The Gulp: Five Tales of Horror

Rock Fisher

Troy Mackay was pissed off. All the effort, all the time put in, and she runs off with Albert fucking Chang. Al was a great guy, Troy didn’t hold it against the man. Al didn’t know Troy and Cindy were on-again-off-again, he didn’t know how much energy and money Troy had sunk into proving his love for Cindy, and Troy had seen the way she fawned all over Al in Clooney’s the previous weekend. The bitch knew exactly what she was doing, playing him, stringing him along, then swanning off with Al right in front of him last night.

With a sigh, Troy trudged past the bank and the roundabout, carrying his rod and tackle box. When he’d awoken to his alarm, still angry, he’d thought to blow off the fishing. Which was spiting himself because it was his solace. But something had drawn him to the window, looking out into the pre-dawn darkness. Like gamblers, fishers always thought the next time they’d get the big score, it kept them motivated. Troy was self-aware enough to recognise the addiction of it. But something else seemed to nag at him this day, something indefinable.

It was barely dawn and already hot as hell, the late-January heat lingering right through the night. It would only get worse once the sun came up properly. He walked along the cement footpath by the grass, then past the lighthouse and its surrounding car park. He took his own private route over the rocks just south of the lighthouse and zig-zagged down the steep decline to the rock shelf on the furthest south-east corner of Spiny Point. He had tried several times to learn why it had that name, but no one seemed to know. An aerial view of the small peninsula where the lighthouse stood did show a spit of rocky land with several small points along its north side and a wide, shallow shelf along the south. It looked sort of like an echidna if you squinted and didn’t think about it too hard. But that was a stretch as far as Troy was concerned. Regardless, this spot, at this time, was prime for bream and blackfish. He had his 8-foot rod and Alvey Combo reel and planned to cut some cunjevoi off the rocks for bait. Usually he’d bring more gear but couldn’t be bothered right now. He was too upset about Cindy Panko.

Well, they were welcome to each other. Al would no doubt learn pretty quickly that Cindy was a weird and vindictive person. A ‘malicious fucker’, as Chrissy at the pub had called her once, and Chrissy was smart as hell. He should have listened to her in the first place. But Cindy was hot, and Troy loved exploring every inch of her creamy skin and dreamed of doing it again. Maybe the chance would come around, when she got bored of Al. But one thing was certain, she would never be his true love. All his ideas of settling down, having someone to care for, to care for him, were wasted on Cindy. If that ever happened, as he desperately hoped it would, it wouldn’t be with Cindy Panko.

He felt like one of the old boys in Clooney’s. He’d always refused to become like them, complaining about everything. Nothing but whinging about fisheries inspectors and fishing rules, all the bloody amateurs taking undersize fish, never any bait, and all the damn leatherjackets. Troy wondered why they kept fishing when everything about it was apparently so miserable. Droughts are no good for fish, rainy weather sucks, the wind is a pain in the arse. The fishing is always awful, it was better when they were kids before the bloody council ruined everything. They even moaned about things like the streetlights being too bright or chips not tasting like they used to or craft beer taking up too much space in the bottle shop. It seemed that to be a keen fisher, you had to whinge about everything. Troy didn’t want to be that way. But maybe just for today he’d stare sullenly out at the ocean, grey in the dawn light, and let his inner cantankerous old bastard have dominion.

He loved to get up early and fish, it was his meditation. Maybe it would make him feel better. One thing he and his dad and his older brother had always enjoyed was the fishing. Never his sister, the middle child. Rose always screwed up her face at the very thought of it. That was okay. The Mackay boys enjoyed their thing. But his dad had given it up, too early, too late, too cold, too hot. Any excuse for the passion he’d lost. Same as the way the passion had drained from his marriage. Troy’s brother still fished occasionally, but said he had no time any more, now he was manager of the wood yard and a qualified tree surgeon. Always busy, and about two minutes from married with kids, Simon had done okay. His girlfriend, Laura, was the right stuff. A bit ordinary in the looks department, but solid, fun, honest, kind. They would have staying power. Si was a lucky bastard. He would get his family.

Troy reached his spot and stood staring at the ocean for several minutes, checking the swell, feeling the breeze. Nerves tickled over him, a strange sensation of expectancy. Why was he nervous? The thing his dad had instilled in him and Simon right from the start, when he and his brother were both wide-eyed little boys, was respect for the environment. Always keep a good sense of your surroundings, never turn your back on the ocean, and save yourself from wave knockdowns and subsequent lacerations, or even drowning. When it came to participant deaths, rock fishing was the most dangerous sport in Australia, Troy had been told. Unexpected waves or slipped footing off a platform into the churning waves with no lifejacket claimed a lot of lives every year. His dad had made him and Simon well aware of the risks, had always insisted they wear lifejackets as boys. Of course, he didn’t any more. He didn’t want to look like an idiot out here.

But today the sea was calm, just on the turn of the tide, perfect conditions. The sky was slowly brightening ahead over the ocean, soft orange pushing away the pink and grey. It might stay a little overcast, but that would only trap the summer heat in.

Thinking about his dad’s old lessons, thinking about his family, made Troy melancholy. But he was only twenty-five. Plenty of time to find a wife. Make a home and a family of his own. His home wasn’t bad growing up. It was perfectly normal, except his parents didn’t love each other. They stayed together for the kids then, and they stayed together because they didn’t know any better now. All three Mackay siblings were out of the family home, though all still in The Gulp, and Mum and Dad Mackay orbited each other in the big house at the top of Thomas Street in blissful apathy. They were good friends, they had their own hobbies as well as shared interests. They both worked, they had pals around town they socialised with, it was all normal. But it was so fucking empty. Cardboard cut-out people living cardboard cut-out lives. No aspirations for anything bigger or better, just treading water until they died. Not what a real family should be.

Staring at the ocean he remembered his dad out here back in the old days, vibrant and enthusiastic. So different to the blank sheet of paper the man had become. Troy wanted more than that. He wanted someone he genuinely loved. Someone who fired up his heart every time he saw her, even after thirty-five years of marriage. Or more. He wanted kids who grew up happy and wanted to visit after they’d moved out, instead of the way he and his brother and sister only forced themselves back to the family nest for special events. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, the occasional Sunday lunch when Mum got downhearted that all her little babies were grown and flown. They’d recently endured the fake frivolity of Christmas so at least that was done with for another year. He would have his perfect family one day, but it wouldn’t be with Cindy Panko. He needed someone better. He had time.

The ocean swell matched his breathing and his nerves rose again. He sensed an insistence from the water, an urgency, and frowned, but a smile tugged at his lips. He set up his rod, fingers a little clumsy with haste. Something’s out there, he thought. All these years had given him a sixth sense for the right spot, the right time. All fishers either claimed to have that second sight or claimed it was bullshit. He’d always been in the latter camp, but not today. Now, inexplicably, he was a believer. He crouched, sharp knife sliding into the wet crevices at the water line as he carved away chunks of cunjevoi for bait.

