Duck Boy

It was dim and quiet in the sick bay, except for the tinny sound of 6KY crackling from a radio on the filing cabinet—I left my heart to the sappers 'round Khe Sanh.

Dale lay on the vinyl cot and studied the asbestos ceiling while Miss Kennedy cleaned the wound on his shin with cotton wool and iodine. She tweezed out bloodied gravel and dropped it into a steel tray. He hissed through his teeth and tried not to whimper.

'I know it stings,' she said, 'but you've really made a mess of this leg.

'There. That's the worst of it done now. You've been very brave. I'll just pop some gauze on, then we'll take a look at those hands.'

'Thanks, Miss.'

Dale pushed himself upright, wincing, then held out his hands. His palms were grazed and raw from breaking the fall.

'Do you need me to call your mum?' asked Miss Kennedy.

'Nah. She's at work.'

'What about your bike? Where is it now?'

'It's still by the bike shed.'

'Wait. You mean you fell after you'd already reached school?'

Miss Kennedy studied the boy for a long moment. His face was dirty except for two clean tracks running from his eyes to his chin. He avoided meeting her gaze.

'Dale, look at me'—he looked up—'did you really get swooped by a magpie, or did someone push you?'

His chubby face flushed. He looked down again and mumbled something under his breath.

'Pardon?'

'Dobbers kiss robbers,' he said, more loudly.

Miss Kennedy sighed, wiped her hands on her cardigan, and stood up.

'Grab your things and come with me to the front desk. I'll write a letter for Mr Della to excuse your absence.'

She watched him cram the folded note into the pocket of his shorts and trudge, head down, out into the courtyard.

Distantly, she could hear children shouting 'Quack!' and wondered what that was all about.

***

She was working her way through a mug of tea and pecking the staff minutes into a mustard-coloured typewriter. A polished shoe planted itself on her desk, attached to the pale, hairy leg of Mr Della, who loomed over her, grinning. The angle gave her an unfortunate view straight up his cotton stubbies, which she was sure was deliberate.

'Hello, Janice. I got your note. Always happy to drop in on my favourite nurse.'

'I'm the secretary, Mr Della, and please take your foot off my desk.'

'Your wish is my command. Now, you wanted to talk to me about Duck Boy?'

'Duck Boy?'

'Dale Murray. You know, the fat kid who fell off his bike? Duck Boy.'

Janice Kennedy stared.

'Because he waddles,' he mimed, 'like a little duck.'

'Mr Della, I don't think that—'

'Oh, come on! It's funny.'

'Mr Della, I believe Dale is being bullied by the other students.'

Mr Della placed a hand on her shoulder, smiled warmly, and shook his head.

'You know what they say, love. Sticks and stones.'

She spun in her chair and pushed his hand away.

'It's not just names, Grant. I think he was attacked on the school grounds. You should have seen his leg!'

'Just horseplay. A few scrapes and bumps won't kill him. Duck Boy could use some toughening up.'

He leaned in close, stinking of cigarettes and aftershave. 'Now, what else did you want to see me about?'

She fixed him with the hardest glare she could summon. 'Mr Della. Kindly rack off.'

***

The bell had barely faded before Dale knocked timidly on the door frame.

'Come in, Dale,' said Miss Kennedy, 'and take a seat on the cot.'

Dale noticed the rusting blue fixie propped in the corner. He rushed over to it. A battered orange Stackhat dangled from the handlebars. Somebody had scratched the words 'Duck Boy' into it with a pen knife.

'That's my bike!'

'Yes. I need to check your bandage before you head home, so I had it fetched here for you.' She paused. 'It will save you some time... not having to go back to the bike shed.'

He flushed and turned away. 'Thank you, Miss.'

'You're very welcome, Dale. Now, what time does your mum get home?'

'Not 'til late.'

'I thought so. In that case, would you mind staying here after school to help me with some work?'

