On The Banks…
by Lee Rourke
The fish were just not biting, not that they ever did that much. Sometimes, just sometimes they would. But that wasn’t the point was it? Gordon Maldon didn’t fish the banks of the Regents Canal for sport. Mal - as he preferred to be called - fished out of pure boredom. He fished because he liked the loud Canada Geese that inhabited the canal. And if he really thought about it? Well, most of all he liked the two Swans that visited his spot each time he cast his line. He liked the way they moved and the fact that they never left each other’s side, that they had each other and nothing else seemed to matter that much. Mal didn’t like to waste bread, so he never fed them, he just fished. He never fished at weekends though, only on weekdays whenever he had called in sick from work. Mal didn’t like work; his office was large and lifeless. His colleagues bored him. They talked about work and their equally as uninteresting lives at home. Wherever that was? Mal didn’t much like fish either, he thought them stupid and knew very little about them - he liked it that way. But, oh yes, he liked the two Swans and the Canada Geese, they always seemed to be smiling, they seemed content. Each time he sat on his fold up chair and cast out his rod they would welcome him in gaggles and Mal would wave at them. Literally wave. And later when they had had a good old stare at what he was doing his two elegant Swans would elegantly appear and cast their large eyes upwards at him. Mal would smile at them. They would hang around for a while and then gracefully glide away to carry on their intimate romance elsewhere. Mal liked that. There wasn’t much else to like. Mal was from Islington, but he preferred to fish in Hackney on the stretch of canal below De Beauvoir Town - something to do with the way the light reflected off the numerous tower block windows, causing it to shimmer across each ripple of the canal’s murky depths. The water looked different in Hackney. So there he sat in his favourite spot and as regular as clockwork up come the two Swans. Mal looked up from his line and smiled. Work was far away - the City and the rest of London just didn’t exist. Mal looked one of the Swans in the eye, it was the female. The Swan looked at Mal without blinking and then coquettishly turned her long slender neck back over to her partner. Mal whistled - hoping that she would look
back at him, but she never did. Mal smiled anyway.
Then it happened. Without a sound. The Swan shuddered, her neck dropped violently. And then another shudder, as quick as the first. A tiny pap in the air a split second before a small splash in the water. The Swan let out a sound not too dissimilar to a baby crying in the night or two foxes mating. In any case it was loud; the shrill caused Mal to jump. He watched in horror: the Swan lilting, and then slowly sinking, half her bulk in the water. A last gasp. A sad, sad lament. A large gaggle of Canada Geese retreating in sonorous horror. The dead Swan’s mate staring, dazed, not comprehending, circling its partner and leaving a chilling, almost ethereal pattern in the water as its legs paddled frantically beneath its white, stoic form. And then another pap and a splash, just by his side.
Mal turned around and instantly set eyes on them. They were sitting on a wall behind the cover of some trees Mal didn’t know the name of - about fifteen meters away, air-guns in hand. Mal didn’t need to think about what to do next, he just ran towards the two teenagers with the air-guns. He was enraged. He wanted to kill them. The two teenagers saw him approach, giggled, then jumped from the wall and began to run. It was executed in perfect symmetry, as if planed and rehearsed myriad times before, their little feet landing simultaneously on the wet grass. Mal picked up his pace and continued to follow. He was breathing heavily.
Hey! Hey! Murderers! Murderers! You little fuckers! Murderers! You killed my Swan! You killed my fucking Swan! Murderers! You! Hey! You! Murderers! You little fuckers! You little murdering fuckers!…
Mal chased them all the way to the edge of the imposing De Beauvoir Estate. Each grimy tower block loomed over him - almost mockingly. Suddenly, the smaller of the two teenagers stopped, turned and took aim. Pap! Mal felt immediate sharp pain in his right ear like he’d been bitten; the blood trickled down his neck. Mal continued to run, the teenager began to falter and Mal gained ground, his ear stinging in the cold air. Mal was now a metre away, the young teenager began to flag some more. Mal lunged forward and grabbed the teenager by the back of the neck. The other, larger teenager clambered up a wall separating the large housing estate from the towpath and the water’s edge. Mal gripped the teenager hard; he yelped like a dog as Mal threw his air-gun into the water as his accomplice jumped over the wall and out of sight.
Why did you do it? Why did you fucking do it?
Dunno…Dunno…
No, come on…Why did you do it? You! Why did you fucking do it? You’re just
a fucking child! Why? Why? Just tell me…You’re just a fucking child…
All right mister, all right. You’re hurting me. Get off me, man…WE DONE IT ‘COS WE’RE FUCKING BORED! It was only a fucking swan…
Gordon Maldon loosened his grip and slowly fell to his knees.
You killed my fucking swan…
And you, mister, owe me money for a new gun…
The teenager took a deep breath, wriggled himself free and ran. He ran, ran and ran as the blood continued to pour from Mal’s bitten ear. It was the last day Mal would ever go fishing.