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Monday
Bright afternoon, trees gently dancing in the breeze, as me and Bill feed the ducks. They swarm around us, devouring the stale bread. They shriek and rattle like a badly tuned orchestra, feathers flying everywhere as they gorge themselves on our scraps. Bill seems quite pleased with himself, glad of the simple pleasures in life, glad to have the warm sunshine beat down upon that wrinkled skin. Then the bread runs out, and the ducks head back into the water, swimming away in formation. A few stay behind, out of loyalty, or just too stupid to realise that we won’t have anything more until we come back tomorrow.
Tuesday
We come back, glad to get out of our stuffy house. It is duller and cooler, but the air is fresh. The ducks swarm around us again, but not so many this time. Bill seems undaunted, he likes the responsibility, likes to feel in control as he scatters his crumbs around. Then the organised confusion is broken, an intruder appears. It is a dog, large and unwelcoming - a Doberman. It stands defiantly, barking, scaring away the ducks, scaring us too. We stand our ground, unsure of what to do. Bill makes to chase it away, but it snarls, foam forming at the mouth. In the distance, somebody stands with a leash. They look as though they are laughing.
Wednesday
In the park again for a quick walk. The morning had been spent playing bowls, and I was all for going home for a sit down, but Bill wanted a quick tour. Just five minutes to see the ducks. Reluctantly, I agreed and we walked over to the muddy waters of the pond. The ducks swarmed around us in anticipation, but Bill laughed them off, content at their company. Then the smile fell from his face – the dog was back, barking as they do. Bill raised his voice, then his hand to chase it off. The dog bared its teeth, Bill shouted, and this time the teeth connected with flesh. Bill screamed, and the dog ran off. I ran over to help, but he shook me off, and stalked away home.
Thursday
Bill brooded, the wounded hand seemed to heal, but his wounded heart seemed to fester. I suggested a walk into town; browse the library or the antique shop. But he insisted on the park, I pleaded with him, but stick in hand he marched into the park. He went to the pond again, scattering bread everywhere, apologising to the ducks for letting the dog scare them. Nothing happened. No dog, just ducks quacking and Bill laughing.
Friday
A phone call. A stranger’s voice tinged with sorrow, and a rushed trip to the hospital. I see Bill slumped in the bed, arms heavily wrapped in bandages. He looks like a mummy. Then I see his face – he looks like a boxer after a fight. There is a policeman there, but never where he is needed. In a professional voice he explains. A fight in the park between Bill and a dog owner. Bill came off worse. Only a policeman could explain the obvious in such a manner.
Saturday
I sit in the chair brooding, wondering what to do. I am torn between helplessness and rage. The hospital phoned - Bill is in a bad way, he might not make it… I look at my old hands and the feeble arms they are attached to. What can I do?
Sunday
I mope around the house, I don’t feel like eating. Yesterday, I went to the butchers, mind blank. I bought sausages because Bill likes them on a Sunday... Now they sit in the fridge, cold and unmoving... Just like Bill... I feel like throwing them out or giving them to a neighbour for their dogs…the dogs!
Monday
I return to the park and watch the ducks. It is dull and overcast, nobody is around and this suits my mood. They know that I don’t feed them often, so they hold back. Then they scatter. The dog bounds over, snarling at me, daring me to make a move. I slowly reach into a pocket and pull out a bag. This seems to excite the dog, animate those devilish eyes. It starts to salivate as I pull out a sausage and throw it at its feet. In one gulp the dog finishes it, then another, then another as I throw them down in quick succession.
With a flick of my hand, it dives into the pond after the sausage, plunging into those murky depths. It struggles against the current as the sleeping pills hidden in the meat start to take effect. The water begins to engulf it…
Then the owner runs over, shouting, demanding to know where his dog is. I play the role of the feeble pensioner, telling him the dog chased after the ducks. He buys it. He walks to the water’s edge; reluctant to go in, but a heavy stick to the back of the head is all the encouragement he needs. He falls in comically. Gasping for air, he struggles, hands trying to find purchase on the pond’s edge, the deep water dragging him in, his heavy jacket like an old fashioned diving suit. There is anguish in his eyes as he puts his hand on dry land, then pain as my foot crushes his fingers. Yelping, he slides back into the water, the cold embrace dragging him down, words and water gurgling in his mouth.
'I can't swim! I can't swim!'
From a pocket, I scatter breadcrumbs on the water’s edge, watching in satisfaction as the ducks swarm towards me.
THE END
Bio:
I started writing a few years back (to pass the time on the train as I travelled to university) and I've had some publishing success with the Puffin review, Cassiopeia Magazine. Next month, one of my short stories will feature in a World War 1 anthology from Mardi Books.
I'm hoping to become a full time writer, but in the meantime, I deliver leaflets and look after chickens!