The Complete Short Stories

‘Breadcrumbs.’

Granger sighed, then gently closed the door. ‘I’m impressed. I really am. I wish you’d look after me this way. I’m gasping for air too.’

They were five miles from the lake when Holliday leaned forward over the wheel and pointed to the crisp tyre-prints in the soft salt flowing over the road ahead.

‘Someone’s there already.’

Granger shrugged. ‘What of it? They’ve probably gone to look at the platform.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘Don’t you want to share the New Eden with anyone else? Or just you alone, and a consultant biologist?’

Holliday peered through the windshield. ‘Those platforms annoy me, the way they’re hurled down as if Earth were a garbage dump. Still, if it wasn’t for this one I wouldn’t have found the fish.’

They reached the lake and made their way towards the pool, the erratic track of the car ahead winding in and out of the pools. Two hundred yards from the platform it had been parked, blocking the route for Holliday and Granger.

‘That’s the Merryweathers’ car,’ Holliday said as they walked around the big stripped-down Buick, slashed with yellow paint and fitted with sirens and pennants. ‘The two boys must have come out here.’

Granger pointed. ‘One of them’s up on the platform.’

The younger brother had climbed on to the rim, was shouting down like an umpire at the antics of two other boys, one his brother, the other Tom Juranda, a tall broad-shouldered youth in a space cadet’s jerkin. They were standing at the edge of the fish-pool, stones and salt blocks in their hands, hurling them into the pool.

Leaving Granger, Holliday sprinted on ahead, shouting at the top of his voice. Too preoccupied to hear him, the boys continued to throw their missiles into the pool, while the younger Merryweather egged them on from the platform above. Just before Holliday reached them Tom Juranda ran a few yards along the bank and began to kick the mud-wall into the air, then resumed his target throwing.

‘Juranda! Get away from there!’ Holliday bellowed. ‘Put those stones down!’

He reached Juranda as the youth was about to hurl a brick-sized lump of salt into the pool, seized him by the shoulder and flung him round, knocking the salt out of his hand into a shower of damp crystals, then lunged at the elder Merryweather boy, kicking him away.

The pool had been drained. A deep breach had been cut through the bank and the water had poured out into the surrounding gulleys and pools. Down in the centre of the basin, in a litter of stones and spattered salt, was the crushed but still wriggling body of the dog-fish, twisting itself helplessly in the bare inch of water that remained. Dark red blood poured from wounds in its body, staining the salt.

Holliday hurled himself at Juranda, shook the youth savagely by the shoulders.

‘Juranda! Do you realize what you’ve done, you — ‘Exhausted, Holliday released him and staggered down into the centre of the pool, kicked away the stones and stood looking at the fish twitching at his feet.

‘Sorry, Holliday,’ the older Merryweather boy said tentatively behind him. ‘We didn’t know it was your fish.’

Holliday waved him away, then let his arms fall limply to his sides. He felt numbed and baffled, unable to resolve his anger and frustration.

Tom Juranda began to laugh, and shouted something derisively. Their tension broken, the bays turned and ran off together across the dunes towards their car, yelling and playing catch with each other, mimicking Holliday’s outrage.

Granger let them go by, then walked across to the pool, wincing when he saw the empty basin.

‘Holliday,’ he called. ‘Come on.’

Holliday shook his head, staring at the beaten body of the fish.

Granger stepped down the bank to him. Sirens hooted in the distance as the Buick roared off. ‘Those damn children.’ He took Holliday gently by the arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘But it’s not the end of the world.’

Bending down, Holliday reached towards the fish, lying still now, the mud around it slick with blood. His hands hesitated, then retreated.

‘Nothing we can do, is there?’ he said impersonally.

Granger examined the fish. Apart from the large wound in its side and the flattened skull the skin was intact. ‘Why not have it stuffed?’ he suggested seriously.

Holliday stared at him incredulously, his face contorting. For a moment he said nothing. Then, almost berserk, he shouted: ‘Have it stuffed? Are you crazy? Do you think I want to make a dummy of myself, fill my own head with straw?’

Turning on his heel, he shouldered past Granger and swung himself roughly out of the pool.

1961

The Overloaded Man

Faulkner was slowly going insane.