Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee Page A

when his or her pot was pulled. It was supposed to stop overfishing; a person couldn’t drop six pots a day on behalf of absent friends.
    In the boat motoring toward the broken concrete boat ramp, Sarah counted four heads. She was in no doubt they had cleared five pots. She crossed her arms. She wouldn’t say anything. Don knew how she felt about illegal fishing. They’d had the conversation more than once.
    Hall stood beside her with the wide-legged stance of a farmer, his shoulders broad above stringy hips. He took a couple of photos. There wasn’t much to photograph; submerged kelp-covered rocks prevented a pure reflection of the sky, and the water looked dirty. Six or seven tinnies tugged at the ropes leashing them to wire cables drilled into the rocks on either side of the bay. Low tide meant the ropes, tied to bow and stern, were too short, and the tinnies jerked as if they were hog-tied.
    As the boat got closer, she recognized Erica perched on the bow, waving with her whole arm. Behind her was Sam Shelley. He didn’t wave.
    Don cut the engine and Erica jumped off the side, landing in thigh-deep water. Wash sprayed over her as she guided the boat through the shallows. It looked like fun.
    “Good catch!” Erica shouted.
    Sarah didn’t react. Hopefully Hall would be oblivious to Erica’s double entendre.
    “Thirteen,” Erica said. “We would have had more, but an octopus got into Pamela’s pot. Nothing left but two heads.”
    “That always happens to Pammy.” Don grinned. “You should put out your pot, Sarah.”
    “I’m all right.” The thought of being in a boat and making cheery conversation with the lot of them was abhorrent. She preferred to fish alone.
    “I’ve told you I’m happy to put it out for you,” Don offered.
    “Where is Pamela?” Sarah asked, pretending to look around. No one answered.
    Sarah waded over to the boat and unraveled strands of weed coiled around the propeller, flicking the green ribbons into the breeze. It was beyond her why Don flaunted his readiness to break fishing laws in front of a journalist. He wasn’t stupid. He knew a lot about fish and was an astute businessman. Before they bought the shop Don had sold real estate. He had made so much money from that business that now he and Pamela escaped every Tasmanian winter, flying two thousand kilometers north to their beach house at Queensland’s exclusive Noosa Heads. Their lifestyle was something that most Tasmanians would only ever dream of.
    From the bow of the boat, Sam was watching Erica. Her bikini bottoms were showing through her wet shorts. Sarah glanced at Hall, wondering if he had noticed too, but he was busy picking bindii prickles out of his socks.
      
    Don slid his empty trailer down the ramp with the ease of a man who had done it many times before. While he winched the boat onto the trailer, John approached Hall. It was horrible watching her father talk to the man she had just had sex with.
    “I’ve written half a dozen letters to the Voice, ” John said. “No reply. No attention is being paid to that abomination on the point. Who’s running that rag?”
    “I’m afraid I’m not up to date with the issue,” Hall said. “Not my area.”
    “They’ve painted it Mardi Gras purple. Stands out like cat’s balls. You can see it two nautical miles out to sea. It doesn’t comply with the local environmental plan; that’s what makes me really angry.”
    “Let me think of the name of the guy you need to talk to.”
    “What’s the point? The Tassie Voice won’t publish real news.”
    Sarah felt herself deflate. She tried to catch her father’s eye. It was futile. If she did manage to make eye contact, he was just as likely to make a big deal out of it and ask her what she was trying to say.
    “Dad, admit your interest,” Sarah said. “He owns a block behind the massive new shack, so he’s not being completely honest.”
    Black snake fast, John whipped his head around. “You are missing the