The Duck Pond Incident

by Charlie Humphries

  Now Chou looked at a list of the dead, a list of innocents all disposed of as if they were chaff. ‘Deprived of vacuum’ the notes read, and coordinates showing their last resting places. She took the pictma from her sleeve, took rolling film of the lists, coordinates, dates and took a deep breath, tried to relax the tension in her shoulders. It was nearly done, nearly time to report in. Hopefully they would be pleased with an early check-in.

  With a reverence she didn’t know she possessed, Chou replaced the pictma in her sleeve, straightened her jumper and turned around. A fight had broken out at the far end of the medical bay between two prisoners, both on the floor pummeling one another, rolling around in the drain, soaked through with the greasy waters of humanity. Chou walked back to Sophia’s bed, hunkered down on the floor again. The Englishwoman seemed to be dozing, her fingers twitching in her sleep. Chou watched the fight evolve, one nurse talking into the comchip in his wrist. The far double doors of the bay opened and four guards burst onto the scene but these ones didn’t have batons raised ready but instead were spitting tiny points of electricity from tasers. As they tackled the fighters, Chou began the process of checking in. She scratched the back of her neck and the tiny constellations scars there and felt the little pinprick of pain that was the comchip activating and sending a low frequency blip into the air waves. In theory these were so tiny that anybody monitoring those waves would miss it. Chou would not get a reply through the same channels: she would just have to wait and see if they would send her an extraction ship.

  She watched the tail end of the fight, the adrenaline of her actions beginning to ebb and a bone-tiredness settling heavy across the whole of her body. With as soft a touch as possible, she replaced Sophia’s out flung arm down the length of her body.

  “You did good, English. I don’t know what happens next.”

  “We’ll have to stick together, then. Did you find Masami?” Sophia crossed her hands across her chest, turned her head to look at Chou with a weak smile.

  “Er, yes. I’ve got a lead, but we’ll have to be patient now, try and stay out of trouble. How’s your head?”

  “This must be how an egg feels when you crack it. Any chance of getting some water?”

  “I’ll get some, one moment.” Chou helped Sophia raise herself onto her elbows, and the Englishwoman had three cups before the pain was too much. She lowered herself down with a groan, tried to get comfortable.

  “Thank you, Chou. I wouldn’t have survived in here.”

  “It was nothing. Now, try and sleep.” Chou took Sophia’s hand and gave it a squeeze, more for herself than she’d admit. The pair dozed as the medical bay emptied, a slow-draining swill of the desperate, lost and innocent.

  Sophia exploded awake at the klaxon cry. The lights died as one and the gravity loosened its grip. There was screaming, shouting, confusion. A gentle suffusion of light cascaded down the walls, a backup generator kicking in somewhere. Sophia held onto her camp bed as it floated off the floor, looked around at Chou who was grimacing at the continuing klaxon. She was holding onto the cracked water mug, trying to stop the shaking in her hands.

  There was a hiss and squeal as a voice came over a speaker system.

  “This is Commander Fitzwilliam of Her Majesty’s Space Militia. We have the station surrounded and are taking control of the systems. Gravity will be restored in three, two, one.” Sophia crashed back to the floor, the shock flaring pain through her torso. She let out a cry, tears threatening to overspill. Chou sprawled onto the floor, letting go of the mug which tumbled into the drain.

  “Oh god, it’s the English! Chou, we’re getting out!” Sophia was really crying now, out of relief, shock, pain.

  “Just hold on, English.”

  From behind the far double doors came more shouting, somebody screaming in pain and a single, reckless gun shot. The medical staff were whispering to one another as they moved into the middle of the hall, hands raised. The doors burst open and camouflaged militia poured into the space, rifles raised. There was a beat of quiet before the main representative of the medical staff spoke.

  “Please, we’re just medical professionals captured from a previous raid. The command have our idents. Please, we’re just trying to help people.” He had a Welsh accent, was shaking with cold, panic or perhaps both. A shorter, thin white man wearing a dress uniform stepped out from behind the militia, removing his hat and holding it under his arm. He clicked his heels together and smiled around the bay.

