Chapter One
The air tasted of salt, flavoured by tiny droplets torn from the waves by a north wind. Solomon breathed in, savouring the moment. After a month in the stale shell of the Regalia, it was good to be by the coast again; even better to be on board a boat for pleasure rather than work.
A small flock of guillemots bobbed in the water as the boat ploughed past, but Solomon did not spare them more than a passing glance. He was looking for a rarer addition to the Scottish seascape: a wreck buoy.
From amongst the dive bags and air tanks on the deck, a groan distracted him from his search. Solomon tossed the apple he had been eating down amongst the equipment.
"Wake up you lazy sod," he shouted above the noise of rushing air and the clattering motor.
Spaceman raised his head from the pillow he had made from a rolled up drysuit. He looked quite unwell. "Jesus. What time is it?"
"It’s two hours since high tide. We should be at the site just as the tide turns slack."
"I'm so happy. Really. We've spent a month freezing our backsides off on the Regalia, we're on leave, and you drag me from the arms of my true love and back into the bloody water. Thanks, Sol. You’re a great friend."
Solomon grinned. "True love? There’s a new one every time we get back to dry land. I didn't recognise her."
"What? You didn't recognise Ros?" Spaceman clambered to his feet, a little unsteadily. He wore a woollen hat pulled down almost to his eyes, and a thick coat zipped to his lower lip, so that Solomon could only see a thin strip of his face. It was enough to reveal Spaceman’s scowl. "I've been seeing her since March."
"I thought Ros had red hair?"
"She does. Sometimes." Spaceman grinned. "Anyway, this better pay off or I'm in deep shite. She likes the finer things in life. Promised her a Gucci handbag to make up for leaving her this morning and I'm skint."
"It'll pay off. The skipper here is an old friend." Solomon gesture to the cabin where a hulking walrus of a man peered over the boat's controls. “He’s given us a sure-fire tip this time.”
"Humph. Hell of a long way to come for your stupid bet."
"Our stupid bet. You don't want Murphy's boys to win again do you? Last year was a nightmare. An expensive nightmare."
"Aye. It was a few Gucci bags’ worth."
A whistle from the cabin indicated that they had reached their destination, and the boat swung around in a tight arc. Solomon and Spaceman moved in unison to steady the air tanks in their rack and stop them tumbling to the deck. As the engines cut off, Solomon glared at the skipper's broad back. The old man was clearly not used to carrying dive equipment.
Six hundred yards away an archipelago of black rocks pierced the surface, each dotted with white seabirds. Anchored nearby was a small flotilla of charter boats, fluorescent buoys floating alongside each one. Solomon knew what would go through Spaceman's mind when he spotted them, and restrained a smile as his friend's expression darkened.
"Shite, man. This is a bloody tourist site. That's Church Rock out there. I dived that when I was a wee bairn."
"You were never a wee bairn. You grew up in Islington."
"I was still a bairn."
Spaceman shook his head as onboard one of the boats a novice diver staggered to his feet. Like some giant, mutant guillemot, he waddled across the deck and toppled off into the water. After a second he resurfaced and signalled with the 'O' signal taught by PADI dive schools that he had survived. Spaceman shook his head again.
"Look at that, Sol. Clueless shite. They should pump their tanks full of cyanide."
"We're not here to dive with the tourists. A fishing trawler went down here last night. The skipper says it was a local bloke who liked to drink as he fished. He probably bashed it on the rocks when they were submerged and was too pissed to realise. There’s no way he can have salvaged yet, so we should be in luck."
"Assuming Murphy's not been here first?"
"I think most of his boys are on shift, so I doubt it. It should be a piece of piss, but I brought the radio masks in case it's broken up and we need to do a proper search."
"You're a bloody obsessive." Spaceman stripped off his coat and Thinsulate fleece, revealing an extensive tattoo collection that made his chest resemble a mobile art gallery. "Nice weather. This is like Ibiza compared to where we've been." Clambering onto the side of the boat he waved his arms towards the charter boats. Pale faces looked across at him.
"Hey, tourists! Watch out for the sharks! There's fucking massive sharks round here!"
"Leave the poor sods alone," Solomon admonished. He could not stop himself from grinning as the tourists looked worriedly at each other, their eyes wide.
