The Zoo Page 14

  ‘Thanks. Thank you. I’m proper chuffed.’

  ‘I bet. It’s not just because she’s up the duff?’

  ‘No, no, hell no. That’s just an added bonus.’

  I go to the bookcase behind my desk, grab a couple of glasses and pour two healthy measures of scotch, chuck in some ice cubes and hand one to him. The liquid is sharp. I struggle to hold it down. Baxter grimaces when he drinks it.

  ‘The favour?’

  ‘Oh, oh yes. We’re having an engagement party. Everyone at work will be invited of course and I was wondering whether you’d do the invites for me?’

  I think for a second about how I feel about this, then realise I’m really pleased he’s asked me.

  ‘Of course. It would be an honour. Email me all the details and I’ll sort it out for you.’

  He thanks me, I promise I won’t tell anyone until he makes the official announcement and when he leaves I drink another Scotch, then another until my throat is numb.

  40.

  The dust is getting worse. It’s on everything. In everything. It amazes me how quickly it amasses. It’s piled up against the walls. There are trails through it where people have moved about the ward. I’ve been trying not to think about what it is and about where it’s come from. The bits of us that the rest of us don’t want any more. We’re not as literal as snakes or moths. We don’t shed ourselves in such an obvious way, but we’re always losing parts of ourselves and rebuilding. A lifelong metamorphosis. We’re a process. Along the way we leave these reminders of ourselves. Hoover or sweep them up and move on. So here I am tramping through the leftovers of all the people who share my confinement or who have been here before me. I breathe in their memories, I traipse through their past as it finds its way into my tea, into my food, under my nails, crunching in my teeth and making my eyes itch. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. When I mention it to Mark, ask him if it bothers him, he simply shrugs and continues to read the paper. And all the while it grows, this snowy landscape of memory.

  I try to avoid Beth. I can tell it’s hurting her, but I can feel The Zoo in me. I know what it wants to do and have to stay in a state of constant alertness against it. Several times I have felt it building, seen the first shimmer of light, or felt the pressure building in my calves and have locked myself in my room and shook, shivered, screamed my way through it until a group of nurses have rushed in, held me down and pumped me full of oblivion.

  Janet continues to try and goad the past from me and sometimes I give it to her in bite-size chunks. She thinks I’m making progress, but I see only a trail of dust that leads to here and behind it all The Zoo is mocking both of us.

  On the way to the canteen I follow Beaker down the stairwell. He is chuntering and muttering. I attempt to fit my feet in the footprints his slippers have made in the dust. It’s a game. Like not treading on the cracks. Or balancing on the kerb. He stops and turns to me,

  ‘You’ve not told anyone, have you?’

  His eyes are wild with aggression behind his milk bottle glasses. For a second I’m actually scared of what he might do.

  ‘No,’ I say, hands up in surrender, ‘of course not. I said I wouldn’t, so I’m not going to.’

  ‘Good. Because I’m close.’

  He pats the camera which hangs on his chest.

  ‘I’ve got some great stuff on here. Pretty soon it’ll be time to make the call and go out there to tell the truth. They’re going to be really pleased. All this will be worth it and I don’t want it messed up. I shouldn’t have told you. But it’s hard, you know?’

  I nod agreement, I do know, it is hard.

  He seems satisfied by this, pats my arm and then trundles off down the stairs again. I let him go down one landing and then start after him.

  Three floors down I pause under a flickering light. The cover is off. I study the W shape of the bulb as it struggles to ignite, the glow working its way around the bulb, nearly far enough to ignite and then fading back to nothing. Starting again. Failing again. All the while it buzzes like an egg timer. It’s a familiar sound. I am mesmerised by it. Can’t move. The weak bulb illuminates only a few feet around me, the rest of the landing is in shadow.

  Somewhere beneath me Beaker’s footsteps drift away.

  A moth smashes into the light, making me jump. A massive moth, all big hairy body and flapping wings. It throws itself at it over and over. The light fights to ignite. The moth hurls itself at the glass, chasing the fading and resurrecting light. Another moth joins the first and they take it in turns to hit the bulb.

