The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

  “That’s the style,” said Dostoyevsky. “Keep an eye on them fish, lad. Don’t want them swillin’ out, do we?”

  He climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the engine on and began to drive slowly across the bumpy waste ground. He picked up speed as he drove uphill away from the river. Stan peered out. He looked along his own street. He saw his aunt and uncle standing outside their house. There was a heap of pipes and cables all around them. A burly bloke dressed in black stood with his arms folded, blocking the front door.

  “Put yer own fish in, if ye wants to,” Dostoyevsky told Stan, nodding towards the tank.

  Stan dipped his hand into his bucket. He lifted out the little fish, then slid it into the tank.

  O my companions! he heard inside him.

  Nitasha swivelled in her seat, put her tongue out at Stan.

  “Welcome to our little family, Stan,” said Dostoyevsky, then he put his foot down and accelerated away from the town, from everything that Stan had ever known.

  It’s nearly time for Pancho Pirelli. He’ll soon be entering the tale. Who’s Pancho Pirelli? You may well ask. The feller’s a fishy legend, a piscatorial genius. He’s such an amazing bloke that some people wonder if he’s really human. How can he do what he does? How can he dodge death time after time after time after time? He must have gills; he must have scales; he must have fishy fragments sparking in his brain; he must have fishy particles pelting through his blood. He’s a man of fish and legend, and when he does appear he’ll turn our Stan’s world inside out and upside down. Right now, of course, at this particular turning of the page, Pancho doesn’t even know that a lad called Stanley Potts exists. And Stanley’s just as ignorant of Pancho. But their paths are chosen. They’re headed towards each other. Whether they want it or not, they’re going to meet. It’s their destiny. It won’t be long.

  In the meantime, here’s Stan trundling along in the Land Rover with Dostoyevsky and Nitasha. The caravan behind them’s rattling and swaying. They’re following a road beside the sea. There are dunes and beaches and endless water and a few wooden shacks and a couple of villages. The sun’s shining in the blue, blue sky and the sea’s glinting and a breeze is blowing and there are boats dancing on the swell and Dostoyevsky’s happy as can be.

  “This is the life, Stan!” he calls. “The open road! The world’s our oyster! We’re wild and footloose and we’re fancy-free!”

  He swerves to avoid a pothole in the road. He beams at Stan in the rear-view mirror.

  “What d’ye think, our Stan? How’s it feel to be fancy-free?”

  Stan looks away. He dips his fingers in the tank. He watches the dunes streaming past. He’s already starting to wonder if he’s done the wrong thing. Why did he turn his back on everything he loved? What on earth got into him?

  Nitasha swivels in her seat and grins. “He’s blubbin’!” she says.

  “No, I’m not!” says Stan.

  Dostoyevsky regards the boy again. “It’s natural to be blubbin’,” he says. “Ye’d be blubbin’ yerself, Nitasha, if ye’d done what he’s jus’ done. Is that it, our Stan? Are ye havin’ second thoughts, are ye, Stan?”

  Stan tries to control his voice. He tries to avoid Nitasha’s eyes. “No,” he says, but his voice is hardly more than a whisper.

  “Are ye missin’ yer folks?” continues Dostoyevsky.

  Stan meets the man’s eye. “Just a little bit, Mr Dostoyevsky,” he says at last.

  Nitasha stifles a giggle.

  Dostoyevsky winks at Stan in the rear-view mirror. “I know ye must be. But never mind,” he says. “Ye’ll soon get used to bein’ with us. Ye’ll soon get used to bein’ wild an’ free. Ain’t that right, Nitasha?”

  “Yes!” snorts Nitasha.

  Stan looks down. Be brave, he tells himself.

  “And ye’ll soon forget about the folks you left behind,” says Dostoyevsky. “Ain’t that right, Nitasha?”

  “Yes!” snaps Nitasha. “Yes, he will!”

  “That’s right,” says Dostoyevsky. “So stop your worryin’, son. We’re yer family now, and we’ll look after you.”

  He puts his foot down. The engine roars. The Land Rover and the hook-a-duck caravan thunder on.

  Stan leans back in his seat. He tells himself that he has done the right thing. He tells himself that all will be well. He tells himself he must be brave. But he has to keep on squeezing back the tears.

