Nicola Barker - Three Button Trick and Other Stories

‘Surely,’ Fred said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘You know the lie of the land out there.’

Wesley went into the back room and up to one of the fridges. He took hold of the top drawer and pulled it open. The drawer contained water, and, just as Trevor had described, was crammed full of large, grey eels, all wriggling, eyes open, noses touching steel, tails touching steel. Skin rubbing skin rubbing skin.

Held in limbo, Wesley thought, in this black, dark space. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Nowhere to go. Like prison. Like purgatory.

Wesley dosed the drawer. He shuddered. He covered his face with his soft hands. He breathed deeply. He hadn’t been all that honest. What he’d said about his dad and everything. True enough, his dad had been in the navy, he’d travelled on ships the world over, to India and Egypt and Hong Kong. Only he never came back from the sea. Never came back home. Sort of lost interest in them all. Only sent a card once, a while after … a while after … to say he wouldn’t ever be back again.

Wesley knew all about the sea, though. Knew all about fishes and currents and stingrays and everything. His mum had bought him a book about it. For his birthday when he was six. And so he knew about eels and how they all travelled from that one special place in the Sargasso Sea. Near the West Indies. That’s where they were spawned and that’s where they returned to die.

But first, such a journey! Feeding on plankton, the tiny, little transparent eels, newborn, floated to the surface of that great sea from their deep, warm home in its depths, drifted on the Gulf Stream, travelled over the Atlantic, for three summers, then into European waters, in huge numbers, swam upriver, from salt to freshwater. What a journey. And man couldn’t tame them or breed them in captivity or stop them. Couldn’t do it.

How did they know? Huh? Where to go? How did they know? But they knew! They knew where to go. Moving on, living, knowing, remembering. Something in them. Something inside. Passed down through the generations. An instinct.

Wesley uncovered his face and looked around him. He wanted to find another exit. He walked to the rear of the fridges and discovered a door, bolted. He went over and unbolted it, turned the key that had been left in its lock, came back around the fridges and strolled out into the shop.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Wesley said as he pushed his way past Fred and sauntered back outside again.

Trevor shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said. And he meant it. ‘You’ve got to fucking do this for me, Trev,’ Wesley said. ‘Why?’

‘You know how old some of those eels are?’

‘No.’

‘Some could be twenty years old. They’ve lived almost as long as you have.’

‘They get them from a farm’, Trevor said. ‘They aren’t as old as all that.’

‘They can’t breed them in captivity’, Wesley said. ‘They come from the Sargasso Sea. That’s where they go to breed and to die.’

‘The what?’

‘Near the West Indies. That’s where they go. That’s what eels do. They travel thousands of miles to get here and then they grow and then they travel thousands of miles to get back again.’

‘Sounds a bit bloody stupid’, Trevor said, ‘if you ask me.’

‘I’m a travelling man’, Wesley said, ‘like my dad was. Don’t try and keep me in one place. Don’t try and lock me away.’

‘They’re eels, Wesley’, Trevor said, almost losing patience.

‘Imagine how they’re feeling,’ Wesley said, ‘caught in those fridges. Needing to travel. Needing it, needing it. Like an illness, almost. Like a fever. Dreaming of those hot waters, the deep ocean. Feeling cold steel on their noses, barely breathing, crammed together. Nowhere to go. No-fucking-where to go.’

‘Forget it,’ Trevor said, ‘I’ve got no argument with Fred. Forget it, mate.’

‘Take the van, Trevor’, Wesley said calmly. ‘Drive it round the back, where they make the deliveries. I already unlocked the door.’

Off Wesley strode again. Trevor jangled the keys in his pocket, swore out loud and then ran after him.

Wesley crept in through the back entrance. He stood still a while. He could hear the chattering of customers in the shop and he could hear the sound of a van pulling into the delivery passage. He went outside, smiling wildly, happy to be fucking up, same as he always was.

‘OK, Trev,’ he said. ‘Open the back doors but keep the tail up so’s when I dump them in there they don’t escape.’

Trevor looked immensely truculent but he did as Wesley asked.

Wesley went back inside, opened up one of the big, silver drawers, pushed his arms in, down and under all that silky, scaleless eel-flesh. He curled his arms right under, five eels, all wriggling, closed his arms around them and lifted. Water splashed and splattered. He looked over to the doorway leading into the shop, bit his lip, couldn’t pause. The eels were whipping and lashing and swerving and writhing. He headed for the exit at top speed.

Trevor stood by the tailgate. When he saw the eels he swore. ‘Fuck this man! Fuck this!’

Wesley threw the eels into the back of the van. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said, ‘to get them back to water, otherwise they’ll suffocate.’

Trevor watched the eels speeding and curling in the back of his van, swimming, 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, byway 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.