Killer

The jerk on his line was so unexpected that at first he didn’t believe it; but he automatically jerked back, wrapped the extra loop of line around his wrist, and half rose, his arm still straight like a rod, resting with its elbow on his left knee. The second jerk on the line was so strong that it broke his arm at the elbow like a dry stick, dislocated his shoulder, and slammed his collarbone into his jaw with such force that he was stunned. The ruined lever of his arm slid off the fulcrum of his leg, and, as he pitched forward, vanished into the hole in the ice. His hand opened, but the line was wrapped round his wrist, and its strength was more than one-and-a-half times his own body weight. He looked at the ice under his face. He opened his mouth to do or say something and suddenly the ice under him was mottled red-brown. He tasted iron at the back of his throat. Oh damn, he thought, I’ve bitten my tongue. The line jerked again. Agony blazed down his left side. He began to cry out, but the sounds were swallowed in a silver muffler of bubbles as the water closed over his face. The line angled away, pulling his body down into the hole until his hips wedged, and his legs waved in the air. His eyes, ears, temples, and especially his teeth ached fiercely in the icy water.

He found himself able to distinguish only huge, seemingly formless shapes, until something suddenly hurled towards him, becoming clearer as it neared. When he saw what it was, he sucked in breath to scream with, but there was only water to fill his lungs.

“Christ!” yelled Ross, and was up and running across the net before the others had a chance even to react. He had glanced up just in time to see Preston’s torso disappear and his legs rear into the air, kicking wildly. He tripped on the guy ropes of the supply tent, fell heavily, pulled himself to his feet, and pounded across the treacherous ice with Job and Kate close behind him.

Preston’s legs were still kicking as he slewed to a halt in a cloud of crystals. He leaned forward, his face turned away from the drumming heels, and with his one good arm hugged the ankles and shins to his chest. He spread his legs and heaved with all the strength of his thighs and back. Job and Kate stood on either side of the hole, ready to take Preston’s arms and lift him clear of the water as soon as his body came free. As he heaved again, Preston came free, surprisingly easily. Kate’s eyes went down, and her body automatically tensed to help the drowning man, then she was on her knees retching helplessly on to the ice. Ross looked wildly at Job, and took a step backwards. Job’s face was oily white and twisted with horror. Ross took another step back, and the legs slipped from his grip; then he too looked down.

Above the hips which had wedged in the ice there was nothing. It was as though Preston had been hacked in half by a chainsaw at the waist. The legs lay in a great thin puddle of blood, still kicking.

The water in the fishing hole parted. “Back!” screamed Ross, and the other two hurled themselves away.

Infinitely slowly, and with surprisingly little sound, the ice parted and the great black and white head reared up, streaming water. The huge mouth, twisted with scars, gaped open. The pink carpet of the tongue lolled out, collected Preston’s legs as though they had been cheese straws, closed with a stomach-wrenching crunch, and sank from sight, the booted feet sticking out from between the teeth where the lips did not close.

The three of them were still kneeling, frozen with horror, staring into the dark hole when the other two arrived.

“What happened?” snapped Quick.

“The killers . . .” Ross’s voice was not working properly.

Kate was still trying to be sick on the ice, but there was nothing left in her heaving stomach but bitter bile. Warren went and knelt beside her. Job was taking great draughts of air, gasping and choking.

“The killer took him,” he said.

“The killer? But I thought . . . Ross said . . . they’ve gone. Sweet Jesus, they’ve gone!” And as Quick said it, surprisingly close at hand, terrifyingly loud, came the roar of a breathing whale. They all swung round. It was at the edge of the floe, no more than thirty feet away, its flippers holding it erect as it watched them. The mouth opened, the tongue lolled out, the eight-inch teeth burned in the sunlight. The white chin glistened defencelessly, and none of them had a rifle.