Fishy business goin’ down
He wiped his sweaty palms on the rear of his jeans. If he did it once, he did it a hundred times. This was the part of the operation that Terry knew would create the most angst. He was getting the hang of fishing, although he was hoping to reel in more than just the evening meal. It was all the other possibilities that put the wind up him.
They had told him again and again, that all he would have to do is pluck the containers from the water. None of his business how they got there. He could see his chain question his commitment the more he queried the process. There was no reason for the authorities to find him of interest. He had a clean slate. He had fished at this spot each Thursday for a year. He needed just this one shot at the big time.
Shifting his weight from leg to leg, Terry attempted to clear the pins-and-needles from his right leg. He had reloaded his hook with a fleshy morsel of white-bait, enough to temp the entire school of yellow bream Terry knew to be attracted to this bay by the World War 2 ferry scuttled not long after the bombing of the Kuttabul.
Not being a diver, Terry had to take his neighbour’s opinion as gospel on this point. Roy had been scuba diving various locations in the harbour and just outside the heads for over a decade now. Roy was a great bloke to have as a neighbour, the sort to give you the shirt off his back. He would have been here today had it not been for the unfortunate episode of the bottle neck.
Terry was jerked back into the here-and-the-now by a sharp series of tugs on his line.