Fatlands (9 page)

The pause was slight, more to regain his breath than to let me speak, but I got in, anyway. ‘ Even when their suffering means saving people's lives?'

He smiled. ‘You mean the “hundred of them is worth one of us” argument? Sounds good, doesn't it? Except in the end it's got nothing to do with it. We don't torture animals to save lives. Or to get a new kind of bath cleanser. Or even because we liked the taste of meat. You know the real reason we do it? Because it just doesn't occur to us that their suffering matters. Any more than a hundred years ago it “occurred” to white people that black people's suffering mattered.' He paused. ‘Because, of course, they weren't “like” us either, were they?'

It was a powerful way to end. But then he knew that. I wondered if he also knew how dangerously thin was the line between philosophic logic and racism. I thought about bringing it up but something in his face made me decide against it. In his own way he was a good preacher, and like all good preachers he convinced himself anew
each time around. Painful business. He shook his head. ‘And yet it's you lot who call us uncivilized.'

In the carry-cot the baby started to stir. He leant over and touched it lightly on the cheek. It snuffled back into sleep. I thought about what he'd said. It reminded me of a hundred other speeches I had heard about a hundred other instances of oppression and cruelty. The kind of thing you knew would destroy you if you really took it on board. So where do animals come in the list of man's inhumanities? He was right. For most people not very high up. I wondered what I would have done if I'd come across the rabbit wired up to a dozen electrodes writhing in pain. How his words might affect my next bacon sandwich. But I didn't really want to think about it. Which, of course, was exactly his point. He recognized my silence. No doubt he'd witnessed it enough times before. ‘On the other hand you could just forget all about it. You wouldn't be the only one.'

‘I have to ask you this. Do you know anything about who killed her?' I said carefully.

He smiled. ‘It's the wrong question. The question is, would I tell you even if I did?' He paused, then shook his head. ‘It was never my scene. Even before Dominic came along I never set out to hurt anyone, except maybe the hunt man I threw off his horse. And now-well, now, I've joined the ranks of the “too much to lose” brigade. I've spent the best part of six years of my life in prison, and apart from maybe a hundred animals that I've saved from dying I haven't achieved anything. I don't think in that time I've converted one single ordinary person to the cause. No, maybe Martha, but that's different. And now I want something for myself. I want to watch my son grow up. And to do that I have to make a pact with this lousy society. I'll take no part in the cruelty. I won't eat or drink
or wear anything that has come about as a result of killing or maiming or hurting any animal. But I won't break the law to stop others doing it.'

‘But you still know those who will?'

We looked at each other.

Eventually he said, ‘You don't feel like the police, so I'll tell you this. The Animal Liberation Front that I know didn't put any bomb underneath Shepherd's car. Three years ago, just before that baby got caught in the Bristol blast, there was a crisis in the movement. And the extremists won out. The side that wanted to shock the world into listening to what we were saying. So they booby-trapped the cars. But a kid got caught in the crossfire and we became indistinguishable from the IRA. Once again nobody listened. And we learnt our lesson. Most of us. As far as I know, all of us. But the movement operates without hierarchy and without leaders. That's the point about it. There are small independent cells all around the country, and they're largely autonomous in what they do and how they do it. None of them that I know would have put a fire bomb under Tom Shepherd's car. And if there was someone who did, then they're not animal rights in my book. Not any more.'

I wondered how far Dominic was responsible for changing his mind on that one. Those that know tell me babies alter your emotional landscape entirely, blotting out some of the features you liked, as well as those you didn't. But how far could they change someone's loyalties?

‘Did you give the police any names?'

He smiled. ‘I told them about a few people they already knew who had absolutely firm alibis.'

‘You led them up the garden path?'

‘I wasted a bit of their time, just as they wasted a lot of mine.'

I smiled back. ‘One other thing. Do you know anything
about Tom Shepherd's work that would mark himout from all the others?'

