The boat wheeled round the buoy. A mist descended. First the net came through the winch where Thady freed it of fish. Behind him the others drew it into two piles, cleaning it as they went of seaweed and gravel. It came up trailing extraordinary vegetation. A dark green stench from the bed of the ocean filled the boat. Strange shellfish crawled across the deck. Oily blossoms fell away. Jack hauled to starboard on the lead line, Hugh to port. At their feet the net, dripping thick fluids, was piled.

The hauling seemed to go on forever. The turbot, flattened by countless fathoms of seawater, were thrown into boxes. The mist grew dense. Seagulls flew by. The boat slopped in the silence. It seemed they had lost touch with human kind. Then, like a voice from hell, some message crackled across the radio. The silence afterwards was deafening. The brooding skipper leaned out of the window to see where he was. He tacked to port, and they chugged slowly forward. Sometimes through a break in the mist they might see the buoy fluttering away off in the distance, then it would disappear again as the fog closed in around them. The mist moved across the boat in silent wet balls. Catherine climbed onto the foredeck, and tried to hold down the bile in her throat.

From below, the cheerful voices of the fishermen reached her like voices from another dimension. Their normality made each voice discordant. That they seemed familiar with all this ghostly otherworld alarmed her.

“Any sign of the buoy?” asked Hugh.

Hauling steadily, Jack looked out to starboard.

“Any sign?” Hugh called.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Will you try and stay with me,” Hugh complained.

A few minutes later they were still hauling, hauling.

“Anything yet?” asked Hugh.

Jack did not answer.

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” called Jack.

“There’s no need to be so fucking short-tempered.”

“Stop pulling so fucking quickly.”

Their arms worked furiously in short circles as they jabbed out to grab the wet net. The winch screeched. The hauling seemed to go on forever. Falling forward, falling back on their heels with the momentum of the boat. The nets were now waist-high.

“There must be some sign of her now.”

“Nothing.”

“Look again, will you.”

Jack stopped pulling and caught his breath. He straightened. He glanced at Catherine. Then he looked out to sea. The winch kept turning. The net kept coming in. A bird screamed overhead. They were alone in a small clearing in the mist. He searched the sea ahead.

“I can see no sign of the United Ireland,” said Jack.

“Oh but you are some bollacks,” said Hugh.