The Zoo (17 page)

‘You need a doctor,' she says.

‘No, no doctor,' I force out, voice cracked and desperate, ‘fresh air.'

She helps me back out, feeling the eyes on me, shying away from them, burying my head into her shoulder, her hair, until we're outside. She helps me onto the bench, then stands facing me, her hands either side of my head, palms so hot they scald my skin.

‘What happened? What's the matter?'

I can't speak. Squeeze my eyes shut. I know what it wants. The inside of my skull is a frozen scream of no.

She cups my chin with her hand. I open my eyes and the world is her face, behind it shadows and depth and in this depth shapes move.

‘Your beard has grown,' she says and I run my hand across my face, find thick hair.

She sits next to me. I rest my head against her, shiver and shake.

‘You need to see someone,' she says, gentle and insistent.

‘No,' I say, ‘I just need to be here.'

I feel for her hand and find it, she allows me to take hold of it. Our hands fit together. Perfect and airtight. I become aware that I'm squeezing her hand tight, too tight, that she hasn't let go, hasn't complained, has just stayed there. With the back of her other hand she tests my forehead. Strokes it.

Despite the pain that grips me I feel myself begin to drift away. The pain seems to sense it. It's as if a dial has been turned and it jumps up a level. I grit my teeth. Listen to the shout of no in my head. Focus on it.

No. No. No. No. No.

The more I strain against it the more it ramps up the volume of pain. My head is ready to split in two, my stomach full of twisting knives. Tears fill my eyes. My teeth feel as if I'm grinding them into powder from the pressure of my jaw.

All the while she is there. Holding one hand. Stroking my head with the other.

All the while I'm thinking. No. No. No.

I know how to make this stop, how to make it all go away.

I taste death in my mouth and can't stay there any longer. I wriggle my hand from her grip. The cramp pushes into my stomach and I barely make it to the toilet before I'm pole-axed with violent diarrhoea. I hold my knees and pray for it to stop. It does momentarily and then cripples me again. I hear Beth outside the door calling my name, asking if I'm okay. I'm too weak to answer. I hear her running down the corridor calling for help. When it's over I am so weak I hardly make it back to the bed.

When my door is opened to check on me I can't lift my head, instead remain curled like a foetus, a doctor over me, shining a light in my eyes. I feel the pressure of fingertips against the inside of my wrist, then someone is holding my head up, pouring water down my throat, tablets washed down on it. Through it all I hear Beth's voice, and a male voice, though I can't make out their words. The light is turned off and I'm left alone. The room spins slowly.

This carries on at intervals for what seems like days. Each time I barely make it to the bathroom on time and then return to my bed on shaking legs, with watering eyes and a headache stamping black spots in my vision.

I try to sleep my way through it, a disco inside my head, flashing lights and explosions of noise.

At one point I wake standing over Beth's bed, watching her sleep. She looks so peaceful, all the angst that is present when she is awake has gone. She snores slightly, her mouth open, displaying the tips of her teeth. The bed cover is pulled back and the skin on her neck is pure white in the moonlight, porcelain, fragile. I reach out, touch it with the tip of my index finger, trace her collarbone.

‘Do it', says The Zoo. ‘Do it'.

I run my fingertip across her throat. She turns onto her side, mumbles something unintelligible. I am numb. The Zoo moves my other hand so it circles her neck, only millimetres away from touching her skin, from closing round it. I can see the shake in my fingers.

Hurt her.

I snap out of it, the panic coursing through me. I clasp my hand to my mouth and the headache washes back over me. The cramps return to my stomach. I spin away, hurl myself from her room, race back to mine.

I know what I need to do.

It wants order and I have to supply it.

‘Okay,' I say, ‘okay. Just leave me alone long enough to do it.'

I lay still and the headache recedes like the tide. The pains in my stomach become more sporadic until there is just a dull throb remaining.

I pull the chair over from the desk, place it at the window, facing The Zoo. I hate myself for being this weak. Tell myself that this way I can watch it, that I can stop it, so I pick it up and place it all on the floor, then one at a time put The Figurines back in place. The Cowboy. The Knight. The Pirate. The Soldier. Then begin on The Animals. The Lion. Then The Rhino.

 

The order goes: The Cowboy, The Knight, The Pirate, The Soldier, The Lion, then The Rhino. The Rhino is stocky and grey as an English winter. He is frozen in time as though charging, head down and red eyes blazing. You can see knots of muscle under his thick hide. His stumpy tail is stuck straight in the air like a car aerial. The comical effect of this negates all his ferocity, and ensures that despite his size and strength he is below the Lion.

