Read by Greg Page
I been fishing this lake since I were knee-high to a water boatman. Perch is what I usually catch. The way they hook on and come out all red-finned furious, all wide-eyed and shiny-striped – it’s magnificent, in its way. People ask me, what is it about fishing? But as soon as I get into it, they turn away again, bored like. Well, I seen a thing lately that would keep them listening for a little while longer.
And I’m not the only one what's noticed.
Mike comes down more often too. Says nothing, but nods at me and sits further off, beyond the reeds. I notice he's feeding the birds his bits of bread and bacon, what he usually puts on his hooks. He’s not so much fishing, as waiting to catch a glimpse.
There’s something else, too. A big swan that comes in the evenings, ploughing up spray like he'll empty the lake. He stands up out of the water, flapping out his feathers, telling us he's top cob. So there’s me, Mike, the big swan, and, if we’re lucky, the girl.
And then last week, I seen it. Or thought I did. Just off in the reeds, the girl. And that big swan. On her. Cloaking her with his wings, fanning ‘em at her, hard, his feet sliding and clutching. I can’t be sure what I’m seeing. There is so much swan. And underneath, is she struggling? I couldn’t tell, not for sure, and so, well, then I couldn’t tell.
I didn’t stay to fish, so I went back, stopped off at the pub. And Mike was there too, which was unusual, so I asked him:
“Listen, Mike. You seen it then?”
“Seen what?”
“Today, at the lake.”
“Seen nothing mate.”
“Come on, you’re there as much as I am.”
“Just zip it, keep quiet about it.”
“But we should tell somebody.”
And then Mike steps up to me, right in my face, nose to nose, and pushes me, sudden like, thump. Mike – who’s never moved more quickly than it takes to give me a nod over from the far pitch at the lake, Mike – whose most excited speeches last all of two words, even when he’s landed a record perch. I’m so surprised that I wobble backwards and my pint spills over me and I reach for the table and then the whole lot of us nearly come down. But I catch myself and lean forward again and Mike is there, in my ear now. He whispers at me, teeth all gritted,
“Leave it to me, you bugger.”
But we’ve caused a commotion and the landlady says,
“Oi, Oi boys. Not in here. Outside, in the playground, if you must.”
So I leave and I start to go home, but at the end of the street, right there, are two of those community support officers. And so I go up to them, tell them what I thought I saw, and they look at me, the beer soaking into my shirt and they hear the story of a swan and a girl and they just shrug and ask me where I’m headed and offer to escort me home.
When my wife sees me she asks me why I’m in the state I’m in, and starts to have a go at me. Well, I can’t be bothered, so I end up on the sofa. All night I’m thinking about the girl and the flapping wings and in the morning I tell my wife I’m going fishing.
“How about I come too?” she asks, the one in a millionth time she’s shown any interest. It’s still early, early enough for there to be mist on the water, and my wife, she’s not even dressed.
“The lake is no place for a woman,” I say, trying to make it sound like a joke.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Rumour has it Mike has caught himself a little lady of the lake. Reckon I should check you haven’t been catching any water nymphs of your own.”
“Don’t be daft,” I answer, and I leave before she can say any more.
And now I’m angry, angry at Mike for his silent, secretive ways, for not telling me anything about it. After all the years we’ve been keeping each other company.
I don’t know what I expect to find at the lake, but I go through the motions of setting up my pitch, get the hook and rod, bait and line – I won’t bore you with it – when across to the left of me I hear something in the reeds. The mist is rising now and there’s a gentle ripple in the water. Then I see her. She’s naked again, and she reaches out from the shore. Her belly is pale and oval, and dips into the water as she enters the lake. She begins to swim to the other side and I look to where she’s headed and I see Mike, and he’s standing there, under a tree. And he’s holding a shotgun.
“Mike!” I shout, but he raises the gun and points the barrel towards the lake, towards the girl and I shout again, “No, look out!” as if I’m in a children’s TV show, and then he swings to his left and fires into the reeds.
I duck down, even though the gun wasn’t aimed anywhere near me, and when I look back at the lake, the girl has disappeared. But out of the shallows behind the reeds four white swans rise up, their necks outstretched, their feet scrabbling at the water – and those wings, eight white wings curving and flapping and battering the air. But the big cob, he ain’t with them.
I leave everything – the rod, all my gear, and start running around to where Mike is standing. It’s boggy and slippery with mud and the reeds block a full view of the further shore, so I can’t be certain I’ll find him in the same spot. But he is there, staring back to where I’ve come from and now I can see that he’s watching as the girl emerges from under the water, close to where she first slid in. She looks back, for a moment, at the two of us, and then disappears out of sight.
“I didn’t get him,” says Mike. “He wasn’t with the others.”
“You have to stop,” I say. “There’s other ways.”
Mike turns to look at me, something haggard about his face.
“I tried to tell someone,” I said.
“And how did that go?” Mike says, knowing the answer. We stare back at the water.
Then I say, “There’s another way again.”
My wife was suspicious, of course, catching me kneeling at the cupboard under the sink, ferreting amongst the bits and pieces there. Amazing the range of substances you can find in a few household bottles of cleaning fluids. That oven stuff would take your face off. Anyhow, I spun her another yarn and found what I needed, eventually. Mike got to work with it and came back down to the lake with his bread and bacon. Made sure it all got within reach of the big cob.
So here we are. At the lake once more. Watching the water. Waiting.
And then we see it. The swan. Floating out from the reeds, trying to rise. But he falls back, lopsided, and flounders to right himself. He throws back his neck between his wings, head swinging from side to side, rubbing slime from his beak. His wing feathers are cacky, clogged. And I can hear something. A faint song. A call.
I turn to Mike.
“What’s that?” I say. “Lay. La?”
“It ain’t that,” says Mike “It’s Le. Da. Leda. That’s what he’s singing. It’s her name.”
Mike stares at the swan for a moment. It is flailing, failing, its body dragging lower in the water. Mike looks at me. He turns to go, but calls back, over his shoulder,
“Forget this,” he says, “Important thing is, after today, we got the lake back in order.”
But I ain’t so sure. What can I tell people about fishing now? Do I say that I go to sit quietly, to get away from it all? Sounds harmless. But the truth ain’t so harmless. ’Cos I know, really, that the line and the bait and just a little bit of poison, they’re all there in the water, waiting for something to stir.
(c) Caroline Greene, 2014
Caroline Greene worked for many years as a non-fiction editor and writer before giving it up for the theatre and becoming a fundraiser. Her fiction has appeared in online magazines, the Fish anthology, Flash magazine and, more recently, at Liars' League.
Aged six Greg Page was cast as Joseph in his infant school nativity. Somebody put a tea towel on his head and he became someone else. He hasn't been himself since. He can be contacted through roseberymanagement.com and has no idea what he's done with his keys.
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