The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

“I said I’d tell you what I know about the bloke you’re looking for. And what I know is nothing.” Tickle Peter watches Stan. “See what happens when you don’t laugh for twenty years? See what happens when you make your living by tricking and cheating? You turn cruel and bitter, Stan, that’s what happens. Goodbye.”

  Stan kicks the grass. He spits. He spins around, and there, right behind him, where before there was just an empty space, is a sign stuck to a post that’s been stabbed into the earth.

  DIRECTIONS TO THE GOLDFISH SUPPLIER

  Past the clattering dodgems, beyond the Penny Falls, first right at the Ferris wheel, then past the groaning wrestling booth, where you must call out in a loud voice, “PIN HIM DOWN, THUNDERER!” Then eat a piece of boar at the Wild Boar Cookhouse and head for the tent which looks like the WORLD. Whistle “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and there you will be.

  Stan follows the directions. They take him through the heart of the fair. The wrestling booth has a great arched entrance decorated with paintings of ancient wrestlers. The painted wrestlers wear masks and capes and some pose with their arms folded and others with their arms raised to show off their muscles. They grapple with each other, they fly feet first through the air. There is a great roar from the hidden crowd inside the booth. There are loud gasps of horror and astonishment. There’s a sudden silence in the roar, into which Stan calls, “Pin him down, Thunderer!” Then comes a great round of cheering and applause, and a victory has obviously been won. Stan walks on and finds himself at the Wild Boar Cookhouse.

  A whiskery man who looks like a boar himself leans down from the counter and holds out a piece of meat. “Have a chop, sonny,” he grunts.

  Stan takes it from the man’s hairy hand. He chews the delicious meat, and licks the delicious juices from his lips.

  “Is it luvly enuff?” growls the boar man.

  “It is,” says Stan.

  “What ye after?” says the boar man.

  “A tent,” answers Stan.

  The boar man grunts. “Have ye heard the tale about the man that et the boar?”

  Stan shakes his head.

  “He ended up as a boar hisself. Have ye heard the tale about the boar that et the man?”

  “It ended up as a man itself?”

  “Mebbe it would of. Mebbe it should of. That would make sense. But no, it was hunted down and shot.”

  “That’s a pity,” says Stan, thinking about the family of the boar.

  “Is it?” says the boar man. “It turned out very tasty.” He points to the meat in Stan’s hand. “As you can testify yourself. Now here’s another. Have ye heard the tale of the tent that looked like the world?”

  Stan shakes his head.

  “It ended up lookin’ nowt like a tent.”

  Stan swallows the last of the meat. He licks his fingers. “What does that mean?” he says.

  “It means ye should be whistlin’ by now.”

  Stan starts whistling “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”, and a man appears from among the trees and beckons Stan towards him.

  “Are you the goldfish supplier?” asks Stan.

  “Do I look like the goldfish supplier?” asks the man.

  “I don’t know,” says Stan.

  “Then what do I look like?”

  “I don’t know. Like a man.”

  “Like a man? That’s good. You can stop whistling that horrible tune now. Come along.”

  And the man reaches towards a tree, and draws it towards him, and Stan realizes that what looks like trees is in fact the canvas walls of a tent with images of trees and earth and sky on them.

  “I thought it was trees!” Stan gasps.

  Behind him, the boar man snuffles and grunts.

  “Of course you did,” says the man at his side. “You thought it was trees. You thought it was the world. But it is not. It is just a tent. Now hurry up and get inside. My name is Mr Smith, by the way.”

  “I’m Stan,” says Stan.

  “Come along,” says Mr Smith.

  The inside of the tent is cavernous. There are true trees growing there and Stan touches them; and yes, they’re real. The light is dim, like dawn. Mr Smith walks briskly, hurrying Stan forward. They pass huge empty cages whose steel bars are all rusted.

  “Elephants,” says Mr Smith when he sees Stan looking.

  “Elephants?” says Stan.

  “There used to be elephants in the cages. And lions and tigers and zebras and bears. But that was in the old days when we supplied everything. It’s all come to an end except for goldfish and a few speciality items. Hurry along, please. And be careful where you step. There are rumours that a pair of scorpions have escaped.”

