Wildfowl Weekend

They didn’t want to make fools of themselves, so they chose a long, straight bit of the canal upon which to land as gracefully as possible. If it all went a bit pear-shaped, at least they would have plenty of water available to use to rectify any problems occurring. Sadly, as they were ducks, the expression ‘gracefully’ tends not to apply when such fowl are out of the water, particularly where landing on it is concerned.

The actual event itself would have gone viral had it been filmed and downloaded to social media. It was a blustery day. The pair of them glided down towards the water, side by side as they had been taught by their parents, and had indeed done many times before. However, at the critical moment, which as any duck will tell you is immediately before making contact with the water with your webbed feet pushed forwards to act as brakes once they touch it initially, a strong gust of wind blew up from nowhere and completely unbalanced them.

Instead of pointing forwards as intended, they were blown left. As a natural consequence of the unexpected change of direction, the feet of both ducks reverted to their more standard position, which meant the impetus of their descent when they landed on the water was not arrested quite as much as it should have been. They careered out of control towards the nearby bank at an alarming rate of knots and disappeared into a clump of reeds.

On the plus side, they were lucky that part of the canal hadn’t been maintained to the same level as many of the other parts. The reeds in question should have been cut back several months ago, but much of this type of work is undertaken by volunteers nowadays and the weather over the previous winter period had been, let’s face it, awful. The volunteers hadn’t volunteered in sufficient numbers to allow this to happen. On the negative side though, two families of moorhens had witnessed what happened and were still laughing as the ducks gingerly disengaged themselves from the overgrown bank. They were covered in weeds.

“Impressive bit of work,” said one of the moorhens. “Thinking of taking up stunt flying? You’re very good.”

This stretch of canal was generally very quiet. Just a few boats and a small number of waterfowl, it had said in the QuackAdvisor article one of the ducks had read before setting off. Bloody typical, he thought. We land in the only bit where there’s a welcoming committee; a sarcastic one at that.

“It was unfortunate, that’s all,” the duck, who was called Sammy, replied. “A sudden and unexpectedly severe gust of wind at the wrong moment. Could have happened to anyone. Anyway, no damage done and at least it gave you something to talk about.”

“Certainly did,” said the moorhen. “Glad you’re OK. I suffer from sudden and unexpectedly severe wind from time to time, so I sympathise.”

“He certainly does,” interjected the moorhen’s partner, “and it can be very unpleasant.”

Sammy knew there was zero possibility his credibility would remain intact, so he decided to graciously admit defeat. “Well, I’m here now. My friend and I – he pointed at the other duck with his beak – have decided to come here on a minibreak now the travelling restrictions have been relaxed. We hear it’s a happening place with lots of opportunities for the young and single male mallard. In fact, QuackAdvisor rates the place quite highly.”

“If you’ve paid a subscription for that kind of information, I’d cancel it and demand your money back,” said the moorhen. “You’ve been led up the garden path. It’s a nice enough place, but it only thrives when there are tourists throwing money about. You may have noticed there’s a bit of Covid around at present. The tourists are not keen on catching it, so are avoiding visiting at present. The only thing that’s happening around here is apathy. It’s contagious as well. Even the swans are finding it tough, and they don’t normally think twice before knocking bins over or threatening to attack humans.”

“How do you know? Moorhens are famously reclusive. They don’t like to socialise with humans if they can avoid it. I’m surprised you’re talking to me.”

“Haven’t you heard of the internest? Went online here last year. Signing up was the best thing I ever did. You can find out all sorts of stuff about anything you want. It’s all on there. Available to all birds in the area keeping a permanent nest. Not recommended for regular or long-term migrators for maintenance reasons, but the group behind it are working on an upgrade. That’s how I know. And you don’t want to believe everything you hear about moorhens. We like a chat, especially when something funny has happened.”

Sammy accepted the reply. He had indeed heard of the internest and was keenly awaiting the rollout to where he was based. The last he’d heard; it was still a few months off. “This place has internest? That’s interesting. Did you hear that Clive?”

Clive, friend of Sammy since they were ducklings, quacked in appreciation. “Very impressive. I’m sure there must be something going on here if the place is online. We just need to investigate. Your friend has probably not asked his search engine the kind of questions two footloose and fancy-free ducks about town would ask.”

“Very true,” responded the moorhen. “I do like to keep away from the social whirl. It may have something to do with me being a moorhen and, as you suggest, traditionally shy and retiring. But, then again, it may also have something to do with an aversion to arguments, fights and sudden and unexpected muggings. The town can be a dangerous place for all waterfowl nowadays from what I hear. There’s a war between fowl-gangs in progress at the moment. They are fighting for control of the more lucrative areas of the canal, where in normal years the tourists would congregate.”