Ready to cast, he checked his watch and sighed. He only had a couple of hours. Would it be enough? Another day making dental instruments lay ahead of him, eight hours of knurling scalers and sickle probes. Something else he needed to change, that was no lifetime career. The thought of it made him feel hollow inside. Maybe if he got a better job, he’d get a better girlfriend, but there was precious little work going in The Gulp. Precious little with any real prestige anyway. And getting out of The Gulp was harder than finding good work.

Fuck it all. Fish and forget, that was his mantra. It was how he stayed sane among the drudgery of life. He let the meditation sink over him, watched the swell, watched the clouds, cast and recast. Today he would make a grand catch. He didn’t know how he knew, didn’t question it. Just believed.

As the sun rose, the overcast sky cleared and the heat rose. It was going to be a scorcher after all. He’d pulled in a couple of decent sized bream after a bit more than an hour, which was disappointing. It wasn’t anything like the inner feeling had made him expect. They’d feed him for a couple of days, along with the stock of vegies he had in his flat from his mother’s garden. Whatever other faults she might have, no one could say she wasn’t a green thumb. Vegie beds took up nearly half the large back yard on Thomas Street and she kept herself, all her kids, and several friends and neighbours well-stocked with fresh produce.

Troy checked his watch. He was due at work in just over an hour. It would take about twenty minutes to walk back to his flat on Freemantle Street on the south side of The Gulp, then it was only another five minute walk to Turner’s Manufacturing in the little industrial park on the very southern edge of town, where the bush rose steep and thick behind the large metal warehouses and workshops. So he had about half an hour in hand.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Today’s supposed to be special.”

He baited up and sent the line sailing out. The sun was well above the horizon now, shining gold and glittering across the water. Some of the locals were saying they were in for a long, harsh summer, but didn’t they always say that? Summer was always long, usually too hot, and getting increasingly humid even this far south. Thanks, climate change.

His line snagged suddenly. He flicked back, felt the hook catch and smiled. This felt bigger than a bream. Much bigger. He let the line go a little and it raced away fast. Frowning he tried to pull it back, but whatever he’d hooked was strong. His relaxed fishing became a sudden battle as he wound up, hauled in, let it run, wound up again. Whatever he had, he needed to tire it out before it broke his line. Or bit through it, some distant voice in his mind suggested.

“This is it,” he said. “Come on, in you come!”

For ten minutes they battled, the whole while Troy’s mind swam with possibilities of what he might have snagged. Then sudden slack and he staggered back.

“Fuck it!”

Another rock fisher, about a hundred metres away around the shelf, glanced over at Troy’s outburst. “Lost another one, hey?” he shouted across with a laugh in his voice.

Troy realised it was Trevor Clancy, one of the middle-aged whingers he drank with at Clooney’s, iron grey hair and hard eyes. Troy flipped the bird and Trev laughed, turned his attention back to his own line. With a sigh, Troy began reeling in. That fisher’s sense was bullshit after all. Wishful thinking. He felt a drag here and there and realised his hook must still be in place. He’d thought the line had snapped, but it didn’t feel that way now. Whatever it was got lucky and slipped the hook.

The line snagged again and Troy spat curses. Definitely caught up on something inanimate this time. He tugged and wound the reel, but it wouldn’t give. He slipped the knife from his belt, about to cut the line and his losses, but thoughts of sea life tangled in discarded fishing line passed by his mind’s eye. A lot of the old boys didn’t care, they thought themselves above the welfare of the ocean, but Troy had a respect for it. He fished for sport, certainly, but he fished for his dinner too. There was purpose to it, man in nature, sustaining himself. He didn’t believe in that process causing unnecessary suffering. He slipped the knife back and decided to try a little longer to reel in.

He wound and leaned the rod up and back. The rod bent, the line seemed to stretch, then as he was about to quit, a little movement. He hauled again. And again. Little by little, the line came back to him, but reluctantly. It seemed to be dragging something heavy along with it.

“Fucking kelp,” Troy muttered, picturing a great wad of the thick plant being drawn along the seabed. But he didn’t want to leave line in the water if he could help it, so he kept up the effort.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder and saw Trevor watching. “Fucken cut it, ya drongo!” Trev yelled.

“Worry about your own self,” Troy called back.

He heard the man’s guttural laughing as Trev lit a cigarette and crouched by his tackle box, baiting up.

It took ten minutes and with every passing second, the urge to keep pulling in grew stronger. Maybe his earlier sense hadn’t been wishful thinking. A deep yearning ached in his chest, a strangely primal need to see whatever this was caught on his line. With every wind, he thought less and less that it was anything as simple as kelp. On some deep level, it called to him. Troy had a sensation that whatever he’d hooked badly needed to come ashore. It needed his help.

It was a strange and slightly disconcerting train of thought, but he couldn’t help picturing whatever it was as though it had limbs that reached, stretched for him like a child asking for a hug.

Finally, he saw something causing a shallow wake at the end of his line and he took a couple of steps down the rock, careful not to get too close to the wet and slippery edge. His father’s lessons were burned in. As the bundle of whatever it was got closer, Troy realised it was incredibly heavy for its size. It wasn’t kelp, but some dark, slick seaweed of a kind he didn’t recognise. Thin, flat leaves with blisters all over that seemed like bubbles, pressing out in translucent bulges. Each blister was fluid-filled, seawater he presumed, but it seemed thicker the way it moved. Troy reached down and grabbed hold of the mass, hauled it up onto the rock beside his feet. It was warm despite the cool water sluicing off it. Too warm, like a living thing. A warm-blooded thing. A sensation of need rose from it and Troy stopped, stood back a pace or two in discomfort. The feeling was strong, too much.

“No, no,” he whispered to himself. “This isn’t…” What? His face was twisted in involuntary concern, almost disgust.

Despite his concern, he was drawn back to it. He dropped his rod beside himself and stood looking down. “The fuck is it?”

He crouched again, slipping his knife out, planning to cut the line and kick the weird, hot seaweed ball back into the water. But as he got closer again he saw the weed wasn’t a solid ball, but wrapped around something else. He used the razor-sharp edge of his green-handled knife to slice away some of the suppurating weed, and revealed a hard, leathery, but transparent curve of some mass inside. This was generating the heat and Troy immediately felt an overwhelming urge to take care of it. Nurture it. Some part of his mind rebelled at the thought, but that was buried by the urgency with which his heartbeat and his breath shallowed. This was something special, something unique and valuable and necessary.

A shadow seemed to shift slightly inside it. He pressed at it with one forefinger and the surface gave, but only a little, like pushing against the arm of a leather couch. Except this thing was thicker-skinned, harder. And hot. His fingertip tingled.