  They drive and drive. Dostoyevsky and Nitasha eat pork pies and pick ‘n’ mix that they get from a garage on the way. Nitasha lobs sweets over her shoulder: chocolate peanuts, midget gems, American hard gums, mints, mini cola bottles, jelly snakes. They lie on Stan’s lap and all around him on the seat and on the floor. He stares out into the world that seems wider and wider the further they go.

  “You got te eat,” says Dostoyevsky. “Ye got te keep yer strength up, Stan. It ain’t an easy life, keepin’ a hook-a-duck stall on the go.”

  So Stan licks Love Hearts that have KISS ME QUICK and YOU’RE A SWEETIE stamped on them. He slowly chews a blue jelly baby. He dangles his fingers in the fish tank and feels fins and tails and tiny mouths moving tenderly against his skin. There’s other fairground traffic on the road. A massive Wall of Death truck lumbers past them. A camper van chugs along with a bearded lady and a tattooed lady waving gleefully from the windows. Dostoyevsky waves back and toots his horn.

  The day wears on and the light starts to fade. The sun descends towards the darkening sea. There’s a town in the distance: spires and skyscrapers and turrets. Dostoyevsky cheers.

  “That’s the place!” he yells. “That’s the place that’s in need of hook-a-duck!”

  They enter the outskirts of the town and stop at a red traffic light. A policeman walks into the road and stands in front of them with his hands on his hips.

  “Best behaviour, Stan!” hisses Dostoyevsky.

  The policeman strolls to the driver’s door. “You’re with the fair,” he says.

  “Correct, officer,” says Dostoyevsky.

  “Name?”

  “Wilfred Dostoyevsky, officer. And these is the kids, Stanley and Nitasha.”

  The policeman comes round to Stan’s door. He peers through the window. He opens the door and shines a torch into Stan’s face. Stan wants to yell, Yes! You’ve caught me! Take me in! Arrest me! I’m Stanley Potts, the runaway boy from Fish Quay Lane!

  The policeman narrows his eyes. “So you’re Stanley, are you?” he whispers.

  “Yes, officer.”

  “And tell me, Stanley,” he says even more softly. “Are you a troublemaking kind of boy?”

  “Course he’s not, officer,” says Dostoyevsky. “He’s—”

  The policeman turns. “Did I ask you, Mr Dostoyevsky?”

  “No, officer,” admits Dostoyevsky.

  “So keep out of it!” He bares his teeth in a kind of smile. “Are you,” he says again, “a troublemaker, young Stanley?”

  “No, sir,” whispers Stan.

  “Good! Cos do you know what we do with troublemakers in this town?”

  “No, sir,” whispers Stan.

  “That’s good! It’s best you don’t know! Cos you know what would happen if you did know?”

  “No, officer,” says Stan.

  “It would,” said the policeman, “scare … you … stiff!” He keeps the torch shining onto Stan’s face. “Do you know what I know?” he says.

  “No, sir.”

  “I know lads like you and I know what lads like you get up to, ’specially in these dark days. In fact, I know all you ragamuffin fairground folk traipsing and wandering across the world and leaving all kinds of bother in your wake. I also know that if I had my way…” He lowers the torch. “But that’s another tale.”

  The traffic is building up. A car horn sounds. The policeman leans back. He shines the torch towards the car that’s just behind.

  “Sorry, officer!” comes a frightened call. “My mistake! Didn’t see you there!”

  T
he policeman scribbles something in a notebook. He points towards a side road with his torch. He glares at Dostoyevsky.

  “That’s where we’re sending you lot,” he says. “Down to the waste ground. Down to where the dumps are. That’s where your silly fair’ll be happening. That’s where you’ll stay. There and nowhere else. And once it’s over…”

  “Once it’s over,” says Dostoyevsky, “we’ll clear up and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Correct. And if there’s any trouble…”

  “And if there’s any trouble, then we’ll pay.”

  “I see you’ve been in this line of work a long time, Mr Dostoyevsky.”

  “Man and boy,” says Dostoyevsky.

  The policeman sneers and shakes his head. “What a stupid waste of life. Go on. Get going. And I don’t want to see you and your troublemaking kids again. Go!”

  Dostoyevsky drives on, into the dark potholed darkening side road.