“The swans took their eyes off the ball. Probably complacency kicked in because of their size. Anyway, whatever the reason, the geese have been making inroads. They have associates who visit from Canada every year. They provide intelligence, training and, most importantly, muscle to intimidate existing tenants, persuading them to move on for the sake of their future health. It seems to be working. The swans have lost overall control and congregate at the edge of town, waiting for an opportunity to swim back in and cause trouble.”

“Where are the ducks in all this?” asked Sammy, who was becoming more than a little interested in the story he was hearing.

“Slimy buggers, no offence intended,” replied the moorhen without missing a beat. “They seem to be playing for both sides. I’ve no idea if there’s a long-term plan or they are just trying to earn a crust in difficult times, but whatever it is they don’t seem to be trusted too much by either the swans or the geese. Both use them as disposable employees and pay them the duck equivalent of chicken-feed.”

“If I were you, I’d keep my head down. It’s not the safest place at the moment for any waterfowl, but particularly for your lot. Whatever QuackAdvisor has told you is wrong. The town centre is a dangerous place, especially now.”

“We’ve travelled a long way to get here,” said Sammy. “I think we’ll go and have a look at the very least. Social media being what it is, I expect there’s too much focus on the bad stuff, even if the good stuff continues to happen. We’re big enough and ugly enough to cope. Are you with me Clive?”

Still removing weeds from his feathers, Clive nodded. Off they paddled. The moorhens watched them disappear into the sunset.

“Kids of today,” the vocal one commented, “bright as anything, with the common sense of a lock gate. They will soon appreciate I’m right. It’s no place for a duck these days.”

By landing a long way out of town, the ducks had a fair bit of paddling to do to get to where things were meant to be happening. As they proceeded along the canal, they conversed quietly.

“Do you think that moorhen was telling the truth?” asked Clive. “It’s totally opposite to what I’ve read about the place.”

“Maybe,” replied Sammy. “He’s got internest access after all. Why should he want to lie to us?”

“To scare us?”

“What’s the point of doing that? Moorhens won’t be taking over the world any time soon. They are happy where they are – out of the way and deliberately isolated. It’s what they like.”

“Agreed, but there’s no smoke without fire. I get the feeling there’s something going on. I hope it won’t spoil our weekend.”

Sammy decided to change the subject slightly. “Where should we stay tonight?” he asked Clive. “I’ve not booked anywhere.”

There was a twinkle in Clive’s eye. “It largely depends how the evening goes. We might get lucky with the local senoritas and who knows? Failing that, I’m sure we can find some bushes by the canal somewhere. Let’s not worry about it at the moment.”

“OK,” replied Sammy, “but we need to make a plan. If one of us manages to meet a female and persuade her to go for a private paddle, what should the other one do? Neither of us knows the area after all.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” responded Clive.

They were approaching the intersection of their canal with a larger one that led into the centre of town. The amount of traffic both on the water and along the towpath was beginning to increase. Just before the intersection, on the opposite side of the canal from the towpath, Clive saw a willow tree with branches overhanging into the water. After asking Sammy to hold on for a second, he swam over and carried out a quick inspection of what lay behind the overhanging branches. Satisfied, he swam back to Sammy.

“Right Sammy,” Clive began, “behind the branches is where I propose we stay tonight. It’s unoccupied and quiet. We’ll be safe there. If either of us does get lucky, the other should give it half an hour or so and then meander back here. In the morning, we’ll meet up and discuss what to do next.”

Sammy had a quick look. After pronouncing himself satisfied with the arrangement, he accompanied Clive into town to see what delights it held for them. As they travelled slowly (there were a number of locks to navigate and they aren’t necessarily straightforward for a duck to manage) they saw a few geese, but no swans or other ducks. Overall, thought Sammy as they reached what the signs suggested was the centre of the town, there doesn’t seem to be much going on at all. He felt vaguely apprehensive.

There was a noise behind them. As both ducks turned to see what was happening, a bevy of swans paddled past at high speed in a V-formation. They had that look in their eyes, thought Clive, and meant business. There’s going to be a bit of trouble somewhere.

Clive had committed a few things to memory when reading up about the town on QuackAdvisor. One of them was the name of what was alleged to be the best place in town. He looked up and spotted a sign advertising the place, with a helpful arrow indicating the way there. He splashed Sammy to get his attention, pointed at the sign with his beak and set off in a very determined fashion. Sammy followed; grateful the swans that had just flashed past were seemingly on their way somewhere else.

“Welcome to The Black Eider,” said Clive, as they swam from the main canal into a dimly lit side channel full of nooks and crannies. Whilst the canal had been quiet as the grave, this place was rocking. Duck waiters with black bibs were swimming from here to there with menus, whilst seriously blinged-up geese were eating cocktail food at the better tables at the water’s edge. Everywhere there were waterfowl of all descriptions. Clearly, QuackAdvisor wasn’t always wrong. To a couple of country ducks, this was precisely why they’d decided on the weekend break in the first place.