He sliced away more of the blistered weed and revealed the entirety of it. About twenty-five, maybe thirty centimetres long, two-thirds as wide, a rough lozenge shape, tapering to edges with short hooks and curls of the same clear, thick, tough substance. His hook had slipped through the bubbled weed and caught in one of these, and he carefully worked it free. Where the point had punctured the small frond, a viscous clear liquid leaked. Frowning, he gently pressed the pad of his index finger against the wound, and held it there for a moment, unable to resist the urge to salve its hurt. When he took his finger away, the wound had stuck together and stopped leaking, barely noticeable any more. His fingertip tingled more, almost burned, where the stuff had touched his skin.

He picked the thing up, marvelling at its weight. It had to be at least five kilos, which given its size seemed incongruous, tricky to hold in one hand as he carried his rod in the other. As the early sun lanced across it, he saw inside. A tight mass of some kind, hundreds, maybe thousands of intertwined pili or flagellum that shifted slightly, languidly. This was a living thing. No, he corrected himself. This would be a living thing. It was an egg, surely. But a massive one. Even the biggest sharks laid eggs a fraction of this size, and this wasn’t a shark egg, though it had similarities to some he’d seen. And even egg wasn’t quite description enough, the way it yearned. It was in part a child too, an infant in desperate need.

Troy looked around, suddenly anxious that no one see him. This was his, and his alone. His to care for. A couple of steps down the rocks had taken him out of Trev’s eyeline, so that was good. No one else around. Time was getting on, he would be late for work, but this was worth it.

He hurried back up to his gear and slipped the egg into his large, plastic catch bag with the two bream. “Sorry, it’s not a very dignified way to carry you,” he whispered to it. It occurred to him briefly that talking to the thing was kind of crazy, but it didn’t feel wrong. His urge to take care of it, to be there for it, was overwhelming. He paused, looking at the lumpen catch bag. He should throw it back, it was too much. An image of launching a surprised and terrified child out into the waves washed over his mind and he balked.

“No, no, I won’t,” he told it. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The nerves returned, but they were excitement now, a need to do the right thing.

He wiped his hand on his jeans, his palm tingling where he’d held the egg. The finger he’d pressed to the small hook wound still burned slightly. He looked, but saw nothing on his skin, no marks.

He packed quickly and started back up the rocks.

“Quitting time?” Trevor called.

“Gotta go to work. You?”

“Nah, day off. Catch anything?”

“Couple of bream. You?”

Trevor shrugged. “Not really. But there’s time. Clooney’s tonight?”

Troy nodded. “See you there.”

He clambered back up the rocks, rod in one hand, tackle box in the other, catch bag heavy over his shoulder.

When he got home, he had a plan. Not much of one, but enough for the moment. He had a 95-litre fish tank on the dresser in his lounge room. His flat was small, one-bedroom, bathroom, open space for kitchen and lounge, but it was his. One good thing about The Gulp, rent was low because no one wanted to live there. His parents had fronted him the bond and his job at Turner’s paid enough to live on his own.

The dresser next to the TV along one wall held a bunch of junk but was mainly a place for his tank. He kept a simple community aquarium of tropical fish, mostly guppies, platys, and tetras and a few Corydoras catfish. It was a simple pleasure, a pretty, watery ecosystem in his tiny house. It was freshwater, not salt, but he knew somehow that would be okay. The egg needed to stay wet and warm, that was all.

He put his gear down in the hallway by the front door, went to the kitchen corner and put the two bream in the fridge. He’d clean them later. Then he carried the catch bag over to the fish tank. He slid aside one half of the glass covering under the bright LED light bar and carefully slipped the egg from the bag into the water.

The fish started zooming around, expecting food as they always did whenever the lid was moved. Proof, as far as Troy was concerned, that the whole three second memory thing was bullshit. Fish, even little tropical ones like this, were smarter than people gave them credit for.

The egg sank to the bottom and sat on the variegated tan, brown and black gravel, leaning back against a curve of driftwood that decorated that end of the tank. He had a small stand of vallisneria along the back of the tank, a tall thin, flat-leaved plant. The aquarium store in Enden always labelled it ‘vallis/eel grass’. It was excellent in tropical tanks, hardy, easy to keep, pretty to look at. It was pressed back a little as the egg settled against the driftwood, but otherwise the introduction of the large, unusual item seemed to have no adverse effects. Any salt on it would hopefully get cleaned up by the filter without hurting his fish. The egg seemed to glow slightly, no doubt the thick translucency of its skin catching and reflecting the aquarium light. It was beautiful. The fish circled it, searched it, then moved quickly away. They gathered up the other end of the tank, all seeming to agree at once to keep their distance. Troy smiled. More proof they were smart, being cautious about a new introduction to the tank. Although they were usually more curious than that.

He glanced at his watch. 8.28am. “Shit!” He had two minutes to get to work. He was going to be late. He closed up the fish tank and ran out the door.

He got a stern talking to for being late as he stood sweating on the factory floor, but no official warning. Troy was, after all, a diligent and reliable employee. He was rarely late, always did good work, was always polite and agreeable. But despite the lack of reprimand, he was distracted all day. He did his work, went to the fish and chip takeaway just down the road for lunch and mechanically ate a basic serve. The whole time all he could think about was the egg in his tank back home. What was it? Why did it fill him with such… longing? He had a hard time pinning down exactly how he felt other than the overwhelming need to nurture it. At one point he found himself thinking of Cindy Panko again, or more specifically what he’d hoped for with Cindy. Family. Real family.

When he got home, he went straight to the tank. Things had changed a bit. All his fish, some fifteen or so, were still up the far end away from the egg. The vallis growing behind it had twisted a little and small marks marred the smooth surface of the long flat leaves. Looking closer he saw the marks were tiny bumps, like pinprick blisters. He remembered the weed the egg had been wrapped up in when he caught it. Was this tropical plant going the same way? No matter, as long as the egg was safe.

And it was. Smooth, gently glowing with reflected light, the myriad tendrils inside languidly writhing. The pinkie finger-sized hooks and curls of the outer edges of the egg lay relaxed in the water, shifting ever so slightly in the soft current from the filter. Waves of rainbow iridescence rippled across it, mesmerising in their beauty.

He glanced at his right hand, the one he’d held the egg in. It still itched, the index fingertip still burned. He saw tiny marks on the pad of his finger, minuscule bumps like gooseflesh. He pressed at it with his thumb, but there was no pain. The itch across his palm was distant, not really much to worry about. He dropped his hands and stared at the hypnotic beauty of the thing he’d caught, glistening under the aquarium light.

Troy startled when his phone rang. As he pulled it from his pocket to answer he caught sight of the time. Just after 9pm. He’d sat for nearly four hours staring into his tank, but it only felt like minutes. His stomach rumbled with hunger. The call was from his mother.

“Hey, Mum.”

“How are you, darling?”

“Just fine, thanks. You?”

“Oh, you know. I’m still alive, ha ha.” She did that a lot. Not a laugh but saying the words “ha ha” like they were punctuation.

Troy didn’t have anything to say, just stared at the egg with the phone pressed to his ear.

