Be Careful What You Fish For

Derek was seated one cloudy Friday morning in the office with his back to the magnolia wall, upon which hung a blue baize notice board, bits of unread literature pinned here and there. It had rained and a smell like wet dog lingered, making him feel sick despite his stomach gurgling and aching with emptiness. He had had no breakfast this day either. He thought of the crisps and the yoghurt in his drawer, and that they would be best saved for later when he was really hungry.

            He was hungry because his salary barely covered his accumulated expenses and debts incurred through online gambling.

            Since he was a boy, Derek believed the world would one day give him greatness. ‘I’m gonna build bridges,’ he’d say. ‘I’m gonna climb mountains.’ He threw a plank of wood over a stream once (he and some friends had bounced on it until it broke) and the closest he had come to a mountain was rolling down a sand dune at Talacre Beach.

            As he did his best to concentrate on his work, wondering if he would ever get a permanent contract and a raise in pay, Derek puffed out his cheeks and exhaled in an almost audible sigh-cum-growl. The dark rings beneath his eyes made him look older than his twenty-seven years. His hair was getting long, people in offices always notice when things look untidy. They mostly left him alone but Derek was certain they spoke about him. Dissatisfied in many ways, Derek kept a low profile, apart from the unkempt hair, and hoped that the hours would quickly pass so he could get home and eat whatever things remained at the back of the freezer.

            During lunch, his phone blorked. It was a text from Clare whom he’d been dating for about a fortnight. They had arranged to see Shakespeare in the park at the weekend followed by a walk around the castle and the Roman walls (none of these were Derek’s preferred past-times, but if he played his cards right, treated her nicely, they might end up in a little B&B) but she had to cancel, said her sister was ill.

            ‘Fucking great,’ Derek thought. Yoghurt dripped on to his tie as he read, but he didn’t notice.

            Others did. They always do.

Derek’s sister called that evening to see if he would take seven-year-old Joey to the fair on Saturday – Tim’s mother isn’t too well – but not to worry if he already had plans.

            ‘Actually, I don’t. I mean I did, but they got cancelled. Besides, I could do with a bit of fun.’

            ‘Great, I’ll drop him around twelve? And thanks...’

Little Joey was superdooper-excited to be hanging out with his best Uncle Derek. His mum says Uncle Derek has a cool job in the city where he has to wear a suit because it’s very important. Maybe they’ll win a football or a fish doing hook-a-duck. Little Joey would love a fish. That would be superdooper.

Derek reminisced as he and Joey wandered hand in hand among pleasant smells: hot dogs, onions, and candy floss. The lights were bright, the music was loud, and children ran around followed by their parents in wellington boots. Derek laughed with Joey in the fun house; waved at him on the spaceships; took photos with his smartphone and forgot, or didn’t care, how much the day was costing. It was certainly cheaper than al fresco Shakespeare anyway. Joey noticed some other kids with a goldfish in a clear plastic bag.

            ‘Ooh,’ he said, his eager face was as bright as sunlight on water. ‘Can you win me a fish, Uncle Derek?’

            ‘I can certainly try, little buddy.’

            Joey bounced as he led his uncle to the hook-a-duck stall where a plump and elderly lady greeted them. ‘What a handsome young man,’ she observed. The woman wore a torn black gilet with silver pin badges arranged along each lapel like scales. She spoke in husky Irish.

            ‘Thanks very much,’ Derek replied, smiling.

            ‘I was talkin’ to the boy, you silly sausage. Three tries for a pound: find the number one and you win a fish.’

            Joey could not contain his excitement. Uncle Derek paid the fee and helped him to control the hook on a pole as long as Joey. The first duck concealed a number three; the second a number eight; but the third had a number one beneath it.

            ‘Yay! We won, Uncle Derek. We won!’

            ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ the old lady said. ‘That’s a number seven. Better luck next time.’

            Derek did not care to see the face of his nephew so quickly change from joy to sadness. The boy’s bottom lip dropped as tears welled and threatened to burst.

            ‘Lady, I want the damned fish.’

            ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s a seven. You’re welcome to try again.’

            ‘It’s a one. Give me the fish.’ Derek leaned forward to take the duck from the end of the pole just as the old lady did the same. He tripped on a clod of kicked-up earth, stumbling forward and catching the stall holder in the mouth. Her lip bled and she fell backward into the mud from where she glared at Derek.

            ‘Oh, you’ll get your fish,’ her husky voice had taken a menacing, threatening tone. ‘In that same hand with which you struck an old woman, you’ll get your fish.’

            Derek stuttered a frightened apology and turned to leave, pulling little Joey by the arm as he did so. People moved out of his way; the children pointed, staring with open mouths. Derek lost his grip on Joey’s arm. When he looked to see how, in place of his right hand was the head of a large fish, flopping from side to side and gasping for air. He fainted. Joey screamed. And the elderly lady from the stall grinned as she dabbed the blood from her lip.