Foghorn

Prologue

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."
― F Scott Fitzgerald

He had, for many years, been unable to shake the feeling that someone was following him. It was the whisper of crisp autumn leaves as they're carried along the sidewalk and the worn scuffing of sneakers; sounds which instantly evaporate into silence when one attempts to find their source. It had become second nature for the man to glance warily over his shoulder; a habit which had earned him curious stares and a crick in his neck. The feeling was constant, persistent; it was a melody which played itself relentlessly over and over again behind his furrowed brows. On this particular afternoon, however, Nigel Harper had forgotten the tune.

Icy water seized my ankles as it dribbled into my worn and flimsy gumboots. I had purchased them from a man twice my size in the hopes of ending the ongoing rivalry that had developed between my left foot and hypothermia, but to no avail. There was no choice but to grit my teeth and carry on as we ploughed deeper into the pungent saltwater of the bay. I had landed myself the job only last week and had already spilt enough cargo to end up in the runt squad.

The work wasn't great. We'd forge through the unforgiving tides day in and day to load up boats with ropes and equipment, and carry buckets laden with fresh catches back to the sandy base of the pier until our arms ached and the reek of shrimp clung to our hair and clothing. Though at first I was unsure, I had discovered overtime that being in the runt squad, or the worst performing group, made the dull work tolerable.

There were Bolgen and Turrent who took up the rear and had a talent for mishandling shellfish; a pair of men who were indistinguishable both in humour and by given name. Just behind me was Phillip Thomsen, a broad shouldered Dane whose calloused knuckles and swollen arms were designed for this nature of work. He had admitted to me that on several occasions he had simply flung fish over the side of the pier out of pity for their 'scaly souls'. In my mind, this made him an admirable man. In the mind of Mr. O'Connel, our supervisor, this made him runt squad material. Finally, there was Mr. Harper, a man whose salt and pepper hairline had migrated to his chin. He spoke only in disapproving grunts and always insisted on leading the group of men, though he would constantly throw his head over his shoulder as if to chastise us for lagging too far behind him. He was certainly a man past his prime. A sceptical man who jumped at the tap of a shoulder and whose bushy brows were permanently furrowed. And of course, there was me.