“Anyway,” his mum said after a moment. “Lunch on Sunday, your brother and sister are both coming, Dad’ll be there, of course. Can you come?”

Far out, Christmas had only been a few weeks ago, and she was gathering the family again already? “Yeah, sure. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, Troy, does there need to be a reason? We’re a family.”

Family. He smiled at his egg. “Yeah, of course. Okay. I’ll see you about noon on Sunday.”

She was saying something else as he took the phone from his ear and hit the End Call button. Absently, knowing he was likely to forget, he tapped ‘Lunch noon’ into his calendar for Sunday and set an alarm for 1 Hour Before Event.

His stomach roiled again and he realised he still hadn’t eaten. His phone was still in his hand. The time said 11.15pm.

“What the fuck?”

Troy tore his gaze form the tank and turned his back. A sensation of loss and longing gusted through him, but his mind also cleared a little. Hunger dragged at him. Refusing to look back at the fish tank, he walked into the kitchen corner and put together a cheese and ham jaffle. Quick and easy. He stood at the counter and ate it with his back still to the egg.

He desperately wanted to look again, but a sense of disquiet tugged at him. He resisted the urge and went into the bathroom, showered, brushed his teeth, and then crossed the hall to his bedroom, all the time ignoring the lounge room behind him. He fell into bed, scratching absently at his right palm, and exhaustion swept over him.

He had the dream again. The one with the slippery, black beach, the red, gaping sky, the things falling. He’d had it on and off his whole life. He felt like it meant something, but he wasn’t sure what. He always mostly forgot the details on waking. His phone alarm went off at 4.30am, still set from the day before. He rolled over, looked at it for a moment, then ended it. Reset it for 7.30. He’d skip fishing for today.

It seemed only moments later that it went off again, and he sat up in bed with a groan.

“At least it’s Friday,” he muttered.

He staggered into the front room and went to the kitchenette in the corner, started coffee. He realised he was avoiding looking at his tank, but that was okay. He needed coffee first, and more food. He crunched Vegemite toast as the percolator coughed and spluttered on the stovetop, then he poured the coffee and finally turned to look at the egg.

Immediately the sense of wonder filled him again, the urge to nurture. Mug cupped in both hands, he went and sat on the arm of the armchair beside the tank, the closest he could get and still sit down. The egg glowed, it seemed to exude contentment. The vallis plant all along the back still had those small blisters, only larger. The normally tall, flat leaves seemed to sag and curl slightly. He noticed the fish were still gathered up the other end and they all looked… odd. The guppies and tetras were humped, like their spines had arched upwards. The swam a little listlessly, gills wide, mouths working harder than usual. The small catfish, usually industrious little creatures always vacuuming at the gravel with their bristly noses, drifted a little lacklustre. Their usual colour was muted, pale.

Was the egg poisoning them somehow? Troy pulled out all his test kits, adding drops of the relevant chemicals to small glass vials of water from the tank. pH level, ammonia, nitrite, nitrate. It all came up good. He was as diligent with his fishkeeping as he was with everything else in life and prided himself on the health of his pets.

He frowned. Why were they so… affected?

He did a twenty-five per cent or so water change just in case and added a little conditioner to the new water he put in to avoid any pH shock. Then he did a dose of Melafix, a general antibacterial. He did a maintenance dose once a week on Mondays anyway, but another one wouldn’t hurt. He usually dosed the tank for three straight days whenever he put new fish in, so he supposed the addition of the beautiful egg counted the same.

Satisfied he’d done all he could, he sat watching again. His phone rang. As he tapped to answer, his eye caught the display. 9.30am and Boyd calling. His boss, and he was an hour late.

He quickly put some gravel into his voice. “Hello?”

“You planning on coming to work today? I was generous yesterday, but you were only ten minutes late then.”

“I’m really sorry, Boyd. I’m sick as a dog today. I meant to call you earlier, but must have passed out again.”

Boyd’s voice softened immediately. “You okay? I mean, you need help?”

“No, thanks. Maybe something I ate? I’ve been up all night. I’m really sorry, man. I’ll be there Monday.”

“Okay, well take care. Go to the doctor if you don’t improve.”

“I will.”

“Call if you need a lift or something.”

Troy smiled. Boyd Turner was a good guy. He’d taken over the factory when his father retired, keeping it in the family. The man was only about forty-five but managed that rare combination of being one of the lads and a respectable elder. Troy hated to let him down. “I can walk to Tanning Street Medical Centre in a few minutes if I need to. Thanks though.”

“Okay,” Boyd said. “Well, you take care and I’ll see you on Monday.”

“See you then.”

He hung up and saw his phone battery was low. He moved to the couch where a charger cable lay along the arm, always ready, and plugged it in. His palm itched and he looked at it, saw the same bumpy flesh across it as he’d noticed on the fingertip before. The finger had become more misshapen, the bumps pressing together to make his fingertip appear swollen and irregular. The burning had intensified, his hand stiff and tingly when he clenched it. Weird, he thought, as he watched the egg.

It was his phone that distracted him again a few minutes later, this time Brendan Testa calling. Troy’s best friend since high school and an all-around good guy. “Yo, Bren. What’s up? You not working?”

“Working? I finished an hour ago.”

Troy pulled the phone from his ear, looked at the display. 6.02 pm. What the actual fuck? How did this keep happening? “Oh yeah, right,” he said. “Lost track of time.”

“Pub tonight? Missed you last night.”

Troy decided to play along with the lie he’d used earlier. “Yeah, must have eaten something bad, I was sick all night. Slept it off today though. See you about seven.” His stomach grumbled. He’d gone hours without eating again. “Might grab a bistro dinner, actually.”

Brendan laughed. “Friday night treat, eh? Why not. I’ll join you.”

“Cool.” Troy hung up and pulled himself off the couch, determinedly refusing to look at the tank. He caught a glimpse of a couple of his fish anyway as he turned. They seemed bloated, misshapen and awkward in the water. He made a small sound of despair, but kept his back to them by pure force of will. He went to the bathroom and washed, went to his bedroom and changed, then left the flat without a backward glance.

He walked slowly to the pub, enjoying the fresh air and exercise, but the summer heat was cloying. He walked everywhere, given his lack of car, but didn’t mind that. He’d taken lessons from his dad as a teenager and got his licence like everyone else. He took his test in Enden, not bothering to engage in the permanent debate about whether Enden or Monkton was the easier place to pass. But he’d never bought a car. The expense of one bothered him, and while he’d like the freedom, he lived and worked so locally it seemed unnecessary. Brendan had a car and was always happy to drive when they went further afield. Maybe Troy should get one soon. For some reason The Gulp suddenly felt a little claustrophobic. Some deep part of him had become agitated. He pushed the thoughts away, scratching at his palm, flexing his fingers. The whole hand felt swollen and stiff. The bumps across his palm stood a little higher, hard like tiny pebbles. His index finger throbbed, the last joint so swollen it wouldn’t bend at all.