It was clear he had already given it some thought. ‘All research units have to find new drugs to justify their existence. And he's head of one of the biggest. Any drug he comes up with would have to be tested within an inch of its life, which means a good deal less than an inch of a thousand animals' lives. More than that—well, from what I hear, Shepherd's an ambitious man. He's got one of the plum jobs in the business, and he got there very fast. Who's to tell what he did on the way up?'

And there was something in the way he said it that made it all fit into place. ‘Should I ask the same question of you?'

He looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘You know it's a big ego boost, thinking that you're saving mankind. He wouldn't be the first to confuse vanity with scientific altruism. Just as I said—everyone's got a lot to lose.'

I had to admit it, he was more convincing than Tom Shepherd, but then he had a child that was still alive. Frank says it's my blind spot, giving so much time to the subversives; that in the end it makes me as prejudiced as the people I despise for doing the opposite. Sometimes, when I'm feeling unsure of myself, I think he's probably right. Now was one of those times. ‘And that's all you know?'

The front door opened and closed. The baby juddered awake and started to cry, as if he could smell her presence.

‘That's all I know.' Maringo bent over and picked him up, cradling him over his shoulder. I caught sight of a squashed little face, snuffling and rooting in search of something he couldn't give. Martha came into the room and held out her hands. The mark on the front of her T-shirt had spread. I got up and left them to it. On the hall table there were some leaflets. Visitors' material. I picked up a few and took them with me.

*   *   *

I'd been in there a long time. Too long to think of doing much else with the day. Remembering there was nothing in the house to eat, I drove home via the supermarket. In retrospect not a wise move. I spent ten minutes by the meat counter trying to work out exactly what I felt about chickens. I already knew how I felt about rabbits and dogs: the photos and descriptions on the leafl ets had been pretty graphic. But then I wasn't about to eat a dog. I picked up two chicken breasts. In terms of comparative cruelty it still seemed to me that Mattie had got the worse deal. But then that was hardly the chicken's fault. I put the portions back again and moved on to the lentils. But the thought of living in close culinary proximity with pulses for the rest of my life made the future seem even bleaker. So I compromised and bought fish. Poor little buggers. Between the Japanese and confused vegetarians they have a hard (and short) life.

By the time I pulled up outside my flat it was already evening. I looked up at the darkened windows. But it all felt too lonely, too much space for me and my thoughts. Anyway, I wasn't at all sure what one should do with cod to make it worth eating.

His street was fancier than mine. I parked next to his Volvo and called up through the intercom. And waited. Maybe he wasn't home.

‘Yep?' a voice crackled.

‘Hi,' I said. ‘It's me. '

‘About time,' he said and buzzed the door open. I took the stairs slowly. It occurred to me I was going to have a lot of explaining to do. Stuff I didn't really want to have to say all over again. He was standing in the doorway, waiting for me. I stopped a few yards away.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I meant to call …'

And to my horror I realized I was going to cry. He put
out a hand. ‘It's OK, Hannah. I talked to Frank. It's going to be all right.'

And as I fell into his arms, I remember thinking how relieved I was to see him, and what a vicious joke of fate it was that I didn't really love him.

‘
Y
ou want some more?'

I shook my head. He filled his glass and put the bottle down on the bedside table, then put out his arm for me to crawl inside. At the foot of the bed the TV was droning on quietly, yet another detective drama, the lone hero putting the world to rights while his own internal landscape fell apart. I knew how he felt.

It was only 10.30 and I was ready for sleep. Nick had done some inspired things with the cod, and then we had done some rather more predictable things to each other. But against the odds the sex had helped—at least it makes you know you're alive. If you can really let yourself go, that is. In the past that had been a problem for me. I suppose I was scared just where I might end up. But with Nick I've always known where I am. That's the strength of us, but also finally the weakness. I think—in fact, I know—that he feels worse about it than I do.