She pulled out a cardboard box filled with glossy poster tubes. She removed an elastic band from one and unrolled it: a sickly-looking cartoon wombat smoked a cigarette while dingoes with sunglasses and surfboards laughed at him. The caption read: Only Dags Need Fags!

Dale laughed. 'Somebody should say that to Mr Della!'

‘The government sent us these. I need help hanging them around the classrooms.'

'I can help!'

***

After blu-tacking health posters all over the school, Miss Kennedy fetched an electric kettle and two bowls from the staff room. She opened a drawer and pulled out a bright yellow packet of Maggi noodles.

'Have you tried noodles before, Dale? After all that work, we should have something to eat.'

'No Miss. I've seen them at the shops, though.'

'Well, we can try them together then, if you’d like? Although, that means the other children will all be gone by the time you leave…'

Dale's eyes lit up. 'Yes please, miss! I don't mind staying late!'

After finishing the noodles, they put up the last posters in the sick bay. At the bottom of the cardboard box was a sheet of stickers.

‘We’ve got lots of these. Would you like to decorate your helmet?' asked Miss Kennedy.

Dale glanced nervously at the Stackhat, then brought it over to the desk. He unpeeled a sticker and slapped it over the graffiti.

Miss Kennedy held up a different sticker. It read: Take a Hike, Dog Breath!

'Where shall I put this one, I wonder? I think I should stick this right here on my desk, in case someone tries to put their feet there.'

Bramble Jack

There stands a mound of mossy stone

That folks around call Bramble Tor.

It gazed down on a stann'ry town

Atop a heather mantled moor

Where, after dusk, the Big-Hat Lad

  Would often go explore.

He always wore a feathered cap

Passed down from his departed dad.

Soon everyone in town forgot

What other names he may have had.

The folk around just knew him as

  'Our little Big-'At Lad!'

Now Big-Hat knew from fairy tales

That, when the moon was full and bright,

The lustrous moss 'round Bramble Tor

Would glow with wisty, green-gold light.

He dreamt he'd claim a Pisky hoard

  By digging there at night.

He did not heed when he'd been told

That, once the ragged sun slid down,

He must not walk the mirey moor

But mind the dry-stone walls of town.

Lest he, like father, heedless, step

  In sucking bog and drown.

This night is clear. This moon is full.

 The mist lies thick as cotton wool.

  A lad who's out to claim a prize

   Is watched by ancient, coal-black eyes.

The mournful golden plovers' song

Had followed him through purple gloam

But as the chill of night set in

He lost all sense of where he roamed.

Then, all about was silent mist

  And not one hint of home.

He stumbled on the sedge and fell

And tumbled hard on stony frost.

The Big-Hat Lad began to cry.

He sobbed in darkness, 'I am lost!'

The darkness softly whispered back,

  'I'll help you, for a cost.'

The mist revealed a spindly man

With beetle wings and bony back.

He smiled with shining needle teeth

And glossy eyes that glittered black.

He made a nimble courtly bow,

  'They call me Bramble Jack.'

'Now, I would gladly guide you home

And even safely walk you back.

I could become your teacher, child.

What say you, then, to all of that?

I only ask a token price:

  That feather from your hat.'

With outstretched needle-fingered hands

The misshaped man was drawing near.

The Big-Hat Lad rose from the ground

And choked his swiftly rising fear.

He took the feather from his cap

  And, eyes closed, offered, ''Ere!'

He waited, wincing, holding breath

Then in his hand the lad felt brass

Replace the feather in his grasp.

He opened eyes to compass glass

With gleaming needle pointing west.

  'What trick be this?' he asked.

'No trick at all,' said Bramble Jack

And with an old professorial air

Explained the working of the needle,

'It points you home from everywhere.

And if holding it, you call for me,

  You'll find I'm waiting there.'

Bramble Jack is very fair.

 His beetle heart beats full of care.

  He only asks a little thing:

   A feather from a goose's wing.

Then in a blazing golden flash

The black-eyed beetle man was gone

And Big-Hat Lad, now feeling brave,

Resumed the quest he'd set upon.