“I’ve spotted some hen parties already,” whispered an excitable Clive as he surveyed the scene. “This is going to be great. What shall we eat?” He waved towards a duck waiter to request a menu.

The menu was not what you would call extravagant, but the creator was obviously good with words and had packaged what food was available into phrases and sentences designed to completely throw you off the scent of descriptive accuracy. In the world of ducks, this was a new concept. It seemed to be working though. Everywhere you looked there were wildfowl eating, talking, laughing and trying to make eye contact with fowl of the opposite sex.

The QuackAdvisor article had stated the management here were trying to go for an ‘exclusivity vibe’. Clive hadn’t really understood what that meant, but now he was here he was beginning to get the picture. The prices on the menu were certainly on the steep side, but the two ducks had been planning this blow-out for a while and had saved accordingly. The waiter duck, who introduced himself as Charles – ‘I will be you’re your personal attendant throughout the evening’ – took their order, sniffed deprecatingly and swam off. He seemed stressed, on edge.

There was music in the air, coming from speakers that had been positioned intentionally at certain points throughout the club. Sammy thought he could see a goose wearing a set of earphones at a deck in the distance, but it was too far away to retain his interest, so he looked elsewhere instead.

It was certainly busy. Given the threats to safety related by the moorhen earlier, he idly wondered what would happen if a fight started. He looked carefully at some of the geese waddling about on the boardwalk surrounding the water. Whilst at first glance they looked like any geese, when you looked closely they were clearly fighting machines who could handle themselves. Their feathers gleamed in the artificial lighting.

Sammy and Clive had found a small lily-pad-shaped floating table that occupied a great position, so the ducks could easily see everything going on in the club. Charles, their waiter, magically reappeared with their chosen food as the ducks were surveying the scene. He placed their food slightly more violently than necessary onto the table and withdrew after leaving the bill (pun intended). The ducks would have raised their eyebrows if they had them. They don’t, so shook their heads in mournful acceptance of a level of service both unnecessary and pathetic.

Both had gone for the ‘Combo’ option. It was a mixture of seeds, grasses, earthworms, peas, mixed greens and corn, gently splashed with breadcrumbs. There was less of it than the menu and presentation suggested there would be, but it was hopefully going to be a long night so any difficulties in enjoying yourself on a full stomach were happily avoided. As for value for money, clearly this is an expression unfamiliar to the owners of the bar.

Ducks drink water, end of. It’s therefore pointless attempting to try to sell it in a mostly floating club located in a canal tributary environment when it’s freely available all around. It didn’t, of course, stop the owners from giving it a go, but even the newly-introduced essence of earthworm-flavoured still water was proving a difficult sell. Charles had already marked Sammy and Clive down as nouveaux, but he was an employee and therefore had to be seen to be making an attempt to sell the bloody stuff. Which, by the way, tasted dreadful if the sample he’d surreptitiously tasted in the back a few weeks ago was any indicator.

“Friends!” Charles began, lying through his beak. How he hated this part of his job. “Have you ever considered trying something just that slightly bit different; something that will leave a memory so distinct it will remain with you long after you leave this fabulous place; something that will impress your friends once you return home?”

Say what you like about QuackAdvisor, but their correspondent had seen through this poorly scripted, hopelessly embarrassing attempt to foist rubbish onto an unsuspecting waterfowl very quickly when visiting a few weeks ago and had, more importantly, written about it in the article both ducks had read. It’s a pity the owners and, indeed, Charles hadn’t done likewise. Sammy and Clive, street-wise and always up to speed in this area, were beside themselves with happiness that Charles was attempting to do exactly the same thing to them! Even the phrasing was the identical.

“Tell me,” Clive asked Charles innocently, “would that be the flavoured water I’ve heard so much about? Locally bottled and using only natural ingredients, if earthworms can be considered ‘natural’? All for a price greater than the Combos we’ve eaten because of their unique taste?”

Charles was stunned. How on earth did these plebs know about it? His face was a picture, more Cubist than pastoral, and definitely unhappy. “Sir (gritted beak) obviously knows more than he admits (fake smile). May I enquire how one gained such impressive knowledge?”

The two ducks eventually put Charles out of his misery by telling him about the article, but not before having a bit of gentle fun at his expense. They were enjoying themselves immensely. Charles belatedly realised the ducks were trying to be friendly, despite his surly attitude, and began to release a few feathers from his stuffed breast and join in. It wasn’t a friendship being created, but an acknowledgement by Charles that he’d perhaps marked their cards too early. They weren’t judging him; they were laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. He totally agreed with their view.

“Seriously, Charles,” said Sammy, “I know we’ve all got responsibilities and needs, but this?” He spread his wings. “There must be something better.”

Charles wondered how much he should say. He looked around carefully. All of the geese who controlled most of his work schedule seemed to be otherwise engaged at present. His group of diners were tucking into their food. None of the tables currently needed his assistance.

“How long will you be here?” he asked them.