  “It’s always the same, Stan,” he says. “They treat us like an affliction, when they should welcome us as a blessin’. Tek no notice.”

  There are overhanging trees and high hedges on either side. The road becomes a slippery dirt track, then it opens up into a space where fires burn and smoke curls up into the sky. There are Land Rovers and caravans and dogs scampering and kids running and music playing.

  “Here we are,” says Dostoyevsky. “We’ll take care of ye, Stan. Me and my Nitasha. Won’t we, love?”

  Now here’s the thing about Stanley Potts. He hasn’t exactly had it easy, has he? Life hasn’t been a bed of roses. He’s hardly traipsing down a primrose path. It ain’t quite been a piece of cake. No way. But the thing about Stan is, he’s got the single most important thing: a good heart. And if you’ve got a good heart – like most kids have when it comes down to it – then you’ll survive.

  So here’s Stan with his strange new family in a bumpy field, in a far-off town, and he’s surrounded by a bunch of what some folk would call vagabonds and weirdos. Dostoyevsky parks the caravan. They wander through the field. As they walk, there are voices calling out of the darkness and out of caravan windows.

  “It’s Dostoyevsky and Nitasha! How ye doing, Wilfred? How’s things, Nitasha? How’s the hook-a-duck trade?”

  And Dostoyevsky’s waving and calling back his greetings, and a couple of times he puts his arm round Stan’s shoulders and cries out, “This is me new lad, Stan! He’s a good fine lad!”

  And the voices call back, “Hello there, Stan! Welcome to the fair, son!”

  They pass fiddle players and a snake charmer and a trio of boys standing on one another’s shoulders. They sit down by a glowing fire. There’s a ring of people around it, their faces shining in its light. A man leans down and reaches into the embers with a pair of tongs. He holds something out to Stan, something black and round and smoking.

  “Tek it,” he says in a gruff voice. “It’s fer ye. Go on, lad.”

  Stan stares at it, doesn’t move.

  The bloke laughs. “Go on,” he says again.

  “Go on,” says Dostoyevsky.

  Nervously Stan reaches out and takes the thing. It’s hard and black and scorching hot. He gasps, drops it, picks it up again. The people around the fire laugh.

  “Chuck it up and down,” instructs Dostoyevsky. “It’ll cool it.”

  So Stan throws it up and down and rolls it around his palm.

  “Now crack it open,” says the bloke.

  Stan presses with his thumb. It’s still mad hot and he can still hardly hold it. But he presses again and the thing cracks open. Some of the black crust falls away and Stan sees there’s a beautiful white inside, and now there’s steam mixed with the smoke and it smells delicious.

  “A potato!” he whispers.

  “Correct,” says the bloke. “It’s a spud.”

  Stan lifts it to his mouth and nibbles, and he tastes the soft creamy smokiness of it. He looks at the faces around the fire and they all look back at him and grin. He eats again. It’s the loveliest thing he’s ever tasted. Dostoyevsky laughs and puts his arm round him. Stan sighs and eats and starts to relax. He finds he’s smiling. He looks at Nitasha and she seems happier and a little bit prettier.

  They continue to sit there. They eat more spuds. Somebody puts a tin mug of tea in Stan’s hands.

  “So where ye from, young Stan?” asks a bloke across the fire.

  “Fish Quay Lane,” says Stan.

  “The town we was in yesterday,” Dostoyevsky explains. “They’ve had it tough back there. Shipyards shut, blokes on the dole, all that stuff.”

  “Needed a new life, did ye?” says the bloke.

  “That’s right,” says Dostoyevsky.

  “Well, ye’ve come te the right place, Stan,” says a woman whose necklaces and bangles glitter in the firelight. “Ye’re with pals here.”

  Another woman in another part of the field sings a lovely foreign song. Dostoyevsky and the others at the fire talk. They talk of fairs they remember and of fairs they know through legend and myth. Somebody brings a crate of beer to the fireside, and as they drink they talk of magic acts and escapologists and two-headed goats and of those who can talk to the dead. They talk in strange accents from far-flung places and faraway lands. Stan listens and loses himself in the voices that flash and flicker like the flames. He loses himself in the tales that move like weird shadows through the air. After a time a great full moon lifts over the field and bathes everything in its strange silver light.

