The Death of the Elver Man

by Jennie Finch

  In the yard the workshop gang were showing off their handiwork to a group of the other clients, who crowded around, touching and peering as the raft was prepared for the short journey to the river.

  ‘Well,’ said Eddie, rubbing his hands together, ‘this is the acid test I suppose.’

  Despite his smile she realized he was feeling nervous underneath, wondering what they could do if the raft didn’t handle right or – worst of all – didn’t float. She had a vision of the whole contraption tilting up and sliding gracefully into the muddy water, never to be seen again, and despite her reservations about the whole enterprise she found herself hoping it would be okay. Looking around her there was more energy and enthusiasm surrounding the raft than she’d seen since her arrival. This bunch really cared, they’d put in long hours and learnt new skills working as a group. She caught Eddie’s eye and a flash of understanding passed between them. If it would just float then somehow they’d make it work.

  ‘There you is,’ said Kevin, as he walked through the kitchen door. He held three dead rabbits in his hand, clutching them by their back legs as he flipped them on to the table.

  ‘Hang on now, let me get some paper down first,’ said Ada crossly, but inside she was proud of her son’s ability to stalk and catch their dinner so well. Watching from the top window she’d marvelled at how silently he moved through the field, never losing sight of his target yet managing to remain hidden as he approached. His aim was something miraculous, she thought, as he seemed to fire the catapult without sighting, never needing a second shot. The rabbits fell one after another with no time to take fright and bolt, so fast could he fire, all in absolute silence.

  ‘How’d you do it, so easy like?’ she asked, as they sat at the table skinning one rabbit and cleaning the other two for the Saturday market.

  Kevin shrugged, not really interested. ‘Dunno. Just makes sense when I look – seems I just know the angle. Reckon I’ve always been able to do it. Remember when I was at school?’ He glanced at his mother and back to his work. ‘Some days I took on other boys, see how many cans we could knock off the fence. Always wondered why they was so slow, why they kept missing all the time. Got a girt bit of pocket money off the big lads in bets some days.’ He grinned at her happily and she found herself smiling back at him. They bent to their task and soon there was a rich stew bubbling in a pot on the stove and the other rabbits were trussed and hung in the tiny back lobby ready for market.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Ada. ‘There’s some sorrel out front, all fresh and ready for eating. You remember what that looks like?’ When Kevin nodded she said, ‘Go get me a bunch now and I’ll make a bit of a salad.’

  She wandered out to the garden and pulled a few chives, picked a small lettuce and lifted a few carrot thinnings before turning back to the house. As she walked through the door she gave a shriek and almost dropped the vegetables at the sight of Kevin staggering into the kitchen holding an enormous fish.

  ‘What the hell is that you got, boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Found ‘un on the doorstep,’ said Kevin, dropping the monster on to the table with a thud. ‘Girt heavy bugger an’ all.’

  They stared at the fish for a moment before Kevin stated the obvious. ‘Got no head, mind.’

  Ada placed her vegetables by the sink and stepped over to peer at the fish. ‘Damn good job too,’ she said. ‘Is a pike, monster pike this ‘un. They got real sharp teeth, vicious mouths all going different ways. Can cut off a finger even if they’s dead.’ She poked at the body tentatively and shook her head. ‘Get him off my table now. I don’t want that in my kitchen.’

  Kevin pulled a face. ‘Is lovely and fresh. Why not try a fillet eh Mum? I never seen one this big – reckon could be really tasty.’

  Ada turned her back and lifted the lid from the pot on the stove.

  ‘We’m not touching it, ‘she said firmly. ‘Firstly, ’tis a pike and they’s not clean fish. They eat any old kind of rubbish, frogs and birds and filth from the drains. Don’t know what’s in there and I’m not fancying it.’ Kevin opened his mouth to argue and she swung round, fixing him with a glare.

  ‘Besides, we don’t know where he’s come from. Big ol’ fish like that, worth something in the market I reckon. What’s it doing on my doorstep? No, you take him out and find a ditch and you bury him. I don’t want to be smelling him as he rots neither.’ She stirred the pot and the rich aroma of rabbit stew wove around the kitchen.

