The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

  “Troubled by the…”

  “I don’t know what that means. But I do know that you left someone behind, Stan.”

  “Yes. My aunt and uncle. Annie and Ernie. Can you see what is happening to them?”

  Gypsy Rose shakes her head. “No. But perhaps your heart and the moon will draw them to you.”

  “The moon?”

  “The moon is filled with the yearning of human hearts, Stan. Have you noticed how it burns brightest when we ache with longing?”

  Stan has no answer. Is it true? He gazes now up into the moon and thinks of his absent aunt and uncle; and yes, its light does seem to intensify.

  “Annie and Ernie look upon the same moon as you, Stan,” says Gypsy Rose. “Do they have good hearts too?”

  “Yes,” says Stan. Then he thinks of Ernie and the tin of goldfish and he turns his eyes towards the earth. “But…”

  “But they have made mistakes.”

  “Yes.”

  “As we all do. If their hearts are good and true, the light of the moon that is filled with your yearning will draw them to you. Now, you were on an errand, I believe.”

  Stan gulps. “I need to pee,” he whispers.

  “Then go,” says Gypsy Rose. “Look. There are some shadows beneath those old trees there.”

  Stan turns from her. He slips into the shadows under the trees and pees into the silvery dark. When he returns she’s gone. And the dark shape of Dostoyevsky is moving through the field, calling his name.

  That night, when they return to the caravan at last, Stan lies on a bench beneath a blanket with the thirteenth fish and its companions at his side. The moon shines through the little caravan window and he gazes up and sends his yearning through the night. Then he sleeps, and in his dreams angry policemen shine torches into his eyes and warn him that he’d better be good. A glowing fire rises from the earth and turns into the moon. Voices drone and whisper and laugh and sing. He sees giants and dwarfs and three-headed sheep. A strongman lifts him up, throws him into the sky and catches him as he falls. A man with a tiger on his back chases him into a forest. Ducks spin in circles round his head. He finds himself deep in water, swimming, and there’s a fin on his back. My companions! he cries. O where are my companions? He sees Annie and Ernie walking along the road beside the sea. They look ancient and wizened and worn. He calls to them, he reaches out to them, and then comes a voice from far, far away:

  “COME ON! UP! SIX O’CLOCK AND TIME TO START!”

  Stan leaps from his sleep. Is he back in Fish Quay Lane? Is the fish-canning about to begin? No, he’s in the caravan. The voice is Dostoyevsky’s.

  “It’s six o’clock, Stan. There’s a hook-a-duck stall to put up. It’s time to start.”

  It’s easy to assemble a hook-a-duck stall, especially one that’s been assembled so many times in so many places for so many years. Stan sets to work with Dostoyevsky. Bolt the wooden boards together, hoist a few poles for the canopy, sling the canopy over the top, tie down the canopy with a few ropes. Stand back. Admire. Read the scarlet lettering:

  THE FAMOUS DOSTOYEVSKY’S HOOK-A-DUCK. A PRIZE EV’RY TIME!

  Then get the plastic pool for the plastic ducks and place it at the centre.

  Stan enjoys it once he gets going, just like he always enjoys himself when he’s hard at work. He runs back and forth to a tap at the edge of the field. He collects water in a bucket and fills up the pool. As he runs he finds he already has friends – people who call out his name and wave.

  All around, stalls and sideshows are being set up. The sun shines down. The fair grows by the hour. There are merry-go-rounds with teacups for the little ones. There are dodgems and a carousel. There’s a haunted house, a ghost train, Dracula’s castle. There are shooting galleries and coconut shies. There are hot dogs and chips and burgers and sides of beef and legs of pork. Stan sees Gypsy Rose’s caravan with the little pony tethered near it, and more caravans with Gypsy names painted on the sides. He fills up the pool; he cleans the ducks; he sets them on the water. He gets the rods and the hooks and lays them out ready for customers. He takes goldfish from the tank and puts them in plastic bags with plenty of water. As he hangs them up above the stall, he whispers that he’ll make sure they go to good homes. He doesn’t lift out the thirteenth fish, of course. It swims elegantly through the tank, whispering farewell to its companions.