  I watch with car crash fascination as another moth joins them. Then another. There are five of them. Six. Seven. I can’t work out where they’re coming from. There’s more now. Maybe ten. Maybe more. Throwing themselves at the light with suicidal intensity.

  One of them clips my face. I feel the brush of its wingtip on my cheek. Flap at it with my hand. They’re all over the light now, hoards of them. The corridor is full of the buzz of the light and tiny thuds as they crash into it. They’re all about me. The weak glow of the light swallowed by the flap of their wings. They’re like a dust devil or a tornado and I’m at the centre. A swirl of movement and wings against my face, against my arms, in my hair. I flail about, feel the connections with every swing, but they’re everything. The noise of them fills my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a jump forward, hit the first step, stumble down it, reach out and find the banister, but fall heavily down the next door, spin around and collapse into the wall, my head hitting it with a thud which shakes my teeth. I stay there, gulping down air, look back at the landing above me, full of moths now, so densely packed they’re almost a solid mass. When I can breathe again I take the stairs two at a time, panic a wolf on my back and when I burst out into the canteen I am wet with sweat. Unable to explain myself to anyone I sit away from them all and wait for my heart to calm.

  41.

  The next day. Enclosed in the leather embrace of Janet’s chair. I want a cigarette. I want alcohol. I want a line. She gives me coffee instead. Her office is the epitome of organisation. The books on her bookshelf are in alphabetical order. An array of framed certificates behind her enforces her credibility. The desk is sparse, just a jotter pad without doodles and by the side of it a fountain pen in a velvet lined box, exactly in parallel with the edge of the jotter. I think she’s probably got mild OCD. I snigger. She looks up from her computer.

  ‘Something funny?’ she asks me.

  ‘No. Thinking about something.’

  She turns her professional attention to me.

  ‘Anything you want to share?’

  I’m the naughty boy at school. She is the severe teacher. I can only shake my head. She returns to the computer and I turn my attention to the window, to the flat grey sky, to the rain hanging in the air.

  ‘What are they building at the end of the ward?’

  ‘Building?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, behind the sheets.’

  ‘What sheets, James?’

  She looks at me like I’m mad. Which of course I probably am. Why would I be here otherwise? I go to continue, but she interrupts me before I get a chance.

  ‘They tell me you’ve distanced yourself from the group,’ she says, fingers dancing on her keyboard.

  ‘I was never really part of the group.’

  ‘It’s not healthy. We want you to interact. It’s important that you integrate in order to get better. We’re a microcosm here. If you can’t exist as part of our smaller society you’re inevitably going to struggle with the larger one out there.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, ‘it’s best I stay away from people right now.’

  ‘Really? Why would you say that?’

  I don’t want to go into it.

  She stops typing, says ‘will you tell me why?’

  I don’t reply, instead turn around a picture on her desk. Janet and a small jolly looking man, two children.

  ‘Your family?’

  She reaches over
, turns the picture back.

  ‘Yes. Do you want to talk about your family?’

  I want to say something smart-arse, something like, no I want to talk about your family. Instead say, ‘which part?’

  ‘Your parents?’

  I haven’t thought about them for a long time. A flash of pain. Think of a kitchen full of pain and recrimination. An angry car drive away. Ignored phone calls.

  ‘Okay. How about your wife?’

