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collect Bub’s catch. After that Bub was going to head over to Ruby Bay and see if he could sell whatever George couldn’t use to folks in campervans parked along the beach. The school holidays had just finished, so most of those people would be tourists. He’d have to clean the fish for them. Then he’d use one of the rest-area barbecues to cook his own snapper. He’d crack a beer, then catch the tide into his mooring at Mapua, and call it a day. Bub knew he could just get by like this for as long as it took. Eventually he’d figure out what he should do. Or rather—eventually he’d be able to bring himself to hire someone to help him with the nets; or give up the Champion , and his father’s fishing quota. In the meantime he had this: he had the catch of the day.
    It had been five months since Bub’s father had died. He still often caught himself checking behind him so that he wouldn’t step on his dad’s foot or accidentally nudge him into the scuppers or even overboard. Bub’s dad had been a little fellow, five foot eight. Bub was six foot three. The Champion wasn’t a very big boat, and Bub had always had to watch his step around his dad.
    Bub cut theengines and coasted in towards the pier. With less noise the gulls suddenly seemed very loud. Bub looked up at them and said, ‘We come crying hither.’ He wondered what poet that was. Shakespeare, probably—Bub’s mum had been a high school teacher, and very big on Shakespeare.
    Then the gulls fell silent. Abruptly. Utterly. They left the boat, setting their wings at an angle and sliding away forward, skimming the water. The sea before the Champion ’s bow filled with shadows and silver as a thick school of fish sped ahead of her into the shallow water. Bub looked astern, his eyes scanning the sea for whatever had scared the fish. Dolphins perhaps. But the sea behind the boat was empty, and as innocent as milk.
    Bub grabbed his gaff, and made his way lightly along the gunwale to the bow. He picked up the mooring line and waited for the trawler to drift closer to the pier.
    It was then that he noticed thick smoke billowing up near Stanislaw’s Reserve. The short stretch of commercial properties in the centre of Kahukura obscured his view of the fire itself. It must be quite big. He’d have noticed it earlier if he hadn’t been so busy watching the strange behaviour of the fish.
    Actually, now that he was thinking about it, nothing in Kahukura looked quite right. Or—the only thing that looked normal was a guy with a sailboard who had come skimming around Matarau Point about the same time that Bub had brought the Champion into the bay. The sailboarder was now on the beach near the boat ramp. He was zipping his board into its bag.
    Bub cast his line around a hawser and used the gaff to pull his boat into the pier. He made it fast. Then he took a more careful look around. His eyes were drawn to the roof of the old bank, and a huddle of people. They looked like a rugby scrum. Their arms were draped over one another’s shoulders, their heads bowed together. As Bub watched, the people suddenly bounced up out of their huddle, high-fived, then all ran directly off the edge of the roof—every one of them, without pause.
    Bub flinched. His eyes immediately sought the only normal thing they could find—that sailboarder, who Bub saw was now tussling with two men in blood-soaked clothing.
    Bub bellowed. It was a sound of shock, and a challenge.
    The sailboarder heard him and broke away. He clapped his hand to his neck and fled, flat out, towards the pier.
    Bub jumped onto the pier to loosen the mooring line. He cast off, and ran to the wheelhouse to start his engine. It caught and roared into life. Bub yelled, ‘Hurry!’ at the sailboarder, who staggered, then collected himself and sped up.
    He pelted onto the pier, pursued by the bloodied men. Bub let out the throttle a little