  Stan stares down in horror at the ground beneath his feet. “Scorpions?” he gasps. “Why do you have scorpions?”

  “For the scorpion act, of course. And if you hear flapping, be sure to duck. It’ll be the eagle. He likes to land on heads, and his claws are very long and very, very sharp.”

  Stan looks at the earth; he looks at the sky. He holds his hands against his skull, and his heart thunders and thumps.

  “Goodness gracious,” says Mr Smith. “I can see that you are not used to this. What on earth are you doing here?”

  Stan gasps again. He goggles at the man. What is he doing here? How on earth did he end up like this? He wants to yell:

  The yelling inside his head feels so loud that Stan is certain Mr Smith must hear it.

  “Well?” says Mr Smith.

  Stan sighs. “Wilfred Dostoyevsky sent me here,” he whispers.

  Mr Smith nods. “That makes sense,” he says. “Now come along. Aargh! Look out! Duck!”

  Stan flings himself to the ground and wraps his arms around his head. Nothing happens. He hears laughter. He looks up.

  “My little joke,” says Mr Smith. “Works every time. Now get up. The goldfish supplier’s ready for you.”

  And he walks away.

  The goldfish supplier is sitting at a desk in front of an assortment of plastic ponds. A fishing net is slung over his shoulder. He grins, and beckons Stan towards him.

  “You found me. Well done. That’s half the battle over. I’m Seabrook. What’s your name and what’s your poison?”

  “Poison?” says Stan.

  “Forgive me. You’re new, aren’t you? Seabrook’s way is we have a drink and a chinwag, then we get down to business. I can do you water, fizzy water or black pop.”

  Stan suddenly realizes that he’s very thirsty. “What’s in the black pop?” he asks.

  Seabrook taps his nose and winks. “Something black,” he says. “Something secret. Something delicious.” He reaches into a drawer in the desk and takes out a squat glass bottle filled with black stuff and hands it to Stan.

  “Some folk say it makes them do sums better,” says Seabrook. “Some folk say it makes them run better.” He twists his nose. “Some folk even say it helps them to drink black pop better. No, I don’t quite know what they mean by that either. What did you say your name was?”

  “It’s Stan,” says Stan. He takes a swig of the black pop. Seabrook’s right. It is delicious.

  “Now, let’s have the chinwag,” says Seabrook. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Stan?”

  “It is,” says Stan.

  “Though there was a bit of a chill last Wednesday,” adds Seabrook.

  “Was there?” says Stan.

  “There was. But not like that cold snap back in March. And kids today, eh? I mean, it’s serious, isn’t it? Every time you turn on the telly, there’s another one. The world’s going to rack and ruin. And the economy! The economy! I mean, where’s it all going to end?”

  Stan swigs the black pop: a strange taste, like blackberries and sardines at the same time. “I don’t know,” he admits.

  “Me neither, Stan. I mean, I was saying to Macintosh just last night – you know, he’s the one who married that lass from Pembroke, the one with the bit of a limp after she fell off her bike when she was three –
I mean, I was saying to him, ‘What’s to become of us? Where’s it going to end?’ He didn’t have a clue, of course. Not surprising when you think what he’s been through with that poor dog of his. But I mean, there is no answer, is there? I mean, you listen to them talk, and they talk like they know what they’re talking about and what they’re going to do about it all, and you know they haven’t got a clue. I mean, it’s like they talk for the sake of talking. Do you know what I mean? And the litter, Stan! It’s not like in our day, is it? I blame the teachers. Rack and ruin. And it is a long way to Tipperary, that’s what folk fail to understand. You’ve got to look on the bright side, haven’t you? There’s a light at the end of the… But listen, it’s been really lovely talking to you, Stan, but I’m afraid I haven’t got all day; and anyway, what’s it all got to do with the price of fish?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Seabrook.”

  “Exactly! Now. Are you after A, B, C or D?” He sees Stan’s blank expression. “Do you want Golden Greats, Top Notchers, Not Too Bads or Little Runts?” He sees Stan’s continued blank expression. “Tell you what. Come and look at the ponds and I’ll explain.”

