The Boy Who Swam With Piranhas

  “This is me as I was,” says Pirelli.

  He shows Stan the other, this time a bare-chested boy in blue swimming trunks and a blue cloak who looks bravely out through blue goggles at the camera.

  “And this is me as I became.”

  “In Venezuela?” asks Stan.

  “No,” says Pirelli. “In Ashby de la Zouch.”

  “Ashby de la Zouch?”

  “Yes,” says Pirelli. “It’s quite close to Birmingham.”

  “But what about…”

  “The Orinoco? The Amazon? I have read about them, of course. I have seen photographs and films. They do seem rather marvellous. And yes, it is my intention to go there one day – with you, Stan, I hope – but no, I have never been anywhere near the Amazon. Or the Orinoco.”

  “So the story of your childhood is…”

  “Yes, Stan. A story. A legend.”

  Stan sighs. It’s all getting a bit much for him. Maybe he should be heading back to Fish Quay Lane.

  Pirelli watches him. “I’m only telling you this because I trust you, Stan. I know that you will tell no one. I know that you are true, because when I first saw you I recognized myself.”

  Pirelli puts a glass of dark liquid into Stan’s hand. Stan sniffs it. “This is black pop!” he says.

  “That’s right. Drink it up. It’ll fortify you.”

  Stan sips, and just like last time he finds it weird and delicious.

  “Now I will tell you the true truth,” says Pirelli. “I was a rather unhappy and lonely boy. My parents had died when I was a tiddler—”

  “Just like mine,” says Stan.

  “Yes, Stan. As I suspected, just like yours. I was taken on by some far-flung members of the family, a grizzly miserable pair called Uncle Harry and Aunt Fred.”

  “Aunt Fred?”

  “Short for Frudella,” explains Pirelli. “Though she should have been a man, considering the hair on her, the pipe she smoked, the distance she could spit, and the venom with which she could hit. Anyway, they put me in a school that filled me with hate and dread. St Blister’s, it was called. I’ll cut a long story short, Stan. A circus came to town; I ran away to it.”

  “They never found you?” asks Stan.

  Pirelli shrugs. He shakes his head. “I suspect they hardly looked for me.”

  “Is that when you started to swim with piranhas?”

  “No. I mucked out the camels and the llamas. I brushed the zebras and washed the elephants. Lovely things they were. Then one spring Pedro Perdito arrived.”

  “Pedro Perdito?”

  “And his piranhas. Now, he really did come from Brazil. He said he did, anyway. He spotted me just like I spotted you. He said our meeting was destined. He educated me in the ways of fish and of myths. He trained me, and turned me into what I am today, the great and extraordinary Pancho Pirelli. Here he is, look.”

  Another photograph. It seems ancient, like the colour in it has been painted on. It shows a dark-skinned dark-haired moustached man in a sky-blue cape. Behind him is a piranha tank with the ruddy-jawed fish swimming in it, and on the curtain which has been drawn aside you can see the folded letters of his name.

  “Pedro Perdito!” says Pancho. “A man of wonder. A man of miracles. Pedro Perdito, my master. Isn’t he marvellous?”

  “Yes,” says Stan.

  “Good. Now, drink your black pop, and put these on.”

  “Put what on?”

  Pirelli grins. He reaches into the drawer again. He takes out a pair of sky-blue trunks and a sky-blue cape and a pair of goggles.

  “These!” he says. “The trunks and cape and goggles that Pancho Pirelli wore as a boy. The trunks and cape and goggles that have been waiting for the new Pancho!”

  Stan does look rather splendid in his new kit. He’s scrawny and skinny, and of course he’s still our little Stan, but he already feels like a different kind of Stan. He stands beside the piranha tank in the morning sunshine with Pancho. They gaze together at the lethal fish.

  “I am not going to throw you straight in, of course,” says Pancho.

  What? Throw me in! thinks Stan.

  “I suppose I should train you up, like Dostoyevsky said,” continues Pancho. “It’s the modern way, isn’t it – education and training, et cetera et cetera?”

  “I suppose so, Mr Pirelli.”