“Depends whether or not we get lucky,” replied Clive. “I’ve already got my eyes on a couple of frisky hens in the corner. Just dusting off my killer opening lines to use on them.”

“Spare me,” interrupted Sammy, shaking his head. “We’ll be here for some time yet. I assume you get a break. Come over and say hello. Perhaps you can provide some suggestions about where to go next if you have time.”

It wasn’t exactly what Charles had in mind, but it was an opportunity to talk. “Yes, I’ll do that. It will have to be in an hour or so though. I know it’s a bit quiet in here at present but, trust me, it will be heaving soon.” He swam off a little less aggressively than before.

It doesn’t really matter what creature you are when it comes to getting noticed and introducing yourself. It’s all about putting yourself out there and making an impression. With ducks, particularly the male of the mallard variety, there is a fundamental problem though. They all look the same. Multiple hatchings don’t result in twins, triplets or quads. They result in brothers who all look alike. That’s it really. There’s no special method of differentiation. Yes, the parents might be able to notice subtle differences in their offspring, but the average duck on the canal would find it hard to tell if one male mallard was related or not to another.

With this in mind, Sammy and Clive (through years of sometimes bitter experience) had come to rely on the chat-up rather than the looks. Being able to interest, amuse, educate, arouse and attract the hens by quacking a somehow different line from other would-be suitors separated them from the losers and also-rans who also occupied their mallard world.

Clive had suggested he used certain lines as a means of gaining advantage, and he wasn’t being disingenuous. Both he and Sammy actually rehearsed their lines in their own special, private spaces at home. Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn’t. The trouble was the number of hens available was diminishing, and those they still met up with regularly were either not interested, had heard it all before, or were otherwise spoken for. It was part of the reason they had decided to venture into the vast outdoors for the weekend.

Clive was first to test out his capabilities in the ‘meeting new ducks’ department. He sidled silently across the water to be near a female mallard he’d spotted when he first got to the club. Like the males, female mallards are very similar in looks. Clive knew the basic and indeed more intimate physical aspects of several of the females from previous encounters. Fortunately, he thought, they don’t all talk and act the same. Please let this one be stimulating, interesting and in need of male company this evening, preferably mine. As Sammy watched from a distance, Clive moved in.

He was back to Sammy within seconds. “Don’t ask,” was all he said as he swallowed some of the leftovers from the Combo meal he’d eaten earlier. It was fortunate Charles hadn’t cleared their lily-pad table yet. He finished and paddled back to where Sammy was floating.

Sammy was trying hard not to look at Clive, who was clearly embarrassed about something. Spotting embarrassment in a duck is something only another duck can do, and then only with practice. Sammy and Clive went back a long way, so Sammy had an advantage over others in the club who might be looking at them for whatever reason.

“Go on then, what happened?” he asked eventually. “Did the killer line fail to work its magic?”

“I don’t know,” replied Clive, clearly dejected, “I never got the chance to use it.”

“Well,” continued Sammy, “I was watching you carefully and there was definitely a conversation. Both beaks were moving.”

“OK,” said Clive, “this is what happened. I attracted her attention and moved in, ready to unload as normal. The trouble was, she saw me coming and beat me to the punch. I was beak-smacked.”

“Why?” asked Sammy, intrigued. “What did she say?”

“She gave me a price list. She’s on the game, a waterfowl of the night, an escort hen. She sells her body for sex. This place is some kind of knocking shop, full of good-time hens.”

This bombshell certainly didn’t feature in the QuackAdvisor article. Sammy wondered if there were any references to this illicit activity anywhere on the internest. Somehow he doubted it. The club was still open after all. The police would have closed it down if they were aware of any impropriety. Wouldn’t they?

Sammy began to look around a little more keenly armed with this knowledge. He observed there were three of what Clive had called ‘hen parties’ located in different areas of the club. Around each of them, but at a discreet distance, was a goose. Not an average goose, but one of the well-toned, muscular ones similar to those he’d spotted on the boardwalk earlier. He then transferred his attention to the hens themselves. From a distance, they looked happy enough. They smiled, chatted, and ate food that one of their goose minders provided. However, if you looked closer, the smiles seemed somehow artificial and the conversation forced. Sammy thought one or two of the hens looked scared.

“When you tried to speak to that female before, how did she sound?” he asked Clive.

“What do you mean?”

“Did she seem local or from out of town?”

“Now that you ask,” replied Clive, “I did detect a vague hint of a foreign accent. East European possibly?”

“That fits,” said Sammy. “I think the hen parties are full of hens who aren’t here to just party. They’ve been brought over from abroad on the promise of a better life and ended up working here, turning tricks, possibly against their will. If you look carefully, each group has a minder who seems to be controlling everything they do.”

Clive followed Sammy’s gaze. As they looked over, one of the minder geese spotted them and began to swim over. Situating himself between the ducks and the exit, the goose started to speak.

