Last Message by Shane Peacock

Author:Shane Peacock [Peacock, Shane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction, JUV013000, JUV030050, JUV030000
ISBN: 9781554699353
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

The next day I received a call on my cell from the man at the diving place. He had talked to his friend, who he described first as an oceanographer then as a marine scientist and then as a “guy who likes to invent things,” and told him about my interest in St. Ex. The friend had apparently been impressed. He was planning to make a few dives in his submersible that week and was willing to let me go with him.

I was thrilled out of my mind.

But I wasn’t nearly as thrilled when I met my submarine captain. He was standing on the rocks a few miles east of Plongée Internationale, exactly where I was told he would be, the top of his wet suit stripped off and his hairy, naked back turned to me as he stared out over the sea. He was gazing in the direction of l’île de Riou. It was a gorgeous day, the water deep blue and lapping gently on the shore, the sky a lighter blue and cloudless, the white and gray rocks rising up like sculptures on the islands a few miles away. The sea smelled of fish and algae. The submersible was anchored just offshore, a miniature submarine that looked like the one on the cover of one of Dad’s Beatles’ records from eons ago. It really did. It was even yellow and painted with brightly colored peace signs. It was so small that it looked like a toy. I wondered how the two of us would even get into it. It was patched in places too, which didn’t inspire much confidence. A thick hose lay on the rocks in huge coils, tethering the submersible to what appeared to be a massive oil tank or oxygen chamber. It looked like there were literally miles of that hose. A big truck was parked nearby on the little rocky road. A boy of about thirteen or so stood beside the tank and turned to look at me when I approached, though he never said a word. He was wearing designer jeans that were so low-riding that I could see most of his underwear and the top of the crack of his butt. Not a pretty sight. He wore a torn T-shirt with the words Le Punk on it, and his dark hair was done up in some version of dreadlocks. He completely ignored me as I walked by him and right up to the pilot, who I assumed was his father.

“Monsieur Halliday?”

The man nearly jumped out of his wet suit and into the sea.

“Mon dieu!” he cried. “You-you terrify me!” He put his hand over his heart. Or at least I think that was where it was. The gray hair on his chest was so thick that it was hard to tell. A bear would have been proud of such a coat. But he wasn’t built like a bruin. He was as skinny as a rail and the hair on his head was at least as impressive—or unimpressive—as his chest hair.

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