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Deliberately Murgatroyd placed the jaws of the cutters either side of the steel trace, where it was spliced to the shank of the hook. He squeezed. Blood came out of his palm and ran in the salt water over the marlin's head. He squeezed again and the steel wire parted.
'What are you doing? He'll get away,' shouted Higgins.
The Emperor stared at Murgatroyd as another wave ran over him. He shook his tired old head and pushed the spike of his beak into the cool water. The next wave rolled him back onto his belly and he dropped his head deeper. Away to the left his great crescent tail rose and fell, driving wearily at the water. When it made contact it flicked twice and pushed the body forward and down. The tail was the last they saw, laborious in its fatigue, driving the marlin back beneath the waves to the cold darkness of its home.
'Bloody hell,' said Kilian.
Murgatroyd tried to stand up, but too much blood had rushed to his head. He remembered the sky turning slowly once in a big circle and the dusk coming very fast. The decking rose up to hit him first in the knees and then in the face. He fainted. The sun hung suspended above the mountains of Mauritius in the west.
It had set by one hour when the Auantcruised home across the lagoon and Murgatroyd had come awake. On the journey Kilian had taken back the trousers and sweater, so the cool evening air could play on the scorched limbs. Now Murgatroyd had drunk three beers in a row and sat slumped on one of the benches, shoulders hunched, his hands in a bucket of cleansing salt water. He took no notice when the boat moored beside the timber jetty and Jean-Paul scampered off towards the village.
Old Monsieur Patient closed the engines down and made sure the painters were secure.
He threw the large bonito and the dorado onto the pier and stowed the tackle and lures. Kilian heaved the cold-box onto the jetty and jumped back into the open well.
'Time to go,' he said.
Murgatroyd pulled himself to his feet and Kilian helped him to the quay. The hem of his shorts had fallen to below his knees and his shirt flapped open about him, dark with dried sweat. His plimsoles squelched. A number of villagers were lining the narrow jetty, so they had to walk in single file. Higgins had gone ahead.
The first person in the line was Monsieur Patient. Murgatroyd would have shaken hands but they hurt too much. He nodded to the boatman and smiled.
'Merci,' he said.
The old man, who had recovered his chip hat, pulled it from his head. 'Salut, Maitre,' he replied.
Murgatroyd walked slowly up the jetty. Each of the villagers bobbed his head and said, 'Salut, Maitre.' They reached the end of the planking and stepped into the gravel of the village street. There was a large crowd of villagers grouped round the car. 'Salut, salut, salut, Maitre,' they said quietly.
Higgins was stowing the spare clothing and the empty brunch box. Kilian swung the cold-trunk over the tailboard and slammed the door. He came to the rear passenger side where Murgatro
yd waited.
'What are they saying?' whispered Murgatroyd.
'They're greeting you,' said Kilian. 'They're calling you a master-fisherman.'
'Because of the Emperor?'
'He's something of a legend around here.'
'Because I caught the Emperor?'
Kilian laughed softly. 'No, Engelsman, because you gave him his life back.'
They climbed into the car, Murgatroyd in the back where he sank gratefully into the cushions, his hands cupped, palms burning, in his lap. Kilian took the wheel, Higgins next to him.
'I say, Murgatroyd,' said Higgins, 'these villagers seem to think you're the cat's whiskers.'
Murgatroyd stared out of the window at the smiling brown faces and waving children.
'Before we go back to the hotel we'd better stop by the hospital at Flacq and let the doctor have a look at you,' said Kilian.
The young Indian doctor asked Murgatroyd to strip down and clucked in concern at what he saw. The buttocks were blistered raw from the contact backwards and forwards with the seat of the fishing chair. Deep purple welts furrowed shoulders and back where the webbing had bitten in. Arms, thighs and shins were red and flaking from sunburn and the face was bloated from the heat. Both palms looked like raw steak.
'Oh, dear me,' said the doctor, 'it will take some time.'
'Shall I call back for him in, say, a couple of hours?' asked Kilian.
'There is no need,' said the doctor. 'The H6tel St Geran is close to my journey home. I will drop the gentleman off on my way.'