  “We will, of course, have to verify your story, but I’m sure we can have you on your way home sooner rather than later. My name is Private Blessedwater and I thank you for your patience with our investigations. Now, if I might ask you all to just hold tight a little longer while we finish clearing the rest of the station, that would be grand.” To punctuate his point, there was a number of gunshots from back the way they’d appeared. En masse the soldiers turned as one, forming into two ranks all focused on the door. Private Blessedwater took no notice and instead stepped with a click of mirror-shined shoes over to Chou.

  “Well, now, shall we begin with you, m’dear? Right this way. Your friend will be alright for five minutes by herself.” He had one of those disarming smiles that was like an angler fish’s light and Chou followed him out of the double doors and into a corner out of earshot.

  “You called; we have answered. Give me the intel.” And like that his smile dropped and Chou was looking down the gullet of the angler fish.

  “I want to see Masami,” she said, not quite looking him in the eye.

  “And you will see her, mon petit, but first we need the intel. What did you find?”

  “Lists of people brought through this sector, lists of people being… vented.”

  “My, my, that will be awkward to explain to the UN Council. Well done, little Raven, they will be pleased at the Tower. They may even have another job for you.” Chou paused in handing over the pictma.

  “I am not becoming one of your Ravens or working for the Tower. I was told to do one job and I’ve done it. Please, just let Masami go. She has nothing to do with your stupid war.”

  “You’re wrong. She does have something to do with this war, and it’s keeping you, a native French speaker, in line. You will be indispensable, and if you want to see Masami again, I suggest you do exactly as you’re told.” Blessedwater took the pictma from Chou and tucked it into a pocket, a greasy smile seeping across his features.

  “Now, mademoiselle, if you’ll step this way for debriefing? And a change of clothes, maybe.”

  Chou looked at the double doors, let out a sigh and followed Blessedwater back into the medical bay. The smell of humanity was sour, and the lights were soft like the diffused light on a thinly clouded day.

  The Duck Pond Incident

  They say that it’s runners who find the bodies. Or the walkers, panting and out of breath. The dog walkers too, watching with mixed parts fascination and horror as their beloved furry friend trots back ecstatic with their gory trophy.

  But Jane had gotten around this by taking Terry - her black German Shepherd - around the duck pond and on through the park every day. There he could go for a little swim, pretend to be a duck and annoy the parents of the small children slowly killing the ducks with bread. Jane always took pleasure in the scowls of those parents when their small brats began to cry. Doubly so when Terry would then proceed to scrabble out of the water and shake, making the child scream even more. Terry was a good dog, though: loyal and obedient to a fault.

  It was a crisp autumn day with a ground frost and sharp wind. Jane was pulling on her boots, wrapping her scarf about her face and patting her pockets for her front door keys when Terry bounded into the hall with his lead in his mouth.

  “Walkies?” Jane trilled, hands on knees. Terry bumped his nose against her thigh with a whine, offering her the lead. She clipped it on and they set off at a slow pace towards the park.

  Terry had come into Jane’s life via her ex, Sadie, who had t
rained him from a puppy as a potential cadaver finding dog, and who had to make the decision that Terry wasn’t cut out to be part of the service. They had met at one of the public meet-and-greets, where the ordinary public could see and speak to officers of the law and their teeth-filled partners. Followed by an awkward first date the next evening, as they’d just placed their drink orders when Sadie had gotten the call from work.

  “I’m so sorry. Look, I’ll phone you tomorrow? On-call has gone AWOL and they knew I had plans. Maybe I can wiggle something out of it.” That something had been tickets to the aquarium where they’d held hands in the shark tunnel and looked up in wonder.

  “Mummy, those ladies are holding hands!” The child’s voice had echoed through the tunnel. Sadie smirked and they had moved on, spluttering and choking at the mother’s face as it dawned on her that this would be the topic of conversation with her five-year old for the rest of the day.

