Without warning

‘You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?’ said Jules in a resigned voice.

‘No. I’m going to salvage her.’ Pete was gri

Jules rolled her eyes.

Fifi nodded uncertainly, her eyes never leaving the horizon. ‘I du

‘Mr Lee, would you bring us alongside her,’ said Pete, ignoring Fifi’s quite reasonable point. Selective deafness was a useful skill he’d picked up from his mother.

The old Chinese pirate gri

He whistled, both at the unexpected co

‘Steady as she goes, Mr Lee,’ he called out. ‘Steady now.’

Over the next five minutes Lee brought the Diamantina alongside the immense bulk of the yacht. Even with the sun high overhead, they sailed in the shade of the much larger boat. Lee matched his speed to that of their quarry, and then slowly dialled down the engines, slipping back towards the docking bay at the vessel’s stern. Pete could tell the yacht had been well cared for. Anyone who could afford to buy such a magnificent craft could obviously afford to lavish attention on her. Her hull was free of any build-up below the waterline. The portholes were all crystal clear, their glass freshly cleaned, possibly even this morning.

As they drew level with the docking bay, Lee edged their speed back up again, holding position perfectly, just a foot away. Pete gave him a nod and a wink before stepping off. The little Chinaman stood at the wheel, as though organically co

‘We cool?’ asked Pete.

Fifi and Jules, both of them back in their combat rigs, agreed in turn.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s fuck this cat.’

Julia

As she cross-decked from the Diamantina to the Aussie Rules, however, she found herself once again grateful to her father for instilling in her such a bleak, pragmatic, Nietzschean view of humanity. While Pete, their putative leader, was lost in an uncontrolled moment of fan-boy worship, Jules kept her head down and her poo in one sock. A favourite saying of Daddy’s.

‘Holy shit,’ cried Pete. ‘You know what? I do know this tub. I remember reading about it now. I think this is Greg Norman’s yacht.’

‘Who?’ asked Fifi.

‘You know,’ said Pete, who was now very excited. ‘The golfer – “the Great White Shark”? A terrible fuckin’ choker, actually, but a great businessman. I think he designed a lot of golf courses when he wasn’t losing PGA play-offs. Talk about money for nothing and your chicks for free. Although, you know, with your lady golfers, there’s a reason those chicks are free… Anyway, I’m pretty sure this is his yacht. Or was.’

‘You think so?’ Jules deadpa

‘Greg who?’ asked Fifi.

Pete shook his head despairingly. ‘If it ain’t Nascar it just ain’t real for you, is it, sweetheart?’

‘What’s up with Nascar?’

Before Pete could answer, Jules cut him off, clicking her fingers in an effort to bring the others back to reality. ‘Excuse me, people – end of the world over here. Greg Norman’s yacht getting all Mary Celeste on us? Let’s maintain our focus, shall we?’

‘Sorry,’ said Pete. ‘It’s just, you know, it’s the Shark, baby!’

‘Stupid fucking game anyway,’ muttered Fifi. ‘Buncha fat-ass white guys in ugly pants, driving around in those faggy little carts…’

‘Fifi.’ Jules’s voice took on a warning edge. She was fond of her white-trash friend, but managing the bimbo eruptions was a full-time job.

‘Got it, got it. Maintaining focus.’

‘Come on, let’s have a little look-see,’ said Jules.

She slipped her carbine over one shoulder and took out a handgun, a Beretta Px4, even though she wasn’t expecting to find anyone on board. They’d been calling out since boarding, but it had the same feeling as knocking on the door of an empty house. She knew they were alone. The ever-suspicious Fifi, however, kept a sawn-off shotgun to hand with a shell racked in the tube. Her thumb stroked the safety, ready to flick it off at the slightest provocation.

The three of them walked around the pool, located on the second of four upper decks, the sun glinting fiercely off the water as it slowly sloshed around with the gentle motion of the boat. The tip of the Diamantina’s main mast rolled through a small arc a few metres away. By leaning over the polished rail, Jules could see the top of Mr Lee’s bald head a long way below. The pool looked to be about ten metres long, with four round, black stools peeping above the waterline at the far end, where they abutted a full bar with its own beer taps and all the fixings for a high-end cocktail party. A large plate of fruit salad, wilted in the heat, lay untouched in the centre of the polished hardwood bar-top. White padded cushions lay along both sides of the pool, with pillows scattered here and there. She could read Pete like a cheap novel and knew that it was all he could do to resist diving in and asking the girls to set him up a margarita. To move things along, she strode forward, taking the port-side companionway.