‘Perfect son, you’re a natural.’
Peter floated on the water and looked back, surprising himself at the distance he had swum. He turned and glided back to where his father sat, lounging on a pink bar of soap, rocking gently on the water.
‘Well done,’ beamed his father as Peter rested his forelegs on the edge of the soap raft. ‘You make this old cockroach proud.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. What you learn today is very important.’
Peter let his rear legs drift in the calm water, heeding the words.
‘It’s why we come to the great spa lake,’ continued his father, spreading his forelegs to indicate the wide expanse of water and the surrounding steep white walls. ‘There are many cruelties humans inflict on us roaches: the spray, the boot heel, and most fiendish—the flush.’
‘Grandpappy was flushed, wasn’t he?’
His father’s face darkened and he looked off into the distance. Beyond the edge of the spa loomed the cistern of the baleful toilet.
‘Yes son,’ said his father finally. ‘We will never know the horrors he met down there, but we prepare ourselves in these known waters lest we are ever subjected to those other dreadful depths.’
Silence drifted between them broken only by the soft lapping of water against the raft.
‘Anyway son, enough chitter. Are you ready to try going under?’
Peter nervously surveyed the water behind him.
‘I think so.’
‘Good lad.’
He pushed off, kicking his six little legs, inching away from the safety of the soap raft as his father’s words echoed in his head.
Spray. Squish. Flush.
He prepared to dive but was halted by a thunderous rumble from below. The clear waters clouded and the surface began to undulate.
‘Dad…’ he began but his words were drowned. He was smashed by a wall of water, filling his mouth and sending him under. Powerful currents blasted him from all directions, twisting his body as he flailed his legs, trying to find some orientation.
He opened his eyes to a swirling mass of bubbles. Every direction looked the same and he had no idea how far he was under. Horror stories of his grandpappy flooded his mind. He hadn’t practiced enough to last long down here. He had to find the surface.
Using his legs and wings to stabilise his body, he scanned the cloudy depths until he spied a brighter patch. He kicked hard, fighting against the current and pushed towards the light, but with each kick it seemed no closer. Weakened and losing hope, the depths below beckoned, whispering evils for his aching legs to surrender.
‘Fight!’ came the voice in his head and he was bolstered by the image of his father at the surface waiting for him on his little pink raft.
Peter strained with one last effort and burst into fresh air.
Any relief Peter may have felt was quickly doused. Gone was his father. Gone was the soap. The spa was a maelstrom. High jagged waves, venom tipped with froth, towered around him. Beneath the surface, an ever-present rumble like thunder rolling over the earth.
‘PETER!’
He turned frantically at the sound but saw nothing. Waves chopped across his line of sight in every direction.
‘HERE!’
He caught the direction this time and saw his father, high above the waves, atop the white wall of the spa.
‘The humans have turned on the jets,’ yelled his father. ‘You must get out! Swim towards me, towards the wall.’
It seemed futile against the torrent, his tiny body riding each crest and trough like driftwood, but he followed his father’s voice, calling like a beacon across the water.
Breathless and legs burning he finally reached the solid edge of the spa. He looked up at the sheer white wall, a towering cliff face, wet with spray.
‘Pete, can you climb out?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Peter nervously. ‘It’s slippery.’
‘You can do this, son.’
Peter put his forelegs onto the wall. Not much grip, but enough. He pulled and raised his abdomen from the water, pushing further up the wall as his back legs found grip. Slowly he crept, his father’s face peering over the edge growing larger with each step.
‘Eyes on me, lad. One step at a time.’
He couldn’t help it. It was as if the depths below called to him and Peter looked down. The churning waters danced, hypnotic, almost beautiful, and the moment of distraction was enough. He lost his grip and fell.
‘Dad! I’m…’
The deathly feeling of weightlessness coursed through his body, pushing out any remaining hope.
‘I’ve got you, son.’
Hope and strength returned as the words of his father and his strong arms surrounded Peter like an aura. He found his footing again, pushing up as his father pulled. With a final effort they breached the rim of the spa and collapsed on the cool white surface.
‘Thought I’d lost you there, boy.’
They shared a knowing look as they caught their breath.
‘Thanks Dad, I…’ began Peter, then his gaze was drawn to something behind his father. ‘What’s that?’
His father turned to see what had caught his son’s attention and he stumbled back in shock. Pointed towards them was a large cylindrical object, its gaping mouth disappearing into darkness. Holding the object was a giant wrapped in a white towel.
‘Dear God,’ he exclaimed. ‘The hair dryer! Peter, RUN!’
Peter heard the instruction but his legs didn’t respond. The object let out a roar and his father disappeared, his body flung from the edge of the spa, hurtling through the air and slamming against the open toilet lid. Peter watched in horror as his father scrambled for grip before falling from sight, deep into the horrid depths of the bowl. He was gone.
‘Nice shot,’ came the booming voice of the giant. ‘Try for a double.’
‘No…’ whispered Peter.
A scalding wind enveloped him, then he too was gone.