running past our very door. We all went out, to inspect the novelty. Wheatstone Park is uphill from us, and our gutter was flooding five or six inches deep, with little pools forming on the pavement. It reminded me of those French towns, where they sluice the gutters every morning, to clear away the litter. Except it wasn’t so pleasant. The water from the Wheatstone was black and opaque, and it smelt vile. I wondered how far it would run downhill; but it wasn’t running far. Every drain-cover was sucking it in. A hundred yards on it was no more than a trickle. We have good drainage on that slope.
We wandered up to view the proceedings. The firemen seemed to be enjoying themselves, but they had to stop every so often, to clear the dense masses of green slime out of their filters. And the Wheatstone seemed as full as ever.
By lunch-time, though, it was four inches down, and by tea-time, a good foot. The reed-beds were drained, the bottom of their stalks fattened to an inch with slime, and the poor trapped bobbing plastic boats were stranded. And some watching urchins were starting to go after them, stepping out gingerly, holding each other’s hands in lengthening lines.
We were just turning away, back to work, when there was a sudden scream and flurry, about fifty yards away. We turned to see one of the chains of boys scrambling ashore. The last one in the chain was black with mud up to his knees . . . serve the little sods right.
And then I saw with horror that that boy had not been the last in the chain. One boy had been left behind.
I had not noticed him at first, because he was already up to his chest in the black slime. All you could see was his frantically waving arms and bobbing head, which did not look quite human.
I think we all ran. All gazed in horror at that milk-white face, with its staring eyes, and the lapping black water reaching up for the mouth; at the way the head strained upwards, to avoid the little waves, and in doing so, sank another perceptible inch. It was the child’s look of disbelief, as he stared at us standing in perfect safety only yards away . . .
It was lucky that the fire-crew were better men than we were. There was a rattle of aluminium ladders, a fireman crawling with a rope tied to the back of his belt. Another fireman joining him on the other side. They lifted the child a little, so his muddy gaping mouth was pulled clear. And then we all took a hand on the ropes, and pulled like men possessed when we were told to. And, with a loud sucking noise, he was safe, just screaming with terror.
It was then I realized the Wheatstone Pond was a real killer.
By evening, it was imprisoned behind twisting police tapes and hurriedly-painted warning notices. But it still killed a venturesome Alsatian that night. And would have had the owner too, if he had not been held back, sobbing, by passers-by.
There was a hell of a fuss in the local paper. Some idiots suggesting that the Wheatstone be filled in immediately, before it was even drained. There were women with petitions, going from house to house. For a week, we really became the community we never had been. People talked to strangers in the street, and all about the Wheatstone Pond. And then about the Wheatstone stink. Because, as more and more of the slime was exposed, bubbling and plopping evilly under the early May sun, that peculiar dark living smell crept in through every warped and ill-fitting Victorian window.
But all the fuss, and all the petitions were to no avail. The council said the Pond must be allowed to drain properly before tipping began. Water would be seeping into it from the hillside above, though no one knew how or where yet. Until these water-sources were located and culverted, there was a risk that the whole Park might turn into one uncontrollable swamp, and the forced-out slime might start flowing downhill, to where most of us lived. Blocking the surface-drainage; perhaps even blocking the sewers . . . It was enough to silence the petitioners. We were offered the choice, even, to go back to the Pond as it had been. But there was no going back. Everyone hated it too much by now. Everyone wanted it turned