The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

  Stan licked the last of the candyfloss from his fingers.

  “I will tell you when your time of troubles will be at an end,” Gypsy Rose said.

  “How d’you know I’ve got troubles?” said Stan.

  “It’s clear to them with eyes to see. What is your name, young man?”

  “Stan,” said Stan.

  “Give me just a single piece of silver, Stan,” she said. She lowered her voice. “Be brave and come inside.”

  Stan was about to step up into the caravan, when his eye was caught by a flickering of gold.

  Goldfish. They were hanging in a line on a hook-a-duck stall. There were thirteen of them, tiny goldfish, each one swimming in a tiny plastic bag that dangled on an orange string and hung there in the sun. Without thinking, he moved away from Gypsy Rose towards the fish.

  Gypsy Rose spoke again. “Farewell,” she said. “You are entranced. You will be dejected. You will travel. And we will meet again.”

  She went back inside. Stan moved closer to the hook-a-duck stall. The bags were so tiny, the amounts of water so small; the fish were so lovely, so miraculous, with their golden skin and their gills and their fins and their panting mouths and their delicate scales and their tender dark eyes. He reached up towards one.

  “Oi! Wotya doin’, kid?”

  Stan flinched. A man appeared, standing inside the stall below the fish.

  “I said wotya doin’?”

  Stan shook his head. “Just looking at the fish,” he whispered.

  The man was little with a shiny smooth face and black hair that came to a pointy widow’s peak. He had a single golden earring. He wore ancient dusty red satin with splashes of grease on it. Behind him, dirty plastic ducks with hooks on their heads floated in endless circles on a green plastic pool. Beyond the ducks was an old caravan. A girl stared gloomily out from its murky window. She rubbed the glass with her fingertip and made a tiny peephole and peeped through it at Stan.

  “No jus’ lookin’!” snapped the man. “You got to win them, boy.”

  He pointed to a sign:

  HOOK-A-DUCK. £2 A GO. A PRIZE EV’RY TIME.

  Stan looked at his money: less than two pounds left, not even enough for a single turn.

  “But it’s cruel!” he protested. “They’ve got hardly any water and they—”

  The man just shrugged. “You want to help them, you got to win them,” he said. He looked past Stan into the fair.

  Stan saw that the tiniest goldfish of all was hardly moving, was coming to a halt. “But they’re dying!” he said.

  The man glanced at the fish, then shrugged again. “They die, I get some more,” he said. “S’easy.”

  “But I could save them!”

  “How much ye got?” asked the man.

  “One pound sixty-six,” said Stan.

  The man pointed to the sign: £2 a go.

  “But what good is it if it’s dead?” begged Stan. He held out his £1.66. “Please, mister! Please!”

  The man sniffed. He looked at the money on Stan’s palm.

  “OK,” he sighed. “Call me a softie. But ye got to take the dyin’ one. And no cheatin’!”

  He took the money and gave Stan a long stick with a dangling string and a hook on the end. Stan reached towards the cruising ducks, but he was shaking and trembling, and he couldn’t stop looking up at the dying fish in its tiny bag of water.

  The man clicked his tongue. “Kids these days!” he muttered. “Don’t nobody even teach ye to hook proper?”

  And he slipped Stan’s hook onto a duck and Stan lifted it from the water. He grabbed the bag with the dying fish in it. But he just couldn’t leave the others.

  “They’ll all die!” he said. “If nobody wins them, they’ll…”

  The man held out his palm.

  “But I’ve got nothing left!”

  The man contemplated Stan. “Ye could work for them, I s’pose,” he said.

  “Work?” said Stan.

  “Aye,” said the man. He nodded to himself. “That’s a good idea. If, that is, ye know what work is.”

  “I do know!” said Stan.

  “Huh! That’ll make a change.” The man stroked his chin. “Ye could, fer instance, scrub them ducks.” He spat on the ground. “Jus’ look at the state of them. They’re filthy.”

  “OK,” said Stan quickly. He rolled up his sleeves. “What do I do?”

  The man pointed at a plastic bucket. “Ye get that scrubber and ye get that soap and ye scrub. S’dead easy.”

