Orange Juice in the Duck Pond

The video showed a girl in a pink cagoule trying to launch a box kite in what looked like a Morrison's car park. She moved carefully, taking her time with the string, checking the wind direction with her finger held up like she'd seen someone do it properly. The kite sat on the tarmac while she arranged everything just so, methodical and slow, making sure the frame was straight before she tried.

When she finally lifted it—still carefully, still slowly—the wind grabbed it immediately, yanked it sideways, wrapped the string around a bollard, and deposited the whole mess in a shopping trolley. The girl stood there with her arms at her sides, the universal posture of betrayed childhood.

Gerald watched it twice during his lunch break, sitting on the bench with his Tesco meal deal arranged on the slats beside him: cheese and pickle sandwich, ready salted crisps, orange juice. The ankle monitor pressed against his shin bone when he crossed his legs. Thirteen months he'd been wearing it. In forty-seven minutes—his watch said 12:13—it would come off forever.

He thumbed a comment into the YouTube app: 'Slow and steady, eh?'

Posted it. Ate his sandwich. The sky was the colour of old putty.

The comment got six likes before he'd finished his crisps. Someone replied with a laughing emoji. Someone else wrote 'brutal lol'. Gerald allowed himself a small smile. Not cruel, just observant. The girl had taken so long being careful and it hadn't made any difference. That was funny in a cosmic sort of way. Aesop would have appreciated it.

At 12:28 he wrapped up his crisp packet—carefully, the way his mother had taught him, folding it into a small triangle—and walked the seventeen steps from the lunch bench to the service bench. This one faced the duck pond instead of the car park. Better views, though the ducks had learned months ago that he never fed them. Council regulations. He'd written most of them himself.

The monitor beeped once as he sat down—proximity warning, he was eight metres from the northern boundary—then went silent. He settled himself carefully, tugged his hi-vis vest straight even though it was technically retired, and set his phone on the bench beside him. Screen down. No touching it for sixty minutes. That was the rule.

Sixty minutes. Then someone from Bracknell would come with the removal tool, scan his completion code, and snip the thing off his ankle. His wife Jenny had bought champagne. Prosecco, really, but she'd called it champagne because she was trying to make it feel special. Their daughter Lily had made a banner that said 'DAD'S ANKLES ESCAPE' in purple felt tip. It was hanging in the kitchen, slightly crooked because Jenny had used the wrong tape.

The wind picked up at 12:34.

Not gradually. Just arrived, like someone had opened a door. The sort of wind that makes you check if you've left something switched on somewhere. Gerald felt it hit his face, cold and urgent, carrying the smell of coming rain even though the forecast had said clear until evening.

A crisp packet—not his, someone else's, he'd disposed of his properly—cartwheeled across the path and plastered itself against his trouser leg. He peeled it off, looked for a bin, saw one six metres away. The monitor would beep if he walked that direction. Northern boundary. He stuffed the packet in his coat pocket instead.

His phone buzzed against the bench.

He looked at it. Screen still down. The buzzing stopped. Started again. Stopped. Started.

Gerald checked his watch: 12:36. Fifty-four minutes remaining.

The wind shoved at him sideways, hard enough that he had to brace his feet against the ground. A sheet of newspaper came tumbling along the path like a crippled bird, wrapped itself around the bench leg, then tore free and launched into the pond. One of the ducks gave it a contemptuous look and paddled away.

The phone buzzed four times in quick succession.

Gerald looked at the CCTV camera mounted on the lamp post three metres to his left. Small black dome, installed two years ago after the incident with the kids and the spray paint. He'd requested it himself, written the proposal, attended the meeting. The red light underneath meant it was recording. It would show him sitting here, appropriately, not touching his phone. Compliant. Reformed.

A branch came off one of the plane trees—not a twig, a proper branch, thick as his forearm—and hit the path two metres in front of him. Just dropped, still green, leaves fluttering. The wind screamed through the canopy above and the whole tree bent like it was trying to escape itself.

The phone buzzed. Buzzed. Kept buzzing.

Gerald picked it up.

The screen showed fourteen missed calls. Nine from Jenny. Three from a number he didn't recognize with a 0118 prefix—Reading, probably the council—and two from Lily's school.

He stared at the school's number. Lily was fine. She was always fine. She fell out of trees and landed laughing. She'd been fine yesterday when he'd kissed her goodbye, fine this morning when Jenny had texted him a photo of her eating Weetabix with her blazer on backwards.