“You seem very interested in some of my hens. It’s the second time I’ve seen you looking over towards them. What is your interest? Is it amateur or professional? I can help you if you are interested, and if you aren’t I can have you thrown out. Which is it?”

“Hey, take it easy,” Clive protested. “We’re new here and don’t quite understand what’s going on. What are you trying to say?”

The goose eyed the two young ducks up critically. “Yes, I can tell by your accents you’re not from round here. OK, these hens are working hens. This means they are happy to be your personal friends, but only for a set period. On the upside, they can offer things you just wouldn’t believe possible. The downside for you is there is a charge for their services I don’t think you can afford.”

“I apologise if I was rude earlier. I thought you were trying to get a message to one of my hens. It seems my belief was incorrect. Please keep away from the hens unless you want to pay to be with them. Are you both clear on this?”

They both nodded. The goose turned abruptly, and returned to the watching position he was occupying before spotting Sammy and Clive.

“This is some place you’ve brought me to,” whispered Sammy. “I thought I was a duck of the world. How wrong I was. I wonder what he meant about getting messages across?”

Trying to remain inconspicuous in a place like this, where they seemed to be danger around every corner, was proving difficult for the ducks. There were plenty of waterfowl around, but somehow after the conversation with the minder goose neither of them believed these punters were out for a little bit of fun, as they were. Something was going on; something above the pay scales of these innocent country ducks. They decided to leave to find somewhere less stressful. It was therefore a shame that just as they made the decision Charles appeared out of nowhere.

“Hey guys, break time” he began, before realising the ducks didn’t seem overly happy to see him. “What’s the matter?”

Clive explained what had happened. Charles stayed quiet. Sammy took over and began to put forward a number of theories he had to explain everything. Charles continued to stay quiet until Sammy had finished.

“Where to start?” Charles began. “OK. Up to about a year ago, this place was fantastic. The swans who owned it genuinely wanted every waterfowl visiting to have a great time. The business boomed and there were queues to get in. There was no elitism anywhere. If you wanted a good time, be you duck, goose, swan or whatever, the Black Eider was the place to go.”

“I’ve always worked in hospitality. It’s what my family did and I learned from one of the best, my father. By the time he died, I knew everything about the industry. I could work bars, prepare menus, meet and greet, DJ, suggest themes, you name it. The job paid well and I’m bloody good at it. The swans in charge appreciated my skills and gave me a lot of responsibility. On some of the quieter nights, they were happy to leave me in charge.”

“There’s always been a tradition in the industry that ducks do all the work. Jobs like cooking, cleaning, bars and waiting-on were simply what we did, and we did it well. Yes, occasionally a goose would be taken on, or a relative of the swan-owners would do work experience, but normally the engine-room of the club was the little old duck.”

“All of a sudden, nearly a year ago, it all changed. Without warning, I arrived at the club to work one day to be greeted by a couple of heavy-set geese. They had clip-boards and, after I told them who I was, ticked my name off the list they had before letting me come in. I’d run the club in the past, so I wasn’t having this. I demanded to speak to someone to get an explanation for what was going on.”

“One of the geese took me to one side and explained the club was under new management, with immediate effect. His own boss, a goose called Mr. Lucky, was now in charge, but he wasn’t available. Did I have a problem? I tried to tell them I was a valued employee in the old regime, and surely I’d have been notified if changes of any description were being made, which hadn’t been the case. The goose looked at me and said ‘not my problem’. He then made it very clear if I was unhappy about anything I was free to leave.”

“It was a bad time for me to be quitting. The first ducklings were due any time; my mother was unwell; and my father had recently died. I hadn’t many options, truth to tell, so I stayed. In the next few weeks, it became obvious the new owners weren’t so employee-focused. Ducks who had worked there for a long time were let go or replaced by relatives of the owners. Responsibility was diminished. In my case, I was restricted to doing what you’ve seen me do this evening.”

“Working at the club was a career for me. It quickly became a dead-end job with no opportunities for me to improve or get promotion. Mr Lucky, the goose in charge now, has zero understanding of how the place needs to be run, and a full appreciation of how to bleed the customers dry. Prices have gone up; quality has diminished; my wages have been reduced. Any tips we make have to be passed over to the minder geese you’ve probably noticed everywhere.”

“The business has suffered because the new owners are only in it for the money. That’s my opinion anyway. It’s not as full as it was. I heard rumours the geese behind the takeover were foreign and the club was a money-laundering opportunity for them. The legality of what they are doing aside, the number of dodgy characters appearing here regularly these days has increased. You’ve become aware of the side-line in escort ducks. It’s unsavoury at best and getting worse.”

“To top it all off, it seems all the bars and clubs around here are going the same way, so even if I wanted to leave there’s nowhere else for me to go. The previous owners haven’t been seen since the geese took over. The word on the streets is they left the same day they sold up. The geese are putting the frighteners on the swans who still own places like this. I don’t know how they do it, but to me it’s a tragedy. The last straw has been the introduction of that flavoured water. I came in to work a few weeks ago and was told about it and given a script I was expected to memorise before making sure I offered it to every table I served.”