It was only just after 6.30 so he walked past the pub and down to the harbourside, a need to see the ocean dragging him along. He stood on the cement path that curved around the bay, the squared-off harbour for boats to tie up off to his right, the lighthouse beyond that. The water shifted gently, lapped against the low wall in front of him. It was still light, would be for another hour or two yet, but the sun had dropped below the swell of land off to the west making everything soft and pastel. The brine smell and cry of gulls comforted him.

“Something lingers about you.”

Troy jumped at the scratchy sound of the old woman’s voice. He turned, the sea witch only a metre away, staring up at him with her face scrunched in… what? Disgust? She was tiny, barely four and half feet tall, older than the Bible, wrinkled like a ball sack. Her hair was white and thick, in wild disarray about her head as usual. She wore layer after layer of woollen clothes despite the heat. Troy was hot in shorts and t-shirt. He imagined she was stick-thin beneath all her clothes. She had three teeth, one top centre and two evenly spaced in the bottom of her wet, gummy jaw. No one knew her name or where she lived, and they all called her the sea witch, though not to her face. Troy assumed she was homeless, but she’d been around The Gulp forever. His dad said she was just as old and hanging around the harbour when he was a boy, but surely that wasn’t possible. Troy liked her well enough, saw her often when he came to fish, always said hello. He didn’t believe the stories about her, she was just a crazy old lady. He felt sorry for her more than anything.

“Lingers?” he said.

She stepped forward and grabbed his right wrist, turned his palm up before he could resist. One glimpse and she dropped it, danced a couple of steps backwards. “Put it back!”

He frowned. “What? Put what back?”

“Whatever it is you took from the sea. It needs to go back, right now. Take a boat, go out as far as you can. Weigh it down so it stays down!” Her voice rose in volume as she spoke, her rheumy grey eyes widening.

How did she know he’d taken something from the sea? “What are you talking about?”

“You know!” she said, narrowing her eyes and wagging one finger at him. “You know very well. Put it back!”

“No,” he said, and turned away.

As he walked back towards the pub, he heard her sigh. “So it begins,” she said. When he looked around she already had her back to him, shuffling away towards the lighthouse.

He ordered a chicken schnitty with chips and salad in Clooney’s, his hunger clawing with a vengeance. He took the table number then moved around to the bar and ordered a beer from Chrissy.

“You okay?” she asked as she poured. “You look pale.”

He shrugged. “Had a bit of a stomach bug last night. Maybe that’s it.”

“Nothing a few beers can’t cure, hey?” She had one eyebrow raised, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

She was so beautiful, Troy was among many who admired her. But none would ever suggest anything, knowing her thing with her dad. She certainly wasn’t the type of family he wanted. Family made him think of the egg again. He smiled softly. “We’ll see, I guess,” he said, and went to find a table.

He said hello to Mark on the way past, the man’s facial scars slowly turning from pink to white as the months passed. They would always be visible though, giving him a permanently fierce expression. Chicks might dig scars, Troy thought, but not that level of disfigurement, poor bastard. Barry wasn’t in it yet, but probably would be soon. Troy glanced around for Barry’s mum, but couldn’t spot her. It always paid to keep an eye on that violent bitch and her friends. Trev and a couple of others stood chatting nearby.

“Missed you last night,” Trev said with a grin. “Too embarrassed by your terrible catch to come in?”

“Get fucked,” Troy said, trying to be humorous, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Touchy fucker,” Trev said, then turned back to his friends.

Troy found a table and sat down. Brendan arrived a moment later. He was tall and skinny, a good-looking guy, but didn’t spare a glimpse for Chrissy while she poured his beer. He’d never been with a girl to Troy’s knowledge, and they’d been mates a long time. But it was also something Brendan seemed entirely unconcerned about. Troy could never decide if Bren was gay and ignoring it, or asexual, or what. And it didn’t seem to bother Brendan so Troy didn’t worry about it either. His mate was happy, that’s all that mattered.

“You order food?” Brendan asked, putting his beer on the table.

“Yeah. Schnitty.” Troy pointed at the table number.

“Cool. Reckon I’ll have one too.” He went to turn away, then paused, frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You look pale. Bit drawn or something.”

“I’m fine. Had a bug, remember?”

Brendan nodded, went to order his food.

Troy sat trying to ignore his roaring stomach. A few sips of beer had made him lightheaded, he was so hungry. Brendan returned, put his order number in its little stand on the table next to Troy’s.

“So, what’s new?”

“Same old shit,” Troy said with a grin. He felt distracted, found himself thinking of the egg in his tank at home. A powerful urge to return to it pulled at him.

They made small talk, but Troy was preoccupied. Brendan was going on about some work thing. Troy’s hand throbbed. He kept it on his lap under the table but glanced down and saw it had swollen even further. The whole thing looked like a rubber glove someone had blown up like a balloon. It itched interminably.

His food arrived and he downed his beer, then said, “You wanna get a round in as my dinner’s here? I’ll get the next one.”

“Sure.”

When Bren got up and went to the bar, Troy quickly used both hands to cut his schnitzel into bite-sized pieces, fumbling awkwardly with the knife in his fat fingers. By the time Brendan returned, Troy’s swollen hand was back under the table and he ate with just a fork. Brendan frowned when he put the beers down, but said nothing. His chicken schnitzel with mash and vegies arrived and they sat quietly, enjoying each other’s company and their food.

Some sense of normalcy returned as the meal hit Troy’s stomach, but the itch in his hand didn’t ease, nor the drag at his chest that seemed to draw him back towards home. He imagined it felt like this when parents had a new baby and went out, leaving the child with a babysitter. An anxiety of abdicated responsibility.

“You know what, mate,” he said to Brendan. “I think that bug knocked me about more than I realised. I thought a good feed would fix me up, but I don’t think it did.”

“You do look a bit peaky.” Brendan’s eyes were narrow in concern.

“Sorry, man, I owe you a beer. But next time, yeah?”

“Sure. You gonna be okay?”

Troy smiled, but it felt fake even to him. “Yeah. I reckon I just need to sleep it off.”

He passed a couple of his Turner’s colleagues coming in as he went out.

“Thought you were off sick?” one said.

“I was. Thought I was better, but I’m not. Going home again.”

“See you Monday?”

“Hope so!”

He hurried away up Tanning Street. Besides the burning itch in his swollen hand, and the discomfort of the tightened skin, he did actually feel much better for the feed and the couple of beers. He just needed to get back to his egg.

As he reached the opposite corner of the block, where the Victorian pub stood, he saw Cindy Panko heading towards him. On her own. He wondered where Al Chang was. Maybe she was going to meet him. He felt a lurch of longing in his gut, remembered the many times they’d enjoyed each other’s bodies. But she was no good, certainly no good for him. She wasn’t made of family stuff. The egg at home exerted a greater pull on him than Cindy’s body now. Some distant part of his mind suggested maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe that was fucking weird. But he didn’t care.