The wind grabbed his hi-vis vest and tried to pull it over his head. Gerald shoved it back down, fumbled with his phone, unlocked it. The monitor beeped once—proximity warning, he'd leaned too far forward, eight and a half metres from northern boundary—and he jerked back.

Three voicemails. He jabbed the first one.

'Gerald, it's Jenny. Listen, the letters came. All of them. They're making everyone redundant, the whole parks department, it's not—it's nothing you did, they're just—' A pause. Traffic sounds in the background. She was in the car. 'I know you've got your last hour, but I needed to tell you before—just call me when you can. It's fine. We're fine. We'll figure it out. Love you.'

The message ended. The automated voice said: 'Received today at 12:19.'

Before he'd even sat down.

Gerald stared at the phone. Redundant. After thirteen months of community service for accumulating seventeen points under the 2024 Community Standards Enforcement Act—sleeping in a parked van overnight (four points), verbal altercation with a cyclist about right-of-way (three points), failure to display council identification while on duty (two points), eight other infractions he'd thought were absurd at the time and still thought were absurd—after all that, after completing every mandated hour, they were just... shutting it down. The whole department. Budget cuts or restructuring or whatever language they used when they meant we don't need you anymore.

The wind hit him full in the chest and he actually slid backward on the bench, his coat flapping open. His phone nearly went with it. He caught it against his stomach, hunched forward, felt the monitor beep again.

He thumbed to the second voicemail.

'Mr. Brennan, this is Susan Kapoor from Beechwood Primary. Lily's had a little accident in PE, nothing serious, but she's asking for you and we can't reach Mrs. Brennan. If you could—well, we'd appreciate a call back when you have a moment.'

Received at 12:24.

Gerald looked at his watch: 12:41. Nineteen minutes remaining.

The third voicemail started playing before he'd decided whether to listen.

'Gerald, it's Rhys Thomas, Bracknell Council HR.' The voice was professionally sympathetic, which meant bad news delivered by someone who'd practiced in a mirror. 'Just ringing to let you know there's been an administrative review of all suspended personnel currently under monitoring. Due to the department closure, your community service requirement has been... well, there's no easy way to say this. It's been nullified. You're no longer required to complete today's session. The monitor's already been deactivated remotely—you can remove it yourself or wait for the appointment, up to you. I'll email you the formal documentation. Best of luck.'

Received at 12:33.

Gerald looked down at his ankle. The monitor sat there, black and heavy and silent. He reached down—the wind immediately tried to knock him sideways—and pressed the release button.

It clicked open.

Just like that.

He pulled it off his leg, felt the indent it had left in his skin, the strange lightness of his foot without the weight. He set it on the bench beside him.

The wind took his orange juice—still half full, he'd been saving it—and launched it into the pond. It bobbed there next to the newspaper, bright orange against the brown water, the Tesco label visible even from the bench.

His phone rang. Jenny. He answered.

'Did you get my message?'

'Yes.'

'Are you—where are you?'

'The bench. The service bench.'

'Gerald, you don't have to—did you hear Rhys's message? You're done. You can leave.'

The wind roared through the trees and something else fell, bigger this time, hit the ground with a crash he felt through the bench. He couldn't see what it was.

'Lily had an accident,' he said.

'I know, the school just rang me too. I'm on my way there now. She's fine, she's skinned her knee or something, you know what she's like. She just wanted—' Jenny's voice did something complicated. 'She wanted you. I told them you couldn't leave, you had your hour, but apparently you can now, so—'

'I'm coming.'

'Gerald, she's FINE. I'm already—'

'I should have been there. I should have answered.'

'You were following the rules. That's what you're supposed to—'

'The rules don't matter!' It came out louder than he'd meant. The wind swallowed it immediately. 'The rules never mattered. I've been sitting on this bench for thirteen months following rules that—' He stopped. Started again. 'I'm coming to the school.'

'Alright. Alright. I'll meet you there.'

She hung up. Gerald stood, and the wind nearly knocked him back down. His coat whipped behind him like a cape, his hi-vis vest tried to escape again, and his phone buzzed one more time in his hand.

He looked at it. YouTube notification. Someone had replied to his comment.

He shouldn't look. He should go. Lily was waiting, Jenny was driving, he was free to leave, the monitor was off, nineteen minutes didn't matter anymore.

He looked anyway.

The reply was from the girl's mother, apparently. The profile picture showed a woman in her thirties holding a baby. The comment said: 'That's my daughter. One year cancer-free today. She's still building strength. Maybe think before you type.'

