to witness reports, a large, flashing object was observed hovering above the town. Apparently, the object then proceeded to move slowly across the sky in a southerly direction where it disappeared. No clear explanation for the strange sight has been given. However, some theories have been forthcoming, one of which suggests we are being visited … by aliens.
Jars noticed the newsreader’s discomfort when he had to read the last bit of his announcement. It was as though he didn’t know whether to frown or smile. Then he concluded:
We will keep you informed as more information comes to hand.
Snook exploded from his chair. ‘Wicked! How cool is that? Whatcha reckon, Jars? Wanna go look for those aliens?’
‘Hmph,’ Quenton sneered, ‘that’s so stupid; there’s no such thing.’
‘Snook glared at him. ‘Oh, yeah? How would you know? Lots of people have seen UFOs. Even aliens.’
‘Little green men, you mean? Hah! That’s brainless.’‘Well, I don’t care what you think. It’s possible they’re true so I wanna go look for whatever’s out there. Whatcha reckon, Jars?’
Jars smiled to herself. Here we go again, she thought. Another one of Snook’s wild ideas. ‘You realise,’ she said, ‘that the lights could have been caused by any number of things? Like space junk, weather balloons, meteors, even aircraft.’
‘Yeah, and it might even be a UFO,’ Snook continued. Then, seeing Jars’ skeptical look added, ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to look, even if it was junk or one of those other things.’
‘It’s not that. The announcer said the thing, or whatever, was heading south. So, if it was a UFO, it’d be far gone by now.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, it’s after five. That’s far too late to be going anywhere. We need to fix dinner for your dad and Arnie. They’ll be home soon.’
‘Yeah,’ Snook mumbled, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Jars, with Shadow following, headed for the kitchen.
Snook turned to Quenton. He jerked a finger towards the front door. ’We’ve got work to do so you’d better take off.’
Jars was already getting cooking utensils out of the kitchen cupboard when Snook joined her. He drew out a chair and sat. Eventually, he said, ‘What if it is aliens visiting us? What if they are true? It’d be awesome if we found ’em. Why don’t we go lookin’ after dinner?’
Smiling to herself, Jars could feel his excitement. ‘Let’s see if there’s any more news before we do anything. You know, play it by ear.’
‘Okay.’ He slapped a fist into his palm. ‘But if there is any news about aliens bein’ around here, I’m gonna go find ’em.’
Shadow, who had settled under the kitchen table, lifted his head, ears cocked. He thumped his tail on the floor. Something was going on.
Chapter Eight
Jim Kelly, Snook’s dad and skipper of The Shandora, stood on the deck alongside his partner, Arnie Grimshaw, whom he’d recently taken on as a deckhand. Jim had been quick to see the potential in Arnie, who had previously been a reluctant member of a bird-smuggling gang. The gang had included Arnie’s sister, Evelyn Grimshaw, his brother Hector and Mr Quigley, Quenton Quigley’s dad. The gang, whose plans had been thwarted by Jars and Snook, were now in Hobart’s Risdon Prison.
Now, legs spread and gripping the rail to steady themselves against the pitch and roll of the boat, both Jim and Arnie stared out to sea. They were silent, Jim deep in thought and Arnie thinking about nothing really, just listening for any orders that could come his way.
A sideways glance in Arnie’s direction made Jim smile. That morning, dressed in blue work singlet, denim shorts, work boots and no socks, Arnie, as usual, was thumbing his nose at the weather. The bitterly cold wind and the soaking sea spray didn’t matter.
In contrast, Jim had dressed in full, seagoing oilskins. ‘It’s comin’ in rough, Arnie,’ he said. ‘Sky’s gettin’ blacker by the minute. I reckon the weather’s about to take a turn for the worse. We’d better point the old girl home soon.’
As if in agreement, a wave bigger than the others, came over the side. It swirled around their feet and ankles; then, with a rushing, sucking sound, it disappeared back into the sea.
‘Let’s lift the last of the pots and head for home,’ Jim said. ‘It’s starting to look a bit dodgy out here.’
Chapter Nine
The growing anger of the waves and weather wasn’t the only thing that worried Jim and Arnie. The lack of crayfish – often called lobster – was a real problem. And not only on this trip. The season so far had been disastrous, making Jim think that his decision to buy The Shandora had been a big mistake.
He’d bought the cray boat from Mrs Quigley, whose husband was still in jail for his bird-poaching stint a year ago. Mr Quigley had previously owned the boat and had employed Jim as its skipper during that time. Now, because of Quigley’s forced absence, that arrangement had fallen through. As a result, the Quigley income had dried up and Mrs Quigley had been left with no choice but to sell the boat.
Jim, who had always wanted to own his own boat, managed to raise enough cash to buy The Shandora and the cray licence that went with it. He knew he was taking a risk; meeting the payments to the bank, where he’d borrowed the money, wouldn’t be easy. They’d have to catch their quota of cray to make that happen.
But deep down, somewhere in his soul, a voice had told him not to let the opportunity pass. Without a job and with no other prospects of employment on the horizon, buying The Shandora would solve the work problem.
For a while he thought it had, but after a promising start to the season, for some inexplicable reason the cray had grown scarce, and most of what they did catch were undersize.
Jim threw another craypot onto the growing pile of empties. ‘Another wasted trip, Arnie. It’s getting to be a habit.’
Arnie frowned as he hoisted the last of the pots on board. ‘Yeah, b-boss, all too s-small. I measured them all, um, just like you told me. Th-this one hasn’t got any in it either. S-sorry b-boss.’ He undid the hauling rope and tossed the pot towards the pile as if it were a twig.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Jim reassured him, ignoring Arnie’s stuttering, broken speech, an affliction thrust upon him by a brutal, belt-wielding father. ‘It’s these waters; looks like they might have been overfished.’
‘Y-yeah, overfished.’ Standing over six-and-a-half feet tall, Arnie, with his bulging muscles and rugby player’s neck, had more than fulfilled Jim’s hopes for him as a deckhand. Yet, Jim knew, he was more than that – partner and friend were more like it. Mentally, Arnie had the intellect of a child. He’d never really grown up but there was one thing he was good at; he knew how to follow orders, and once undertaken, the task, whatever it was, was always carried out to the best of his ability.
Jim had no hesitation in hiring Arnie. Bird smuggling or not, instinct had told him that he was basically a good man, that his handicaps didn’t matter. Jim’s gut feeling about the man had been proved right