  “Then let us begin. First of all you must be educated. Lesson one: getting to know the piranha. Here are some books.”

  Pirelli searches in the space under the tank. He takes out a couple of battered books: an ancient school encyclopaedia and an ancient atlas. The first tells Stan in faded print that the piranha is an aggressive flesh-eating fish from the rivers of South America. It says: Do not enter a river where the piranha is suspected. The second shows him the routes of the Amazon and the Orinoco through the wilderness of the South American rainforest. It says: Much of this vast area is still unexplored.

  “You knew those things already, of course,” says Pirelli. “By the way, I take it you can swim.”

  Stan remembers when he used to go to school, the class visits to Fish Quay Swimming Pool – thrashing about in the water with dozens of other kids while the teacher stood in a suit at the side of the pool and yelled at them to behave themselves.

  “Yes,” he says. “Or at least I used to be able to. I’ve got my fifty metres badge.”

  “Good,” says Pirelli. “Though this is a different kind of swimming. More like controlled sinking, I suppose. We will have to work on your breathing. Hold your breath.”

  “Sorry?” says Stan.

  “Take a deep breath and hold it for as long as you can.”

  Stan breathes in deeply. He holds it in. Fifteen seconds pass. He feels like he’s going to burst. He breathes out loudly and sucks in air again.

  “We’ll aim to get you up to a minute or so by the end of the week. Can you dance?” asks Pirelli.

  Stan has never considered the subject. “I don’t know,” he admits.

  “Neither did I when I was your age. Uncle Harry and Aunt Fred weren’t known for their love of dancing. Were your aunt and uncle?”

  “No,” says Stan.

  “I thought not. But I imagine that you will find, as I did, that you are a natural. Try a little, please.”

  “A little what?”

  “A little dancing. Just move as if you’re dancing underwater to the sound of unheard music. Go on. Don’t be shy.”

  Stan looks around. A small crowd has gathered. Pancho calls to them.

  “There will be no performance until this evening! Come back then, please.”

  A few people move on, but others stay. One of them is Tickle Peter. Stan waves. Peter waves glumly back.

  “This is Stanley Potts!” calls Pirelli. “He will become one of the greats!” Then he adds, “His first performance, however, will not be for some time.” He turns back to Stan. “Ignore them, Stan. Their time will come. Now show me some dancing.”

  Stan shuffles his feet a little. He sways his hips. He nods his head up and down.

  “We’ll work on it,” says Pirelli. “Now, the real test. It is time for you to confront the inner piranha.”

  “The inner piranha?” says Stan.

  “You must imagine that the fish are swimming beside you. You must imagine that you are swimming alongside them. You must look into their eyes and show them that you are bold and brave. Can you do that, Stan?”

  Stan shrugs. It seems easy enough.

  “Close your eyes and do it, Stan,” says Pancho. Stan closes his eyes. “See the fins and the scales and the teeth. Feel the fins and tails brushing against your skin. Can you imagine it all, Stan?”

  Stan shrugs again. “Yes,” he says.

  “Excellent. Now look into their eyes, Stan. Be calm and confident.”

  Stan’s good at this. He sees the fish. He feels the coolness of the water. He sees the teeth. He feels the tails and fins. It’s quite pleasant, rather like the dreams he has had of swimming w
ith his goldfish.

  “Have they bitten you yet?” asks Pirelli.

  “What?” says Stan.

  “Have they bitten you yet? Is there any blood?”

  Stan sighs. Of course they haven’t bitten him! “No,” he says.

  “Excellent! You may open your eyes again.”

  Stan opens his eyes.

  “That was a big success,” says Pancho.

  “But it was easy,” says Stan.

  “Easy for you, perhaps. But you are Stanley Potts. For most people, the inner piranha is as lethal as the outer. The thought of imagining the piranha is almost as terrifying as the thought of entering the tank with it. Here, have some more black pop.”

  Stan swigs the pop. He looks at the tank. Half a dozen of the piranhas have gathered in a little crowd, close to the edge of the tank, and they’re gazing out at him.

  Hello, my companions he murmurs inside himself. Hello he hears back from deep inside himself.

  “Mr Pirelli,” says Stan.