  And there is our bedroom. Not long ago. Sally sitting on a chair, her naked back to me. A pad on my knee as I trace the shape of her body with a charcoal. The delicate turn of her shoulders. I draw the curve of her side, smudge the charcoal with my little finger, give a hint of her vertebrae through the slats of the chair. The pinch of her shoulder blades as she turns her head to look at me, the shadow of her eyelashes on her cheeks, her hair swept over one shoulder, fanned out across her skin. The room is lit with just the bedside lamps, her body defined with shade. I put the pad down and go over to her. Kneel on the floor behind her, bury my head in the hollow of her neck. She smells of vanilla and shampoo. I kiss her. She moans and rolls her head to the side. I kiss her again. Trace her collarbone with my lips. I reach around and cup her right breast with a shaking hand, leaving a trace of charcoal on her pale skin. I gently turn her head, find her lips, part them with my tongue, flick it across her front teeth. She reaches behind with her hand and strokes my head. I kiss her more urgently. Sense she isn’t responding and kiss her harder. She pulls her head away from me. I hold her tight. Force my mouth against hers. She shoves me away. I grab for her again. Her arms locked, pushing me away, she stands and pulls her dressing gown around herself, saying, ‘I can’t. It isn’t right. I just can’t. I know why you’re doing this. You’re a man. You want to enforce your ownership.’

  I reach out for her again and she spins and storms to the bathroom. Locks the door. I scream ‘fuck’s sake’ and throw the charcoal at the door, snatch the picture from the bed and leave the bedroom.

  I pull my jeans on, grab the car keys and drive into the night. I don’t know where I’m going until I find myself on the street outside Hilary’s house. I check my watch – 11.45 pm. As I crunch my way up his drive the security lights come on and the shadows from the stone dogs either side of his door stretch out to greet me with mute snarls.

  He answers after three urgent rings on the doorbell. I can tell he’s drunk. His hair is dishevelled. There are dark stains on the front of his white undershirt.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ he asks. Then his face changes, ‘you’d better come in.’

  The house is a mess. We go through to the lounge. It looks like a student hall. Wine bottles. Beer cans. Pizza boxes.

  ‘You look like you need a drink,’ he says.

  I nod and follow him into the kitchen. He plucks a glass from the sink, runs it under the tap then hands it to me, drops a couple of ice cubes into it and half fills it with vodka.

  ‘You don’t need a mixer do you?’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  We slump onto dirty sofas in his ruined lounge. Drink our drinks in silence. After an age he says,

  ‘They’re all bitches.’

  I had been drifting off. His voice is a warm slur. He looks tiny on the sofa.

  ‘Women – they’re all bitches. Silly old cow won’t return my calls. Don’t even know what I’ve done. 30 years of marriage and the fucking mare won’t talk to me. I’ve been round to Angie’s parents’ house and her old man threatened to call the police on me. I used to play golf with the cunt now he’s acting like I’m the stable boy who’s poked his rich daughter.’

  I nearly tell him about the condoms. Think better of it.

  He shakes an empty glass, and says, ‘another?’

  I nod and he stumbles from the room.

  A couple of hours later I get back into my car. Too drunk to drive. Way too drunk to drive. As I reverse out I clip the back bumper on his gate.

  I drive home bang on the speed limit. Hunched over the steering wheel, window open, hoping the freezing drizzle-filled air will keep me awake. When my head starts nodding I turn the radio on. The car is filled with the shout of static. Shocked, I lean over to switch over to CD and look up to see something in the middle of the road. Instantly I’m bristling with sweat. Slam the brakes on and swerve hard. Mount the central reservation, fighting with the wheel, all the while pumping the brake until the car skids to a halt. I rest my head on the steering wheel, my body in spasms. Don’t want to look back. Eventually I pluck up the courage and snatch a glance in the rear view mirror. In the centre of the road the boy from Monkey Kingdom is standing, hands clasped to his head. I push the door open and climb out.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I shout.

  He doesn’t move.

  ‘What are you doing in the middle of the road?’

  He drops his hands to his side.

  I take a step towards him.

  ‘Are you okay? I could have killed you. Why are you standing in the road?’

  He starts to back away. As I take another step forward he turns and bolts into the night. I run after him, the sound of my feet slapping on the tarmac echoing behind me. He’s quicker than me and soon I’m left chasing nothing on an empty street. My legs and lungs scream and I double over, hands on my knees and vomit onto the road.