He held the compass gift in hand

  And deeper, journeyed on.

For hours he searched for Pisky moss

Then suddenly began to feel

A stabbing, gnawing hunger pain.

How long past seemed his meagre meal!

He held the compass, closed his eyes,

  said 'Jack, let's make a deal.'

He turned and saw the bramble man.

Relieved, he said 'I need to eat!

For I be fairly starving, Jack.

Will you please conjure something sweet?'

Jack smiled his needle smile and said,

  'Dear lad, I have a treat.'

He flickered shiny beetle wings

And flitted to a blackberry patch.

He whirled around the thorny vines

And with a flash he made a snatch

Then held aloft a bramble root

  As though a fisher's catch.

'What trick be this?' the Hat Lad asked.

'No trick at all. Observe the root!'

He whipped the vine around him thrice.

It started budding glowing shoots

That turned to pinkish flower blooms

  And then… a wealth of fruit!

'A single berry from this arch

Will keep you full and strong and warm.

You'll learn the words to work the spell.

If you agree this pact is sworn:

A single drop of blood will do.

  A little prick of thorn.'

The lad agreed and pricked his thumb

And gave the blooded thorn to Jack.

Then gorged himself on endless fruit

And marvelled at the easy act

Of fleecing fey, then cunning thought...

  'Let's make another pact.'

That's contracts two. He's nearly through.

 He's close, but there's still work to do.

 A tummy full. A teeny price.

   Has he the wit to bargain thrice?

'I came out 'ere to find a prize:

The treasure underneath the moor.

But now I reckon all that work

Is more 'n I might bargain for.

So now, I say: reveal your trove,

  'ee Jack of Bramble Tor!'

'What trick is this?!' cried Jack, surprised.

'No trick. This deal will be the same:

'You'll trade with me for worthless things.

For gold this time we play the game!'

Jack drummed his chin and leaned in close:

  'Then, give to me… your name.'

The sun is up. The lad is back.

 He hauls a bulging treasure sack.

  His form returns home from the moor.

   But where's that lovely hat he wore?

'We'll 'ave to call 'ee somethin' else,'

they said, 'As 'at-less come 'ee back.'

'Sirs, I collect new names like berries,

I claimed more than I can track.'

He smiled and made a courtly bow,

  'But you may call me… Jack.'

***

When folk today climb Bramble Tor

They sometimes like to stop and pose

For pictures by an odd-shaped rock

Where golden mossy carpet grows.

It half resembles some young lad.

  His big hat softly glows.

Rainmaker

Barry Loose was a professional. He did not panic. Instead, he made a careful, clear-headed evaluation of his situation: nobody at ASIS knew where he was. He was unarmed, shoeless, and bleeding profusely from a laceration on his cheek. He was also bound and suspended upside-down over a very active shark pool by a length of steel cable. An LED display was counting down and the Jaws motif was playing on a continuous loop from a hidden speaker. Additionally, his socks were wet.

The socks were the part that bothered him the most. Everything else was fair play—part of the game—but wet socks were an indignity. As far as daring escapes went, he figured this one would be trivial. He just needed to employ core strength, crunch his head towards his feet, then chew through the restraints. He’d need to get a swing going first so he didn’t land in the water. In his weakened state, he reckoned he’d only be able to punch out a single Great White before they overwhelmed him. A man has his limits.

Unfortunately, Barry found those limits immediately. He tried engaging his abs, only to find he didn’t have any. He’d worked on the assumption that the heroic physique he sported in the nineteen-eighties was still there, just insulated by decades of pies and beers. He grunted and flexed for several seconds and then admitted defeat. There was only one possible conclusion: someone had drugged him.

There were fewer than five minutes left on the countdown, which left very little time for a dramatic escape. At that moment, the bulkhead door slid open with a woosh, and an elderly woman in a floral-print blouse poked her head into the room.

'Excuse me, but has anyone seen a cat?'