  Kevin sighed and began to haul the pike off the table, grazing his hand on the sharp scales as he lifted it. He dropped it again and rubbed at his palm. ‘Maybe is a message,’ he said.

  Ada took a cloth and rubbed at his injured hand. ‘What you talking about, message?’ she said crossly.

  ‘Like in that film, means something like “sleeps with the fish”. Saying you drowned someone or something.’

  ‘You don’t half talk some nonsense sometimes. What film anyway – when did you ever see a film like that?’

  Kevin was struggling with the pike again. ‘In the picture house in town – me and Newt went one day. Was a good film but long and a bit nasty in places.’

  Ada slammed the big spoon from the pot down on the table. ‘You was too young to be seeing films like that! What was you – thirteen?’

  Kevin looked stubborn. ‘Fourteen,’ he said. ‘Was the second time round it was on and all the boys from the class went. Manager didn’t say nothing, just let Newt buy tickets for us all.’

  Ada snorted. ‘Newt Johns! Well, he’s safe away at the moment and he’s not getting out in a hurry. Reckon there’s no good coming from any of the Johns clan so you stay away from them all.’

  ‘I like Newt,’ said Kevin, as he disappeared out of the door, the pike draped over his shoulder. ‘He was always good to I. Was Biff that was the bad’n.’

  Ada watched as he made his way across the stream at the bottom of the garden and picked a path towards the main drain. Kevin was growing up and his experiences in Bristol had hardened him. She was afraid for him but she knew she couldn’t protect him from the world much longer.

  Waking that morning, the idea had appealed to Derek’s sense of humour. He’d watched his pike colony grow from a few fish to a swarming, seething mass of hunger and there was something about their strength, their casual ferocity that he found fascinating. Often he would linger on the bridge and peer into the water to see his fish fight over their meal. They were not naturally shoal fish and as more arrived some of the originals, the smaller and weaker specimens, disappeared – probably down the throats of the larger arrivals. He developed favourites amongst them, identifying them by their scars or patches of colouring. There were two in particular, monsters both, that he watched for, two big, speckled boss pike that moved with the speed and grace but struck at the meat or any small fish foolish enough to get in their way with deadly force. He was driving down a back road late one evening when he spotted a jumble of fishing gear left on the porch of a rental cottage. Derek had no qualms about taking from the visitors, the grockles who swarmed over the area in the warmer months, pushing up the rents and paying the new, exorbitant fees for fishing licenses. He stopped the car a bit down the road, crept back and made off with the rod, a good size net and a box of assorted hooks and lures.

  Back in the tumbledown cottage he now called home, Derek sorted through his haul the next morning. The rod looked strong enough and there was some decent line. He reckoned he’d need at least a 25 lb line to have a chance at one of the bigger fish, and some decent hooks too. At the bottom of the box he uncovered some trebles, barbed three-pronged beauties that he fixed to the wire rig. Reluctantly he went to the freezer and rummaged around inside until he found a joint with a decent chunk of meat on it, stripped the bone and slammed the lid down again. He opened the back door to clear the smell out, kicking the ancient freezer as he went past it.

  ‘Girt useless bloody thing,’ he muttered, breathing through his mouth as he assembled the dead bait that ha
d once been Frank Mallory. One hook up at the top, one just slipped into the side of the bait, two bards protruding near the bottom and he was ready. It was a cool day with cloud cover and low mist over the water, which would make it easier for him to avoid the wardens. Not that they came out here often but it would be just his luck to run into one of them, him with no licence and his special bait. Best steer clear of them all, he thought, as he walked down the path and over the bridge.

