The Mallard Job

“Bollocks! It’s the police!” My dear mother flipped the remote and flew into the air, neatly killing Dale Winton and The National Lottery with one deft move. Through the frosted glass of the door I could see the distinctive shape of what could only be a member of the Metropolitan Constabulary-either that or unseasonal Halloween tricksters.
“Quick hide the toasters!”
Ousman looked at her through glazed eyes. He’d been smoking again. I thought he’d been surprisingly quiet for the last hour.
“The toasters!” Mummy shot a look at the front door jangling her enormous earrings.
“The hooky toasters Ousman! It’s the police!”
At this point I should probably point out my pillar of the community parent and her scumbag Senegalese live-in lover had recently done over an Argos van, escaping into the wilds of Kent with boxes and boxes of bright yellow Taiwanese toasters. Luckily there was only a single box of the things left. One rather large box, sitting in the middle of the living room.
Mummy had a thriving business thieving to order via TOR. You can buy anything on TOR, you name it, drugs, weapons, fake ID. It’s known as the Onion due to the fact you peel off its layers-and believe me what some of those layers reveal will make your eyes sting! One rather enterprising chap was even selling his wife a while back. You can also buy toasters. Quite reasonably. I think she was asking about £5. It was me who introduced my mother to the delights of the Dark Web. Not that she was a technophobe. Way back in the early 90s she taught herself to use a BBC Micro when a whole batch of them somehow appeared in our living room.
“Jon! The toasters!” Given up on getting any movement from Ousman clearly. The doorbell rang again.
“Move the fucking toasters! They’ll be through the door in any minute!” As was quite often the case Mummy was oblivious to the fact that anyone on the other side of the door or indeed most of South London could hear her.
At this point my equally classy sister, Sharleen sashayed through, mud pack on face, an almost identical version of a younger Mummy, even down to the big hair and enormous fish earrings.
“Ain’t anyone gonna answer the door then?”
There was a blast of fresh air and I sat heavily on the box as the visitor on the balcony was revealed. He was indeed, as suspected a police officer. A young one though, perhaps early 20s. Clearly not long in the job.
“Mother?” said Sharleen
“Bollocks” shrieked Mummy, “they ain’t ours! We’re looking after them for a friend! I have no idea what’s in the box! We don’t even like toast!”
“Mummy, meet my boyfriend, Phil”
There was a collective intake of breath and I’m sure my eyebrow raised a considerable distance.
The whole visual effect spoiled by Ousman snorting in his sleep.
PC Phil gazed steadily around the room and I nodded at him. He didn’t look particularly bright.
“Hello”
He kept gazing. Why do they do that?
His gaze alighted on Ousman.
Please God, tell me you’ve hidden whatever you’ve been smoking!
Ousman coughed and woke with a start.
“Shit! Come off it. We didn’t nick no toasters!”
Mummy gave him the look of death, which being her meant there was a good chance he would be in the Thames before nightfall.
“How about a nice glass of something Phil?”
“No thanks. I’m on duty. I just popped round to introduce myself really“
Sharleen chipped in; “Listen, we were wondering if Phil can stay a while? His housemates are a bit funny about him being a…y’know”
Mummy did a fish impression to go with the ornaments on her ears. I hid a smirk.
“Not really….love” the eyes spelt potential murder. At this rate I’d be the sole surviving family member by dawn.
“I’m going to bed. Signing on tomorrow” As I stood one of the cardboard flaps rose with me, revealing the tantalising glimpse of a cheap yellow kitchen appliance.
First impressions, PC Phil wasn’t going to become DCI Phil anytime soon.
I hate signing on. Everything about it. The disdainful way the advisors look down their horn-rimmed glasses at you, the fact that the few jobs on offer demand a three page application form of tiny, TINY boxes! Most of all I hate Gerald, aka Tentacles. Now, I’m slightly on the chubby side but nothing on him!
Gerald has tiny piggy eyes, breath you could use as a biological weapon and worst of all; the mother of all crushes-on me!
You’d assume this would be a good thing; that Gerald might perhaps give me an easier time but no. You see, Gerald is the four times recipient of the ‘Greater London Jobcentre Plus Award for Efficiency and Dedication to the Workplace ’ In other words he’s sanctioned more dole scum than his colleagues and is determined to make five before the end of the year.
And the reason they call him ‘Tentacles’ probably isn’t a stretch of the imagination either.
The hands, the wandering hands!
“Jon!” Fake warmth. “And how has our job search gone this week?”
I ducked and flinched as an arm extended and brushed my shoulder. Prat.
I handed Tentacles the scrubby little booklet with columns scrawled in cheap biro and he studied it intently. Damn. Should’ve guessed he would.