  “Yes.”

  “The training doesn’t seem very … organized.”

  “You’re right, Stan. It doesn’t. Thing is, I’ve never had an apprentice before. And being the Stanley Potts is not really about training. It is about belief. It is about dreams. When you are in your caravan tonight with Mr Dostoyevsky and Nitasha, I want you to dream of swimming with piranhas. I want you to dream of your childhood by the Orinoco. Can you do that, Stan?”

  “Yes,” says Stan. “Is this how Pedro Perdito trained you, Mr Pirelli?”

  “Not really,” says Pirelli.

  “Then how did he train you?”

  “He threw me in.”

  “He threw you in?” cried Stan.

  “Yes. He said he was certain that it was my destiny to be the next Pedro Perdito. But he also said there was only one way to be truly certain. So he grabbed me, carried me up the ladder and in I went.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. I thrashed around for a few seconds, Pedro watched what was going on, the fish swam happily around me. Then Pedro hauled me out, said I was the right person, gave me some trunks and a cape and I was off.”

  Stan stares. He chews his lips at the thought of it.

  “It was the old days, Stan,” says Pirelli. “It was a different world. We did things differently.”

  Stan closes his eyes. He sees a boy just like himself thrashing in the water all those years ago.

  “Why didn’t they eat you, Mr Pirelli?” he asks. “Why don’t they eat you now?”

  Pirelli smiles. “That is the question, isn’t it?” he says. “It is the one and only question. They do not eat me, because they know I am not there to be eaten. They do not eat me, because I am Pancho Pirelli.”

  “And they will not eat me, because I am Stanley Potts.”

  “Correct.”

  Stan looks at the fish, swimming elegantly through the water. He looks behind him. Tickle Peter peers glumly at the tank. The boar man is there chewing a chop. The lady from the haunted house waves her fangs at him. Further away, he sees Nitasha and Dostoyevsky making their way towards them through the stalls.

  “There’s another secret as well,” adds Pancho.

  “What kind of secret?” asks Stan.

  “A secret that can only be divulged to those who swim with the piranha.”

  “People like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  Pancho looks over both shoulders. “You’ll tell nobody?” he whispers.

  “Nobody,” swears Stan.

  “OK. The stories about piranhas – about them eating people and stripping them to the bone – well, that’s all they are. Just stories.”

  “So they don’t do it?” asks Stan.

  “Yes, they do, but not very often. Of course, you can never be certain. Every time I dive in, there’s always that little worry: is this the day of doom?”

  Stan ponders. “So all that stuff about being the Stanley Potts,” he says, “and about being a boy of myth and legend, that doesn’t really matter?”

  “Of course it matters!” cries Pancho. “You are a performer! You must be a hero and draw crowds of admirers to you. And the fish will respond to it. They might not look very clever, but they know a true performer when he turns up in their tank.”

  The two of them turn to stare at the fish. The fish stare back.

  “Mr Pirelli,” says Stan.

  “Yes, Stan?”

  “Maybe you should throw me in, like Pedro did to you.”

  “Look at the teeth, Stan,” says Pirelli.

  “I’m looking,” says Stan.

  “Remember the chicken, Stan. And the sandwich. And the question: is this the day of doom?”

  “I’m remembering. And the shoe. But I just feel that I’ll be all right. That maybe the only way to train me properly is to train me like Pedro trained you.” Stan looks at the watchers. “It’ll be my first performance. I’ll pretend I’m terrified.”

  Pancho Pirelli beams with pleasure. “You are indeed a true performer, Stan. You’re a showman.”

  Stan beams back at Pancho. To his own astonishment, he has to agree that he does feel like a true performer. What on earth would Annie and Ernie make of it all?

  “This is the final sign I need,” says Pancho.

  “What do you mean, the final sign?”

  “It shows that you are indeed the next Pancho Pirelli. You do not need to be trained. It is the statement of a true swimmer with piranhas: Throw me in! Are you ready, Stan?”

  Stan steels himself. “Yes,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t do this unless I was pretty sure you’d be safe, you know.”

  “I know that, Mr Pirelli.”