Not only is he a good lover, he's also a good listener. Part of his job, counselling disturbed kids. Well, you didn't really expect him to be a commodities broker, did you? We talked about Mattie. About the awesome sense of waste when it happens to someone so young, and how if
I
was feeling destroyed, then it would be so much worse for the parents. And once again I was sorry to have been so tough with Shepherd.

‘I wouldn't worry. He probably appreciated the chance to get angry. Just as you did.'

‘And how about you?' I said. ‘How angry were you?'

He made a ‘what's a guy to do'sort of gesture. ‘I didn't feel a thing after the first bottle. It may surprise you, Hannah, but I already knew I was having an affair with a woman obsessed by work.'

‘You want I should change my job?' I said, although not as well as Frank would have done it.

He pretended to give it some thought. ‘Yeah. How about a lawyer? I've always had this thing for lawyers.'

‘Is this sexual, or did your mother want you to marry into a profession?'

He laughed. ‘Well, she certainly didn't believe in therapy. Thought people should solve their own problems.'

On the telly our man was looking craggy and interesting over a lonely glass of Scotch. In about thirty seconds 'time a long-legged blonde would walk into his life and up the ratings. Give me a break. ‘Do you think you could have helped her?'

‘Who, my mother?'

‘No.'

He shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Depends how long she'd been feeling neglected. But from what you tell me she had enough spirit to come through it. Everyone gets disillusioned with their parents sooner or later. Sometimes it hurts more the longer it takes.'

I saw again her closed little face, fists up ready for aggro. ‘She'd have given you a run for your money.'

‘All part of the job.'

His. Not mine. Mine was making sure I brought the client home alive. Not exactly a difficult task, you might think.

‘It wasn't your fault,' he said quietly.

‘Yeah? So whose was it?'

He looked at me for a moment. ‘What happened, Hannah? Did you see yourself in her?'

So I'm the only one obsessed by work in this relationship, am I? I put out my hands in mock defence. ‘Do I get reduced rates?'

I thought for a minute he was going to pursue it. But luckily lust got the better of him. ‘Only if I get to sleep with the patient,' he said as he slid his hand under the covers.

It might have been a nice idea if the bed hadn't been littered with the remains of the cheesecake dessert. Rule 33 in our relationship: whoever's house it is does the clearing away.

‘Don't fall asleep by the time I get back, all right?'

I yawned, just to keep him on his toes, then lay against the pillows and watched him go. I have a special fondness for the back of men's bodies—the way they're so unbalanced; those thick, fleshy shoulders tapering down to neat little hips and buttocks. I find it rather poignant. Others might call it symbolic—getting pleasure from watching them walk away.

Six months. Shorter than some, longer than most. I kicked and stretched my legs to the bottom of the bed, and as I did so my great suitcase of a handbag toppled off the edge, spewing its contents over the floor. I got up to retrieve them and so it was that I noticed the Harrods bag peeking out from the depths of the garbage. I picked it up, and with it came a whole fistful of memory: Mattie's mischievous grin as I stood at the counter waving pieces of silk erotica in my hand. I took them out, one by one.

I was still holding them when Nick came back from the kitchen. He looked at them and then at me, and the delight was mixed with just a little confusion. ‘What's this? Post-feminism in action?' Then he looked again. ‘Hannah? What is it?'

I shook my head. So Helen never got her underwear.I had been so caught up in my own grief I hadn't given athought to anyone else's. Death is death, whether you're thirteen or thirty-three. And a best friend must be a worse loss than a client. I put the silk back in the bag. ‘Sorry,' I said distractedly. ‘I'm just a Marks & Spencer girl who got led astray. Where's the alarm?'

‘Why? How long are we going to fuck for?'

I smiled. ‘I've got to get up early.'

‘You want to tell me where you're going?' he said just a touch less lovingly.

‘Yeah. Back to school.'

I won't tell you about the journey because you've been there already. It wasn't the same, anyway—not the sunshine, nor the landscape, not the feeling of anticipation. I got there just after ten, and found Patricia Parkin. But when I asked if I could see Helen, she said it wasn't her decision and I had better talk to the head.