  Stan got straight to it. He scrubbed the ducks frantically. He kept glancing up at the fish. They turned slowly and more slowly in their little plastic bags.

  “That’s very good that,” said the man. “Me daughter’s s’posed to do it but she thinks it’s beneath her. That’s her back there, look, the big lazy lump.”

  Stan stole a quick glance. The pale girl peeped through her peephole.

  “She’s called Nitasha,” said the man. He looked at her and shook his head, then pointed at Stan, who worked faster and faster till all the ducks were shining bright. Nitasha turned up her nose and looked away.

  The man began to pick up the ducks and inspect them.

  “Can I have the fish now?” pleaded Stan.

  The man held up a small yellow duck. “Little dab of muck left here,” he said.

  Stan grabbed it, scrubbed it, polished it again.

  “Now?” said Stan.

  The man pondered. He slowly lifted an orange duck to his eyes. Stan couldn’t bear it. By now all the fish were floundering, were drifting, weren’t swimming, were dropping slowly downwards in their little plastic bags.

  “I’ll have them now!” he said. “They’re mine!” And he stretched up and took all twelve of them down, hanging the bags from his outstretched fingers. “OK?” he demanded.

  “What’s yer name?” said the man.

  But Stan was already running towards the river. He ran out of the fair and across the rubble and past the derelict sheds and warehouses and slithered through an ancient iron fence and flung himself down onto the edge of the riverbank, where there was just a short drop to the water, and he lowered the plastic bags one by one and allowed the river water to fill them up. Then he held them up to the sky. The water in the bags was murkier now. Little bits and fragments swirled in it and greasy slicks floated at the top. But in each one of them, at the centre of the murk, there was a flicker and flash of living gold.

  Stan sighed with relief and delight. Then he noticed the man from the stall, standing close behind him.

  “Ye’re a softie, aren’t you?” said the man. “But I can see ye’re a good worker. What’s yer name?”

  “Stan,” said Stan.

  “I’m Dostoyevsky,” said the man. He stretched out his hand. Stan didn’t take it. Dostoyevsky shrugged. “I ain’t so bad as I seem,” he said. “How d’ye fancy a job on the hook-a-duck stall?”

  “No, thank you, Mr Dostoyevsky,” said Stan.

  “I’d pay ye well,” said Dostoyevsky. “It’s steady work. Whatever problems come into the world, there’ll always be a need fer the hook-a-duck stall.”

  But Stan said no again, and headed homeward with the thirteen goldfish dangling from his fingers.

  Back at 69 Fish Quay Lane, there’d been Trouble.

  While Stan was at the hook-a-duck stall, a rusty white van pulled up outside the house. It had massive writing on it:

  DAFT

  DEPARTMINT for the ABOLISHUN of Fishy Things.

  www.DAFT.gov.

  Sumthing fishy going on?

  Want to get sumbody into truble?

  Call the Snitch-on-a-naybor line

  0191 8765432

  ALL CALLS TREATED IN STRICTEST CONFIDANCE

  There was a tiny window in the side of the van. Behind the window, there was a telescope pointing straight at Ernie’s house. Behind the telescope, there was a little man.

  “Just what we thunk,” muttered the man to himself. “How dis
gracious. How absolutely appallin’.”

  He scribbled notes into a notepad. He straightened his shirt. He fastened his black tie neatly. He wedged a black leather folder under his arm. Then he stepped out of the van and rapped on Ernie’s door.

  Ernie, of course, with all the banging and clanging and chanting and singing, heard nothing. The man rapped again. Again, no answer. He leaned down and peered through the letter box.

  “Aha!” he muttered. “Eggsactly what we thunk.” He called through the letter box. “Open up in there! The Departmint for the Abolishun of Fishy Things is come to call!”

  No answer.

  He yelled again.

  No answer.

  He tutted and grunted and stamped his feet. “How disgracious. How absolutely appallin’.” He grabbed the door handle. “I is now coming in!” he called.

  The door opened easily. The man stepped inside. He was confronted by pipes, by cables, by whirring wheels and spinning cogs, by buckets of fish and boxes of tins. He stepped forward, investigating as he went. He scribbled in his notepad.