  There was a good thicket of scrubby hawthorn surrounded by willows a bit down the bank and he settled himself there, hidden from all but the most determined eyes. He cast his bait carefully and watched it drift towards the reeds where the pike waited. Nothing on the first cast nor the second so he set his rod on its stand and leaned over the bank, sprinkling a few scraps from a bag in his pocket. As they reached the edge of the reeds he saw the tell-tale ripple on the water and a moment later there was a flash of scales and the pieces were gone, snatched and consumed in one movement. He waited a minute and sprinkled a few more. This time they vanished closer to him, a few yards downstream from the bridge. Derek grinned to himself. He could afford to be patient – it was worth waiting for just the right fish, he reckoned. Gradually he teased the pike until it was within easy reach of him and he checked his dead bait before casting once more, a little upstream so the meat floated gently towards the waiting fish. The speed of the strike almost wrenched the rod from his hands and he wondered as he played the line out if it would hold. Then the thrill of the contest drove everything else from his mind as he and the pike fought to the death.

  It was a close contest between two determined and predatory members of their species, but Derek was bigger and stronger and had the initiative. He waited half a minute after the bait had been taken before beginning to wind in the line, and the pike was hooked, the barbs pulling him slowly but inexorably towards the bank. First the fish thrashed, shaking his great head in an attempt to free it, then he dived, dragging the line against the rough bottom of the canal in an attempt to break it. Surfacing downstream from his tormentor, he rose up almost straight, tail walking on the surface, pulling and jerking with all his might as he set his 20 pounds against Derek’s aching arms and burning hands. Again he dived, twisting and squirming as he tried to snap the line that held him. Derek hung on though his hands were scraped raw and blisters began to bloom on his palms and fingers. Sweat broke out on his face and trickled down into his eyes but he dare not let go of the rod to wipe it away. He let out a little more line, let the pike run and then slowly brought him back again. The third time the fish broke the surface and tried to tail-walk away Derek almost lost him. They had been fighting for almost twenty minutes and Derek was at his limit. He could not believe the pike’s stamina, its burning determination to break free. Gritting his teeth he set his heels in the mud of the bank and began to pull once more, easing the fish closer and closer to the bank until suddenly it was within reach. Derek swung the net round and trapped it, lifting it clear of the water.

  If he thought all the fight had been sucked out of the pike, he was mistaken for it began to thrash in the net, flinging itself around in an attempt to get back in the water. Derek leaned back trying to keep his hands away from the snapping jaws with their rows of wickedly sharp teeth. The long battle finally began to take its toll and the thrashing became squirming and then flopping as the pike struggled to survive out of the water. Derek experienced a sense of admiration, almost respect for such a fierce adversary. He felt suddenly that he didn’t want to let it just suffocate, to die minute by slow minute in the air and he felt for his fishing knife. Taking a firm grip of the back of the pike’s neck through the net he felt for the gills and cut. The pike gave a final heave and collapsed in a rush of blood from the sacs behind its head. Cautiously, Derek lifted it up from the bank, aware once more of time passing. He was exhausted, his body stiff and aching, and, despite all his care, one of his fingers was bleeding badly. But he had what he’d come for. The pike lay on the river bank, smooth and shining in the glittering sunlight, a fine and well-fed specimen. Serve the bitch right, Derek thought, as he carried it into the kitchen and removed the head – the bitch and her pathetic excuse for a son. Maybe he would drop them a note when he was on his way out of the Levels, let them in on the secret of the pike’s diet. He packed the head carefully and put it in the boot of his car before setting off for Ada’s cottage across the Levels.

  Sue hummed softly to herself as she bumbled around the garden. On a tiny patch of cleared ground she had planted flowers, the brightest and boldest she could find, and they were bursting into a technicolour mat around the steps leading to the back gate. She was especially pleased with the sunflowers, carefully staked to support their weight as they stretched up towards the sky. The packet had contained a mix of types, she discovered, and the plants ranged from some only about three feet high to an extraordinary single bloom that towered over her. It was already nearly eight feet and still growing and she was giving serious consideration to entering it in the local ‘tallest sunflower’ competition. The garden was a sun-trap in the late afternoon and evening and she settled on the steps contentedly, blinking in the golden light and feeling utterly at peace.

