: Jon Ransom
: The Whale Tattoo
: Muswell Press
: 9781838340124
: 1
: CHF 10.80
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 240
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
'Ransom has written a hypnotic and even more mysterious second novel...This is a lust-drenched, ache-filled gay love triangle of sorts that gnarls into a sly emotional thriller. The Gallopers is a whispered howl of a novel' Guardian Picked by the Guardian as one of the biggest novels to look out for in 2024. When a giant sperm whale washes up on the local beach it tells Joe Gunner that death will follow him wherever he goes. Joe knows that the place he needs to go is back home. Having stormed out two years ago, it won't be easy, nor will returning to the haunted river beside the house where words ripple beneath the surface washing up all sorts of memories. Joe turns to his sister, Birdee, the only person who has ever listened. But she can't help him, she drowned two years ago. Then there's Tim Fysh, local fisherman and long-time lover. But reviving their bond is bound to be trouble. As the water settles and Joe learns the truth about the river, he finds that we all have the capability to hate, and that we can all make the choice not to. Ransom's fractured, distinctive prose highlights the beauty and brutality of his story, his extraordinarily vivid sense of place saturates the reader with the wet of the river, and the salty tang of the sea.

Jon Ransom was a mentee on the 2019 Escalator Talent Development scheme at the National Centre for Writing. In 2021 he was awarded a grant by Arts Council England to develop his creative practice. Ransom's short stories have appeared in Foglifter Journal, SAND Journal and FIVE:2:ONE and Queer Life, Queer Love (Nov 21) amongst others. @JonLRansom

 

The air, heavy with moisture, turns his red hair to auburn in the half-light. Fysh is wearing baggy black dungarees, messed up with mud and shellfish. I get off Birdee’s pushbike, reluctant to let go of the handlebars. Could turn around and ride back out to the house. Leave Fysh alone with his brother, Doug.

‘You’re late, mate.’

‘Yeah—sorry,’ I say.

‘You all right, or what?’

‘I’m good,’ I lie. I can’t shake the bad feeling I have. What am I doing on theAnn Marie? On this stretch of water? ‘You got a spare cigarette?’

Fysh fumbles around in the front pocket of his dungarees, tosses me a crushed packet, followed by his lighter. ‘Bash on,’ he says. ‘There’s gear for you over there.’ He takes a long look at my wet trainers. Shakes his head. ‘They won’t do, mate.’ Takes his lighter back off me.

The boat smells of hot diesel and sweat. I’ve not been on theAnn Marie since Fysh’s old man died. There’s something about the trawler that unsettles me. The way the fishermen talk without opening their mouths. Fysh says it’s because what happens on board, stays on board. Like their stupid superstitions. One time Fysh scolded me for trying to bust open the buttons on his shorts. Told me two men bumming on board’s no different from having a woman wreck the trip. I don’t know about that. I put on the dungarees, boots and coat he’s set aside for me.

Doug asks, ‘How’s things?’ That same uneasy stare.

I blow blue smoke into the air over his head. ‘Not bad. You?’

He nods. ‘Been better,’ he says, glancing at Fysh. ‘That right, fella?’

‘Nah,’ Fysh says. ‘We’re good.’

Doug is nothing like Fysh. Since we were boys, Doug has circled around me like I’m infectious. Or stink of dog shit. Fysh says it’s all in my head. I don’t know why brothers pretend things are different from how they really are. It’s not like that with Birdee.

The fishing trawler moves to purpose. I hang back, leaning against the winch, watching the backs of the brothers’ heads. The engine settles on a dull grind, cutting an easy path through the muddy river, before heading into open water towards Blackguard Sand on the Outer Roads. Here, sea and sky are the same filthy grey, tidewater whirling. The sound of seabirds, great wingbeats, thunder overhead. Seals surface, then dip beneath the wet.

This is the way of shell fishing. The journey out, manoeuvring through a secret place I’m blind to, until we arrive at a patch of water that looks no different from the water on the horizon. But the air here crackles like static on the television. Agitating me.

We’re anchored above what Fysh promises is a shedload of catch. I consider how deep it runs. Room enough for a gigantic whale?

‘You’ll see,’ Fysh says. Proud, like a pirate. When he gets excited his cheeks flush. They’re the same shade of red they get when he fucks me, just before he cums on my belly.