  “They say Pancho Pirelli’s on his way,” says one of the voices.

  “Pirelli? Thought he was in Madagascar or Zanzibar or somewhere.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Seems he was spotted on the road, somewhere in the north.”

  “Pancho? Comin’ here? Can’t be nothin’ but a rumour.”

  “He’s never been nothin’ but a rumour. All that stuff that’s said about him. Pah!”

  “Ye’ll believe it when ye see it.”

  “There’s nothin’ te believe. He’s a showman, a trickster.”

  “Ye’re wrong. He’s one of the greats.”

  “Was,” says someone else. “Was one of the greats. Was extraordinary. But even Pancho Pirelli has te get old, has te lose his old magic, has te…”

  The voice doesn’t finish the sentence. They all sigh Pancho’s name and shake their heads in wonder.

  “Who is Pancho Pirelli?” Stan dares to ask.

  “You’ll see,” says Dostoyevsky. “If he turns up, you’ll see, and you’ll not have seen nothin’ like it never before.”

  They all nod at that, and move on to talk of other things.

  They stay by the fire. Deep into the night, Stan whispers to Dostoyevsky, “Mr Dostoyevsky, I think I need the toilet.”

  “You think you need the toilet?” he replies.

  “I mean I do need the toilet.”

  “The boy needs the toilet!” Dostoyevsky calls.

  “The lavatory!” comes another voice.

  “The khazi, the thunderbox, the loo, the netty, the bog!”

  Stan feels his face burning. “Where is it?” he whispers.

  “It’s out there in the dark,” says Dostoyevsky. “If it’s a number two, go downwind and dig a ditch.” He touches Stan’s arm gently. “It’s OK. There’ll be a proper place tomorrow. Go to the edge of the field. We’ll keep an eye out for ye comin’ back.”

  Laughter follows Stan as he stands up and leaves. He shuffles away from the fire. He stumbles over car tracks and holes and tussocks of grass. He smells potatoes and beer and pies and horse dung and woodsmoke and pipe smoke. A little dog sniffs at his heels. A couple of scrawny half-naked kids call out to him, “Who are ye? What’s yer name?”

  “Stan,” says Stan.

  “And what ye doin’ here?”

  “I’m with the hook-a-duck stall,” answers Stan, and he surprises himself by feeling a little flicker of pride.

  “Aha!” say the kids, impressed.


  Stan goes beyond the fires to the deeper dark at the edge of the field.

  “I said we’d meet again,” comes a gentle voice.

  Stan turns. A woman’s standing there, wearing a long dress and a headscarf. Her face shines in the light of the moon.

  “Gypsy Rose,” she says. “Remember?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “I said that you would travel. Remember?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “And you must have done so, for here you are, so far away. I remember that your name is Stan.” She moves closer. She holds his chin, gently turns his face towards the moon. “Let me look into your eyes. Ah, yes, I see that you are still entranced. And I see that you have become dejected, as I said you would.”

  Stan can’t move. He doesn’t know whether to run, to call out, or just to stay where he is.

  “Don’t worry, Stan,” murmurs Gypsy Rose. “I am no danger to you. Do you have silver with which to cross my palm?”

  “I’ve got nothing,” he says.

  “Nothing? That’s not quite true, is it, Stan? You have yourself. You have your good heart. Always remember that. Now, let us say that the moonlight is your silver.” She opens her hand and lets the moonlight fall across her palm. “Thank you for it, Stan. Now, open your own hand and let me look into it.”

  She takes his hand and opens it and lets the moonlight fall on it. He looks down at the lines and tiny creases and cracks and bulges there.

  “Moonlight is the best of all,” says Gypsy Rose. “It gives the purest, most truth-telling light.”

  She traces the lines on his palm with her fingertip. “Oh, Stanley,” she murmurs. “There have already been disastrous moments in your short life. But you will live long. And better times will come if you can overcome the perils that lie in wait.”

  “Perils?” whispers Stan.

  “What is the purpose of living if there are no perils to be encountered and overcome?” She smiles. Stan can’t answer her. “I see water,” she continues. “I see great peril there.” She leans closer. “But you must be brave. You must say yes. Much gold could be yours. Do not be troubled by the teeth.”