***

Three hours earlier…

The Aquarium of Western Australia was not at all how Colleen remembered it. The last time she’d visited AQWA, she had gone with her grandson, and they had been given a tour by a cheerful Canadian girl named Debbie. Debbie was studying to be a marine biologist and knew all sorts of interesting facts about jellyfish. She was enthusiastic and welcoming and wore a blue polo shirt with little fish on it instead of black tactical gear. Debbie hadn’t marched her through the underwater glass tunnel at gunpoint or ordered her to keep her mouth shut.

It struck Colleen that the aquarium was empty of children. Also, everyone was carrying automatic weapons and walkie-talkies. She felt out of place. Was she supposed to have brought a gun of her own? That wasn’t usual for cat sitters, surely? She wondered if these new people knew any good jellyfish facts. She decided not to ask.

At the far end of the glass tunnel was a high security door. She knew this, because it had the words 'High Security' painted on it in large yellow letters. It was protected by a grid of bright red lasers. They hummed in a way that reminded Colleen of the hood dryers used by the hairdressers whenever she got her perm done. One of the black-suited AQWA staff pulled out a little white keycard and booped it against a panel. The beams vanished, the doors opened, and Colleen was pushed through into an enormous circular room.

The walls and domed ceiling appeared to be made of a single gigantic sheet of curved glass. Through it, Colleen could see schools of shimmering fish going about their business in the company of eels, turtles, and more than a few giant sharks. In the centre of the room was a solid black slab of an office desk, behind which was the largest swivel chair she’d ever seen. It was facing away from her.

'Welcome, Mrs Webb, I’ve been expecting you,' said an accented voice.

The chair swung around to reveal a severe-looking woman wearing a silver kimono. She had an eyepatch and was stroking an especially ugly hairless cat.

'I am Marina Van Der Willen, your new employer. What do you think of the underwater facility? Beautiful, is it not?'

'Err, yes. I mean yes, it is, not yes, it’s not,' replied Colleen. 'I mean, it’s very beautiful. And I’m very glad to be here.'

Marina stared. Colleen waited. It reminded her of the way the nuns used to stare back in St. Joseph’s Primary School. They looked at you until you suddenly found yourself blurting out silly things.

'I’m sorry. I forgot to bring a gun,' said Colleen.

A huge stingray swam lazily directly overhead, momentarily dimming the room.

'Did you intend to shoot someone then, Mrs Webb?'

'Oh, no. I just thought… you know, everyone else has one.'

'Do you understand your assignment?' asked Marina.

'Yes, I think. You need me to look after a cat?'

Colleen eyed the ugly beast in Marina’s arms. It was licking its crotch.

'No, Colleen,' said Marina, rising from the swivel-chair. 'You are to be the guardian and dutiful servant of THE cat. Fibonacci here is my beautiful child and most treasured companion. You are to ensure that his every need is met.'

'Oh yes, of course. Does he have special needs then?'

'He must be spoon-fed chef prepared meals six times a day. Before bed, you will shave him, rub him with his special essential oils, and read to him for 30 minutes from his favourite book.'

'Shave him? He’s not, err, naturally hairless then?'

Colleen immediately realised she had been impolite.

'Good heavens, no! Fibonacci is a pure boutique-bred Ashera cat. Unfortunately, he is allergic to his own fur and requires special treatment.'

Marina pulled a neat stack of papers from a desk drawer and slid them towards Colleen.

'Before you begin, we must sign these. The first item is an NDA. The second is your employment contract. You will find the terms are generous. The third is a legal A.C.A.T.T. agreement - Acceptance of Custodianship and Absolute Testamentary Trust. In my absence you are duty-bound to act as Fibonacci’s moral, legal, and financial guardian.'

Colleen had no idea what that meant, but she signed anyway. It looked like it had been written by lawyers, and they generally knew what they were doing. She handed back the pen and Marina gave her a warm—but oddly terrifying—smile.