  It begins to rain as I make my way back to the car. Huge swerving rubber marks on the road. The grass on the central reservation ripped up by my tyres. When I try and start it the engine refuses to fire. I smash the steering wheel with the heels of my palms. I rest my forehead against the window and feel myself drifting off into a drunken sleep. I violently shake my head clear. My breath has steamed the glass. With my forefinger I slowly trace the word HELP into the mist. I begin to worry about police cars. When I try again the engine starts and I carefully reverse back onto the carriage way and limp my way home.

  42.

  We’re all in the boardroom. Baxter is making his announcement. There’s champagne and orange juice. Baxter looks bashful when he tells us. There’s a round of applause. Jessica is standing next to me, her skin electric against me. Baxter hands out the invitations to his engagement party. On the front is the drawing I made of Sally, her face a blur. Crisp Helvetica text over a smudgy charcoal drawing. Alan passes out the drinks. Glasses clink and there’s another round of applause. Claps on the back. As we file out Baxter waves the invitation at me.

  ‘Thank you. They’re great.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I collect up the bottles and take them through into the kitchen. Pour all the dregs into a coffee cup and sip it as I cross back through the open plan creative area. I stop at Collins’ desk and pull a chair up next to him. Notice him quickly closing down his personal email.

  ‘Any news?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a meeting. On the 5th. 3 pm.’

  I check the calendar on my iPhone, mark the time out as busy, but don’t specify why so no-one else can see it in the shared calendar.

  ‘Nice one,’ I say, ‘When are you free to go over the creds pitch?’

  He brings his calendar up on his screen. We compare dates, settle on an hour tomorrow.

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ I say as I get up. I think we’ve turned a corner.

  So far so good. So far so good. So far so good.

  Someone has written ‘everyone is happy apart from you’ on the notepad on my desk.

  Sat in the reception of the bank. Baxter. Me. Jessica. They’re late. We’ve been here half an hour already. I take out the iPad, check the presentation one last time. Get up. Lean over the desk. The receptionist is on the phone. She waves a dismissive hand at me. I sit back down. Look at Jessica. She’s polished and bright in a black trouser suit, white blouse, just a hint of a cleavage. Baxter looks pale. I straighten his tie for him.

  Berkshire stalks across the reception. Ben two steps behind.

  ‘Gentlemen. And Lady.’ Berkshire shakes
all our hands. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kissed Jessica’s.

  We follow him to the lift and rise through the floors in oiled silence.

  The meeting room is already dimmed.

  Today we’re in Italy. A picture of St Peter’s on the wall. Terracotta paint scheme.

  I plug the projector in. A square of blue appears on the back wall.

  So far so good.

  I plug in the iPad, pray that it’s going to work. The projector thinks about it, then the square turns white with the agency logo in the middle.

  ‘Are we ready?’ I ask.

  Seven sets of eyes turn to me. They glint in the light of the projector like wolves around a campfire.

  ‘Proceed,’ says Berkshire.

  I swipe my finger over the screen of the iPad and begin.

  I don’t remember the rest. Opening slide, then closing. Sleepwalked my way through it. I come around to silence and a slide that says ‘thank you for your time.’

  The lights flicker on.

  Everyone blinks the darkness away.

  I find myself looking at Baxter for reassurance. He gives me a thumbs-up under the table.

  ‘Excellent,’ says Berkshire, ‘let’s get the coffees in and then we’ll do questions.’

  I take my seat again. Jessica puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it. She is all proud smiles. The coffee comes. I take it black and hot. It rips my throat.

  Berkshire takes control of the room. Not sure how he does, a clear of the throat maybe that I didn’t hear, but everyone’s attention is on him when he says,

  ‘Any questions? I’m sure we’ve all got loads.’

  A man at the back left, wrinkly and tiny as a crisp packet cooked in the oven, raises his hand, leans forward.

  ‘It’s all very pretty. But how is it going to work?’

  There’s nervous laughter about the table, as if this question was inevitable.

  I go to reply, but Baxter has already started.

  ‘We’re using the usual channels, but to a much lower degree than you have previously. We’re going to give you a much higher return on investment because our media planning is much more targeted than your incumbent agency.’