Nerve 13 - Short Duck Stories

Short Duck Stories

After the Riots by David Hunter

It was a strange day. Quiet. The sort of quiet you get when everyone holds their breath. Liverpool 8 after the fighting and before the Garden Festival. Picking up the pieces. Smelling of damp smoke and adrenalin.
We walk down Princes Avenue, police pairs on every corner. Fresh faces drafted into a conflict they didn't understand. Hanging around the urban decay, quietly chatting about sheep on the fells and frightening old ladies with their aggressive politeness.
Down past gutted shops. Temporary boarding that would become permanent, sticky-plastering the gaping wounds of multi-cultural shopping. Down towards railings where a young back was broken by an attack jeep.
We follow the line of battle, still scarred and littered, to Rialto corner. A shell long before it burned, storing second-hand furniture but still a Gibraltar Rock in our landscape. Generations of local kids welcomed to Saturday matinees by dinner-suited managers. Now gone.
Down the hill past childhood streets named after slave traders and unlucky Victorian politicians. Down to Hardman Street and the police station, now housing suspect troops withdrawn to barracks.
And, in the road, a young duck. Surprised at first, we try to capture it. The duck does not fly but shows an ability to dodge and weave worthy of Dixie Dean. Regroup. We form a line and organise a snatch squad. While some of us 'beat our shields', others rush forward to capture the youngster in a thrown coat.
We take it into the police station, resisting a common urge to shout "Duck!", and deposit it with the desk sergeant. Solid, stoic and humourless, the sergeant fills in a lost property form and carries the duck away to the cells.
Further down the hill we emerge from the war zone. Life going on as it had. Survivors.

Feed the Ducks by Urbin Squirm

Leslie raised the issue about the ducks. Bob Geldof had just parachuted into Sadr City with copies of his new single and we were high on the Christian imperialism and the smokeable mould off Darren's rucksack. It seemed every skinny kid on the planet knew it was Noel and Bob's good work was done, for now at least. But did the ducks down the road know? Probably not. Dulled with porn and ketamine the bastards can't even tell you roughly what time it is.
The plan worked on the premise of us not getting stopped by the fuzz. We were. Darren pretended to be the youngest ever winner of Blockbuster with Bob Holmes and it gave Leslie time to eat the drugs and the yo-yos and the duck porn. I said 'they probably like it wet, like the bread' as a bit of a joke. Then Leslie, the smart arse, pointed out in a muffled voice that it was laminated.
When we reached the park we argued about tactics. The committee decision was to use sharp sticks if they didn't show an immediate festive awareness. The thing about horses and water, it's very good but it doesn't apply to ducks and mince pies. Darren asked if he could take the duck porn home with him, as a present for someone. Why the hell not.
Anyway, we'll play some sad music and draw a veil. The aftermath; an exciting new Christmas dish that would be popular with the Chinese, if only they believed in Jesus.
Leslie felt bad afterwards so I hypnotised her and performed one of the only operations that I really enjoyed back at med school. With the calming sounds of Faust in the background, I lobotomised the part of Leslie's brain that realised animals were real and not cartoon characters. She became more fun after that.
Darren's Christmas present was another old favourite. Through a dangerous feat of rewiring I attempted to make him into a Neil Sedaka fan.
'But what if it goes wrong?' he said, and I laughed. Darren has good taste in music but he's not very bright.
'You'll become a paraplegic that can't stop swearing. That only happened once.'
So I put the Faust on backwards and got out a fresh table cloth. The operation took about three minutes and I'm still recording the results as we watch TV. The Americans are now dropping 'Christmas clusters' on Iran, which sounds stupid but the footage is spectacular. Poor young Darren can't get into the spirit though.
'Fucking pass me the pissing piss bottle!' he exclaims with an unopened bag of twiglets on his lap.
'Somebody doesn't know it's Christmas Ed.' says Leslie, looking away from the telly for one second. I fancy a cheeky gleam has appeared in my eye. I've certainly got a very sharp potato peeler in my left hand.

'Tales From the Valcro Room', Urbin's 1st collection is coming to an independent book shop near you in time for Christmas.

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