the coral, the bottom vanished from sight as he went over the edge. Down in the depths, shoals of rainbow fish filled the deep blue space, rising and falling in a shimmering cloud, changing colour with each movement.
They disintegrated in a silver cloud as several blue mackerel burst through them followed by a shark. Manning was brushed to one side by an invisible hand as the shark swerved by. He rested for a moment, holding onto the jagged edge of a crevasse in the face of the cliff and Morrison swam out of the green mist and started upwards.
In one hand he held his harpoon gun, in the other, the spear on which was impaled a silver perch. Manning swam towards him, and the American poised there in space and brandished the fish. Blood hung in a brown cloud above his right shoulder, drifting in long strings through the green water. As Manning approached, he saw that the upper arm had been badly lacerated by coral.
The American grinned and shrugged as if to say that it was nothing and, in the same moment, his eyes widened in alarm. As Manning started to turn, something grazed his back with stunning force, sending him bouncing against the cliff. He was aware of a blue and silver flash and turned to see an eight-foot barracuda vanish into the gloom.
Morrison dropped his harpoon gun in alarm and it drifted down into the green depths trailing the spear on its recovery line. Manning jackknifed and went after it, grabbing for the line, pulling the gun towards him. As he quickly reloaded, he could see Morrison vainly trying to squeeze into a narrow crevasse in the rocks.
At that moment the barracuda flashed from the mist and poised perhaps twenty feet away from the American. A second later it was joined by another.
The drifting brown cloud of blood grew even larger and Manning knew that within seconds it would attract more of the deadly fish. He drove upwards, firing at point-blank range into the white underbelly of the nearest one. It twisted in agony, jerking the gun from his hands and rolled over onto its back, tail threshing the water into a white cauldron, blood staining the sea.
Manning swam towards Morrison and pulled him from the crevasse. As they turned, the other barracuda swung in at its mate; lower jaw hanging to expose its murderous, overlapping teeth. The sea vibrated and it turned away, shreds of skin and bone hanging from its mouth. As other slim, silvery shapes darted from the gloom, Manning grabbed Morrison by the arm and pushed for the surface.
They swam through the shallows above the brilliant red and green coral and then the hull of the Grace Abounding appeared above them and they surfaced astern. Morrison went up the ladder first and Seth helped him over the rail. When Manning followed, he found the American collapsed on deck, shoulders heaving.
Seth looked up enquiringly as Manning pulled off his diving mask and unstrapped his aqualung. ‘Run into trouble?’
‘Mr Morrison grazed his shoulder and a couple of barracuda showed interest.’
Morrison sat up and Seth examined him, shaking his head. ‘I told you to watch out for those nigger-heads, Mr Morrison. A man can’t afford to draw blood spear fishing. Most of the big boys, they leave you alone, but not when they taste blood.’
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Morrison said.
Manning helped him to his feet. ‘Let’s go below. I’ll fix that shoulder for you. Seth will see to the gear.’
Morrison sat on one of the bunks, a towel round his shoulders, shivering slightly. Manning took a bottle of rum from one of the cupboards, filled a glass and gave it to him. The American swallowed and smiled gratefully.
‘I thought this stuff about sharks and barracuda attacking skin divers was supposed to be all hogwash?’
‘Not when they taste blood,’ Manning said as he gently swabbed the deep cuts with merthiolate. ‘And another thing. Always reload your spear gun after using it. You never know when you might need it in a hurry.’
‘I don’t think I’m ever likely to forget that again,’ Morrison said wryly and Seth appeared in the doorway.
‘The Bonaventure, she coming in now, Cap’n.’
‘You take over here,’ Manning said and turned to Morrison. ‘An old friend I want a word with.’
He opened a drawer, took out a flat package and went up on deck.
‘The Bonaventure was an old deep-sea fishing boat, a fifty-footer in green and white, the paintwork peeling from her sides in great strips. The wheelhouse was a good ten feet above the deck and as the boat came round, she dipped alarmingly from side-to-side as though slightly top-heavy.
There were two deck hands, a young boy in canvas jeans, deeply bronzed by the sun, and a thin, balding man with a walleye. They both wielded boat hooks and as the fenders clashed, Manning jumped across.
In the well, three tuna and a couple of wahoo lay jumbled together, flies buzzing around their dead mouths in great clouds. Sanchez leaned out of the wheelhouse and grinned. ‘Come on up, amigo.’
He was at least sixty, but strong and wiry, his body dried to Spanish leather by the sea and sun. When Manning went up the ladder, he found him pouring gin into a couple of dirty glasses. He turned and offered one.
‘Your health,’ he said gravely in Spanish.
‘And yours,’ Manning replied fluently. ‘How are things in Havana?’
‘Much as usual.’ The old man turned and spat through the window. ‘Once we had hope, but now that America has promised not to invade …’
Manning swallowed his gin and said, ‘I’ll have a small bet with you. A hundred dollars American. A year from today, Castro will no longer rule Cuba?’
The old man laughed, spat on his hand and grasped Manning’s firmly. ‘How could I refuse such an offer?’ He raised his glass. ‘To Castro, may he rot in Hell.’
He took a box of thin cigars from a drawer and offered one. ‘Maria – she is well? Still on Spanish Cay singing at this club. What is it called – the Caravel?’
Manning nodded. He took the package from his waistband and dropped it onto the chart table. ‘There’s her usual letter. How’s her mother?’
Sanchez sighed. ‘Not too good, amigo. Don’t tell Maria. She has enough to worry about.’ He took a soiled envelope from his shirt pocket and passed it across. ‘A letter from the old woman. In it, she of course says that she is fine. This is what she wishes Maria to think.’
‘Still no chance of getting her out?’
Sanchez shook his head. ‘Impossible. In any case, her health would not permit it.’ He clapped Manning on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps next year things will be better, eh? Then you will all be able to come back. You to the business they stole from you, Maria to her home. Things will be as they were.’
Manning shook his head. ‘Nothing stays still, Sanchez. Everything changes.’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ Sanchez sighed and took Manning’s hand. ‘Go with God, amigo, and tell Maria to take care. Two of our people were killed in Honduras last week, shot down in the street. Fidel has a long arm.’
‘In Cuba he may be God incarnate – in