  Seabrook leads Stan round the desk to the ponds. He explains that the Golden Greats in Pond A are best of all and most expensive of all, and the Little Runts in Pond D are scrawniest and cheapest. Stan looks down. They are all beautiful to his eyes, the gorgeously curving Golden Greats, the twitchy Little Runts, and all the others in between.

  “They’re lovely,” says Stan. “Each and every one of them.”

  As if they hear, several fish rise to the surface and turn their eyes and mouths to Stan.

  “I’m impressed,” says Seabrook. “You’ve got the touch. I could do you a mixture if you like. How many you after?”

  “Half a shoal.”

  “And who they for?”

  “Wilfred Dostoyevsky.”

  “Aha!” says Seabrook. “Dostoyevsky. A long-time customer of mine.” He goes back to the desk and opens a file. “As I thought,” he says. “Wilfred Dostoyevsky’s custom is to take the Little Runts.”

  Stan nods. He’s already guessed that. The thirteen fish he saved on his birthday were obviously from Pond D.

  “But,” says Seabrook, “I’ve heard he’s a changed man these days.”

  “A changed man?”

  “News travels fast in the fair, Stan. The story is he’s come across some kid who’s had an influence on him.” He closes the file and peers at Stan. “Is he a changed man, Stan?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him before.”

  “Before he came across you, you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” says Stan.

  Seabrook smiles. He winks. “It’s a pleasure and an honour to have you here, Stan,” he says. “Tell you what. I’ll do you a mixed half shoal. OK?”

  “OK,” says Stan.

  Seabrook takes his net, dips it into all four ponds, lifts out fish from each, and tips them gently into a plastic carrier filled with clear water. The fish swarm together, becoming accustomed to their new space, then as Stan and Seabrook watch they separate again into As, Bs, Cs and Ds.

  “Funny how that always happens,” says Seabrook. He grins. “Look at those Golden Greats. Look at how splendid they are in there! Don’t you think they’re splendid, Stan?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “But which are truly your favourites, Stan?”

  Stan gazes into the water. “The Little Runts,” he says after a moment.

  Seabrook grins again. “Thought so. Maybe because you came from the same pond, eh, Stan?” Seabrook smiles.

  Stan digs into his pocket and takes out some money. “How much are they?” he asks.

  Seabrook takes a few coins from his hand. “That’ll do,” he says. “Now turn round and I’ll get this on your back.”

  He lifts the plastic water carrier, which has straps hanging from it. He puts the straps over Stan’s shoulders. The carrier is heavy, but it settles easily onto Stan’s back. Stan feels it hanging there, so close. He thinks he can feel the vibrations of the fish as they swim.

  “Feels OK?” asks Seabrook. Stan nods. “Off you go then, Stan.” He touches Stan’s shoulder. “You know what? The little troubled runts are often the ones that turn out to be best of all.”

  Stan says goodbye. He walks away, past the empty rusting cages. He’s forgotten about the scorpions and the eagle. He feels the vibration of swimming fish at his back. The water carrier glitters and glows.

  Stan isn’t aware of passing through the wall of the tent, but suddenly there he is, out in the fair again. He walks homeward, past the Wild Boar Cookhouse, towards Dostoyevsky. A few kids gather behind him and follow. They poke at the water carrier, point at the fish. They ask if they can have one and Stan laughs and says they’ll have to come to Dostoyevsky’s hook-a-duck and win one.

  “There’s a prize every time at Dostoyevsky’s!” he says, pleased with himself for advertising the stall so well.

  The kids say they will and Stan sees how happy and friendly they are, and with every step he feels more at home. But he also has the feeling of being watched again. He pauses by the wrestling booth and looks around. There’s a man standing beside it in the shade.

  The kids gasp.

  “It’s Pancho!” one whispers.

  “It isn’t. It can’t be!”

  “It is. I seen him last year in Marrakesh.”

  “It’s Pancho!”

  “It’s Pancho Pirelli.”

  The kids quieten down, and Stan senses their trembling and excitement as Pancho comes out from the shade and walks towards them. He’s dark-skinned, dark-eyed. Dressed in blue. He heads straight to Stan.