I sit on a heap of blue coiled rope, knees tucked under my chin. Doug and Fysh have a sawn-down half-barrel a piece, with a plastic up-turned crate for a table. Fysh drinks a can of beer. Doug, tea from a worn yellow plastic flask. I don’t want either. We all eat cheese and ketchup sandwiches Doug’s missus made the night before. Bread stale and sauce congealed. Fit for the birds circling overhead. I chew, listen to them talk hurriedly about quotas, then in more hushed voices about where the shellfish and shrimp are good. Like I care.

Doug says, ‘Heard your old man died.’ And now my bollocks start to properly ache.

‘Jesus—’ Fysh says.

‘Not yet,’ I say.

I think Doug looks amused, but it’s hard to see the line of his mouth beneath his beard. He gets up, goes to the wheel and guns the engine. He manoeuvres the boat in a big circle. Makes one hell of a racket, sending seagulls skywards. The prop churns up the muddy seabed. Engine cuts out and the silence is bigger than the space around us.

‘Won’t be long,’ Doug says. Tosses a rake over. I barely catch it in time. We’re waiting for theAnn Marie to ground on the mudbank with the ebbing tide in the estuary.

 

Sat beside Birdee at the lido, I’m waiting for Fysh to turn up. She’s found a piece of concrete livid with sunshine to put our towels against. ‘Boiling,’ I say, using my t-shirt to collect the sweat hounding my forehead.

‘Go in the water then,’ she says.

‘Nah.’ I’m agitated. Haven’t seen Fysh since we broke up from school three days before. What’ll happen now we don’t ever have to go back?

From here the pool looks wild. Doug and his trawler mates are messing about. Taking turns trying to drown each other. Even though they’re twats, I like looking at them, slinging shiny globs of water all over the place. Once in a while I catch Fysh’s brother eyeing us up. ‘I reckon Doug fancies you.’

Birdee doesn’t even open her eyes. ‘He’s a cunt,’ she says.

‘I’m going in—’

‘You should.’

The river water washes the heat away. I have my elbows hooked against the edge of the pool, hanging there. Doug backs away from his mate, comes close enough to hear me.

‘Alright?’ I say.

He looks over his shoulder.

‘Fysh coming?’

‘No, mate,’ he says. ‘He’s working.’

‘Working?’

‘That’s what I said—you’ll have to find someone else to play with,’ then he disappears beneath the surface.

I hope he fucking drowns, and I climb out of the water. Lie back down on my towel.

‘And—’ Birdee says.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Doug’s a cunt.’

 

She tips on her keel, the motion sending us to our feet. Fysh and Doug take turns throwing equipment overboard onto the mudbank. Heavy knitted blue-nylon sacks, rakes, wooden boards with rope handles either end, and finally themselves down the ladder. I follow them on to the seabed. Fysh’s borrowed boots are a size too big for me, heavy in the sodden mud.

Wasting no time, I work quickly to keep warm. Where there’s no water, there’s nothing beneath to taunt me. Holding on hard, I rock the wooden plank to soften the silt, and pull the cockles to the surface. The brothers work back to back. I’m off to their left, each of us filling our sacks. From time to time I stand up, stretch my sore back, see-saw my shoulders and look about. The unease has worked its way up from my balls to the back of my throat. I can taste vomit there, and old tomato ketchup.

Not the cold. Not our aching muscles. Only the returning dirty-brown salt water sliding back moves us off the seabed. Feels like the world has been tipped sideways. Fysh is already hauling the sacks onto theAnn Marie, using the chain and winch. Doug is breathing down my neck, making certain all the gear is thrown up. The last sack hits the deck of the trawler; Fysh calls out, ‘Come on.’

The tide is galloping on the wind. Now the water is everywhere, threatening and mean-edged. Doug grunts, takes hold of my arm. His grip keeps me tight there. The dark bruises that are his eyes dart left and right as he considers me. ‘Fysh,’ he says, ‘was doing just fine before.’

Somehow I doubt that.

‘He tell you about Dora?’

My breath held, the tide washes around the tops of our boots. What about Dora? We need to get back on the fucking trawler.

‘She’s pregnant.’ Shakes his head. ‘He needs to be a husband—father.’

If Doug has a point, I wish to hell he’d make it before we both drown. Or worse.

‘He ain’t thinking about his wife and baby while he’s fucking you.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re a poofter. A fucking little queer.’

I want to headbutt him in the teeth. Though I can’t move. I can hear it—laughing at me. It’s not far now—

‘My brother ain’t like you.’

Wrong. He’s just like me.

‘You had better disappear. Go back wherever you came from,’ Doug says. ‘And fucking stay there.’

I see everything all at once. The reason why we’re standing with the sea rushing around us. Because big-bollocks Doug made it happen. Swallowing the vomit at the back of my...