Wendy Perriam by Wendy Perriam Read Free Book Online Page A

release the angels; time enough for that. First, he ran his bath, tipping in almost half a bottle of Blue-Mist Foam, so that azure bubbles frothed above the sides.
    Next, he unwrapped his plastic duck, followed by his sponges, brushes and flannels, then turned back to the angelfish, wrenching off the rubber band and tossing the bag on to the floor. It landed on its side, jarring the writhing bodies. Slowly, the water leaked away. The fishes flowed out with it, slithering on the shiny tiles. The gold angel twitched and palpitated, leaping six inches in the air, then somersaulting down again with a piteous splat. Mr Chivers paused a moment to admire the markings on the marbled angel, almost identical to Miss Lineham’s specimen. Its mouth was opening in a wordless plea, its feeble tail flailing on the tiles.
    He climbed into the bath. The water was armpit high; the overflow gurgling down the pipe. He picked up a sponge and slapped his thighs with it. He stuck a crooked foot through a tower of foam. The bubbles were so profuse you could lose whole limbs. Steam was rising from the water, falling again in streams of condensation down the walls. Leaning over the edge of the tub, he saw the silver angelfish plunging and zigzagging in a frenzied attempt to reach the water, its gills pistoning in and out in panic, its eyes almost starting from its head.
    Mr Chivers began to sing. The marbled angel had fallen into a drain-hole and was floundering on its back. Mr Chivers loofahed his upper arms. The soap was lost and melting at the bottom of the tub. He stretched and yawned in the benison of steam, watching the fishes all the while. The marbled angel was growing feebler now. Its mouth gaped open, as if it had been unhinged; its eyes were glazing over. He ran more water, laughing aloud as the hoarse hot tap thundered between his feet. Every time he moved, the bubbles frothed and flurried over the sides. He turned on his belly and lost his chin in foam. The silver angel was only a pale splodge on the tiles, its gills shuttered and inert. The gold angel continued fighting. Its leaps were lower now, but it still did its best to save itself, panting with each agonized contortion.
    Mr Chivers wallowed in his tub, rocking to and fro, so that the water sloshed and seesawed from one end to the other. A deep pink glow emblazoned him from brow to bunions; bubbles pricked and popped along his limbs. When he sang, the words resounded off the walls, adding a choir and organ to his voice. The brave gold angel was singing along with him. He could see its mouth gasping open, wheezing out the words, its once majestic tail trailing like a broken rudder. The other two fish were motionless. Only their eyes stared upwards, as if they were praying for deliverance.
    He pulled out the plug, listening to the water chuckle down the waste-pipe. As he stepped out on to the tiles, he was careful to avoid the corpses pathetically marooned there. He dried himself on stiff municipal towels, which he then flung wet and soggy into a corner. Picking up the three small bodies, he placed them in the toilet bowl. They floated on the top, their eyes beseeching, their colours as yet unfaded. There was a flicker of life in the golden angel still. It twitched in shock as it felt itself fall on water. Slowly, it spread its tail and jerked its fins, struggling between triumph and extinction. Mr Chivers stood above it, legs astride. He watched the jet of urine strike and shatter it. Three broken bodies whirled and plummeted in their porcelain goldfish bowl, colliding with each other as the gilded waterfall spewed on.
    “My pretty angels,” he murmured, as he traced an L with the last slowing dribble. “My pretty, pretty angels.” He pulled the chain and watched them churn and rupture down the bend.
    He was humming as he trudged back to his lodgings, his hair slicked down, his shoes high-shined with a wad of toilet paper. The nail-brushes were dried, the flannels folded, the