  Dostoyevsky applauds when it’s all done. He sees Nitasha peeping out from the caravan window and points at Stan like he’s really proud of him. Nitasha scowls.

  “Ye’re a natural, Stan,” he says. “It’s like ye was born fer it.”

  Stan finds some paper and a pen. He sits on the grass and carefully makes some certificates. He uses his best handwriting:

  I hereby promise that I will take good care of this lovely littel fish. I will give it fresh water and food and love.

  Nitasha comes out of the caravan. She’s bleary-eyed and wearing a dirty old nightie.

  “What’s this?” she says. She picks up one of the certificates. She reads it and snorts. “Love!” she says. “Love! Huh! D’ye think they’ll take any notice of this once they’re out of yer sight?”

  “Yes,” says Stan. “They have to promise.”

  She snorts again. “Promise!”

  “Tek no notice, Stan,” says Dostoyevsky. He contemplates his daughter, and shakes his head. “She used te be a lovely lass.”

  “Used to be? Used to be!” echoes Nitasha.

  “But that,” says Dostoyevsky, “was in the time of Mrs Dostoyevsky.”

  Nitasha glares. She stamps back to the caravan, goes inside, slams the door.

  “Mrs Dostoyevsky?” says Stan.

  “Aye,” says Dostoyevsky. “Me wife. Nitasha’s mother. She went off to Siberia with a troupe of ballerinas. She never came back.”

  The caravan door swings open. Nitasha leans out. “She said she’d take me with her, if you must know!” she snaps. She glares at Stan. “What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know,” says Stan.

  “Then she said I hadn’t practised enough! So what did she do?”

  “She went off to Siberia?” asks Stan.

  “Yes! She went off to Siberia!”

  Nitasha slams the door again.

  “Siberia?” asks Stan.

  “More than a year ago,” says Dostoyevsky.

  The door swings open. “I hope she’s stuck in a snowdrift!” yells Nitasha. “I hope she’s turned to ice!” The door slams shut.

  “To be honest, Stan,” admits Dostoyevsky, “I think Mrs Dostoyevsky was a bit disappointed in me. She had dreams and ambitions and I don’t really think the hook-a-duck was good enough for her. Anyway, Nitasha’s not been the same since.”

  The door swings open again. Nitasha stamps towards Stan. “This is a picture of her, if ye must see!”

  Stan takes the photograph. It shows a slender woman with flowing hair in a flowing dress leaping through the air.

  “She looks lovely,” he says.

  “Lovely!” snorts Nitasha. She snatches the photograph from him. “Here,” she says. “Give it back before ye ruin it.” She stamps back to the caravan and slams the door.

  Dostoyevsky shrugs. The door swings open once more.

  “She was lovely!” yells Nitasha.

  Then the door slams shut again.

  Stan feels a tug at his arm. A little boy’s standing there. “Can I try to hook a duck, please, mister?” he asks.

  “She was!” yells Nitasha from behind the closed door.

  Stan loves that first hook-a-duck morning. It’s all so different from the crazy crowded house in Fish Quay Lane. Little groups and families make their way across the field, between the rides and stalls. Music belts out from the waltzer. There’s screaming from the roller coaster that thunders across the sky. The little boy’s the first of many that come to the stall. Stan wears a money belt around his waist. Soon there are lots of notes zipped into it, and it’s heavy with coins. Stan help
s the kids with the rods and hooks. Once or twice he has to guide their hand as they sign the certificates. He looks into their eyes; he asks them to promise that they really will take care of the fish. Only one person objects, the dad of a little girl dressed in red and green. The girl lifts a duck from the pool; she squeaks with delight; Stan lifts down a little fish and asks her to sign, please.

  “Sign what?” says the bloke.

  “A certificate,” says Stan.

  The man and his daughter read it. The girl reaches for a pencil but the man twists his face.

  “Don’t do it,” he says.

  “But she’s got to,” says Stan.

  “Says who?” says the bloke.

  “Me,” says Stan.

  “And why?”

  “Because … because…”

  Stan starts trembling. The bloke’s got a thick neck with a silver chain around it. LOVE and HATE are tattooed on his knuckles. He’s got big glaring eyes that stare at Stan. He’s got big strong fingers that poke Stan in the chest. He’s got a deep surly voice that snarls, “We don’t sign nowt unless we got to.”