“I didn’t know you were a qualified nuclear scientist! Surely it would make much more sense to be looking for vacancies around Sellafield…or Chernobyl as oppose to Deptford? But not to worry as there’s a phone number here for the power plant”
I cringed as Gerald lifted the phone on his desk and proceeded to dial.
“Or is it a weapons testing lab? …Oh, it’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken! Not to worry though. I have a busy week planned for you!”
I groaned inwardly. The last time he said that I ended up with a six week sanction.
It was one of those New Deal for the Unemployed things. Supposedly a ‘Back to Work’ course on how to write ‘The Perfect CV’ ahead of the ‘Perfect Interview’ the perfect interview leading to the sort of job involving production lines and boxes to pack. Lots of boxes.
I lasted three days. Well two and a half. It was a ‘Motivational Session’ at a run-down hotel slash grotty business centre in Bromley. As a reward (apology?) for dragging us all the way out to Kent, free lunch was included. Wilted lettuce and fizzy prawn sandwiches on springy white bread. Following this feast we were led into a room and made to sit on the floor, assembly style in front of a makeshift stage. A curtain was slung haphazardly over one end and we could make out the figure of someone getting into some kind of costume amidst lots of grunting and swearing. Just to provide an aura of unpredictability a blond woman with a Home Counties accent then bounced in from the other side –unexpected, very clever- and informed us that Mr Rabbit was disappointed and dismayed that we were too lazy to find work so let’s sing a song! Presumably at this point Mr Rabbit himself was supposed to join the party, he still appeared to be having problems putting his trousers on however.
I’ll give it to the girl though. She did try valiantly without the aid of her bunny friend.
“Let’s all sing together! Hands in the air!” 30 pairs of eyes stared back at her in bemusement “This is the Unemployment Song! Let’s all get on our feet!” I’d had enough. I did get onto my feet, up and out to scrounge the rest of the sandwiches. Jobseeker’s Allowance doesn’t provide you with much for food, especially in London and especially when £30 of the measly £50 is being clawed back for various Government loans.
I’ve stuffed the majority of the remainder of the sandwiches into my plastic bag when I become aware I’m being watched. A six foot pink bunny with a lopsided ear is glaring at me menacingly. This at a wild guess was ‘Mr Rabbit’
“You thief!” It snarled, “You bastard, lowlife thieving dole scum!”
A little while later I’m taking the walk of shame out of the building and towards the bus stop, threats ringing in my ear. Behind me in the doorway, the bottom half of a rabbit and the top half of a chubby human dabbing blood from his nose with a mass of ragged tissue.
That’s how I wound up with a six week sanction.

I was brought back to today by Gerald gawping at me through those tiny eyes.
“I said I’ve got a job for you! Are you going to say thank you Gerald, for finding me the chance of worthwhile paid employment?”
“The chance of?”
“Well, it’s down to you isn’t it? Perform well and the role could be yours! It’s not easy. You’re down as violent on file you know?”
“What?”
“Mr Rabbit”
“Oh. Yeah”
“This could be the beginning of a flourishing career for you. We could meet up for a drink and laugh about the days when you were –“
“No. What’s the job?” I ducked out of reach of a wandering hand.
“Do you know DeepFreeze on the Walworth Road? Near the Italian Restaurant that turned into an Ethiopian that turned back into an Italian? Where all your Frozen Poultry Dreams Come True!”
Tentacles squealed the last word and thumped his desk earning a frown from a horn-rimmed colleague.
I did know it. A grotty frozen discount store. Mummy used to regularly shoplift salted squid from there until she noticed the long expired dates.
A hand began wandering across the desk again and he licked his lips. I shifted out of groping reach and he adjusted his glasses before studying me. This was going to be profound.
“You know young man, there are plenty of worthwhile jobs out there. Jobs that don’t involve filling freezers at 3am for minimum wage, or in your case tonight literally nothing. Jobs where you get up in the morning raring to go!” Tentacles made what was possibly a ‘raring’ motion with his fists and continued, “Sometimes a person just needs….getting on the right track! I could give you the benefit of my experience but it’s so difficult in a busy office like this. I can’t be seen to be giving preferential treatment but I WANT to give preferential treatment to you Jon. You’re a striking young lad. So much more than some of the zombies who walk through those doors. It wouldn’t hurt your cause either, always a good idea to show you are cooperating with the Jobcentre for your benefits. Makes life easier in the long run, especially if you’ve already been sanctioned once” Fake laugh.
*
2am and I’m staring down at a huge container of duck. 4,350 frozen Mallards. My job, to remove them from the container, well skip really and deposit them in a freezer in a ‘manner that will appeal to the customer’ according to the old dear assigned to supervise me.