Sammy and Clive listened to Charles, open-beaked. QuackAdvisor needed an update, assuming they managed to get away in one piece. “What do the police say?” asked Clive. “I mean, surely the escort stuff is illegal?”

“The Superintendent is a close friend of the new owners,” Charles replied. “I’ve seen him being given private tables and who knows what else here lately. I think he turns a blind eye. Having said that though, one of my cousins works for the Council and the seemingly brazen attitude of the geese is raising a few hackles there. Given the coronavirus pandemic has destroyed the tourist industry around here, the last thing they want is to be found to be allowing illegal activity, particularly involving paying for sex, to be discovered.”

“Then there’s the swans. Many of the younger ones are very unhappy about what has happened to their parents’ businesses and feel some sort of stand needs to be made. Honestly, this place is becoming a powder-keg. If it goes off, it may well prove spectacular.”

Sammy thought for a couple of minutes. “Charles, thanks for the information. I know you are having a tough time and I wish I could say or do something to help you. You’d be welcome where I live any time. Good luck. Clive, let’s go.”

Charles coughed politely. “Please pay your bill first so I don’t get into trouble.”

The two ducks looked at Charles in embarrassment. “Oops! Sorry about that,” said Sammy. “There you go. Take something for yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Charles, who swam off to finalise everything.

“We need to get out of here. I don’t feel safe,” said Clive, carefully looking around. “There are some seriously bad fowl in here now.”

Sammy also looked around. A goose wearing an eye-patch – that was a new one for him. Hens with peculiarly coloured head feathers; some tattoos. He agreed with Clive, but wanted to say goodbye to Charles before exiting, stage quickest.

Suddenly, the music stopped. What seemed to be a small explosion created a wall of smoke in the boardwalk area where the DJ had been stood. Waterfowl began screaming. There was another small explosion, this time underneath the wooden boardwalk itself. A jagged hole appeared in the middle of the walkway. Sammy looked at Clive and they set off for the nearest exit as fast as they could paddle.

As they approached the exit, they could see blue lights on the canal beyond. A loudspeaker was playing a message, which was on repeat.

“This is a police raid. Please leave the premises in an orderly manner and await further instructions. Thank you.”

The detonation of the two explosive charges rendered the request to leave unnecessary, but it was hardly orderly. As for hanging about to be interviewed, perhaps priorities had changed. In any event, there was now a third explosion, this time at the entrance to the club. The two geese acting as bouncers there disappeared in a wall of flames. As the smoke cleared, feathers floated from the sky towards the water. The screaming got louder as the wildfowl became more agitated.

“Look for an emergency exit,” shouted Sammy. “It’s not safe this way.”

The ducks detoured to the right. Emergency lighting was still working, but vision was being impeded by smoke. Clive spotted a green ‘running goose’ sign which he recognised as the accepted emergency exit identifier, and swam towards the exit in question with Sammy in his wake. When they reached it, they saw there was a padlock in place.

Once again out of nowhere, Charles appeared. “I know - illegal. It’s to stop some of the punters sneaking in unnoticed for free. I’ve mentioned it and been told to keep my beak out. I have a key.”

Charles produced something silver and went to open the exit. As he did so, one of the goose minders appeared and snatched the key from him.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he snarled at Charles.

Sammy intervened. “Getting the hell out of this place before we get killed.”

“Not this way you’re not. Move away.”

The situation was in danger of getting completely out of hand. Sammy squared up to the goose. “Give me the key and get out of my way. We’re talking about lives here. I’m not going to let some jumped-up jobsworth goose tell me what I can and can’t do. This is a matter of life and death.”

The goose just looked at him. “Go on, try it. You are not go…..”

He collapsed after being hit on the back of the head by a plate Clive had in his beak. God, that felt good, Clive thought, as he made sure the now unconscious goose was not going to drown. The key had been retrieved by Charles, who unlocked the padlock to allow the exit to be opened. The three ducks, plus countless other waterfowl, made their way out of the club at breakneck speed.

Outside was mayhem. As the young ducks later discovered, the police raid had coincided with a decision by some of the younger, angrier swans to make a statement about what was happening to their species in the town. There had been an anonymous tip-off given to the police earlier in the day. They were already preparing to pay an unannounced visit, in response to political outrage about the perceived lack of interest being shown by the authorities to continuing abuses of the law by the new owners of the club, so it was decided they would wait until they saw what the swans were planning to do before intervening.

Unfortunately, the tip-off hadn’t mentioned any intention by the swans to cause damage or injury. When the first device exploded, the police were still getting organised. They had seen a couple of swans around the back of the club earlier in the day, but assumed they were just undertaking reconnaissance. In fact, these swans knew a secret way in and were able to plant the three small devices without being discovered.