  “How absolutely disgustin’,” he said. “What a nutter disgrace!”

  He heard Ernie singing. He saw Ernie sprawled across a machine, kicking a lever with his left foot, spinning a cog with his right, clicking a switch with his right hand, pressing a button with his left.

  “Machine!” yelled Ernie. “Machine machine machine machine!”

  “Ahem,” said the investigator. “AHEM!!!”

  Ernie looked round. “Who the heck are you?” he said.

  The investigator clicked his heels. “I is,” he said, “a DAFT envistigator.”

  “A what?” said Ernie.

  “A envistigator,” said the investigator. “A envistigator what envistigates things. Strange things. Peculiar things. Things what shouldn’t even be things.” He stepped a little closer. “Fishy things!” He narrowed his eyes. “And there’s something fishy here, Mr…” He raised his pencil, ready to note Ernie’s name.

  “Mr None Of Your Business,” said Ernie. He broke free of his levers and switches. “Mr Get Out Of My Blooming House!” he said. “Mr Who Do You Think You Are Coming In Here Without A By Your Leave! Mr If You Don’t Shift Your Bum I Might Just Have To Kick It! Mr—”

  The investigator raised his hand. “Not a very entilligent approach,” he said. “You is talking to Mr Clarence P. Clapp Esq., trained envistigator first grade, with seven stars, two pips and a certificate signed by none other than His Grand Fishiness, the Departmint Leader hisself. Touch me and you is in deep, deep trouble, Mr…”

  Ernie clamped his lips tight shut.

  “Ha!” said Clarence P. Clapp. “The tight-lipped method. The silent approach. I has been taught everything there is to know about that method, and let me tell you it will get you eggsactly nowhere!” He cast a beady eye around the house. “This,” he said, “is not allowed. Nor is this and nor is this and nor is this and nor is this. And this is absolutely disgracious and that is absolutely appallin’ and this thing here is the worst thing that I has ever, ever saw.” He scribbled a little more. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “What eggsactly has been going on in here, Mr Silent?”

  “Nothing!” said Ernie.

  Clarence scribbled down his reply. “And,” he continued, “how long eggsactly has it been going on?”

  “Never!” said Ernie.

  “Ha!” declared Clarence. “These answers I know is nothing but atishoo of lies! My training has prepared me for everything! I see what a disgracious state of affairs exists here and it cannot go on and it will be stopped!”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Ernie.

  “Oh, yeah!” said Clarence P. Clapp. “I has the letter of the law on my side. I has the power vested in me by the High Chief Envistigator of Fishy Things. I will write my report and a notice will be served and all this will come to a nutter and absolute stop! I leave you my card.” He shoved a business card into Ernie’s hand. Then he turned and headed back towards the front door.

  He paused for a moment. “If I was you, Mr Silent,” he said softly, “I would set to work right now this very minute to get this house back to normal or the departmint will be coming down on you like a ton of bricks! Farewell! Or should I say, vasta la hista!”

  And out he went, slamming the door behind him.

  Stan ran back across the waste ground, through the terraced streets and up Fish Quay Lane towards home. The DAFT van passed by but he didn’t notice it. He was entranced by his fish, obsessed by his fish. He slipped in through the door and went to find an empty bucket. Then he filled it full of lovely clear water and slipped his lovely goldfish into it one by one. There they were, thirteen beautiful miraculous creatures, swimming together and free before his eyes.

  His uncle was already back at work. The machines were booming and banging and clashing louder than ever. Ernie was yelling louder than ever.

  Stan lifted the bucket of fish. “Don’t worry about the noise,” he whispered to them. “It’s just my Uncle Ernie. I’ll look after you for ever and ever and ever.”

  “STAN! STAN! GET HERE, LAD!”

  Stan turned. “But, Uncle Ernie—” he started.

  “NEVER MIND ‘BUT UNCLE ERNIE’! GET HERE, LAD!”

  Ernie waved him forward. “There’s a crisis!” he said. “A blooming great huge massive catastrophe!”

  Stan shuffled slowly towards him. “But, Uncle Ernie—” he said.

