The Duck Pond Incident
Charlie Humphries
The Duck Pond Incident ™ & © 2019 Charlie Humphries & Markosia Enterprises, Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any part of this work by any means without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden. All names, characters and events in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Published by Markosia Enterprises, PO BOX 3477, Barnet, Hertfordshire,
EN5 9HN. FIRST PRINTING, October 2019.
Harry Markos, Director.
ISBN 978-1-912700-94-3
Book designed and edited by: Ian Sharman
www.markosia.com
First Edition
CONTENTS
We Should all Learn Sign Language
Cogs
A Brother’s Love
Settlement 16
Frantic
The Duck Pond Incident
Stand Tall
Ashes to Ashes
Five Hundred and Seventy-Seven Miles
Familiar
The Joys Of A New Pet
Extinction
We Should All Learn Sign Language
Morgan was sure that if daisies weren’t so beautiful or charming they would have been classed as a weed because of their new-found refusal to just die. No, instead, half of Morgan’s working day in the cemetery was spent cutting them back. They were pretty, sure. Somebody was coming in and planting more of them after curfew. However, between lying awake in the complete dark, punctuated by the occasional dying satellite, and worrying over every tiny noise outside, Morgan was thankful for this one mercy. At least daisies were gentle on the eyes after the short walk between their home and work, through what had been.
Today would have been July 15th 2313, if people still kept precise dates: the only thing people counted and observed were the sunrises until the water rations were due or until the slow creep of winter would kill off their carefully tended vegetable plots. Morgan peeped through the gap in the curtain and breathed deep against the glass. In the surface fog they traced two words that had gained more meaning in the years since the government had taken the necessary steps to ensure the people were kept safe: Happy Birthday. Morgan allowed a small smile to prick the corners of their mouth before getting ready for work. They had ironed their blue work polo shirt specially for today, using up what little energy was left in the house-battery. They settled their baseball cap just so over their cropped dark hair - in need of a wash, truth be told - and allowed a small wink in the mirror before leaving the house. There was no point in locking the door: if people were desperate enough, they would smash a window. And Morgan couldn’t afford to replace another broken window.
“Good morning, crew! How are we all?” Natasha grinned round at their tiny team, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her tightly braided blonde hair was pinned up under her work cap, her work shirt a little grubby from dirt and grass stains.
“Can’t complain,” George said with a smile. He saluted the group with his chipped mug of tea, and there were a few nods.
“Good, good, good! Now, before we move onto today’s schedule, we have a very important thing to celebrate. Today is Morgan’s birthday!” Natasha took her hands from behind her back and offered Morgan a rectangular parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. Morgan’s eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their head. They placed a hand against their chest.
~For me?~ they mouthed.
“Yes! A little something from all of us. I’m sorry it’s in Christmas paper. It’s all I had left.”
Morgan took the parcel between all eight fingers and two thumbs, unable to contain the grin that was spreading across their face. Pinching the corner of a strip of tape between thumb and forefinger, Morgan drew it away a millimeter at a time. Natasha, George and Carmen watched on, holding their breath.
Morgan closed their eyes and ripped the paper off in shreds.
“Hey, Nat, if this paper was the last of it, what’ll you use at Christmas?” Carmen twirled a scrap of the shiny red and blue paper between her fingers. Natasha shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
Morgan pulled the book out of its wrapping and gave it a grand sniff, hugged the book to their chest and looked around at their colleagues.
~Thank you.~
“You are most welcome, Morgan. Enjoy. And because it’s your special day, I’m taking you off daisy duty. George has volunteered in your place. You’ll be digging out a new vegetable plot down by the gate. As wide and long as you can manage. I wanted to attempt staples next year, onions and carrots.”
Morgan placed their book on the trestle table with a gentle reverence and brushed an imaginary speck of lint from the cover before beginning to sign with their hands.
~We should attempt peppers and tomatoes too. Is the greenhouse still in one piece? We might have a better chance of germination in there.~
“You know, I’ve not checked.” Natasha took her tiny notepad from her trouser pocket and the ever-present pencil from behind her ear and scribbled some notes.
“I’ll go check it out while I’m hacking at the daisies,” George said. He drained off his mug and rocked to his feet, his hip clicking. “I’m getting old,” he laughed. Morgan wasn’t sure how old George was exactly, but he was in his sixties at least. His hair was a mop of black and silver now that hair dye was no longer a vital commodity.
The team finished up in the chapel’s small side room and went en masse to the tool shed tucked off to one side of the grounds in the shade of a hawthorn tree. Morgan skipped ahead, breathing in the sleepy buzz of the morning, the rising pollen and insects, the brash song of some hidden bird.
Only, something made Morgan stop mid-skip, flung their arms out to stop the others. Under the shadow of a hawthorn tree stood the small shed, squat and in need of a new coat of paint. The newest thing about it had been the padlock. Even the ‘private’ sign was rusting at the edges. But the padlock was on the ground, the shackle snapped clean in two.
“No, Morgan! Stay here! Morgan!”
