Perch

The dead fish’s eyes are clear and liquid, tiny bowls of jelly that stare off into the middle distance. Mikey watches the dead fish, unceremoniously lying on yesterday’s newspaper, watching the increasingly gray sky above.

Mikey picks up the fish again, he takes the knife, and sticks it into the the fish’s belly, just past the tail fin. He tugs along, cutting a ragged envelope along it’s stomach. Blood and riverwater spill out onto the sudoku page.

The fish turns it’s head and looks condescendingly at Mikey;

“You’re doing it wrong” says the fish.

“Shut the fuck up”

Mikey finishes his first inscision and tentatively sticks a finger into the newly formed cavity. Inside is lukewarm, oily, and a variation of soft fleshy textures. He suppresses an involuntary gag.

“You’re going to poison everyone” says the fish.

“Fuck off” says Mikey, sticking his tongue out, he begins to scrape out something dark and sticky with his knife.

Across from Mikey, near the tent, Rob is blowing on the embers of the barbecue, trying to get it started and drinking fosters.

“What’s that Mike?” he says

“Nothing” Mikey says

“He thinks you’re crazy” says the fish.

Mikey pulls out of small sac of something, that bursts and smells foul, then a series of tiny organic geometry lessons that he assumes are internal organs.

“How’s it coming along?” calls Rob, still not looking over

“Terrible” calls the fish, straining it’s head over to Rob.

“Ok” says Mikey.

“Liar” says the fish.

Mikey inspects his handiwork, the set of discarded innards and the relatively intact fish. Vaguely satisfied, he takes both ends of the newspaper and walks the few steps over to the river. Then he scrapes off the discarded fish guts, washes the knife, wipes it in the long grass. And walks the whole lot carefully over to the barbecue.

“Looks good” says Rob, approvingly, “How shall we do this then?”

“Just throw him on the bars, grill him whole.” says Mikey

“The hell you will, city boy. Crazy boy.” says the fish.

“It’ll be fine” says Mikey, to both of them.

They both open a fresh beer, and wait for the flames to die down and the coals to retreat to to white.

“See, this is the life” says Rob “The great outdoors, living off the land and all that”

“Listen to him” says the fish “acting like bloody Ray Mears. You’re in suffolk mate! You’re a loser!” He stares bloody glassy eyes at Rob. He stares daggers. He turns to Mikey.

“Loser man with a crazy friend. Crazy friend talking to a seriously dead fish, somewhere in a field in Suffolk! Oh this man is finding himself alright. The great outdoors , living off the land and all that. Jesus wept”

Mikey tries to ignore them both. Midges snap at his knees.

Soon they feel the fire is ready, and they brush the fish with olive oil (”Olive Oil!” cries the fish, “Fucking Ponces”) and salt, then they throw him on to the barbecue.

They watch him cook for a while. Mikey tries to ignore the monologues and curses, as he watches the smoke rise up above the grass and the weeds; lit up by a dying sun behind them. Rob, bored, goes back to his book.

Mikey alone concentrates on the smoke, and, when the wind changes, he lets it flow into him through his eyeballs. Until his face is stinging and he can taste it on the back of his tongue, salty dirty and wet from the burnt tears on his cheeks. He breathes it in until he cannot take anymore, and has to go over to the riverbank and cough and cough and cough, feeling the branches lungs sore and tender like razors. He pukes and lies, panting on the riverbed, watching an upside down sky and listening to the world without fear.