Irene had been doing this job for nearly 20 years and was thrilled at the chance to finally pass the benefit of her wisdom on. So much so she’d barely left me alone all shift, constantly rearranging my ducks. This was despite having been temporarily promoted to ‘Cereals and Premium Muesli’
“I’m not sure you’re getting the hang of this!” I bit my tongue as yet again, she moulded a frozen bird into shape. “It’s on my head if you mess up!”
“Fuck off” under my breath.
“I’m sorry?!” Irene’s head swivelled, owl like in my direction.
“I said duck’s off. That one, look, date is last week!”
“Well, how do you think we got so many cheap?”
Ten minutes or so passed relatively peacefully. Irene was absorbed in the technical intricacies of price tagging multiple boxes of Jordan’s Country Crisp and I was depositing slightly out of date poultry into a tank. It was then I noticed the manager, wearing a snood but identifiable by his shirt and tie. He hovered behind me unnoticed for a while before tapping me on the shoulder. Startled, I nearly ended up braining him with a frozen Mallard. He looked grave. Clearly salmonellering (is that a word?) the entirety of South London is a task to be taken seriously.
“I’ve been watching you!” he began.
Great.
The Tentacles of the frozen poultry industry.
“Whilst I haven’t been impressed enough to offer you a paid role…”
I vaguely contemplated depositing him into one of his own freezers.
“…certainly not in a role facing my customers. I will however allow you to work an additional shift on the weekends if you’d like, perhaps Sunday night, unpaid of course to build up the experience but I’d be observing with a stopwatch. I’d want four ducks a minute, preferably six. And then possibly in the future we could look at monetary compensation”
I looked down at the heavy bird I’d been about to sling and across at the smug snooded, face in front of me and decided against.
*
Dawn was breaking as I got home. One of those uniquely peacefully breezy London summer dawns. I walked up the Walworth Road towards Elephant and Castle. The sun was rising behind the Shard in the distance, glinting off the silver glass. I was surprised to find not only Mummy up and about but Ousman too, albeit in his usual chair with his eyes closed. Definitely up to something!
“Cup of tea darling?” Mummy bustled across the kitchen, her enormous yellow dressing gown sweeping the floor, bouffant, peroxide hair. Marge Simpson meets bad drag queen meets Big Bird.
She clicked the kettle and it lit up, roaring quietly into life.
“How was it? Did you get the job?”
“I didn’t get the-“
Sharleen bustled in, also wearing an enormous yellow dressing gown.
“Don’t talk to me!” aimed in my direction
“Give us a fag!” aimed at Mummy.
We ignored her.
“Mummy and Ousman have been thinking, planning…”
Oh God!
“Mummy knows all about the ducks!”
I hate it when she starts talking in third person. It tends to result in a fine at best or a prison sentence at worst.
“What?”
“A friend of Ousman overheard some chaps talking in the pub. 4,350 Belgian Mallards! Mummy couldn’t help wondering how much they’d fetch on the Dark Web? Mummy thinks Wing Yip should order in extra hoi sin sauce and sharpish”
My delightful parent took a long drag on her cigarette and nodded sagely.
“I’m going to bed!”
*
I slept strangely that day, waking up around late afternoon. I dreamt –unsurprisingly- about ducks. I dreamt I was the Ugly Duckling but I didn’t grow into a beautiful swan. Instead my wings became ragged and I developed peroxide blond feathers. Rising groggily, I stumbled into the living room.
Clearly my dream hadn’t ended.
There were frozen ducks everywhere. On the window ledge, hanging from the ceiling, blocking Mummy’s view of the TV, even Ousman, snoring contentedly in the chair had a defrosting poultry on his lap.
“Don’t ask!” She glanced at me, “Mummy has a problem. Mummy didn’t consider how to store 4,350 birds in a tiny flat with only a drawer freezer! Mummy wants useless Ousman to ramraid Streatham Currys but useless Ousman is asleep. Again”
The doorbell rang.
“Bollocks! It’s the police!” My dear mother flipped the remote and flew into the air, neatly killing Emmerdale with one deft move. Through the frosted glass of the door I could see the distinctive shape of what could only be a member of the Metropolitan Constabulary-either that or unseasonal Halloween tricksters.
“Quick! hide the ducks!”
“Errr….how?” I felt a sudden sense of Déjà vu but shook it off. Any second now, Sharleen would come bustling in and open the door, exposing the Met’s finest to nearly 5,000 hot ducks!
Sharleen came bustling in and opened the door, exposing the Met’s finest to nearly 5,000 hot ducks.
Except.
Except, it wasn’t quite the Met’s finest. It was PC Phil.
Drippier than the poultry defrosting off the ceiling.
“Hello dear” Mummy deadpanned.
“Hello!” Bright and chirpy as usual, “I’ve just come to see if Sharleen wants a lift to her college class thing. I’m just going in now. It’s almost next door to the station”
Ousman coughed and woke with a start.
“Shit! Come off it. We didn’t nick no duck!”