“Hey, Troyyy,” she said, dragging out the sound of his name.

She had a great figure, long shiny brown hair and big eyes. Her skin was always creamy. “Hey,” he said cautiously, pausing. The urge to get back to his egg intensified.

“Where you going?” she asked.

“Heading home.”

“It’s not even 8 o’clock.”

He shrugged. He didn’t owe her an explanation.

“Wanna have a drink with me?” she asked. She pointed to the Vic. “We could go in there if you don’t want to be in Clooney’s tonight.”

“What about Al?”

Her face twisted into something nasty. “What about him?”

“Like that is it?”

“Al Chang can get fucked. But by someone else from now on.”

“So you come crawling back to me, that it?” The words were harsh and out before he realised he was going to say them.

Instead of being hurt, she grinned impishly. “I like it when you’re angry.”

“I’m going home.” He stepped around her and started to walk away, but she fell into step beside him.

“How about I come too?”

“What?”

“Let’s fuck, Troy. Come on. And you’ve got some grog at home, I’m sure. Let’s get pissed and fuck.”

He couldn’t ignore the stir in his groin at her words, but the drag in him intensified again. His egg needed him. Family first. “No. Fuck off, Cindy.”

She stopped, eyes wide. “Well fuck you too, shitcunt!” she spat.

He heard her Dunlop Volleys slapping the pavement as she marched away from him. He didn’t look back, kept walking.

When he got back to his flat, he went straight to the tank. The plants were all swollen with numerous blisters and darkening towards black. They looked oily. The fish were unrecognisable. Bloated and contorted, yet somehow alive, here a gasping mouth, there a gaping gill. Eyes bulged from strange positions on the crooked scales, fins were feathered or gathered into bizarre points, protruding at random from their confused bodies. They bobbed and rolled in the water, tumbled occasionally by the current from the filter pushing cleaned water back into the tank from the top. They no longer avoided the egg, either through disinclination or inability he wasn’t sure. They drifted and flexed feebly in the water, seemingly blind and lost to their fate. He didn’t mind.

But the egg, oh, that was magnificent. It had grown, now filling a little over half the length of the tank, about the size of a rectangular couch cushion. Its surface glowed, more than a reflection of the LED light bar, definitely some internal iridescence, rainbowing its surface. The myriad tendrils inside writhed lazily.

Troy’s sense of urgency, of longing, eased immediately. He was where he needed to be, caring for this. His hand itched and pulsed, but despite that warning, maybe even invited by it, he desperately wanted to touch the egg again. To hold it.

He suddenly felt encumbered by his clothes. Hurrying to the bedroom, he stripped off, left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and returned to his tank. Naked, he slid the glass covering aside and reached in. The warm water was a balm to his swollen, itching skin. He couldn’t lift the egg easily in one hand, but he got his puffy palm under it and hoisted it up out of the water, then pressed it against his chest, cradled in the crook of his elbow. He kept his left hand away from it, some part of him realising he might need better use of that hand, despite being right-handed.

The egg was warm, almost hot, and pulsed with life. It emanated a kind of peace and a kind of vibrancy simultaneously. It felt right, pressed against his flesh. He would protect this thing. Nothing else mattered.

He hugged the egg to him for a long time, unaware of exactly how long, but eventually the weight became too much, pulling at him. His breathing had turned to shallow gasps, his heart raced, and the egg itself yearned for water.

He quickly returned it to the tank. All inside his arm and across his chest was stippled with little bumps, already the skin stretching to a translucence that showed liquid inside. Troy felt as if he’d had the best sex of his life, spent and exhausted and exhilarated. All this time wanting a family and he had it all in this one beautiful thing. Paradoxically, both child and lover, something to care for and something to be with, a family in rainbow beauty. It transcended family, made a mockery of the concept of a couple producing offspring. It was all things combined into one and it wanted him.

He stumbled backwards to the couch and sat, staring at the thing he loved, unaware and unconcerned as hours drifted by.

At some later point, hunger roused him. He staggered into the kitchen and tried to find something to eat, but he hadn’t shopped in a while, and nothing was especially obvious. He found a pack of bacon in the fridge and tore it open, ate the fatty strips of meat raw and cold. Some potatoes sat in the vegetable crisper and he took one, crunched it like an apple. Taste, texture didn’t matter, he simply needed sustenance.

With his back to his beloved family in the tank he realised he was exhausted. He knew self-care was an important part of any relationship. He needed sleep. The egg was safe in the water, so he went through into the bedroom. He saw himself in the mirrored sliding door of his wardrobe. Naked and lean, a handsome enough man. But his arm and torso distracted him. Across the upper right side of his chest and shoulder, and all along his right arm, his skin was rippled like a burn scar. He moved closer. Not rippled but stippled. A mass of liquid-filled blisters, each about the size of half a grape, pushing up from this skin, blurring together in places. They itched, the skin over them both semi-translucent and darkening to an off brown colour against his usual pale pink. Not brown, he thought, something deeper. Maybe a shade towards purple, like a stormy sky. He pressed gingerly at one of the lumps with the index finger of his left hand. It felt hardened, but still flexible. A strange gift from the egg, but family changed a person, after all. Family meant becoming something bigger than oneself, greater than the sum of parts.

He crawled into bed and slept.

He dreamed again of the rent sky, glowing red, the creatures falling. They rained over the ocean and over the bush behind the slick, black beach. The heavy clouds rolled and swelled, lightning crackled. He heard an unearthly siren sound that seemed to echo across the entire sky. And he sensed something beyond the sky, beyond the mammoth red celestial wound. Some presence outside his comprehension, older, vaster than he could imagine. It was pleased with him.

He woke to his phone ringing.

He untangled himself from the bedclothes and realised it wasn’t a call, but the alarm tone. Was it time for work? What day was it? The phone was in his pants pocket on the floor, and he fumbled it out with his left hand, his right arm stiff and unresponsive.

Mum lunch noon

It all came back. It was Sunday. Wait, hadn’t he gone to the pub on Friday night? Then come home? Cindy telling him to fuck off. What happened to Saturday? He rolled onto the floor and sat up, looked at himself in the mirrored sliding door.

His entire right arm and shoulder, and down to his hand, was swollen and lumpen, almost one thickened mass. The purpling of the skin had deepened, the fluid-filled blisters larger, like half golf balls now. More had pushed into each other and merged, occasionally making a kind of swollen number eight shape where two were partially combined, some in strings of four or five.

The itching continued but had a delicious heat underneath it. He daren’t scratch for fear of bursting a pustule, but gently slapping at the skin with his left hand felt almost orgasmic. He tried to flex his right arm and though it was stiff it moved a little, the shift of the muscles under the corrupted flesh was a deeply satisfying discomfort. Troy smiled at himself.

