He laughed when she observed that when she arrived her clothes were an affront, a barrier for him to tear down and discard, freeing the flesh, but when she left, he begged for even the smallest scrap to be left behind. And she would, often handing him her scarf that he would toy with between his fingers. The occasional jasmine scent triggered a picture of her; back arched and the wires of her muscles taught, sweat traced with dust, each loaded moan and grunt echoing from her mouth.

Every time she left, he would troop to the open window and watch her from the balcony, tracking her fighting through the crowds beneath until she became lost among them or passed out of sight. There was no peace when she was gone, neither in his soul nor within the space around him. The family above banged blackened metal pans. In the streets below, traders battled for custom, their cries rattling above the heads of the jostling flow. Old men sat entrenched in doorways, shelling out hard-fought wisdom. Unmuzzled dogs screamed in anger at the hovering sun.

Sometimes, another noise would claw it's way above the others like a rat scrabbling up rubble. It was a deep, menacing roar. It swallowed all other sound, not in volume but in presence, its black hands folding all words and breath and movement into its dark shroud. The heads turned upwards, looking for shadows where normally there are none to be found. Hands sought other hands. On the balcony he clenched the scarf tight within his fist. He wore her love like armour