Actual Park Life

Children skipped carelessly along the lakeside path as their parents watched with only half an eye. A group from the local day care group dawdled and were pushed unsteadily over to feed the ducks, the carers relieved to be out of the stifling heat of the centre. Dogs pulled their owners and owners pulled their dogs, some more excited than others by the prospect of squirrels in the woods at the end of the lake.

Just another lazy day at Roath Lake, sun shining, ice-cream van generator whirring, sea gulls flapping.

In the depths of the lake the shadow rested, underneath this summer’s crop of algae. It peered through the ripples on the lake, its attention caught by a fleeting burst of red on a child's coat, or the glint on the frame of a wheelchair. Silently and with only the hint of a sinuous flick of its body, it slid over to the submerged base of the world famous Roath Lake Light house memorial to Captain Scott. This was a safe spot, but also favoured by ducks who made a quick and easy snack for the lake leviathan, like a Greggs sausage roll for monsters.

The ancient creature was always hungry, always gliding the lake bottom scrounging what it could in amongst the detritus of old broken life belts, oars and Clarks Pie wrappers. In the end though, first class protein was required, all wrapped up in a juicy coating of saturated fat.

It was late afternoon, the sun was low and the trees that edged the lake threw long shadows across its surface. Wearing waders and standing at the quietest part of the lake, was a man operating a remote controlled model boat. Playing just to his side was his 8 year old son, splashing about in his red bug eyed wellies. The man was concentrating furiously on getting the boat to do a 360 spin, showing off for some passers bye. Only the eagle eyed seagull saw the massive shape move under the water and approach the child. The seagull screeched, not for the sake of the child, but out of self-interested fear and panic. With only the barest splash the child was gone. Pulled beneath and taken to the light house, stripped of its flesh before the father even realised what had happened.

Unknowingly imitating a scene from Jaws, the man stood in the lake, looking helplessly around for his son, with nothing but a torn piece of red rubber to show where he had been.

Dame Shirley Road walked past a little later, as the emergency services tended to the father. She heard the bewilderment, the desolated faces of the frog divers, the shrugs of the scene of crime officers. She thought perhaps she could approach the father and offer him some explanation, she did at least know what had happened. Then the familiar tightening in her gut, the pressure in her chest as her ire rose. How many times had they warned people, “Don’t leave your children unattended near the lake”? Too often had this sad scene been played out and yet no one ever listened, they mocked, they ridiculed, they ignored, and then they cried. Too bad she thought as she dropped a hunk of battered sausage amongst the algae bloom near the lighthouse.

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