  “You’re Stan,” he says. His voice is soft, foreign, watery. “I’ve been waiting for you, Stan. All these years I knew there’d be somebody like you and now here you are.”

  He holds his hand out. Stan takes it. It’s odd, but he feels like he’s known Pancho for a long, long time.

  “I have been watching you,” says Pancho. “You are the goldfish boy. Will you come to see me do my act?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I will be easy to find, Stan. Ask anyone. Come tomorrow, see my act and then we will talk some more.”

  He turns and walks away. The kids breathe easily again.

  “Pancho Pirelli,” one whispers. “I seen Pancho Pirelli!”

  “Why’s he been watching you, Stan?”

  “I don’t know,” says Stan. “I don’t know anything.”

  “He’s the greatest!”

  “We thought he was gone.”

  “My dad said he’d got gobbled up.”

  “Gobbled up?” gasps Stan.

  “Aye. But he obviously ain’t. Mebbe he jus’ got chewed a bit.”

  “They say he’s gettin’ old. They say he will get proper gobbled up if he don’t take care.”

  Stan has so many questions, but the kids scatter, running away to tell their families and friends that they have stood beside the great Pancho Pirelli.

  Dostoyevsky’s delighted with the fish. He says they’re a glorious collection. He catches his breath as he says it. “Did ye hear what I said?” he marvels. “A glorious collection! Ye wouldn’t’ve heard Dostoyevsky sayin’ such a thing about a bunch of fish a few short days ago. Would ye, Stan?”

  Stan shrugs. “No,” he admits.

  “Ye’re a strange one,” says Dostoyevsky, peering into Stan’s face.

  “Me?” says Stan.

  “Aye, ye. Ye’re havin’ quite an influence on me, young Stan.” He snaps open a bottle of beer and swigs from it.

  The sky glows like a blazing furnace then it darkens, darkens. Dostoyevsky says that stalls like hook-a-duck don’t do too well once darkness falls. They’re too tame for the night, he says. People want the bright lights and the excitement of the waltzer. They want to scream and howl on the roller coaster. They want to be horrified in the haunted house and terrified in the Wall of Death. They want t
o spin and twist and plummet and soar. They want to binge on greasy burgers and spicy sauces.

  Dostoyevsky sits on the step of the caravan. Stan sits with him as the moon appears above the fair, and the lights and music and voices start to fill the night.

  Stan tells him about seeing Pancho Pirelli.

  “So it’s true,” murmurs Dostoyevsky. “He’s come again.”

  “What is his act?” Stan asks, but Dostoyevsky shakes his head.

  “Best to see it for yourself, Stan. You can go tomorrow.”

  “He talked to me, Mr Dostoyevsky.”

  “You’re honoured, Stan.”

  “He said he’d been waiting for me.”

  “Did he?” Dostoyevsky reaches out and tousles Stan’s hair. “I had the same kind of feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “About you, Stan. From the moment I seen you cleaning them ducks then savin’ the fish with the river water. Like you’d been sent to me that day. Like you was special.” He grins. “Or mebbe I’m jus’ goin’ daft, eh?” He grins again. “But like I said,” he continues, “ye’re a strange one.”

  They’re silent for a while, staring into the moon.

  “These is the joys of the travellin’ life,” says Dostoyevsky.

  “What are?” says Stan.

  “The simple things like this, young Stan. Things like sittin’ on the caravan step in the light of the lovely moon. They say it makes ye mad, ye know. They say ye shouldn’t let the moon shine down on you too much.”

  “I’ve heard that,” says Stan.

  “Do you believe it?” asks Dostoyevsky.

  Stan shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he believes.

  “And then there’s some,” says Dostoyevsky, “that says the moonlight is a good thing. They say that each and every one of us needs a drop of madness in us. D’ye believe that, young Stan?”

  Stan wonders about this. He wonders about the world. He wonders about himself and the weird things he’s experienced, the weird things he’s seen. He looks into the sky and into the universe. He imagines it going on for ever and for ever to the stars, and way beyond the stars, and way beyond the stars beyond the stars, and he knows that his wondering and wondering will never have an end.