'Excellent. Hopefully, you will do better than your predecessor. He was careless. He accidentally stepped on a deadly blue-ringed octopus in the shower. He died immediately, hence urgent vacancy.'

'That is very unlucky,' said Colleen.

'For him, yes,' said Marina. 'I have no doubt that you will be much more careful.'

***

Six hours earlier…

Barry Loose ambled up the boardwalk of Hillary’s Boat Harbour in the direction of the aquarium. It was bloody hot outside. This wasn’t an 'official' mission, unfortunately—he’d had to go rogue. After he finished shooting the bad guys and saving the planet, ASIS would overlook the indiscretion, and he’d probably get a medal. Maybe even a knighthood. Would that make him Sir Agent Loose, or Agent Sir Loose?

He'd joined the agency back in the glory days, when the Australian Secret Intelligence Service did real spy work. Back in the eighties, the Australian Government got its knickers in a twist over the Sheraton Hotel incident, and suddenly he wasn’t allowed to carry guns anymore. He had spent the last forty years behind a desk. No tuxedos, martinis, or exotic foreign locations. Just transcripts, financial reports, and Microsoft-fucking-Excel.

It wasn’t widely known but Barry had managed to keep a weapon. He’d duct-taped an ancient Smith & Wesson 29 to the underside of his bed, waiting for a rainy day. Today was that rainy day. Not literally, of course—Perth was the devil’s own arsehole in summer—but metaphorically, it was absolutely chucking down, and the dark grey storm cloud of evil was named Marina Van Der Willen, South African ex-pat, billionaire philanthropist, and criminal mastermind. Rainmaker. Pure evil. You could tell by the accent.

Barry snuck around a stack of cargo containers and clambered down the rock groin on the southern side of the AQWA reception building. There was a chain-link fence separating him from the arena formerly used for dolphin shows. It was topped with messy loops of barbed wire, which he neutralised by folding his suit jacket lengthwise and draping it over the pointy bits. He then tried to climb the fence. He got one foot up, and strained to heave himself over, but couldn’t manage foot number two.

A polite cough behind him was followed by the unmistakable sound of several weapon safeties clicking off. Well, shit.

***

Now…

Colleen lost the cat almost immediately and had spent the past few hours wandering an undersea maze of stainless-steel corridors and glass tunnels. Fibonacci, it seemed, did not like being shaved. It also had free access to every part of the facility. She swore she heard the disconcertingly child-like whine of a cat coming from behind this door, but instead all she found was an upside-down man, dangling from a length of cable over an opening in the floor.

'Hurry, woman! Get me down!' shouted the man.

Colleen wasn’t sure what was going on—or what the man was doing. A heavy-duty drum was bolted to the overhead framework, slowly unspooling the thick, steel cable. Attached to the drum was a countdown display, like a digital radio alarm clock, only bigger.

Colleen saw a control panel in a neat frame on the wall. It had three buttons: UP, DOWN, and STOP. It looked inactive. She pressed STOP. Nothing happened. She pressed UP. Nothing happened.

'What are you doing?! Help me! Smash the display!'

Colleen frowned and looked around. She spotted a grapefruit-sized speaker mounted to the wall beneath the panel. It had a ring of blue light on it, that pulsed softly. She recognised it. Her daughter had one! She had used it to play “Bluey Dance Time” with her grandson.

'Alexa,' she said loudly, 'Cancel the timer.'

The light brightened and, after a second, a disembodied voice replied, “Two-hour timer, cancelled.”

'Oh, thank Christ,' the dangling man said.

Now, how to get him down? Colleen tried something else.

'Alexa, close the hatch?' she tried.

'Which hatch would you like me to close?' replied the glowing speaker.

'The one with the sharks.'

'I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.'

'Alexa, close the shark hatch,' she repeated, firmly.

A steel aperture spiralled shut like the iris of a camera, locking with a hiss.

'Alexa, drop the winch.'

Barry Loose barely had time to protest before he thudded to the floor. He lay there groaning for several seconds as the woman began fussing and apologising. He climbed to his feet and poked at his wound.

