And he sees for a fleeting moment, closest of all to the tank, his mum and dad. They smile and wave at him and mouth, We’re so proud of you, Stan. We love you, Stan.
And then they’re gone.
Stan swims up to the surface. He grips the ladder. He climbs out. He stands there and bows. The crowd roars and roars. And then Stan climbs back down and rushes into the arms of Annie and Ernie Potts.
So let’s say hurrah for Stanley Potts. He’s a boy that’s become a different kind of boy. He’s the scrawny kid who grew up with all kinds of trouble, fishiness and daftness, but who’s brave and bold enough to be the hero of this tale. His life has opened up before him. He’ll swim with piranhas night after night. He won’t get eaten. Piranhas aren’t really that dangerous after all – or not if we are to believe Pancho Pirelli. Maybe in a while Stan’ll leave the piranhas behind, find other challenges to face. Maybe he will go to the Amazon and the Orinoco. Maybe he’ll go to Siberia and Ashby de la Zouch. Certainly he’ll keep on finding other ways to grow, and he’ll become an even different kind of Stanley Potts.
And his family, that has become such a different kind of family, will grow and change along with him. There they all are, celebrating together happily, with the cheering crowd around them. Pancho draws the tarpaulin back across the tank. Now they’ll all head towards the hook-a-duck, where they’ll light a fire, nibble scorching spuds and drink black pop. Let’s let them go. Let’s leave them to their celebrations and their memories, and their plans for splendid futures.
The crowd disperses. The lights start to dim. The moon drops towards the horizon and the endless stars in the endless darkness glitter and glow. Every heart beats faster. Every eye is shining. Every mind contains the seeds of weird and wonderful dreams. Even Tickle Peter, after all his years of glumness, smiles.
Oh, and here they come, out of the shadows, moving into the spaces left behind by the happy ones: Clarence P. Clapp and his daft lads, Doug and Alf and Fred and Ted. Look, they’re sneaking towards the fish tank. Could it be that Clarence P. is about to prove that they aren’t piranhas after all? They’re getting closer. They’re lifting the tarpaulin. They’re laughing at the tiny tiddlers. They’re jeering and mocking, as daft lads do. Oh, and look. Clarence P. is already on the ladder. He’s climbing up. Surely he’s not going to jump into the…
What do you think should happen? Should Clarence P. jump in? Maybe it doesn’t matter if he does. Maybe the piranhas will prove to be tiny tiddlers after all. But maybe Clarence P. should get gobbled up. After all, Clarence P. and Doug and Alf and Fred and Ted aren’t exactly angels, are they? They’ve done some pretty nasty stuff in this story. Look what they did to Annie and Ernie. Imagine what they did to that poor motorist. Imagine the bother they’re going to cause in the future. And Clarence P., who’s nearly at the top of the ladder now, is the boss. Some would say, of course, that blokes like Clarence P. and the daft lads are just misled. Maybe they had troubled childhoods. Maybe there are a few important cells missing from their brains. Maybe they need some counselling, or to have some music played to them, or somebody just to give them a good cuddle. I can’t decide.
Anyway, Clarence looks down at the piranhas. He looks down at the lads.
“Jump in, boss,” says Doug.
“These is just tiddlers,” says Alf.
“Jump,” says Fred.
“Well said, Fred,” says Ted.
Clarence P. is now at the edge.
It’s up to you. If you were writing the story, what would you make happen? Does he jump? And if he jumps, what happens next? Maybe it’ll help to think about what Stanley Potts, the hero of our story, might make Clarence P. do. Or maybe it doesn’t really matter at all. Whatever you decide, this is just a story. Clarence P. Clapp only exists in the pages of this book and in that mysterious place, your imagination.
Anyway, decide now if you’d like to. Then there’s one last little chapter to bring us to the end.
Of course, there’s never really a proper end. The people who’ve lived through this tale will live through many more. But we have to come to a halt somewhere, and this is it. Let’s rise and fly. Let’s leave behind the fairground field and everybody in it. Let’s go higher, higher. The field with its lights and noise diminishes. We see the town spread out beyond it, and the strings of lights linking this to other glowing towns and cities. We see the darkness of the silent countryside, the gleaming tracks of meandering rivers. We see the deep dark sea. We go higher and see the galaxies of cities scattered across the world. We see the great tracts of wilderness. We see the oceans and the snow-capped peaks of mountains.
And oh, we go so high we see the whole world itself. Just look at that great and gorgeous sphere of light and dark. See how it turns, how day gives way to night and night to day. See how the seas shine blue beneath the sun and glow darkly beneath the moon. Imagine the people and the stories that can be found upon that sphere. Imagine the lives and the deaths and the loves and the dreams and the troubles and the heroes and the villains that exist down there. Imagine the story after story after story that can be found and told. Let’s go even higher, so that even our great world diminishes, becomes just one world among many, many others spinning in the endless dark. How many stories now, in all this endlessness?
But let’s return for one last glance. Down we go. The earth and its geography comes back into clear view. Where shall we go? Look. It’s morning in Siberia. The sun gleams on the snow. There’s ice on the rivers, and smoke rises from the chimneys of houses and villages spread out across the steppe. Here’s a great city by a river, the city of Novosibirsk. Go closer. The air’s bright and clear, and it’s bitterly cold. There’s the broad River Ob. Look at the skyscrapers. And the huge railway station painted pale green. There’s a mighty arch as an entrance.
Let’s go inside. How busy it is in here. People milling about. Trains waiting at platforms. There’s a bunch of slender women heading towards one. They wear thick coats, fur hats. Their breath condenses in the bitter air. They’re laughing. See that face, that figure? She looks familiar. We’ve seen her in a photograph, I believe. Yes, she does look lovely. Is it Nitasha’s mother? Is it Mrs Dostoyevsky? She’s laughing, chatting. She’s talking of home, of going home again. She jumps aboard and the others follow, and soon the train pulls out of the station.
Maybe she is going home. Maybe there’s a little more joy heading the way of Stanley Potts and his pals in their distant fairground. Let’s hope so. They deserve it. After all, the hearts of these people, despite all their troubles and all their faults and failings, are good and true.
ALSO BY DAVID ALMOND…
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published 2012 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2012 David Almond (UK) Ltd
Illustrations © 2012 Oliver Jeffers
The right of David Almond and Oliver Jeffers to be identified as author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-4121-8 (ePub)
www.walker.co.uk
David Almond, The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas
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