  But it wasn’t to be. Jane and Sadie just hadn’t clicked completely was all it was, and their lives were moving in very different directions. Terry had stayed, though, and was a welcome reminder of those few bliss-filled months.

  They were coming up to the path that bisected a copse of birch and alder, the path a slippy crush of mouldering leaves. The river on their right, swollen and fast. The duck pond was very still though, a lazy splat-shaped body of murky water that was eroding its banks and spilling across the footpath. It was quiet today, with only a father and small child on the bank throwing fistfuls of crumbs to the overly enthusiastic collective of ducks, gulls, pigeons and a single moorhen.

  Jane took Terry off his lead and he went to have a sniff and little wee amongst the trees. There were no squirrels to torment which disappointed him but he did double check the scent marks just to be sure. Satisfied with his brief wander amongst the copse, Terry began his investigation around the pond bank. He sniffed around the edge, leaving neat prints in the frosty mud and paused. He looked up, and cocked his head at Jane. They stared at each other for a moment, dog and human acknowledging the other’s existence, before Terry snorted and belly flopped into the water.

  He padded towards the ducks and gulls who had been enjoying their stodgy breakfast, and who then decided that a looming German Shepherd just ruined one’s digestion. There followed a mass migration of ducks from water onto land, crowding around the child and its father to the screaming brat’s delight.

  Terry paddled towards the bank, almost mimicking a giant river otter. He stopped just short of the gathering of ducks and began to have a grand old sniff against the waterline. He started to paw at the bank, shattering the tranquility of the water’s surface with looping waves of water cloudy with mud, lanky weeds and one abandoned plastic bottle.

  “Terry! Come here!” But he doubled his efforts, ears flat against his head. The father was frowning at the large German Shepherd who was burrowing through filth and now starting to disturb the ducks. He did the shifty side-eye at Jane but deemed the situation not yet at the point where it was appropriate to interject and ask her to put her dog on the lead. He did pull back his child, though, by its little reins where it proceeded to fall on its bum in the mud and began to scream.

  “Terry!” Jane took his lead from around her neck and stopped.

  Terry was the colour of an oil slick, his coat saturated with water from the chest down. His ears twitched at Jane’s call, but he ignored her and stuck his muzzle into the ragged hole he’d excavated. Then he began to tug and thrashed his head from side to side, churning up the water even more. The ducks and pigeons took off in a cloud of breadcrumbs and noise, flapping and squawking. And through the feathers, Jane saw what Terry had been digging out of the bank. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She groaned from the pit of her stomach and began marching towards the scene. The father was staring with a wide, slack mouth and began to dry heave.

  “Terry! Drop it!” Jane broke into a run. Terry thrashed the water with his tail and pricked his ears up, cocking his head to one side. His jaws dripped with pond water and slime from his prize. The father began to vomit and there was a little splash back onto Jane’s boots.

  “Terry, drop it. Drop it!” Jane knelt down in the mud and swallowed down nausea, trying to not smell Terry’s treasure. She held out her hand and closed her eyes as Terry dropped the swollen, water-logged head into her hand.

  “Good boy, Terry. Who’s a good boy?” Jane took a great long mouth-breath, made the mistake of looking down at the head cupped in her hands, felt her fingers sinking through pond weed and mud.

  “I’ll phone the police.” The father wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, spat onto the mud. He dragged his small child away from the pond, over the tiny little bridge that capped the weir and pulled out his phone. Jane frowned down at the head - a male she thought but couldn’t be sure - and felt a calm sink into her bones. Not a tiredness from emotional upheaval, but a calm and contentedness that felt a little out of place considering the circumstances. Terry was still looking up at her, his big brown eyes full of pride as he thrashed his tail from side to side.

  Several police vehicles arrived thirty minutes later, bringing with them bright tape to cordon off the scene, officers wading into the pond to probe the bank for the rest of the body. Jane handed the head off to a formless person in a white forensics overall who spirited it away to keep the evidence from spoiling more than it had. She kept Terry on a very short leash, made him sit down right next to her, and the pair waited for the first officer who had been on scene to come back to take a statement.