'Who the hell are you?' he asked.

'I’m Colleen. The cat-sitter. Oh dear, you’re bleeding. Does it hurt?'

'Nothing I can’t handle. The name’s Barry Loose. I’m with the Service.'

'The service?'

'Australian Secret Intelligence Service.'

Barry tapped the side of his nose as he said the word 'secret'. Then, as if only now actually noticing her, he looked directly at Colleen. He took in her silver perm, her horn-rimmed glasses, the floral blouse.

'You aren’t what I expected,' he said.

'Sorry?'

'The girl is supposed to be younger. Pretty sure I’m supposed to save you too. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.'

'Excuse me!?'

'I don’t make the rules, love.'

They were interrupted by a loud meow. Fibonacci had perched himself on top of a plastic storage container, containing a pair or shoes, a watch, an old Nokia phone, and a Smith & Wesson 29 hand-cannon.

***

Barry strode down the glass tunnel, gun held at the ready. Colleen hurried along after him, clutching Fibonacci.

'Are you going to shoot her?' she asked.

'Yeah,' Barry nodded. 'I’m licenced to kill, like James Bond.'

'I don’t think James Bond squelched around in wet socks.'

They approached the High Security door to Marina’s office. The two guards flanking it raised their weapons. Colleen held up the cat.

'Here on Fibonacci business,' she said.

They looked from her, to Barry, then back again.

'He’s a friend of the cat.'

The guards shrugged and stepped aside. The door automatically booped as Fibonacci was brought close.

The circular room was exactly as it had been a few hours earlier, except this time Marina Van Der Willen was already facing them. Her eyes widened in surprise as they entered, then quickly narrowed.

'So, you’re a spy too, Mrs Webb? I should have known,' she hissed. 'Another ASIS agent? CIA? MI6? How much do they know about Project Rainmaker?'

Barry stepped forward and raised the hand-cannon.

'End of the line, Van Der Willen. You won’t be nuking any whales today!'

'Nuking whales? What are you talking about?'

'Making mutant laser sharks then. Whatever. You’re up to something, and we’re stopping you.'

Marina began laughing.

'You have literally no clue what’s going on here, do you? We’re tapping submarine data cables, idiot. Do you know how much money is travelling under the sea just metres from here?'

Barry wasn’t listening. He was waving the Smith & Wesson, gesticulating wildly, and giving a speech about being the only man capable of stopping her plans.

Colleen stood bewildered as the two of them monologued over the top of each other. They both seemed to have forgotten she was there. She looked to the door and began slowly backing towards it.

KA-BLAM!

Barry accidentally fired a shot into the domed ceiling then looked up in disbelief. A tiny white star appeared on the glass, from which hundreds of tiny cracks began splintering outwards. Water began to drip through. Colleen dove through the security door, clutching Fibonacci to her chest, just as it slid shut behind her.

The glass domed office immediately imploded.

Through the ceiling of the tunnel, Colleen could see Marina and Barry struggling in the water, the latter still waving his gun. She saw the giant sharks appearing from the murk. To his credit, Barry managed one good punch before… well… Colleen couldn’t keep watching.

***

Two years later…

The aquarium was much busier now that it had been re-opened to the public. Colleen hadn’t shut down the secret facility, but she had moved the essential operations to the lowest levels and cordoned them off. She still didn’t fully understand why she was in charge, even though the lawyers had explained it several times. Fibonacci, it seems, was Marina’s sole beneficiary and technically the owner of her entire estate, which included a vast criminal enterprise. According to the A.C.A.T.T. agreement, Colleen was duty-bound to act on the cat’s behalf.

When her daughter first suggested that she get a part-time job, she imagined a couple of hours a week feeding and toileting pets. At age seventy-eight, she hadn’t expected to be coordinating both a public facility, underwater research lab, and a vast criminal empire. She turned out to be rather good at running Project Rainmaker. It suited her.

Colleen was a professional.