Spaceman pointed suddenly down at the water and adopted a dramatic, fear-filled pose. "Jesus -- look at the size of that!" He waved his arms at the tourist boat again. "Go home! You're all going to die!"
Solomon tossed a dive mask at him. "Stop pissing about. I don't want to miss the slack tide."
"You're right, boss. Gucci handbags and Ros' undying gratitude await."
***
Even through the insulated material of the dry suit, the chill of the North Sea tingled Solomon’s skin like the onset of illness. It was a warning that he had learned to respect. Minute by minute the symptoms would worsen. Imperceptibly his fingers and toes would grow numb. Soon it would spread inside: creeping fingers of infection burrowing into lungs and heart and brain, stealing his heat and slowing his blood. The cold was an insidious killer. He knew the importance of monitoring its progress.
Gradually, the shock of submersion subsided. He squeezed his hands into fists, forcing his fingers to the tips of his gloves, and tightened his belt a little. Satisfied that his gear was well adjusted, Solomon pressed the air release on his buoyancy jacket and began to descend.
They had been lucky with the weather below as well as above. Visibility was good, and he could see Spaceman's silver flippers flashing as he burrowed down towards the bottom. Thirty feet below him was the sunken ship. She sat upright on the sloping seabed, like a miniature Ark on an undersea Mount Sinai.
Solomon tried to remember her name: The Fairweather V, he thought, or maybe VI. It did not really matter. Whatever the name or history, visiting a wreck always sent shivers of strange emotion through him. The trawler looked perfect, as though it had been deliberately moored on the bottom of the sea. Wreck diving felt to Solomon like intruding into a ghost town; entering monuments of man where man should not have been. Even more than this, shipwrecks were a sign that man had failed, that he had been forced out by the merciless power of nature.
A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. Solomon twisted in time to see a guillemot spearing down into the water. It was joined by a dozen more, their wings flapping through the liquid in a crude pantomime of flight. Beady eyes twisted in their sockets. Webbed feet flapped as if back-pedalling.
They saw our bubbles from the surface, he realised. Probably thought we were a shoal of fish and dived to catch us...
"Dumb birds," Spaceman muttered through the radio, as though reading Solomon's mind. "Okay, man?"
Solomon glanced down to give him an 'okay' sign. Spaceman was hovering just above the wreck, facemask tipped upwards.
"Yeah, yeah. I’m fine."
He dropped down again, watching as the guillemots scrabbled amongst the silver sheen of bubbles, snapping at anything that could conceivably be food. The birds looked alien underwater, out of place, just like the sunken boat.
"Looks like we can swim straight into the cabin,” Spaceman said. “You got the camera for evidence?"
Solomon tapped the small digital camera on his belt.
"Cool. Hey, this is a big boat for one man. Old too. Some of these fittings are pretty nice."
"Well, we'll just stick to what we need. We're not tomb robbers."
"The captain didn't die did he?"
"These wrecks always feel like tombs to me. Know what I mean?"
A rasping burst of air as Spaceman took a breath, then, "Yeah man, I know..." he replied. "I know that you're a pussy."
"Fuck off."
The door to the cabin hung ajar in the stillness of the slack tide. Brittle stars explored the entrance, already colonising the new habitat, their filament legs reaching out tremulously. Solomon brushed them away as Spaceman finned across to the door and held it open.
"After you," Spaceman said.
"Thanks."
The cabin was filled with floating debris. Charts, magazines, fishing gear, and clothes hung in the water like the playthings of a sub-aqua poltergeist. Solomon exhaled to swoop low beneath a mass of newspaper and then moved forward in short spurts, sweeping objects out of his path.
As he closed in on the control panel there was a scraping noise, elongated by the water into a low moan. Sounds carried fast underwater, reaching both ears near simultaneously, and it was impossible to tell from which direction they came. Solomon made an educated guess.
"That you, Spaceman?"
"Shite. Sorry. Trying to go above all this floating shite, but the roof's too low."
"Try not to break anything."