Then he remembered the phone. One hour. If he didn’t show up for the family lunch, they would ask questions, they might even come around. It would be far easier to go along, then not have to see them again for weeks, than try to wriggle out of it now. He glanced towards the door, imagining his egg beyond. If he went to see it, he would never drag himself away. Family meant responsibility. Get dressed and slip out, see the egg after lunch.

For one wild moment he imagined taking it with him, introducing his old family to his new one. But no, the egg needed water. He would return to it.

He dressed and pulled on a baggy hoodie despite the summer warmth, aware he needed to conceal his swollen right side. Sweating already, he stared at his right hand. His fingers had thickened, pressed close together like fat sausages, but purple-black, the skin tight and irregular. His hand itself was swollen almost to a ball. In truth, it barely looked like a hand any longer, more like some strange coral growth.

Troy went into the bathroom and found a small first aid kit, and in it a large triangular bandage for making a sling. He’d had to do a first aid course as part of his job safety protocols and remembered how. He made a sling, big enough to conceal his hand if he tucked the leading edge over it. It was tricky, working it into position left-handed, but he finally managed. It did the job. He’d think of a reason for it on the way there.

It was a long walk to his parent’s house, right across the south side of town and up the steep hill. He was sweating profusely by the time he arrived, ten minutes late, but knew he’d have to suffer that as he couldn’t take the hoodie off.

“Troy! What happened to you?” His mother’s face was shocked as she opened the door.

“It’s nothing, Mum. I fell and dislocated my shoulder. The sling is just a precaution.”

“Oh, darling!”

“Really, don’t fuss, Mum. It’s been put back. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Troy broke his arm!” his mother yelled into the house as she headed back down the hall.

“Ya fucking nong,” Simon said. “How’d you do that?” His brother grinned from the doorway into the dining room, leaning laconically against the frame. “And take the hoodie off, idiot. How hot are ya?”

“Slipped and dislocated my shoulder. Really, it’s fine.” He wanted so badly to be back with his egg.

Laura stepped up behind Simon, wrapped her arms around him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re very red in the face.”

“I’m fine!”

Simon patted the air with both hands. “Okay, weirdo, calm ya farm.”

Rose was sitting at the dining room table, a glass of wine in hand. His sister was always more relaxed than the rest of the family. She smiled and shook her head, rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“Let’s eat!” his mother said. “Everyone sit down. We can all catch up.”

They moved into the dining room and took their seats around the large, dark mango wood table. Troy’s father poured the wine, stoic as usual. He smiled and nodded as Troy sat down. “How long does the sling stay on?”

“Just a few days, until the shoulder has rested.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” His dad frowned. It was clear he wanted to say more, probably about the hoodie. Troy was sweltering in it, but thankfully his parents had air-conditioning on in the dining room, and that helped.

“What a dickhead,” Simon said with a laugh. “How do you dislocate a shoulder by slipping?”

Troy sighed. “Let it go, mate.”

“I will, actually,” Simon said. “Now all the glasses are filled. Mum, come back.” Their mother paused on her way through to the kitchen and looked back, eyebrows high. “Show them, Laura,” Simon said.

Laura grinned like she’d won the lottery and held up her left hand, fingers fluttering. A diamond ring glittered on her finger. “He popped the question!”

Troy’s mother squealed, Rose rolled her eyes again, Simon beamed like the proverbial cat with the cream.

“And what was your answer?” Troy’s dad said, a dumb half-smile stretching his cheek.

“Dad, come on!” Simon said, but he laughed anyway.

Their mother danced around the table, grabbing Laura in a hug, then Simon. Troy’s dad looked puffed up with pride and stood to shake his son’s hand. Even Rose, usually cynical, had a warmth in her eyes despite the earlier roll. Troy trembled, a mild panic rising in him. It was all so normal, so fucking domestic. How could they be so excited about something so bloody mundane? In thirty years Simon and Laura would be two more husks like his parents, their lives dribbled away on nothing.

“… okay, mate?”

Troy jumped, caught his brother’s eye. “What?”

“I said, are you okay, mate? You look ill.”

“I’m… I don’t know…”

“Can’t you just be happy for me or something? Why are you always the bloody weird one, Troy?”

Troy stood, knocking over his chair. He was lightheaded, his entire right side and arm burned with an intensity that made him grit his teeth. Despite the air-con he was hot as hell.

His father stood, brow furrowed. “What’s happening, son? Take the top off, you’re overheating. Here, let me help.”

The rest of the family stilled, all celebration drained away.

“Fucken hell, Troy, pick your moment!” Simon said.

“Wait, don’t be mean,” their mother said. “Troy?”

He heard that unearthly siren, like the one he’d dreamed. He felt the pounding wind and rain, the storm as the sky split red and purple. He couldn’t breathe. The vastness cajoled him.

“My egg!”

“Your what?” Rose asked.

“I have to go!”

His mother reached for him, her eyes wide. “Troy, what’s happening. Let me call the doctor.”

He pushed past her and headed for the door. “No, I’m fine. Really. Maybe the fall affected me more than I realised.” The fall. Everyone in The Gulp dreams of the fall. Whose voice was that in his head? A scratchy old woman’s tone. “I just need to go home. I’m sorry. Congrats, Si. Well done, mate. Laura.”

“The fuck?” Simon said, scowling.

Troy half-ran, half-fell along the hallway and pulled open the front door.

“Let me drive you, son,” his dad said, hurrying along behind.

“No, I want the walk. The fresh air.”

“It’s a scorcher out there, the car has AC–”

“I’m fine! Thanks though. I’ll see you soon. Sorry!” He pulled the door closed and strode off along the path towards the street. As soon as he knew he was heading back to his egg, his head cleared a little.

The front door opened again, his family crammed in it, looking out.

“Troy?” his mother called.

“Honestly, I’m fine,” he shouted, without looking back. “I’m really sorry. I’ll call you later.”

He turned onto the footpath and walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. He needed to be home, simple as that.

Standing back in front of his tank half an hour later, he stared in wonder. The egg had grown again, almost filling the tank. The fish and plants had become a part of it, multi-coloured appendages to the mass. The finger-like growths all around its edge had also begun to blur together, making a thick skirt that rippled softly in the current.

Troy tore away his clothes, left them piled on the floor, and lifted his family from the water. He held it tight against his chest, both arms wrapped around it. It was so hot, and so heavy. Orgasmic waves of satisfaction pulsed through him. He sank to the floor under the weight of it, nestled one end into his lap as he sat cross-legged. Hugging it tightly, he rocked gently, murmuring words of love, promises of protection, soft gasps at the pleasurable sensations it sent through him.

Time passed, hours or even days he didn’t know. Or care. His phone rang repeatedly, but he ignored it. Eventually it stopped. He assumed the battery had quit. On several occasions, he heard banging on his door. People called his name. He recognised his mother’s voice, then his father, more stern. A female voice at one point that might have been Rose, might have been Cindy.

The skirt of clear flesh around the egg spread over his shoulders and merged into his skin. The thickening, purple, blistered flesh of his arms and chest spread to cover his whole upper body, burning with a delicious, insatiable itch. He felt it creep up his neck, spread across his face where he kept his cheek pressed to his beloved.