  “But…” says Stan.

  “Are you suggestin’,” snarls the bloke, “that me and my Minnie might be cruel?”

  “No,” says Stan. “But…”

  “Good,” says Minnie’s dad. “So give her the fish.”

  Dostoyevsky’s leaning against the caravan, watching. He doesn’t move. Stan looks at him, then back at the bloke. He holds the plastic bag with the fish in it. The bloke looms over him. Stan’s hardly as high as the man’s chest.

  “Give. Her. The. Fish.”

  Stan takes a deep breath. He holds the bag up. The fish swims its lovely little circles and figures of eight. “It’s just…”

  “It’s just,” says the bloke, “a stupid fish. What’s so special about a stupid fish?”

  “It’s so little…” says Stan.

  “Ah, poor ickle fish.”

  “It’s so little and we are so big,” says Stan. “It’s so easy to hurt it. It’s…”

  The bloke sighs. He curses. Stan holds the fish higher. Sunlight pours into the little plastic bag and the fish glitters and glows.

  Minnie steps closer.

  “Just look how lovely it is,” Stan tells her.

  Minnie stares, like she’s seeing a fish for the first time.

  “Look at the scales,” says Stan. “Look at the feathery fins and tail. Look how it curves and curls through the water. Look at its shining eyes.”

  “It’s beautiful,” says Minnie in wonder. “Look, Dad, it’s like it’s saying O O O O. And it’s so little, and so delicate, and so…

  And even the man, listening to his daughter and staring into the plastic bag, seems to be entranced, if only for a split second.

  “It’s lovely,” says Minnie. “Let’s just sign, Dad, and take it home.”

  The man curses under his breath. He sighs. “OK,” he grunts at last. “OK, just get it signed and let’s move on.”

  Minnie signs the certificate. Minnie. She smiles at Stan. Stan smiles back.

  “Thank you very much,” he says. “Do come back and try your luck again.”

  Minnie walks away happily with her dad, whispering to her fish.

  “Well done,” says Dostoyevsky, coming over. “Yer very first awkward customer and ye dealt with it very well. Ye’ll come across a million more.” He rubs his hands. He reaches into Stan’s money belt and starts to count the notes and coins. “Ye’re doin’ great. Ye’re a natural, like I said.”

  More customers come. Soon there’s only one fish left hanging on the stall in its plastic bag, and only a couple left swimming in the tank with the thirteenth fish. Stan’s sad that so many are gone, but he’s pleased as well. He’s been hatching what he thinks is the perfect plan.

  “Mr Dostoyevsky,” he says.

  “Aye, lad?”

  “I was thinking. Now that all the fish are nearly gone…”

  “Aye, lad?”

  “Well, I thought that maybe we could offer different kinds of prizes.”

  “Dif’rent prizes?”

  “Yes. Like cuddly toys or bags of sweets or—”

  “Cuddly toys or bags of sweets?” says Dostoyevsky. He looks at Stan in astonishment and shakes his head. “Ye really have got a lot to learn. It’s tradition, lad. Ye hook a plastic duck at Dostoyevsky’s and ye get a fish. It’s how it is and how it’s been and how it will always be!”

  “But, Mr Dostoyevsky, there’s hardly any fish left.”

  “So we get some more!”

  Stan holds up his hands. “But where from, Mr Dostoyevsky?”

  “From the goldfish supplier!”

  Stan looks blank. “What goldfish supplier?” he asks.

  “Dear dear dear! From the goldfish supplier at the fair!”

  Stan just stares at him.

  “Listen, Stan. Every fair has a goldfish supplier. Where else d’ye think all the goldfish come from? Thin air?”

  “I don’t know,” admits Stan.

  “Exactly. Ye’ve got a lot to learn. But I s’pose that’s how it has to be.” Dostoyevsky takes Stan’s money belt from him and gives Stan a handful of coins. “Find the supplier and buy some more fish.”

  Stan looks across the crowded field. “Where is the supplier?” he says.

  “Ain’t got a clue. Somewhere. Findin’ him’ll be part of yer trainin’.”