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the ‘plop’ sound of a large piece of poultry skin as it hit the carpet.
PC Phil gazed around the room.
PC Phil gazed at the meat…and smiled happily.
“Are you having duck for dinner?”
Incredulous look from Mummy.
“Anyway!” continued the Met’s answer to Robocop, “If Sharleen is ready we’d best be going!”
He turned. We breathed again.
“Wait a minute”
“We stopped breathing.
He swung around, his eyes alighting on the box in the middle of the living room.
“I knew it! I thought so! That toaster is from the Kent Argos van heist!”
Ah shit! PC Phil really had become Robocop!
He advanced towards Ousman who rose defensively.
“Ousman Diome….”
“Is this your first nicking darling? How cute! We should take a photo! Wait a moment, I’ll get the camera” interjected Mummy.
PC Phil ignored it
“Ousman Diome…I’m arres-”
“Oooh hang on lovey!”
“Shut up! Ousman Diome…”
“How rude!” Mummy did seem genuinely offended!
PC Phil tried again…
“Ousman Dio…”
A loud crack echoed around the room and Robocop fell to the floor accompanied by a large frozen duck.
“Great! You’ve killed PC Phil!”
The three of us looked down at the figure sprawled across the floor.
Mummy looked genuinely distraught. That was one duck she probably wouldn’t be able to sell.
“Oh dear” Calm as ever from Ousman. I sometimes wondered about his perception of reality!
“How does Mummy get out of this one?” She was scheming even now!
With impeccable timing, Sharleen sashayed in, coat on ready to go.
“Come on then…What the?!”
“Phil has just had a bit of an accident” I tried.
“YOU’VE KILLED MY BOYFRIEND!”
Ousman nodded, vaguely sympathetically.
Mummy prodded the corpse with one toe.
“Right. Mummy thinks you should call your sister, Ousman, she can bring Pastor Okunola over. He’ll want paying though”
“We can pay him in duck?” I suggested.
“I’M GOING TO BE A SINGLE MOTHER!”
“The way this morning is going he’ll turn out to be vegetarian” said Mummy.
“I’ll give her a call now” said Ousman.
“What?!?!” shrieked Mummy.
“I said I’ll give her a-”
“Not you! HER!”
Ten minutes of screaming later and a curt knock at the door signified the arrival of Aunty Devine.
Tall and glamorous, she looked strangely out of place in the flat as she breezed in sans knocking wearing an expensive dark suit and purple hat.
“Pastor Okunola is on his way. He’s blessing a nun in Clerkenwell” she announced giving the dead policeman on the floor a disdainful look. “I want you to meet my new man. Could someone cover him up please?”
My heart skipped a beat and not in a good way as yet someone else barrelled in without knocking.
Tentacles!
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Aunty Devine hooked an arm into his and smiled.
“What an odd looking couple!” murmured Mummy.
“But you’re…!?”
Tentacles shot a death ray stare at me.
I began to wonder what the point of having a doorbell was as yet another tall African in an expensive suit and hat breezed in. Much older than Aunty Devine, his face showed the scars of a hard life and the smug smile of someone with devotion.
Pastor Okunola regarded the corpse on the floor solemnly.
“I see…I see….I’m sure we can establish a solution”
“Mummy hopes so!” Mummy (obviously)
“Why are there frozen chickens all over the place?” Tentacles.
“Ducks” I corrected him.
“First we pray…” Pastor Okunola knelt down beside the former PC Phil and clasped his hands together.
Mummy looked horrified.
“Dear Almighty Lord in Heaven…” he began.
Ten minutes later he finished with a flourish…
“Amen…and now we talk about compensation!”
“Ah payment!” Tentacles looked directly at my crotch. It didn’t take a genius…
“Fortunately!” continued the Pastor, “I absolutely love duck!”
“Thank Christ for that!” Mummy looked embarrassed, “Sorry!”
“Shall we go through to the bedroom?” Tentacles indicated the coat cupboard. He’d clearly never been in this flat before.
Reluctantly, I began to follow, heading in the right direction, when suddenly we were SAVED!
A miracle!
PC Phil groaned and began rising!
Pastor Okunola had dreamt of this moment!
“The Lord has brought him to life!”
“Jesus Christ! A zombie!” The most movement I’d ever seen from Ousman, who fled in terror never to be seen again.
PC Phil groaned again and rubbed his head.
Pastor Okunola addressed him, “You my friend are the chosen one! The new Messiah!”
PC Phil looked at him with zero comprehension, “Am I?”
“You are truly the miracle!”
“Oh thanks” a confused Phil rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the door.
“Keep walking” muttered Mummy.
We all breathed a sigh of relief…
He reappeared, head around the door.
“There was something…. I…toasters…”
“Bugger” said Mummy.