plaice_face
image provided by Bartlomiej Stroinski at SXC, 2006.

This morning I found a fish under the fridge. A flat fish of some sort. Had to be, there was never room for a salmon or a cod under there. That I found it at all was remarkable. It was only because I was down on my hands and knees, head pressed flat on the floor looking for the silver hook fastening from off the end of a necklace that I saw it at all.

Unmistakable. Two silver eyes peering out of the gloom. Blinking now and then. I blinked back.

Now, both you know and I know that I can't stand fish. But what could I do? Leave it there? I stretched out on my stomach, feeling the threadbare grain of the carpet cool and scratchy against my cheek. The fridge door towered above me like the rusting hull of an old, white steel trawler.

'Hello, buddy,' I said, 'What you doing under there?'

The fish blinked again. Good start, I thought. I reached out an arm, stretching out my hand tentatively towards the fish. It recoiled sharply, moving back with a damp thwack against the skirting board behind the fridge. I strained to see it in the gloom, and withdrew my hand. Christ, the carpet stank. I sat up, rubbing off a crust of fluff and old food off my cheek.

Now what? It couldn't stay there, under the fridge. I lay down again, but, try as I might, the fish wasn't for coming out. It seemed otherwise okay. All the same, I had no idea how long it'd been there under my fridge, and was worried that it might be hungry or thirsty. I wondered what I could give it to eat. Bread? Bacon? Worms?

Over the next few hours the fish rejected all my attempts to feed it, and my offerings of broken up biscuits, cornflakes and crackers went unheeded and looked like so much stale flotsam washed up under the fridge. I was losing patience with this fish, I tell you. It was beginning to smell too.

And then, quite by chance, I caught sight of the small hook from off the end of the necklace: the fastening that I'd been looking for when I first spied the fish. That was it! It was a bit small, but it might just work. I tied a length of string to the hook, and, in a flash of inspiration, wound a small sliver of tin foil above the hook. Perfect!

Flat on my stomach again, I carefully pushed the hook under the fridge door, and wiggled the string a little. Nothing. I wiggled it again, seeing the silver lure turn over and catch the light, and, quick as a flash, the fish shot forwards and swallowed the hook, and started to pull and thrash backwards and sideways, frantic with fear.

Jeez, for a small fish, that's a strong bugger, I thought, as the fish flailed, curling and uncurling furiously. And then it pulled sharply. My hand was wrenched suddenly under the fridge. I swore and pulled back. The fish pulled sharply again, and now my arm was stuck all the way up to the shoulder under the fridge and my cheek pressed hard against the white steel door. Little bugger! Angry now, I didn't think to let go, but yanked the line as hard as I could.

The line went slack. I relaxed. And then, with an almighty pull, the fish hauled back on the line, and the fridge started to topple over.

And I found myself nose to nose with the fish. I blinked. It blinked.

It spat out the hook.

'Dinner time, I think', it said, baring two rows of very sharp, white teeth. And I would have scarpered there and then, but, you know what? I was stuck under the fridge.

For A.W. and the fish under his fridge