  “Well this is a turn up for the books.” Sadie sidled up to Jane, her hands bundled in the heavy leash of a tan and black German Shepherd who plonked himself down next to Terry.

  “Hi. Um, how are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. You?” Sadie gave her dog a scratch behind the ears, sneaking him a treat from her pocket.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Good thing I didn’t have any plans today. Who’s this?”

  “Rigby. He’s nearly finished his training and I’ll be handing him off in a couple of weeks if he passes, but I thought today would be good practice for him.” The two women gave a smile and Sadie chuckled as Terry recognised her and gave a small whine. She got on her knees and fondled Terry’s ears. He attempted to lick her face, but she pushed him down.

  “Listen,” she said, taking a mighty interest in the pad of Terry’s paw, “I was thinking, they’re having a Police Academy double-bill at that tiny cinema on Cheap Street. It’s on Friday night and I’ve got a spare ticket, if you were interested? I mean, only if you wanted to go that is. I just thought that maybe-” here she trailed off, blushed and started to rub Terry’s chest.

  “Sure, I would like that.” Jane grinned and felt butterflies stir in her chest. Maybe it wasn’t sure a bad thing that Terry had found a body after all.

  Stand Tall

  The rain’s whispering was dying down to a sigh on the wind and Lacerta stood at the entrance to her cave with her legs spread, her arms crossed, tasting the air with her forked-tongue. She was a round, black woman with a penchant for sensible clothes: blouses and bras and hoes, but allowed herself a little colour in the head scarfs she used to tame her beautiful, curly hair when she was working. A clattering on the wind drifted up from the valley’s floor and she tiptoed to the edge of the plateau outside her cave, peered down from on high and frowned at what she saw, the delicate, blue-black scales around her eyes sliding together. A long train of wagons that were in the last stages of curling into a tight circle just outside the village, with pages and grooms and other people scattering with poles and long lengths of canvas. Visitors? Here? The markets were not due for months yet. It wasn’t even time for the main harvest.

  Lacerta tucked herself back into her cave where it was cozy with the smell of woodsmoke and drying herbs. She began to gather and pack her dirty laundry, deciding to make time for herself and her needs for once. The secret creek a little further up the mountain would be bloate
d, ripe for washing clothes.

  She tasted the air again, found a new scent there, the scent of sweat and horses and there followed a shout, her name on the wind. Lacerta decided to ignore them: she had not moved into her dry cozy cave to serve the village people but to live a life of her choosing, independent and free. However, she had to admit in her heart, that these people had helped by bringing her small food parcels; herbs; wool and linen when it was going spare. And they hadn’t cast her out for her knowledge, for helping deliver their babies and treating their sick.

  “Lacerta! I know you’re home.” The shouting was coming closer, coming up the track that wound its way up through the woods that lay around the mountain’s flanks, continued, twisting and meandering up the side of the mountain to her cave. Lacerta rolled her eyes, admonished herself for not getting up to the creek quick enough, and peered out the cave.

  “Sasha, you’ll wake the dead with your incessant howling. What’s the matter?” Sasha was nearly twice Lacerta’s height, nearly twice as wide too, tanned from his long days in the fields. He was frowning at the gangly boy he’d guided up the track, who was panting and blowing with the exertion. He was dressed in black, his surcoat stitched with the king’s crest picked out in gold. Lacerta’s eyes lingered on the crest - an eagle gripping a snake in its talons - and a little drop of ice worked its way into her heart.

  “Lacerta,” Sasha dipped his head, “I told them that you don’t just do house calls and there’s a standard-”

  “It’s fine, Sasha, thank you for bringing our guest here. Please return to your business.”

  “You’ll be okay?” He rubbed his thumb across the scar that zigzagged from the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes, thank you.” Lacerta waited until Sasha was out of sight down the path and into the fringe of the wood before turning her full attention on the stranger.

  “What can I do for the king?” she asked, “as Sasha has informed you, I am not here at anybody’s beck and call, royalty or otherwise.”