They waved Natasha off, stepped towards the shiny lump of metal and crouched to pick it up. Morgan watched the shed, strained their ears for any sound out of place. And there, underneath the bird chorus, was a noise like whimpering. Morgan waved the others back and their shuffling and whispering was loud in the morning hush. Since everything had changed and rationing had become an ever-present pressure there had been stories of groups moving through towns and taking as they pleased. These stories were whispered during the witching hour but bloomed into a cautionary fairy tale when the sun burst over the horizon.
Morgan went to lick their lips, flinched at the thrashing stump in their parched mouth as they stepped closer. The book-joy had dissipated and was nothing more than a memory. Morgan took hold of the shed latch and wrenched the door open with a clatter. A cry from the gloom, heavy-weight shuffling as the body heaved itself backwards. A trail of blood.
“Rich?” came the whisper. Morgan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and took in the youth clutching their side, sprawled amongst tarps and wool skeins.
“Shit, shit, shit.” The youth’s breath came in sharp bursts. Morgan took a step into the shed, filling it, spilling over in anger. The tools were gone, the walls empty of their spades, hoes, rakes and secateurs. Morgan turned their gaze back on the intruder and bared their teeth.
“Morgan? We’re coming in.” George poked his head around the door and let out a sigh. “Oh, well now that’s a shame.” He shook his head and plac
ed a hand where his spade used to hang.
“George! This woman needs looking at!” Natasha hauled George out of the shed, shoved past Morgan and dropped to her knees beside the young woman.
“Maybe we should just call an ambulance.” George looked wistfully around the door.
She had sustained a stab wound in the side, but Natasha couldn’t see if the blade had been broken off or not. The young woman had already lost a lot of blood. Natasha frowned and had started to speak, but the youth cut her off.
“No hospitals, no police. My mates’ll be back soon enough., They’re just waiting for dark.”
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Don’t you be lassing me mate.”
George blushed deep.
~Her name is Susan.~ Morgan signed and looked straight at their guest, invader, thief.
“Shit, what’s all that?”
~We should tip you on the compost heap and leave you to rot, like your friends have.~ Morgan’s hands were nearly a blur, tears pricking their eyes and in the end they threw their hands up with a shout, burst out of the shed into the dappled sunlight, took deep gulping breaths with hands on knees. Breakfast was roiling, bubbling in their belly.
“Morgan, you okay?” Carmen went to put a hand on their shoulder, then thought better of it. Morgan waved her away, shut their eyes and took one last deep breath, really tucking it into every corner of their lungs before letting it out in a huge rush. It was far too soon to face up to old memories again, far too soon. They left the others to fuss over Susan and ran into the semi-tamed wilderness of the cemetery proper.
The headstones and statues were a jumble, the slow movement of the earth pushing up some plots, dipping others, making it look as if the deceased had crawled out. That the grassy alleys between the plots needed cutting meant that Morgan, lying down on the slab of a forgotten relative, was hidden from the chapel and shed. With arms outstretched, staring straight up at the sky low with clouds, Morgan wrinkled their mouth and let the memories wash over them. Not complete memories, sometimes just impressions of emotions or smells but memories all the same. Over all of it, a shroud of agony. Panic and dread clutched at their heart, shortened their breath. They curled onto their side and bit down on their fist hard, screaming into it, in fear and shame.
“Susan, I really think we should be getting you medical assistance. You’ve gone awfully pale.” Natasha was clutching an unwanted mug of tea, courtesy of George, between her hands to stop the shaking. She was sat by the shed door, swaying side to side.
“Pale is just part of my look and I’ve already told you my mates will come back for me. We’re family, yeah?” Susan sighed and shut her eyes against the hot pain.
“Susan, did your friends steal our tools?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Why you lot still here anyhow? You get paid for it? Hoping to rebuild the economy or summit?”
“Force of habit, I suppose. Money was never anything to write home about even before everything changed. It was nice to feel a part of something, to have the experience.” Natasha frowned into her rapidly cooling tea before draining it off and placing the mug aside, clasping her worn hands together and examining the callouses. Susan shifted her weight, trying to alleviate the agony in her side but the movement made it worse and she bit down on a moan. She was feeling light-headed and nauseous, was finding it hard to stay awake. She drifted into a doze, only to witness exploding lights as Natasha slapped her, hard.
“Stay awake!”
I am going to watch this woman bleed out all over the shed floor and I don’t think I will cope, she thought and screwed up her face against tears of panic. She let out a long breath and nodded as she made up her mind.
“I’m phoning an ambulance. No, shut up! I’m not going to watch you die. Besides, friends wouldn’t stab a friend and leave them to die alone.” Natasha took off her work cap and jammed it onto Susan’s head.
“Now you’re one of us so fucking well act like it.” Natasha marched out of the shed and took a deep breath to calm herself. Her legs were foal-new as she staggered towards the chapel and the only working phone on site.