Gerald stared at it. The video was still playing on loop in the thumbnail—the girl moving slowly, carefully, methodically. Taking her time because she had to. Because her body was still remembering how to be strong. The kite yanking sideways. The bollard. The shopping trolley. Her arms dropping to her sides.

Thirteen more likes on his comment now. Someone else had replied: 'lmaooo she really thought being careful would help.'

The wind grabbed a duck—an actual duck, just lifted it bodily off the water—and deposited it three metres away in the flower bed. The duck sat there for a moment, looking affronted, then waddled back toward the pond.

Gerald's fingers were cold. He could barely feel the screen. He tried to tap delete on his comment. The button was greyed out. Too many replies now—YouTube wouldn't let you remove comments once a thread had started. Something about transparency or conversation threading or some algorithmic decision made by someone in California who'd never heard of Bracknell.

He tapped Reply and typed:

'I'm sorry. I didn't know. I hope the kite flew better later. I hope she's okay. Congratulations to her.'

He posted it. Stared at it for a moment. It looked inadequate sitting there under his original comment, under the mother's reply, under the 'lmaooo' from someone who still thought cruelty was funny. But it was what he had.

He put his phone in his pocket. Picked up the ankle monitor—didn't know what else to do with it—and started walking towards the car park.

The wind fought him the entire way. Pushed him backward, sideways, tried to tear his coat off, made his eyes stream. By the time he reached the car park entrance, his hair was sideways and he'd lost feeling in his ears and he was fairly certain he looked like someone who'd been dragged through something undignified.

And then the wind stopped.

Not died down. Stopped. The trees went still. The air went quiet. Gerald stood there at the edge of the car park, breathing hard, and felt the sudden absence of resistance like he'd been leaning against a door that had just opened.

The sun came out.

Came out wasn't right—it had been there all along, presumably, behind the putty-coloured sky. But now the clouds were just... gone. Dissolved. The sky was blue, properly blue, the sort of blue you forget about during November. The sun hit the car park and made the puddles shine. It hit the back of Gerald's neck and felt warm enough that he stopped walking just to feel it.

His phone buzzed. Text from Jenny: 'She's fine. Plaster and a biscuit. See you here x'

Gerald stood in the car park in the sun, holding an ankle monitor that no longer worked, wearing a hi-vis vest that no longer meant anything, looking at a text from his wife who'd said we'll figure it out like that was just something people did.

He pulled out his phone again. Opened YouTube. His comment was still there: 'Slow and steady, eh?'

Below it, the mother's reply: 'That's my daughter. One year cancer-free today. She's still building strength. Maybe think before you type.'

Below that, his apology: 'I'm sorry. I didn't know. I hope the kite flew better later. I hope she's okay. Congratulations to her.'

Below that, a new reply from someone else: 'Fair play for owning it mate. We've all put our foot in it. Hope your day gets better.'

Gerald read it twice. Put his phone away. Started walking towards his car.

The sun stayed out. The sky stayed blue. A plane went over, leaving a white line that looked like someone had drawn on the sky with correction fluid. Gerald unlocked his car, threw the ankle monitor onto the passenger seat, and sat there for a moment with his hands on the steering wheel.

He was redundant. His daughter had skinned her knee. His wife had bought Prosecco and called it champagne. A girl he'd never meet was one year cancer-free and he'd mocked her for being careful. The wind had tried to tear everything apart and then just stopped, for no reason he could determine, and now it was warm.

He started the engine. Turned on the radio. Didn't listen to it. Drove towards the school where Lily was waiting with a plaster and a biscuit and a knee that would heal in a week, and Jenny was waiting with patient exasperation and a banner that said 'DAD'S ANKLES ESCAPE', and the sun was shining on all of it, indifferent and warm and entirely unearned.

The last thing he thought before he turned onto the high street was that the girl in the pink cagoule probably never got her kite to fly properly. Probably went home and put it away and forgot about it, the way children do when something hurts too much to keep trying.

Or maybe she'd gone back the next day, when the weather was better, and tried again. Moving slowly, building strength, taking her time.

Gerald hoped so.

He drove through the sun to collect his daughter, and for the first time in thirteen months, he didn't check how far he was from any boundaries.

In the duck pond behind him, an orange juice carton bobbed among the reeds, its Tesco label bright against the brown water. The ducks paddled in slow circles through the sunshine, going nowhere in particular.