His vision began to blur, everything tinged purple. His bones grew, spreading up and outward. Over time irrelevant, his spine arched back, his ribs flowered open. His legs shifted and reformed beneath him as his face tipped back. The egg was heavier than ever, more than a metre across, maybe almost as deep, nestled in the cradle of his reforming flesh.

There was purpose to his transformation, he knew. It was the next stage his family required. First the water, now this. Next? It didn’t matter, he would do whatever it needed. He would be whatever it needed. He exulted in the twisting of his flesh and bones. His arms had merged with it and with each other, wrapped protectively around. His torso had become a basket of blistered, purple flesh atop the thick short stumps of his legs. His head and neck had swollen and become one, pressing out somewhere from the edge of the new entity he had evolved into. Purple sheened his vision, a sound of distant waves constantly filled his ears.

Something called to him, some presence beyond normal hearing. An urge irresistible. On stocky limbs he shifted awkwardly towards the door of his flat and heard them gathered on the other side. He realised he had known they were coming. Or the egg knew, which was the same thing really. They knocked, and he tried to tell them he had no hands to open the door. Instead his voice was a thick slurry of noise, his tongue five times its normal size twisted up inside his contorted face, letting out only strangled coughs and barks. He leaned, tipped one purpled eye towards the door as the knocking became pounding.

“Yeeessssstthhhh,” he called, as loudly as he could. “YEEESSSSTTHHHH!”

The door burst inwards, the lock splitting from the wooden frame.

Four people stood there, all pale as chalk. An incredibly old man, a young woman in her late teens, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a red jumper, long hair tied back, and a middle-aged man who had kicked in the door.

“It’s time,” all four said together in voices that resonated with vibrations he felt right through his new self. A fungal aroma hung around them.

“Tiiimme,” Troy slurred, staggering on his crooked legs, the swollen, blistered bulk of his egg-cradle body ungainly on top.

“For so many months we bided our time,” the four said as one. “Prepared. Waiting. We knew you were coming.”

They helped him through the door and supported him down the stairs, out into the night air. It was hot, redolent with scents of night jasmine and the sea. The egg buzzed and trembled in the nest of his flesh.

“Whhheerrre?” Troy managed to say as they surrounded him and hurried along the footpath.

“A place is arranged,” they said in unison. “Not far. The re-emergence is imminent. The return is upon us.”

“Yeessss,” Troy slurred as he trundled between them. “I ffeeeeelll itttt. Sssoooonnnn.”

In Clooney’s, Carter leaned on the bar talking to Chrissy. He didn’t often come into the pub, but now and then he liked to get a taste of life down in town. And it was his pub, after all, named after his great-grandfather Clooney P. Carter. A colonial settler, Clooney had built the place by hand, so the story went, and though he named it The Gulpepper Inn, everyone then called it Clooney’s, and the habit had stuck. He suspected few people knew that story any more. Time marched on.

Chrissy said something, but Carter shivered, then looked up, instantly forgetting whatever she’d been talking about.

“You okay?” Chrissy asked.

“Something’s changed.”

“Changed?”

“The energies around us just rippled.”

Chrissy nodded. “It’s starting?”

“Yes. We knew something was coming. Well, I hope Ingrid Blumenthal got the vessel for the ritual. She was dealing with the Macedonian.” Carter frowned, lips pursed. “Come to think of it, I should have heard from her by now. It’s been weeks.”

“She’s a strange one,” Chrissy said with a shrug. “She’ll come through, right?”

“I hope so. I wonder why she’s been so… absent. Normally Talbot keeps me up to speed, but I haven’t heard from him in ages either.”

“Her husband?”

“And her brother,” Carter said distractedly.

Chrissy frowned, opened her mouth to say more, but he turned away. He went to the door of the pub and looked out into the night, sniffed the hot air.

The old woman who was always at the harbour stood on the low wall surrounding the water, staring up into the stars. The sea witch, the locals called her. Carter thought maybe it was a fair moniker.

She felt him looking and met his eye. Even from this distance, he saw her old face was twisted in concern. Carter lifted his chin in a question, and she nodded, resigned. She climbed down and shuffled away towards the lighthouse.

“You okay, boss?” Dace Claringbold asked, strolling up to the pub.

“Yeah, son, I think so. But gird your loins, we might have work to do soon.”

“You know me, Mr Carter. I was born ready.” He slipped past, heading in towards the bar.

“Time marches on,” Carter said to himself. “A new time is coming.”

He wondered what might be required of him soon. And he wondered why it felt like Ingrid Blumenthal wasn’t in town anymore.

Maddy Taylor sat in Clooney’s with Dylan, chatting to Rich, one of Carter’s newer goons. He’d only been around a year or so, she thought. Nice guy, but anyone who worked for Carter needed to be kept at arm’s length. He’d been telling her how he wasn’t from around The Gulp, but had found himself a place here. He seemed a little preoccupied as he talked about it, like he was trying to remember something else. Despite her concerns about having anything to do with Carter or any of his people, she had to talk to someone because all four members of Blind Eye Moon were sitting right there at the next table, drinking beer and chatting quietly. Dylan was mesmerised by their proximity. She was in danger of fangirling if she didn’t distract herself. Wait until she told Zack the band had just been hanging out in Clooney’s like regular people, in full make-up and everything. They weren’t playing a gig that night, but another local band was due to take the stage in an hour or so. Maybe they’d come for them. Imagine being a regular pub band, Maddy thought, and have Blind Eye Moon show up to your gig.

She noticed Rich and all four members of BEM were distracted, looking towards the front of the pub. She followed their gaze and saw Carter standing in the open doorway, looking out into the night, still as a statue. The man gave her the creeps. She didn’t want to think too much about what he was doing, but he looked weird framed by the doorway like that. The tableau looked, she thought, like a Blind Eye Moon album cover.

“He can feel it too,” Howard said.

Edgar nodded. “Of course. How could he not?”

“You think he’s got it in hand?” Shirley asked.

Edgar turned to the drummer. “We’ll see, I guess. He takes care of stuff usually, and leaves us alone. So I’m happy to return the courtesy. There’s something about him I don’t like, anyway. Let’s continue to enjoy the truce, shall we?”

“Do you think he’ll ask us for help if he needs it?” Clarke asked. “Or too proud?”

Edgar shook his head, took a gulp from his beer. “Not sure. Powers shift in this place all the time. For now, let’s get drunk and see if this band is any good.”

“Yeah, but this is bigger,” Shirley said. “Something major is unstable. Or changing. You can feel it, same as us. And if we all feel it, if Carter is concerned about it, we shouldn’t ignore it.”

“True,” Edgar said. “But let’s wait and see, yeah? If it needs our attention, so be it. If not, we let it be.” He grinned, shrugged. “Weird shit happens all the time in The Gulp.”