  “And how many should I get?” asks Stan.

  “Half a shoal.”

  “Half a shoal? But how many’s in a shoal?”

  “How should I know? Seems to depend on how the fish is feelin’ on the day. There’s tiny shoals and medium-size shoals and shoals as big as the sea. Tell him you’re buyin’ for Dostoyevsky and the supplier’ll help ye out.”

  “How much do I pay?”

  Dostoyevsky shrugs. “Same thing. Tell him they’re for Dostoyevsky and ye’ll get a proper price.” He puts his hands on his hips. “That’s enough questions, lad. Go on. Off ye go.”

  “You won’t give the thirteenth fish away?” says Stan.

  “No, Stan.”

  “You promise?”

  “You want me to sign a certificate?”

  Stan shakes his head.

  “Go on, then,” says Dostoyevsky.

  “OK,” says Stan. He turns away.

  “Cuddly toys!” mutters Dostoyevsky. “Bags of bloomin’ sweets!”

  As Stan walks through the fair, he has the weirdest feeling that he’s being watched. He looks around, but there are just the usual kids and dogs and families and stallholders. Every now and then somebody waves or calls his name. He waves back. He keeps on walking. He keeps on having the feeling, like there’s one pair of eyes that’s picked him out from all the people at the fair, one pair of eyes that’s following him. It’s not a scary feeling. It’s just a bit … weird.

  He looks for signs of the goldfish supplier. A woman outside the haunted house pulls a pair of fangs from her mouth and says he seems a bit lost. He tells her what he’s looking for.

  “Fish?” she says. “Can’t help you there, lad. There’s no call for fish in the fiend and phantom trade. Unless they’re dead, of course.” She puts the fangs back in and raises her clawed hands and howls like a wolf and pretends to chase him off.

  Stan carries on.

  “I’m Tickle Peter,” says a man who comes to walk at his side.

  “I’m Stan,” says Stan. “Do you know where the goldfish supplier is?”

  “Make me laugh and I might tell you.”

  Stan stops and looks at him. Peter’s wearing leopard-skin trunks and a pair of silver braces. On his head is a pointed hat with Tickle Peter and Make Him Laugh and Win £100 written on it. He holds out a bag.

  “Only costs a pound. Use one of these feathers or a stick or a leaf or whatever you want. Tickle me, make me laugh and you’ll win a hundred pounds. Then I’ll tell you what I know about the feller you’re looking for.”

  Tickle
Peter goes silent. His face is glum. He waits for Stan to respond. Stan thinks about the pound. Is it right to spend a pound to try to get the information?

  “Or you can tell me a joke, if you know any,” says Peter. He sighs. “I haven’t laughed for twenty years. Go on, Stan. Make me laugh.”

  Stan puts his hand into his pocket, takes out a pound coin and gives it to Peter. “Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?” he says. It’s the only joke he knows. He remembers it from those far-off days at school. He remembers laughing and laughing when he heard it.

  “I don’t know,” says Tickle Peter. His face turns even glummer. He sighs. “Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?”

  “Because it was dead!” cries Stan.

  Peter sighs again. “Is that it?” he says.

  “Yes,” says Stan. “Have you heard it before?”

  “Once or twice. Listen. I’m feeling generous. You can tell me another one.”

  Stan looks down.

  “You don’t know any more, do you?” says Peter.

  Stan shakes his head.

  “Try a tickle, then.” Peter holds out the bag again.

  Stan chooses a long, brightly coloured feather. Peter raises his arms and Stan tickles his armpits. He tickles him behind the knees. He tickles him on the chest and on the legs and on the neck. Peter doesn’t move. His face turns ever glummer.

  “Enough,” he says at last. “I thought you might have it in you, Stan, but clearly you haven’t. What a disappointment.”

  Stan puts the feather back in the bag.

  “It’s my living,” explains Peter. “I’ve made a fortune from all the pounds I’ve taken over the years. But I’d give it all away if only I could laugh.” He shrugs and turns to go. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Stan.”

  “You could still tell me about the goldfish supplier,” says Stan.

  Peter pauses. “I could.”

  “Go on, then. Please?”

  “OK. I don’t know anything about any goldfish supplier.”

  “But you said—”