The possibly missing fish problem grew slowly but inexorably in the old man’s mind.  Each morning he surveyed the tank and conducted his icytheological inventory.  Some months had passed and it was not unexpected that there might be the occasional casualty.  How long are fish supposed to live ?  Does it differ much amongst the species ?  Is the span of a fish’s life more or less in a home aquarium than in open water ?  Had the boy’s neglect thrown the schools into a downward spiral ?

He grew suspicious at first, but then certain by degrees that death by natural causes was sharing the tank with murder.

As the number of fish declined, the looks of apprehension on their fishy eyes grew palpable.  The Angels looked implacable.  Then, from careful observation of the diminutive Angel Fish, the old man thought he could see fear writ large even in her eyes.

The catfish were unperturbed and went about their gravelly perusals.

The old man noticed that the Gouramis – the next largest fish in this captives’ world – had started to command the better defensive positions in the Halong Bay style acrylic faux rock.  What was this aqua-terror ?

In the morning, as the grey light of day spread itself over his preparations for another shift on Cannery Row, the old man went to feed the fish.  The tank reminded him of Tombstone – where the streets are deserted because all the townsfolk know there is bloodshed afoot and they are staying out of sight indoors.  The Angel Fish swam by, avoiding eye contact with the old man.

There was only ONE Angel Fish; the larger.  The diminutive Angel Fish was nowhere to be seen.

The catfish went about their job of hoovering the bottom.  They were saying nothing.

The old man began his forensic search for evidence – and there it was.  Floating on its side, hidden amongst the plants, on the other side of the heater.  The female Angel Fish; its eye grown cloudy.

The old man knew that was important to remove dead fish to stop disease spreading and fish have few qualms about eating each other alive, let alone dead.  Dead is easier.  Less chasing needed for a feed.

The old man stood in the kitchen and studied the dead Angel Fish in the palm of his hand.  Was there a mark on its portside flank ?  Was that the telltale mark of a fatal blow or just a mark ?  The boy came into the kitchen and saw the old man ruefully staring at a handful of something.  “Where are the Coco Pops ?” he asked, oblivious to the present carnage.

The old man slipped the dead Angel Fish into the kitchen tidy, closed the cupboard door and washed his hands in the sink. “Where would you expect to find them ?” he said.  “In the laundry ?”

The old man began to feel a sadness he associated with the keeping of captive creatures and he grew tired of the ceaseless pressure to clean the tank, remove the chlorine from the fresh tap water first and then balance the pH and replace a good part of the water, week after week.  It was a burdensome piece of chemistry and he was growing sick of making the effort for so little acknowledgement or interest from the boy.

The fish ate the plants.  The old man preplaced them and sometimes bought plastic ones that offered some visual interest and protection for the dwindling numbers of small fish.  By now the last of the Zebra Danios had disappeared.  Not found floating under mysterious circumstances, just vanished.  The Angel Fish maintained a stentorian aloofness.  The catfish hoovered, avoiding making any comment.

Easter; the season had turned and the daylight saving ceased.  There were only six fish left in the tank.  After the death of an expensive (and apprehensive from the outset) Moonfish – purchased under coercion from the aquarium keeper and the old man’s First Mate, the old man decided that it was high noon for the Angel Fish.

In his boyhood, the old man had learnt that it was unkind to see any creature suffer and his fish keeping guide had said that the most efficient and “kindest” way to kill a fish was to drop it into a tin of boiling water.  The boy was at his cousin’s house for the Easter break.  Now was the time.  The old man put a pot of water on the stove and lit the gas.  He took out the small net and lifted the lid on the tank.

The doorbell rang.  The old man placed the net on the top of the tank and paced down the hallway.  There was an Indian girl wanting to discuss whether he might purchase a subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald.  He had done so in the past, and his name was on their database, she said.  It was a very good deal and in fact the old man thought about how inexpensive the offer was, but he still felt that the quality of the paper had fallen dramatically and that journalism had given way to trite opinion pieces from writers of doubtful knowledge and indeterminate ability.

The old man thanked the girl for her kind offer but declined, closing the door gently so as to not offend.  He returned to the tank and picked up the net.  The Angel Fish sailed off to the other end of the tank behind the Halong Bay replica rock.  His patience wearing thin, the old man went into the laundry and took a plastic tub and brought it back to where the tank was placed on its stand in the family room.  The old man removed the tank light and lid, took out the Halong Bay replica rock, removed all the plants and placed all these things into the plastic tub.  He confronted the Angel Fish who, despite having no cover at all, was not giving up for anyone.

It was a lopsided contest.  The fish struggled briefly and was poached quickly.  The old man lifted the seat on the toilet in the laundry, deposited the dead Angel Fish and dispatched it into the South East Australian current, Nemo style.

The old man replaced the tank contents and the lid and light and contemplated the fates of the five surviving fish.  He knew that the boy would not miss the Angel Fish.

The Bronze Catfish hoovered the bottom of the tank without looking up.