In front of him was the object of their dive: The ship's wheel. Every year Solomon and Moz Murphy, leaders of the two best dive teams in Scotland, performed their salvage challenge, competing to collect the most wheels. It had begun as a private game, but had grown to a contest that every diver followed. Drunken bets were placed in bars and boats and rigs right across the country. After an attempted fraud two years previously, each salvaged ship’s wheel now needed photographic evidence before becoming eligible. Solomon reached for the camera at his belt, snapped off a couple of shots, and then pulled out his tool bag. Spaceman drifted to his side as he began work.
"Very nice. Don’t get many wooden wheels these days."
"Looks like the old boy was a nostalgic as well as a drunk."
Solomon applied his wrench to the nuts holding the wheel in place. An experimental twist made no impact. Using his free arm to wedge himself against the control panel he was able to apply enough pressure to twist it a little, but his breathing was getting deeper already.
"Going to use up a lot of air," Spaceman said.
"There’s plenty for this depth. It’ll be worth a bit of puff. We must be three or four wheels ahead already this year. No way Murphy’s boys will catch up now."
"Not unless they start sinking boats themselves. I can't see Murphy bothering to go searching for deep wrecks. The fat lazy sod."
Solomon grunted as a second nut came loose and sank to the metal floor of the cabin. He heard it land,almost felt it, as if someone had tapped on his skull with a tiny mallet. Compared to the shuddering vibration of the impact wrenches they used at work, it was nothing.
"So, are you serious about Ros? You're going to have to move out of the Skean Dhu if you are. Nice girls don't like men who live in hotels."
"I like living in the Skean Dhu. I tell you what, when BA stop putting up their trolley dollies there, and when Exprodia stop picking up my bill, then I'll move out."
"You’re too old to be chasing air-hostesses. Nice girls definitely don't like that."
"Ros is an air-hostess," Spaceman replied. “And who said she’s a nice girl?”
Solomon glanced up to roll his eyes, but Spaceman had twisted around to survey the cabin. At the back, by the entrance door, they had passed a hatch down to the living quarters.
"If you’re going to be a while I might take a look downstairs,” Spaceman said.
"Okay. Be careful."
A third nut drifted to the floor as Spaceman disappeared. Solomon gave the wheel a tug. The remaining nuts loosened their hold a little, but not enough to allow him to wrench the steering wheel free.
Through the windscreen he could see the outline of their own boat hanging overhead like a cloud. His knowledge of salvage laws was hazy at best, but he doubted the local fishermen would be too pleased with their souvenir hunting. Captain Walrus better not scarper if the locals turn up, Solomon thought. It’s a long swim back to shore.
A noise made him stop his work. It was another low moan, but deeper and more ominous than the last. He could not tell if he had heard it through his headphones or through the water around him.
"Spaceman?"
"Not me this time,” Spaceman said, his voice clear over the radio, “Probably just the tide picking up and moving something on the deck."
Solomon twisted around, scanned the walls and ceiling, and then peered back out through the windscreen. A faint haze of disturbed sand hung in the water around the edges of the wreck. He tried to remember if it had been there before.
“There isn’t a tide to move things around. We’re at slack tide, remember?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The haze of sand swirled suddenly outside the windscreen.
"I don’t like this Spaceman. Something’s wrong. I think you'd better come up."
"Jesus, don’t be such a..."
The ship lurched to one side, toppling from its upright position in a billowing cloud of silt. Solomon tumbled down against the wall of cabin, the bulkhead slamming into his shoulder and sending pain arrowing through him.
Spaceman's gasp of surprise was loud across the short-wave. "Okay, I'll give you this one," he said. "Coming back now. "
Leaving the steering wheel dangling from its mount, Solomon kicked for the entrance. The cabin moved around him, sending debris swirling in the water. With a jab of panic he realised that that the boat was beginning to tumble down the slope of the seabed. Sand billowed up through the doorway as it rotated before him. He heard Spaceman curse.
“Hurry up, Spaceman! The seabed drops into a fucking abyss just past Church Rock! We don’t want to be stuck inside if she goes over.”
Solomon paused in the doorway, gripping the frame as it turned. It took him with it. The seabed loomed overhead, towering like a muddy cliff.
"There's shite falling everywhere... Ow, Jesus!"
There was a thread of the panic in Spaceman's voice too. Solomon shone his belt light at the hatch to the hold, now inclined at a precipitous angle above him. He could see Spaceman's light flickering around inside.