  Pancho turns to the watching crowd. “My friends!” he calls. “This is a historic moment! This is the great and wonderful Stanley Potts, the boy who has a date with destiny! Come closer. Watch him enter the tank of the piranhas. Watch him stare into the face of death! Watch him dance!”

  The watchers edge closer.

  “But he’s just a little lad!” calls someone.

  “I too was once a little lad!” responds Pancho. “So were all of us!”

  “I wasn’t!” yells the woman with the fangs.

  “And I was a little boarlet!” snarls the boar man.

  Pancho ignores them. He takes hold of Stan’s arm and guides him towards the tank. “Are you certain?” he mutters.

  Stan takes a deep breath. “Yes, Mr Pirelli,” he says. “Yes.”

  He pretends to hold back.

  “It’s cruelty!” comes a voice. “The lad’ll get gobbled up!”

  The crowd starts to close in.

  “Faster, Stan!” whispers Pirelli. He slings Stan across his shoulder. He begins to climb the ladder.

  “Somebody stop him!” a man yells.

  “I can’t look!”

  “It’s insane!”

  “It’s criminal!”

  “It’s murder!”

  “STOP!” shouts Stan.

  “PUT ME DOWN, MR PIRELLI!”

  Pancho stops, lets Stan swing down from his shoulders. Stan climbs the rest of the ladder on his own. He stands there at the top, all alone.

  “It’s all right, my friends!” he calls. “I won’t be eaten! I am Stanley Potts!”

  “NO!” yells Nitasha.

  “Don’t be stupid, lad!” calls the fang woman.

  “NO, STAN!” cries Dostoyevsky. “YOU WERE JUS’ MEANT TO BE PRACTISIN’ TODAY!!!”

  Stan holds up his hand to silence the voices. He feels proud and strong. He pulls the goggles down over his eyes.

  “I will not die!” he calls. He stares down into the tank. He sees the waiting piranhas staring back at him. Is that hunger in their eyes?

  “NOOOOO!” yells Dostoyevsky.

  Stan takes a deep breath. He stands right on the edge of the tank.

  “Farewell, my friends!” he calls.

  Dostoyevsky leaps past Pirelli
, races up the ladder, reaches for Stan. Too late. As Dostoyevsky grabs for him, Stan steps aside, topples forward, and in he goes.

  At this point, we could go on another journey to another part of the tale. We could rise from the fairground and seek out the road and see how Annie and Ernie are getting on. We could look down and watch the clattering DAFT van and the barmy men inside. We could travel even further, as far as Siberia, to see if there’s any sign of Mrs Dostoyevsky and her ballerinas, to see if there’s any way of bringing her back to her lonely Nitasha. We could even leave this tale altogether and start another. But no. This is probably not the time. This is probably the time to keep focused on our hero, on Stanley Potts, don’t you agree?

  OK. So in he goes, into the lethal water, the tank of doom, the…

  Down he goes, head first towards the bottom. The tank becomes a storm of bubbles and splashes, of floundering boy and whirling fish. Stan bounces off the bottom. He looks nothing like a true performer. The fish swirl around him in confusion. He rises to the surface to gulp some air. That’s when Dostoyevsky catches him and hauls him out.

  “STAN!” he yells. “YOU’RE S’POSED TO BE JUS’ PRACTISIN’!”

  “THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING!” Stan yells back. “THROW ME BACK IN!”

  Dostoyevsky can’t do that, of course. He slings Stan across his shoulder and carries him back down to the ground. Pancho Pirelli comes to stand beside them.

  “What you smiling at, Pirelli?” says Dostoyevsky. “The lad could’ve been killed in there.”

  “I’m smiling,” says Pancho, “because you got him out with perfect timing, Mr Dostoyevsky. You could almost be part of the act. Would you like to join us?”

  “Join you?” yells Dostoyevsky. “This is madness, Pirelli. The lad had hardly heard of a piranha before yesterday and now you’ve got him in there swimmin’ with them!”

  “Yes.” Pancho smiles. “Isn’t he a wonderful boy? He grew up by the shores of the Orinoco, you know.”

  “No, he didn’t! He grew up in Fish Quay Lane.”