He had put it in her tea. It was not so fast acting as to be obvious. In the late evening she had dozed off in a favoured armchair, her face to the fire. She did not weigh much anymore. He had cried, and then carried her to his truck.

Now, in the pale moonlight, with the swells of the sea gently padding against the sides of the boat, he did not know if he could go through with it. Thirty years of marriage reduced to this. Hardly thinking, he got up in one fast motion, and pushed the bundle off the boat side. Down into the black depths it descended, one of his nets catching. An accident. He sat back, contemplative. Time passed or did it? The moon hung there, a solemn witness.

The whine of a tightening rope reached his ears. His net was caught on something. Reaching over the side of the boat he drew it towards him. Now, of all times, the tears came again. The net was heavy and so was his guilt. He had to do it. It was like so much else in his life, a job that had to be done. He had loved her, and he thought, she had loved him. When at last he found out, he had become cold. Cold like the night he now inhabited. She did not know that he knew. He would do what was necessary.

With a final heave, the net and its contents thumped onto the boat. Something pale, his eyes told him. Like a fish, but not a fish. Too big for that. Man sized, but no man. As his hands worked to unfurl the net, rows of silver glinted up at him. When at last he was finished, something leapt forwards. With dagger like incisors worrying at his neck, and his life blood ebbing, Feyman’s last thoughts were that perhaps this too, was necessary.