Sammy, Clive and Charles took advantage of the confusion and began to swim away from the club. Charles suddenly stopped. “Can you hear that?” he asked.

Sammy and Clive listened intently. In the distance they thought they heard a cry. It was difficult to make out properly, but it was coming from the club and they all recognised the voice as female. Without even thinking, they turned around and swam back towards the smoke-filled club premises.

There were a number of advantages in having been left to run the place. Charles knew a lot of things the other ducks who worked there didn’t know. It was an insurance should the geese now running the club make his life completely unbearable, as opposed to just miserable. Instead of aiming for the main entrance, which was swarming with police, Charles guided his new friends away from that area. They ended up near the delivery entrance, some two-thirds distance away and nearly at the back. Charles pushed a button hidden from public view. A set of roller shutters began to go up.

“Quick!” Charles exclaimed. “Follow me. I’ll have to put the shutters down once we get inside to avoid being followed.”

The three ducks entered the club. As the shutters began to go down, Charles spoke to his new friends.

“There are some things you need to know. On the first floor at the back of the club are some rooms. These are available for the escort ducks to, er, show a punter a good time if the price agreed is right. During the day, when the club is locked up, the hens stay there. They are locked in and have no access to internest, TV or any type of social media. I’m guessing that when the explosions started the hens decided to go back to their rooms for safety and to avoid possible detection. It could well be the cry we heard came from there.”

“Do you think there will be any guards around?” asked Sammy. “The last thing we want now is to get caught by the owners after what’s just happened”

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” replied Charles. “Hopefully, the explosions will have persuaded the geese to vacate their posts. Let’s see.”

They made the way carefully towards the upstairs rooms. Charles led the way. If it hadn’t been for the smoke, shouting, flashing lights and continuing loudspeaker announcements it would have been a pleasant experience. The corridor was carpeted and there were some quite interesting prints hanging from the walls. Charles suddenly stopped in his tracks. The other ducks did very well to avoid colliding with him.

“I think there maybe geese around the corner,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“How do you know?” responded Clive. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Listen carefully. In my job you need to have your wits about you all the time, and that extends to being able to pick up conversation and discussion from a great distance. You never know what you might hear.”

They all listened again. It was the second time they’d done so within a few minutes. Sure enough, they began to pick out the sound of distended voices from around the corner.

“I think it’s coming through an earpiece. That’s why it sounds strange,” Charles whispered. “Whoever is round there must be working for the owners. It’s probably a minder. They all use earpieces.  One of us needs to distract him.”

“Leave it to me,” said Sammy. “I’m still raging about the padlock on the fire exit. I’ll sort this out.”

With that, Sammy walked around the corner as nonchalantly as he could which, in the circumstances, wasn’t particularly nonchalant. There was a very well honed, muscular goose standing guard outside a locked door. The goose looked at Sammy. Sammy waved to the goose as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’m glad I’ve found you,” Sammy said to the goose. “I seem to be lost. I was in the bathroom when all that noise started. The smoke made me lose my bearings. Can you tell me the quickest way to the exit please?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” said the goose menacingly. “In fact, there’s no way you could get here from the club bathrooms. They are in a completely different part of the building.” He started to walk towards Sammy, who in turn began to retreat towards the corner he came from.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Sammy said as he reversed around the corner, being chased by the goose. A goose that suddenly became unconscious, having hit its head against a wall as a consequence of being tripped up by Charles as it turned the corner.

Clive went through the goose’s pockets before leaning it against the wall. “Here,” he said, throwing a key to Charles. “Is this any use?”

“Soon find out,” grinned Charles as he approached the door. But before he inserted the key into the lock, he stopped and dived to the ground. As he did so, three holes appeared in the door. They were fired from inside the room and they all missed Charles. He crawled past the door to safety. As he did so, the ducks heard the sound of the door being opened. Someone or something had a key inside the room.

“Please don’t shoot,” quacked a female duck as the door opened. She stood in the doorway and threw the gun that had shot holes in the door just a few seconds earlier into the corridor. “I’m unarmed.” For a duck, that’s an impressive statement but, given the heat of the moment, we’ll let it pass.

Charles stood up and inspected the area. “It’s OK guys,” he said, “everything’s good.”

Sammy and Clive turned the corner and surveyed the scene. Clive in particular was amazed at what he saw. Whilst he freely admitted he was rarely good with faces, he felt certain the female duck in front of him was the same hen he’d spoken to on the water earlier. The hen who’d given him a price list.

Whilst Charles had commented about how safe things were, what he hadn’t mentioned was the body inside the room, the legs of which were clearly visible from the entrance to the room. On the plus side, there were two legs and they hadn’t moved at all whilst he’d been looking at them. Against that, however, was the suspicion the cause of the apparent death probably involved the hen. Even with his keen sense of hearing he’d heard nothing.