"Come on, it's going to flip over!"
"Get out yourself, man! I'm coming. Go!"
The seabed was rushing towards him now as the boat rolled like the carcass of a whale caught by a wave. Through clouds of silt he watched the angle of open water being swallowed up. He had to go now or he would be trapped.
Kicking his flippers hard, he shot out underneath the deck, his face inches from the seabed. The rail of the boat caught a glancing blow on his foot, ripping the fin from it. His heart beat loud in his ears. Exhalation bubbles roared around him as he twisted, righting himself in the water. The Fairweather had flipped completely, burying the deck and cabin in the mud. For the moment it seemed balanced, not quite ready to tumble further down towards the vertical drop-off that marked the start of the deep sea.
He could not see Spaceman.
"Hey, you there?"
For a moment only the hissing of his air answered him. Solomon flicked off his remaining flipper and circled above the upended hull. "Spaceman?" he called again.
"I'm here."
His friend's voice was strained, as though he were trying to move some heavy obstacle as he answered. There was a frustrated gasp.
"Shit. I'm trapped."
Solomon saw a flash of movement behind a porthole on the starboard side and dragged himself through the water towards it. A faint pull told him that the tide was turning. A cold dread flitted through him. When the tide turned there was no way he would be able to help. They had fifteen minutes at most.
"I think I see you," Solomon said. "Look out the porthole."
He grasped the brass rim and peered into the ship. A light flashed in the darkness, illuminating bedclothes and books. Spaceman’s face appeared at the glass on the other side.
"Not looking good, man. The hatch to the deck’s blocked and my air's running out."
"You never did learn to control your breathing."
"Big lungs,” Spaceman said. “Don’t think it’d make much difference anyway. I’m trapped."
“Not for long. Let’s think about this. Maybe we can roll her over again?” Solomon pushed against the hull of the trawler, but soon saw it was ridiculous. With no surface to prop against, it was as effective as a seagull bouncing against an oilrig.
Spaceman watched him impassively through the small thick pane of the porthole. Solomon avoided his gaze. The boat that had brought them was a pleasure boat. It did not have any salvage equipment, and it would take a winch to flip the Fairweather back upright. He glanced about for a tool to prise open the boards of the boat's hull, but all he could see was mud stretching away into the distance in all directions.
"I'd better get up top and call the coastguard," he said. "Stay cool, Spaceman. I'll be back soon."
He made to move away, but Spaceman's voice stopped him.
"There’s no time for that and you know it. Don’t go, Sol."
"Maybe the tourist boats could help. There must be something I can do; we’ve been in worse spots than this..." Solomon’s voice caught in his throat. “Remember when the electrics went on that diving bell last year? We got out of it okay, right? Two hundred metres down in freezing, pitch-black water, but we got out of it. We escaped from the bottom of the North Sea. I can see the surface, Spaceman. It isn’t supposed to happen like this. I can see the fucking surface!”
"Doesn’t matter how deep we are. There’s nothing we can do. Don’t go, Sol."
For ten minutes Solomon clung to the porthole. His fingers grew numb and the cold began to pierce him, but he kept his grip. Bubbles trickled from his respirator like sands from an hourglass. Each exhalation brought the end closer. They did not talk until a rush of frustration caused him to pummel against the trawler, pounding his clenched fists against unyielding wood.
“It’s my fault. I lead you on this stupid race...”
"Sol?"
Solomon looked down to the porthole. Spaceman's face was close to the glass, his eyes wide.
"Buy Ros a Gucci bag for me."
"Okay, man. Okay."
"Sol?"
"Yes?"
"Just get a fake one. She won’t know the difference."
Through the murky glass he saw that Spaceman's eyes were closing.
"Weird noises in here," Spaceman said, his voice sounding weak and drowsy. "Sounds like a moth at a window. You know, when they try to get into the house and they flutter against the glass... that’s what I hear, Sol. Must be some weird fish or something...."
Solomon heard a dry rasp on the radio and then a sigh. Spaceman’s tank was empty. Their eyes met through the glass.
“Forgive yourself, Sol. Forgive yourself.”
Spaceman's flashlight flicked off.
"Spaceman?" he called, tapping on the porthole. "Spaceman! Turn your light back on. I can't see you!"