The Beach

For as long as the initial bewilderment gripped me, I stood gawping while he grinned and tilted his head from side to side. Then I'd said, 'It's broad daylight, Mister Duck!'

I said it angrily because I felt obscurely insulted by the brazen nature of his apparition.

'Broad daylight,' he replied evenly, 'is what it is.'

I paused.' …I'm not dreaming.'

'True.'

'Then I'm going insane.'

'Do you want an honest answer?'

'Yes.'

He shrugged. 'I'd only query the tense. But I'm not a professional, so, you know, seek out a second opinion.'

I threw up my arms, threw them down again, and sat heavily on the ground. Then I reached out and touched his shoulder. It was as dry and warm and solid as my own.

Mister Duck frowned when I shuddered. 'You have a problem?'

I shook my head. 'Yes, I have a problem. I'm mad.'

'So? Are you complaining?'

'Complaining?'

'Is that what you're doing? Complaining?'

'I'm…'

He cut me off. 'If you're complaining, buddy, I'm going to tell you right now, I don't want to hear it.'

'I'm just…'

'I'm just, I'm just,' he mimicked. 'You're just what?'

'I'm very fucking shocked! Seeing you and… being mad!'

Mister Duck's face screwed up in disgust. 'Where's the shock in being mad?'

'Everywhere!' I said furiously. 'I don't want to be mad!'

'You don't want to be mad? Well, well. Mind if I pick you up on that?'

I pulled out a cigarette with slightly shaking hands, then put it back, remembering I couldn't smoke on the island. 'Yes. I mind. I want you to go away.'

'Tough. Answer this. Where are you?'

'Leave me alone!'

'Where are you?' he repeated.

I covered my face with my hands. 'I'm in Thailand.'

'Where?'

'Thaila…'

'Where?'

Through the cracks between my fingers, I stole a glance down to the DMZ. My shoulders slumped as I got the gist.' …Vietnam.'

'Vietnam!' A great crowing grin spread across his features. 'You said it! You wanted it! And now these are the breaks! In Country, losing your shit comes with the territory!' He whooped and slapped his thigh. 'Fuck it, man, you should be welcoming me! I'm the proof you made it! Rich, I am your lost shit! Viet-fuckin'-nam! '

By the end of that day, I was already feeling pretty comfortable with Mister Duck's presence. And by the end of the second, I realized I was quite pleased about it. He was good company, in his way, and he knew how to make me laugh. Also, as we were spending hours with each other, a lot of our conversation was about commonplace stuff, like places we'd both been to or films we'd both seen. It was hard to stay shocked by someone while you were talking about Star Wars.

After the burial I was very keen to get to the look-out post. I had lots of questions for Mister Duck about Tet and I wanted to tell him about Sal's speech to the camp, so I jogged almost all the way up to the pass.

I found him with Jed's binoculars clamped to his eyes.

'I've got loads to tell you,' I panted, as I sat down beside him, breathless from my haste. 'We buried Sten and Sal made a long speech to the camp. She talked about Tet. You haven't told me about Tet. And she talked about you too.'

An odd look passed over Mister Duck's face. 'Sal talked about me? What did she say?'

'She said Tet would be different this year because you were gone.'

'…Is that all she said?'

'That's all she said about you. But she also talked about Tet and camp morale.'

Mister Duck nodded. 'Very nice,' he muttered disinterestedly.

'Don't you want to hear about it? It was really impressive the way she spoke. I think she had a real effect on…'

'No,' he interrupted. 'I don't.'

'…You don't want to hear about it?'

'Nope.'

'Oh… Why not?'

'Because, Rich… Because…'

He seemed to drift off for a moment, lowering the binoculars, raising them to have another look, and then lowering them again.

'Because I want to talk about Airfix models.'

To Those Who Wait

'Airfix models.'

'Or Matchbox models. Either.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Curiosity.'

'Mister Duck, we just buried Sten today. Sal made an amazing speech. There's some celebration called Tet coming up, which you've never mentioned, and…'

'Spitfires,' he said patiently, sliding himself round to face me. 'Messerschmitts. Did you ever make them?'

I looked at him.' …Yes.'

'Hurricanes?'

'Hurricanes too.'

'Lancaster bombers? Lysanders? Mosquitoes?'

'…I think I made a Lysander once.'

'Hmm. Any jets?'

I resigned myself to the unlikely topic. 'No. I never liked making jets.'

'Me neither. How about that? No jets… Or boats, tanks, trucks…'

'Or helicopters. They were such a pain, which was a shame because I loved the way they looked.'

'Naturally.'

'It was the rotor blades…'

'Those bloody rotor blades. They'd keep falling off before the glue was dry.'

I didn't reply for a moment. A gentle tickling had alerted me to an ant that had found its way on to my stomach. After a couple of seconds I found it, trapped in the line of hair that ran from my belly button. I picked it up by licking my finger so the ant stuck to the spit. 'Very difficult,' I finally said, and blew the ant away.

Mister Duck's eyes gleamed mischievously. 'So you weren't very good at making models then.'

'I didn't say that.'

'Well, were you any good?'

'Uh…' I hesitated. 'I was OK.'

'You didn't use to mess them up? Too much polyester cement, the pieces not fitting together properly, annoying gaps where the wings met the body, or where the two halves of the undercarriage met. Be honest now.'

'Oh, well… Yeah. That used to happen all the time.'

'Same. It used to drive me nuts. I'd start the model with the best intentions, trying so hard to do a perfect job, but it would almost never work out.' Mister Duck chuckled. 'And at the end, I always got left with the same problem.'

'Which was?'

'What to do with the messed-up model once it was finished. I knew a guy who made perfect models and he'd hang them from his ceiling with bits of thread. But I didn't want to do that with the planes I made. Not with their gluey fingerprints all over the place. It would have been embarrassing.'

'I know what you mean.'

'I thought you would.'

Mister Duck lay back on the grass contentedly, using his folded arms as a pillow. As he did so a butterfly passed near him. A big one, with long strips on each wing that ended in a bright blue circle, like tiny peacock feathers. He reached up a finger, hoping for the butterfly to land, but it ignored him and fluttered off down the slope towards the DMZ.

'So, Rich,' he said lazily. 'Tell me what you used to do with the messed-up models.'

I smiled. 'Oh, I used to have the best laugh with them.'

'Yeah? It didn't drive you nuts then.'

'Sure. At first I'd be kicking chairs around and swearing. But then I'd go out and buy some lighter fuel and I'd drop them out of windows. And also I'd cut holes in the bodies and slide in a firecracker to blow them up.'

'Good fun.'

'Great fun.'

'Burning the bad models.'

'So you used to do the same thing?'