Next to the tiny, tiny little woman with the puckered face and frizzy hair sheets folded neatly beneath her hands, the strangest thing, sitting up in bed, body bent, the shape of its tail hidden beneath the blankets, little rotating eye, kissing mouth gaping, closing, gaping. A book on the bedside table, a glass. Is it hake or turbot, haddock or ling? Why does the little old lady look so pleased with herself? How did she catch it? How does she keep it alive? How does she persuade it to come to bed? What book is it reading? You’re asking all the wrong questions of the wrong person. Ask the fish about his dreams, those pans full of deep fried people, the mayonnaise, the special knives, the bones.
