almost, on air. He turned to say something but Wesley was gone. A minute later Wesley re-emerged. More eels. Like snakes. Faces like . . . faces like cats or otters or something. Little gills. Seal eyes.
As Wesley turned to go back in Trevor caught him by his shirt sleeve. ‘I’m not doing this,’ he said. ‘Things are going well for us here. He’s kept eels in this place for years, gets a delivery every week.’
Wesley turned on him. ‘Give me the keys.’
‘What?’
‘Give me the shitting keys and I’ll drive them to the canal myself.’
‘This is stupid!’
‘Don’t call me fucking stupid. No one calls me that. Give me the fucking keys.’
Trevor took the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the floor. He walked off. His eyes were prickling. ‘Fuck it!’ he shouted, and his voice echoed down the passageway.
Back inside, Wesley pulled open the third drawer, shoved his arms in, took hold of the eels. Water was everywhere now. Thank God it was lunchtime and Fred was busy. He held the fish tight and straightened up. He headed for the back door.
Outside, he met Fred. He was holding the five eels. He looked at Fred.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Fred said.
‘Why aren’t you in the shop?’ Wesley asked, stupidly.
‘Jean’s in,’ Fred said, eyeing the eels. ‘She’s covering.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’
‘What are you doing with my eels?’ Fred put out his arms. ‘Give them to me.’
‘No,’ Wesley said. ‘You can’t own a wild thing.’
As he spoke he took a step back. Fred moved forwards and put himself between Wesley and the tailgate. The eels were itching to get free. Wesley’s arms were aching. Fred took a step closer. He was short and square and tough as a boxing hare.
Wesley opened his arms. The eels flew into the air, landed, skidded, flipped, whipped, scissored, dashed. At top speed, they sea-snaked down the passageway, into the market, on to the main road.
‘Down the Roman Road,’ Wesley yelled. ‘Back to the water, back to the frigging sea!’
Fred punched Wesley in the mouth. Jesus, Wesley thought, feels like all my teeth have shifted. He staggered, righted himself, clenched his hands into fists, by way of a diversion, then kicked Fred in the bollocks. Fred buckled.
Wesley skipped past him and sprang into the van. Got the keys in the ignition, started the engine, roared off in a cloud of black exhaust fume.
Beale’s Place, Wright’s Road, St Stephen’s Road. Bollocks to the One Way! Sharp right at the tip of the market. Back on to the Roman Road, screw the traffic, on to the pavement, over the zebra crossing, past the video shop, the church, the intersection, Mile End Park. Sharp left. Over the grass. Tyre tracks. Mud-cut. Foot flat. Brakes.
How long had he taken? He didn’t know. He could see the canal, just below. Dirty, dark waters. Dank and littery.
Down with the tailgate! The eels were like flying fish. The air made them pump and shudder. Like spaghetti in a heated pan, boiling and bubbling.
‘Get in there!’ Wesley yelled at them. ‘The Grand Union Canal, the Thames, the Channel, the Ant-bloody-arctic.’
A cluster of eels shuddered down into the grass, rippled on to the concrete path, and then One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Into the canal.
One eel split from the others, turned right and darted towards some undergrowth. One stayed in the back of the van, smaller than the others and less agile. Wesley grabbed it by its tail. He swung it in his arms. He ran to the edge of the canal. He threw it. The eel made a whip-cracking motion in the air, shaped itself like a fancy ribbon, just untied from a box of something wrapped and precious. Then splosh! It was under.
Wesley stood by the canal for several minutes. He inspected his hands, he sniffed, he stopped shaking. He started walking. He walked. He walked. He passed by a fisherman. He stopped walking. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Which way is it to the sea?’ he
As Wesley turned to go back in Trevor caught him by his shirt sleeve. ‘I’m not doing this,’ he said. ‘Things are going well for us here. He’s kept eels in this place for years, gets a delivery every week.’
Wesley turned on him. ‘Give me the keys.’
‘What?’
‘Give me the shitting keys and I’ll drive them to the canal myself.’
‘This is stupid!’
‘Don’t call me fucking stupid. No one calls me that. Give me the fucking keys.’
Trevor took the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the floor. He walked off. His eyes were prickling. ‘Fuck it!’ he shouted, and his voice echoed down the passageway.
Back inside, Wesley pulled open the third drawer, shoved his arms in, took hold of the eels. Water was everywhere now. Thank God it was lunchtime and Fred was busy. He held the fish tight and straightened up. He headed for the back door.
Outside, he met Fred. He was holding the five eels. He looked at Fred.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Fred said.
‘Why aren’t you in the shop?’ Wesley asked, stupidly.
‘Jean’s in,’ Fred said, eyeing the eels. ‘She’s covering.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’
‘What are you doing with my eels?’ Fred put out his arms. ‘Give them to me.’
‘No,’ Wesley said. ‘You can’t own a wild thing.’
As he spoke he took a step back. Fred moved forwards and put himself between Wesley and the tailgate. The eels were itching to get free. Wesley’s arms were aching. Fred took a step closer. He was short and square and tough as a boxing hare.
Wesley opened his arms. The eels flew into the air, landed, skidded, flipped, whipped, scissored, dashed. At top speed, they sea-snaked down the passageway, into the market, on to the main road.
‘Down the Roman Road,’ Wesley yelled. ‘Back to the water, back to the frigging sea!’
Fred punched Wesley in the mouth. Jesus, Wesley thought, feels like all my teeth have shifted. He staggered, righted himself, clenched his hands into fists, by way of a diversion, then kicked Fred in the bollocks. Fred buckled.
Wesley skipped past him and sprang into the van. Got the keys in the ignition, started the engine, roared off in a cloud of black exhaust fume.
Beale’s Place, Wright’s Road, St Stephen’s Road. Bollocks to the One Way! Sharp right at the tip of the market. Back on to the Roman Road, screw the traffic, on to the pavement, over the zebra crossing, past the video shop, the church, the intersection, Mile End Park. Sharp left. Over the grass. Tyre tracks. Mud-cut. Foot flat. Brakes.
How long had he taken? He didn’t know. He could see the canal, just below. Dirty, dark waters. Dank and littery.
Down with the tailgate! The eels were like flying fish. The air made them pump and shudder. Like spaghetti in a heated pan, boiling and bubbling.
‘Get in there!’ Wesley yelled at them. ‘The Grand Union Canal, the Thames, the Channel, the Ant-bloody-arctic.’
A cluster of eels shuddered down into the grass, rippled on to the concrete path, and then One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Into the canal.
One eel split from the others, turned right and darted towards some undergrowth. One stayed in the back of the van, smaller than the others and less agile. Wesley grabbed it by its tail. He swung it in his arms. He ran to the edge of the canal. He threw it. The eel made a whip-cracking motion in the air, shaped itself like a fancy ribbon, just untied from a box of something wrapped and precious. Then splosh! It was under.
Wesley stood by the canal for several minutes. He inspected his hands, he sniffed, he stopped shaking. He started walking. He walked. He walked. He passed by a fisherman. He stopped walking. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Which way is it to the sea?’ he
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