Morgan wiped their eyes with a ragged tissue found in their trouser pocket and sat up. The sky was white from horizon to horizon, a chill breeze picking up. Pulling their jacket tighter around their body, they stood up and frowned down at the shed under its hawthorn tree. The conflict within Morgan boiled over and they vomited into the grass, a hacking, suffocating sensation that burned the back of their throat. A moan slipped out between their lips, their entire body a roiling mess. They took deep breaths and waited for a fragile calm to settle over them before stalking back down between the headstones, towards the chapel where Natasha had disappeared.
She was on the phone, twirling the looped cord between thumb and forefinger as it rang and rang.
~Everything okay?~ Morgan frowned.
“Just phoning an ambulance for Susan.”
Morgan tore the phone from Natasha’s grip and slammed it onto the desk.
~Do you know what she did to me? Look!~ Morgan opened her mouth wide, stretched their jaw until it creaked with the strain. Natasha’s eyes bulged out of her head as she stared at the shriveled stump that had once been a working muscle.
“Morgan, I cannot imagine what that was like and I’m too much of a coward to ask but we can’t let Susan bleed out all over the shed floor. The police will ask too many questions.” She flinched as Morgan swept the old leaflets and change tray to the floor, upended the table and smashed it to the flagstone floor. The crash echoed throughout the chapel, startling pigeons from the rafters. She stepped back one step, two.
“Morgan, please, she doesn’t deserve to die.”
Morgan barked a laugh, jarring against Natasha’s ears. They began to sign very slowly, each movement clipped and precise.
~I would have thought you, of all people, would have understood having something taken from you, to have something stolen.~
“The tools are repla-”
~I’m not talking about the fucking tools. Pride, I’m talking about your pride and self-worth. She made me beg and, and-~ They stopped, balled their hands into fists at their sides.
“Morgan?” Natasha reached a hand out and placed it on their arm. “Morgan, we can’t just leave her to die. If we do, we’re no better than them.” Morgan’s breathing deepened and they stared straight ahead, motionless.
And then a flurry, a whirlwind of arms and fists as they struck Natasha around the face and she crumpled to the ground. Morgan closed the chapel door quietly behind them, under the eyes of the ruffled pigeons and began to lope back to the shed. All they could see, all that they could feel was the blade at the corner of their mouth, the slow-sharp memory of pain and the hot stream of piss as it ran down their leg. There was no way the team could understand those captive weeks or the pain and humiliation. Nobody but Susan.
George and Carmen popped their heads into the chapel. They were ruffled and crowned with burrs and leaves, but wore smiles.
“We found the tools!” Carmen held out a spade, jiggling the rakes and hoes in the crook of her arm. Her glasses were fogged up from the exertion. George placed the secateurs on the table as if he were handling an angry snake.
“How’s our patient?” he asked.
“Morgan’s with her. I’d come to ring an ambulance, but I don’t think they’ll be coming. Let me help you with those.”
The three trooped out of the chapel, leaving the door ajar. The only valuable thing left was George’s stash of tea and biscuits. Natasha breathed in deep, started to drag behind the other two as they came closer to the shed. Stepping into the shade of the hawthorn tree, a shudder ran through her and she clutched the bundle of rakes and spades closer to her chest.
“Morgan! We found our tools!” Carmen skipped the last steps
towards the shed door. Morgan emerged, her bottom lip tucked under their teeth.
“Is she okay?” Carmen dropped the tools in a clatter onto the ground. Morgan shook their head, folded their hands. Carmen and George piled into the shed, shouting, crying, checking for a pulse. Morgan met Natasha’s eye. She lowered her bundle to the ground as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
~I know what you’ve done.~ Natasha’s hands were small, skittish rabbits sprinting away from fox jaws. Morgan’s hands hung silent by their sides.
Cogs
Going through the procedure is supposedly an honour and privilege. It is the highest level of recognition of my everyday ability, knowledge and skill at my job.
Mate, I just come in, do my job and go home. Everyone here does that too - just sometimes - well, every day, I pump out more work than my team combined and make far fewer mistakes. Now this procedure has marked me out as management’s pet when all I wanted was a job to pay the rent at the end of the month.
There have already been two people go through the process - the selection is every six months (around performance review time). There’s no asking, no debate or application, you just get a letter all fancy-like, congratulations all round - pat management on the back. Joy. I mean, my team like me, I think, and they joke about my being a machine, sometimes are in awe at how much I can process in a day alone but sometimes I catch a glimpse of something like envy in their faces, a tightening of a frown, an impatient word, and it does make me wonder if I’m as popular as management say I am.
It’s 7:00am on Monday morning, thundering down with rain and my yellow slicker is stuck to my skin. The foyer is empty but for security lounging about at the on-site coffee bar. Quiet murmurs with the bar staff, the THUD THUD of the coffee tamp being emptied. The hiss and squeal of the machine as it froths the milk, the click click of the jug and finally, ah - coffee. I wipe my feet on the matt and swipe my pass in, first at the door, then through the security gate. The conversation continues at the coffee bar with no indication of hello. They know where I’m going. Take the lift down to the basement - gym with a solitary runner, the door to the carpark, and the security door at the other end of the corridor, dark blue printed with AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.
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