  “We’re under attack and all you can say is ‘But Uncle Ernie’! Get here! Pull that lever, switch that switch, grease that blinking engine!” He caught sight of the fish. “What’s them?”

  Stan realized he was still carrying the bucket. “They’re goldfish,” he said. “I won them at the fair. I won that little one with your birthday money, Uncle Ernie.”

  Ernie curled his lip. “Huh!” he said. “Scrawny little things!”

  “But look,” said Stan. He held them towards his uncle, so that he could see their loveliness for himself.

  Ernie squinted at them, then dipped his finger into the water.

  “Goldfish!” he grunted at last. “What good’s goldfish to a man like me. Pilchards is the fish that matter. Pilchards and haddock and cod and…” He lowered his hand further into the water and the goldfish swam around it.

  “See?” said Stan. “Aren’t they just lovely?”

  Ernie gazed down, pondering. He felt the fins and tails of the little fish as they flickered past his fingers.

  “Thanks for the ten pounds, Uncle Ernie,” said Stan. Then he said a thing that he’d regret for ever after. “If you hadn’t given me that, the fish would—”

  “Would what?” asked Ernie.

  “Would have died. There was this man who hung them up on—”

  Ernie’s eyes went all dreamy, then he came back to his senses. “Enough!” he said. “We’re living through a time of tests and trials and tribulations. There’s work to be done and action to be took! Get these silly creatures out of my sight and get to blooming work! NOW!”

  Stan ran to his cupboard and put the fish down. He ran back to the machines and rolled up his sleeves. He was happier than he’d been for weeks. He’d had time off; he’d been to the fair; he’d won the most brilliant of prizes.

  “Right. What should I do?”

  “Stand there, that’s right! Turn that, that’s right! Push that, that’s right! That’s the way to do it. Faster, lad. Faster! Faster! They won’t put a stop to it. Oh no, they won’t ruin the dreams of Ernest Potts!”

  “Who won’t, Uncle Ernie?” asked Stan, as he pushed and pulled and swivelled and turned.

  “Never mind that!” said Ernie. “I’ll deal with them. You just concentrate on your work, lad. Faster! Faster! That’s right! Fish fish fish fish! Machine machine machine machine! That’s the way; that’s the way to get it done!”

  And they worked together, and sang together.

  “Fish in buckets and fish in bins,

  Chop off their heads and tails and
fins…”

  Their voices blended with the noise of the machines, and their movements blended with the movement of the machines, and fish poured in at one end and tins poured out at the other, and in the fury of the work, Stan and his uncle forgot all their troubles; and after a time Ernie yelled, “Are ye enjoying it, lad? Are ye having a great time?”

  Stan laughed and gave him a thumbs up. “Yes, Uncle Ernie! Yes!” he called.

  “Great!” said Ernie. “This is work, son! Proper work. Your dad would’ve been proud of you. This is what it’s all about!”

  And they hooted with laughter and they worked and sang and were filled with a strange kind of joy. And they were making such a din, they didn’t notice Annie coming in.

  Annie had a party tea in her shopping bag: cheese straws, sausage rolls, lemonade, chocolate teacakes and a cake with Happy Birthday iced on it, and a bag of candles. She pulled a few pallets together for a table. She used fish tin labels as napkins. She set upside-down buckets as chairs. She laid the birthday tea out and it looked so lovely, the loveliest thing there’d been in this house since the canning began. She smiled in satisfaction, then she went to the central control panel, found the enormous lever with written on it, reached up and pulled it down. The machines came to a sudden stop.

  “Sabotage!” yelled Ernie. “Get ready to fight back! They won’t—”

  “It isn’t sabotage,” said Annie calmly. “It’s teatime.”

  “Teatime?” said Ernie. “Don’t you realize we’re living through a time of—”

  “Through a time of our nephew’s birthday,” Annie said. “So take a break and come to tea.”

  Ernie glared, sputtered, gasped. “But there’s—”

  Annie went over to him and kissed his cheek. “This is special,” she said. “So pipe down for once.”

  Stan detached himself from his machine. Half in a daze, he walked towards the lovely things laid out on the pallets.