  Her good mood was shattered by Alex, who stormed through the house and into the garden snarling, ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? Are you taking the piss or what?’

  Sue peered at her, screwing her eyes up against the glare.

  ‘What are you shouting about Alex? I’ve just got in myself and I’ve been sitting out here. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘The curtains,’ said Alex. ‘I’m talking about the front curtains.’ She pulled at Sue’s arm but Sue stood up and shook her off.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake – I know you like the curtains pulled but it’s still light. This is taking paranoia too far,’ she said crossly. Reluctantly she followed Alex into the house and through to the front room.

  ‘I didn’t do that,’ she said, looking at the bare window. The net curtain was pulled right back and the interior of the room was visible to all who passed by, just a few feet away on the main street. Alex was tugging at the curtain but it was stuck on the end of the bar.

  ‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ she muttered, ‘so how do you think it got back here then?’

  Sue nudged her out of the way and with her extra height managed to free the tangled net.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but there, all fixed. I’m not a total idiot you know, I wouldn’t do something like that. Who wants the neighbours peering in while we’re at work anyway?’

  Alex shook her head, still upset. ‘Anyway, it’s very odd. Was the door locked when you got home?’

  Sue sighed. ‘You know it was. You went out after me and I think your head would explode if you didn’t double check everything. It was locked and so was the back door.’ She held up her hand. ‘And so were the windows.’

  Alex stood for a moment, gazing at the window and then turned and headed upstairs. ‘I’m going to get changed,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Can you put the milk in the fridge? I’ll be down and start on dinner in a minute.’

  ‘Right – oh, what’s on the menu for tonight?’ Sue shouted as she carried the carton through to the kitchen.

  ‘Surprise!’ yelled Alex.

  Sue opened the fridge and gave a shriek, dropping the milk all over the floor. Alex came running at the sound, ‘What is it – what’s the matter?’

  Sue stood in the back room, her face screwed up in disgust.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve got planned for tonight but you can count me out,’ she said. ‘I’m off to the chippy.’

  ‘It’s only a rabbit,’ said Alex in disgust. ‘Look at this mess – how did this happen!’

  Sue went to the fridge and tugged at the door. ‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘I know what a rabbit looks like.’

  Inside, on the centre shelf, its jaws prised open to display the fearsome teeth, was the head of a pike.

  Chap
ter Twelve

  Alex was in court the day Kevin appeared before the magistrates for poaching, having fought hard to keep him as her client through several allocation meetings. She argued she had already built a rapport with the family, no easy task where Ada was concerned, and had managed to gain Kevin’s trust. Garry had been grudging and suggested she needed a wider case-load if she intended to progress in her career. He seemed anxious to move Alex on to more difficult clients with more complex needs despite the fact she was still in her first year. After the meeting Gordon had taken her aside, looking at her anxiously.

  ‘You are getting too involved,’ he said. ‘I know you feel a responsibility for this family but you can’t do this for every client. It will wear you out, Alex. You need to step back and let others do their bit too.’

  Alex knew he was right and she could feel the strain beginning to affect her work with other probationers, but she could not let Kevin down now, not after all he had gone through in the past months.

  In the court she sat through the usual small-town litany of drunk and disorderly, driving whilst intoxicated, actual bodily harm (fighting whilst drunk on the pavement at closing time) and one case of attempted burglary where the perpetrator had made off with a record player and had to go back the next night because he couldn’t carry the speakers in one trip. The court was half empty for most of the day, the public gallery hosting an ever-changing cast of family members and friends all watching helplessly as their loved ones were accused, chastised and sometimes taken away from them. Kevin’s case was listed last on the day’s order sheet and, as the hour approached, people began to drift into the courtroom. For the first time there was a crowd on the press bench instead of the lonely figure of the junior reporter who, sitting day after day, tried to make news from the procession of misguided misery that passed before her. Alex watched as she was boosted out of the front row by jovial men with spiral-topped notebooks and flashy ties – ‘real’ reporters who would write the only ‘real’ story of the week.