Charles turned to the hen. “Sorry about this, but can you tell me what has happened here?” He pointed at the body.

“Please see for yourself,” she said to Charles. “I haven’t done anything. He did it to himself.”

The accent was exactly the same as Clive remembered from before. He went up to the hen, and reintroduced himself to her. “What is your name?” he asked.

“I am Natasha. You are Clive. I remember.”

Meanwhile, inside the room, Charles and Sammy were investigating. The body on the floor was a goose, but not one of the supremely fit minder-types seen earlier. Natasha walked in with Clive.

“He is one of the bosses. He brought me back here when explosions started,” she said. “There were peanuts in room. He started to eat them. There was a loud bang at the window. It scared both of us. I went to look. I saw nothing, but when I came back he was on the floor, choking. He was not a good boss. Sometimes he hit me for no reason. I let him choke. Then I pick up his gun. I know there is a guard on the door, so I decide to try to shoot him through it. Then you arrived.”

There were several keys on the dead goose. The three ducks opened the other rooms and discovered thirteen hens in total, all hiding and upset. With Natasha’s help they managed to quieten everyone down. Until arriving to work at the club, none of the hens knew each other. Their stories were similar though.

Sammy took in the scene. Clearly, decisions had to be made. “Ladies!” he shouted. Everyone went quiet. “Firstly, I am not the police. Secondly, with my friend Clive here, we came to the club to have a good time. Parts of it have been good; other parts not so good. Thirdly, the club is going to be closed for some time after what has happened tonight. If the authorities find out about you, it’s possible you will be detained and then returned to where you came from. If this is what you want, that’s fine. However, if it’s not what you want, I have a plan.”

A month later, two ducks come into land on a now-familiar stretch of straight canal on the outskirts of a small town that has been featuring in many newspapers over the last few weeks. It’s not blustery this time and the landings are textbook. Two families of moorhens are watching them. They aren’t unfriendly but, as moorhens, they are instinctively suspicious. Once they realise who the ducks are they visibly relax.

“Hey Clive,” one of the moorhens shouts across to the ducks, “I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow.”

“Unexpected change of plan,” Clive responds. “We managed to get some extra time off. How are the girls?”

“See for yourself. Hey, Natasha, someone here to see you.”

From out of the reeds comes Natasha. To Clive, she’s beautiful but to everyone else she’s just another female mallard. They all look the bloody same! She’s accompanied by Natalia. She and Sammy are becoming very good friends.

“So, what news have you?” enquired Natasha.

Sammy starts to speak. “There have been so many developments I don’t know where to start.”

“The Black Eider,” commands Natasha.

“Currently closed. The goose owners of all the clubs in the area have been arrested on charges ranging from bribery to keeping a disorderly house and all points in-between. It seems the Canadian backers have unexpectedly pulled out, so all the clubs are up for sale at very reasonable prices. It’s unlikely the geese would ever get licences from the authorities to continue anyway so it makes sense. The swans are buying the places up. The ones that used to own the Black Eider are in the process of buying it back.”

“And Charles?” asked Natalia.

“If the Black Eider is sold back to the original owners they’ve promised Charles will be the manager. He’s doing OK at the moment anyway, advising the estate agents how best to market the properties and at what price. He’ll be fine.”

“The girls?” enquired Natasha. Seven of the hens found in the rooms decided they wanted to go home. They made themselves known to the authorities and were placed in detention centres awaiting decisions on their futures.

“All flew home last week,” Sammy reported. “As agreed, they didn’t mention any of the girls who decided to stay.”

“QuackAdvisor?," asked a moorhen.

“The duck who filed the original piece for the publication has been sacked. Apart from the information provided proving wildly inaccurate, it seems he received kick-backs from the club owners to make their places appear somewhat better than they were. In a way though I’m sad he’s gone because without his original piece neither Clive nor I would ever have come here and met you all.”

“What about the police Superintendent?” asked the inquisitive Natalia.

“Also sacked, and charged with bribery. He’s on bail, awaiting a court date.”

“And the young swan hooligans?”. It was another moorhen.

“They have found out they are not bigger than the system. CCTV from the scene clearly identifies three of them, all brothers related to a swan forced out of the town centre by the geese. Unlike us ducks, they are not identical. The police have charged them with a number of offences, for which they are being held on remand. It’s a good job the explosives turned out to be smoke bombs, otherwise the charges could have been attempted murder. The damage caused by the second explosion under the boardwalk was more extensive as there was a small gas leak nearby. No-one knew.”

“The geese minders?” enquired Natasha.

“None of them were local. All moved here after starting their lives of crime elsewhere. The two who received injuries have recovered. They were heavily fined and as far as I know have left the area. The goose in your room turned out to be their boss. He won’t be eating peanuts anymore.”

It had started out as an attempt by two young ducks to see a bit more of the world. It had ended with explosions, violence, new friendships and perhaps romance. Funny old world.