Without warning

Julianne Balwyn was not, at first blush, the sort of fabulous creature one might expect to find gracing one of England’s older landed families. She had the bearing, the soft beauty, and the polished vowels of a woman whose family had enjoyed hundreds of years of privilege and favour. But in her case, as with her father, something had gone wrong. Lord Balwyn, a spectacular wastrel and confidence man, often used to tell her that Sir Francis Drake had added his seed to the Balwyn family line, accounting for the freebooters and blackguards who regularly popped up in their history, and whether it was true or not – Jules was smart enough to take everything her father said with a mountain of salt – it was undeniable that in the last Lord Balwyn’s eldest daughter, the family’s propensity for throwing up the occasional black sheep had reached a very particular zenith.

As she cross-decked from the Diamantina to the Aussie Rules, however, she found herself once again grateful to her father for instilling in her such a bleak, pragmatic, Nietzschean view of humanity. While Pete, their putative leader, was lost in an uncontrolled moment of fan-boy worship, Jules kept her head down and her poo in one sock. A favourite saying of Daddy’s.

‘Holy shit,’ cried Pete. ‘You know what? I do know this tub. I remember reading about it now. I think this is Greg Norman’s yacht.’

‘Who?’ asked Fifi.

‘You know,’ said Pete, who was now very excited. ‘The golfer – “the Great White Shark”? A terrible fuckin’ choker, actually, but a great businessman. I think he designed a lot of golf courses when he wasn’t losing PGA play-offs. Talk about money for nothing and your chicks for free. Although, you know, with your lady golfers, there’s a reason those chicks are free… Anyway, I’m pretty sure this is his yacht. Or was.’

‘You think so?’ Jules deadpanned, as they stood by a large swimming pool inlaid with a stylised shark motif. She was holding a solid gold putter in one hand and a white straw hat in the other, both items sporting the same cartoon outline of a great white.

‘Greg who?’ asked Fifi.

Pete shook his head despairingly. ‘If it ain’t Nascar it just ain’t real for you, is it, sweetheart?’

‘What’s up with Nascar?’

Before Pete could answer, Jules cut him off, clicking her fingers in an effort to bring the others back to reality. ‘Excuse me, people – end of the world over here. Greg Norman’s yacht getting all Mary Celeste on us? Let’s maintain our focus, shall we?’

‘Sorry,’ said Pete. ‘It’s just, you know, it’s the Shark, baby!’

‘Stupid fucking game anyway,’ muttered Fifi. ‘Buncha fat-ass white guys in ugly pants, driving around in those faggy little carts…’

‘Fifi.’ Jules’s voice took on a warning edge. She was fond of her white-trash friend, but managing the bimbo eruptions was a full-time job.

‘Got it, got it. Maintaining focus.’

‘Come on, let’s have a little look-see,’ said Jules.

She slipped her carbine over one shoulder and took out a handgun, a Beretta Px4, even though she wasn’t expecting to find anyone on board. They’d been calling out since boarding, but it had the same feeling as knocking on the door of an empty house. She knew they were alone. The ever-suspicious Fifi, however, kept a sawn-off shotgun to hand with a shell racked in the tube. Her thumb stroked the safety, ready to flick it off at the slightest provocation.

The three of them walked around the pool, located on the second of four upper decks, the sun glinting fiercely off the water as it slowly sloshed around with the gentle motion of the boat. The tip of the Diamantina’s main mast rolled through a small arc a few metres away. By leaning over the polished rail, Jules could see the top of Mr Lee’s bald head a long way below. The pool looked to be about ten metres long, with four round, black stools peeping above the waterline at the far end, where they abutted a full bar with its own beer taps and all the fixings for a high-end cocktail party. A large plate of fruit salad, wilted in the heat, lay untouched in the centre of the polished hardwood bar-top. White padded cushions lay along both sides of the pool, with pillows scattered here and there. She could read Pete like a cheap novel and knew that it was all he could do to resist diving in and asking the girls to set him up a margarita. To move things along, she strode forward, taking the port-side companionway.

‘Hello,’ she called out once more. ‘Is anyone on board? Do you need help?’

‘Oh fuck… Oh, gross me out!’

Jules spun around at the sound of Fifi’s distress, reaching for her weapon again, but no obvious threat had emerged from anywhere. Rather, Fifi was dancing about as if she’d trodden in something nasty. Which she had.

‘Oh goddamn!’ Fifi cursed again. ‘This is worse than rendered hog fat.’

‘What is it?’ asked Jules, as she hurried over, just one step behind Pete.

‘Gawd, that is nasty,’ he said, suddenly pulling up.