Something Fishy by Derek Hansen

Author:Derek Hansen [Hansen, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2016-03-12T05:00:00+00:00

The Peppermint Pom

Terry looked at the rotating cowl atop his stainless-steel chimney and thought lubricating it would be a cinch, the sort of thing any chartered accountant could do. He’d bought the squeeze bottle of graphite he’d been told to use and borrowed his neighbour’s extension ladder. A wiser man might have waited for a calm day, but the deep-throated moaning and groaning of the cowl swinging in the wind had been driving his wife spare. She’d made him promise to fix it before he went fishing. He hoped a squeeze of graphite would silence both the cowl and his wife.

When he lifted off the cowl he was surprised at how light it was. When a sudden gust came up and blew him off the roof he was surprised how something so small could catch so much wind. When he hit the ground he was surprised how much it hurt.

‘Barry,’ he gasped into his mobile phone, ‘I’ve had an accident. I won’t be able to go. Sorry.’ He had just enough time to make a second call for an ambulance before he lost consciousness.

‘Terry’s a non-starter,’ said Big Barry to Carlton. Like Terry, they were also chartered accountants but with different specialisations: Big Barry worked in insolvency while Carlton was a tax adviser.‘He fell off his roof.’

‘What on earth was he doing up there?’ said Carlton.

‘Nothing he was good at.’

Carlton smiled into the phone. Accountants weren’t supposed to have a sense of humour but this was the way he and his mates carried on. Nothing was so serious that they couldn’t find a laugh in it.

‘Anything break his fall?’ said Carlton, picturing Terry’s home and the height of the roof.

‘Only the ground,’ said Big Barry.

This time Carlton laughed out loud.

‘Poor bugger,’ he said.‘How is he?’

‘Broke his leg.’

‘Ouch.’

‘In two places.’

‘Ouch, ouch.’

‘He rang me before he rang the ambulance.’

‘At least he understood the gravity of the situation.’ This time it was Big Barry’s turn to laugh.

‘I’ll tell him what you said when I see him tonight,’ said Big Barry.‘He’s in Royal North Shore. But, mate, it’s time to get serious. He was our last reserve. His broken leg leaves us a man short.’

Every two years the boys abandoned jobs, families and their normal sense of responsibility and went away fishing together. This time Big Barry had been the organiser and he’d arranged a barramundi fishing expedition to Maningrida, way up at the Top End in the wilds of Arnhemland. He’d spent hours on the internet talking to barramundi fishermen before settling on Maningrida. According to his research, the Liverpool and Blyth rivers were loaded with the best saltwater barra fishing in the country. Normally Maningrida fished three anglers to a boat but Big Barry had been advised that fishing in pairs was the way to go. The boys had agreed to pay an extra five hundred dollars each for the privilege. There was one drawback to Maningrida, however, and for a while it had been something of a sticking point. Maningrida was on Aboriginal land and there were tough penalties for anyone caught taking alcohol there.

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