Of course there is also intelligence to take into account. He is an automaton. A tank. He is bullish and instinctual. He is prehistoric. The past in the present.

He is thick skin.

He is point and go. A machine. Trampling. Squashing. Barging.

The irony is that despite his looks he is a vegetarian. He is a one ton hippy.

The horn that is his weapon is also his Achilles heel. The thing that protects him, the thing that makes him hunted. His defence is what makes him prey. The sword on his head becomes ornaments and pretend medicine. It is made of keratin, as lacking a solid core as our fingernails.

He is all front.

When Janet asks if I am ready to share I tell her I am, but only with her. She is to be my confessor. Her and her alone. I will say nothing to anyone else. I will not talk to doctors. I will not talk to orderlies. I will talk to Janet and she will share the burden with me.

‘What happened next?' she asks.

I sit in the chair, feet dangling, and I begin to talk again.

 

I'm late for work. A traffic jam. An accident. An old lady crossing the road has been mowed down by a delivery van, causing an avalanche of fruit and bread rolls to block the road. When the traffic starts moving again I can see the wet patch on the road where they hosed her away.

Jessica is sat on the front desk talking to Ruth, the Office Manager. I hunch over the desk and sign in.

‘I can't believe anyone would do that to a woman,' says Jessica.

‘A girl. She was a girl really.'

Jessica nods. Neither of them acknowledges me. Jessica holds her phone up, taps the screen.

‘All because of these,' she says, ‘all those murders so we can have mobile phones.'

‘Morning both,' I say.

They notice me. Jessica's smile flashes like a toothpaste advert. Ruth waves at me.

‘Ben something from the bank has been calling for you.'

I sit at my desk and turn on my computer. The Apple appears on the screen. In the kitchen I make myself a cup of black coffee. When I return to my office I see that the desktop has been changed to a picture of Charles Manson.

I open the door to my office and shout out, ‘whichever of you fucking clowns thought it was funny to change my desktop, think again. If I catch anyone messing with my computer I'll cut their fucking hands off.'

I slam the door hard enough to make the pictures rattle on the wall. I revert the desktop to a picture of my family.

After checking my emails I go to the Sky website and look at the details about the programme about Nghosa. An investigation into the mining of Cassiterite and Coltan in the African nation. The civil war fought over the control of the mining. I open Wikipedia and type in Cassiterite. A tin oxide mineral, it is black and crystalline and looks like something from outer space. Used for solder on circuit boards. I type in Coltan. Again black, but shards this time, like iron filings, it's used to make electrical capacitors in mobile phones, DVD players and computers. Next to the text is an image of children digging in an open mine. I see the word Nghosa. I see the words European markets. I close the window down.

The morning drags. I do my billing. Check the hours spent on each job against the price quoted, hand-write invoices that I know Ruth will struggle to translate.

One of the creatives brings in the first draft of the press ads for the bank. I can't concentrate on them.

At 11.30am I take a bottle of vodka from my desk drawer and take a slug from it. The burn wakes me up. I make myself another cup of coffee and pour some more vodka into it.

I remember that Ben called, dial his number and get his answerphone. A minute later he calls back.

‘James.'

‘Ben. How we doing?'

‘Good. Good. You?'

‘Yeah, fine. Sorry I missed your calls. Anything I can help with?'

‘I've been speaking to Michael', he says and it takes me a while to realise he's talking about Baxter, ‘he says we're looking good, that you'll hit all the deadlines?'

‘Yes, of course. We've got a planning meeting later this week. After we've finalised that side of things we'll be ready for final sign off.'

‘The board is keen to see the whole campaign.'

‘As we all are. Nearly there, Ben. Nearly there.'

I take another gulp of my coffee, the forgotten vodka making me wince.

‘I need to go back to Mr Berkshire with a timescale.'

‘End of next week,' I say, worried he'll hear the drink induced cough in my voice.

‘Excellent,' he says, ‘that'll get them off my back.'

‘Don't worry, Ben. We'll give you something brilliant and they'll love you for it.'

I can feel his relief down the phone. I hang up, turn on iTunes and scroll through it, settling on Thom Yorke, Eraser. The melancholy cradles me. I lie back in my chair.

Everything fades into the background apart from his voice and when I put my hand to my face it is wet with tears. I rest my forehead on the desk. As I pull myself up I see my tears have smeared the ink on my invoices.

At lunch I cross the road to the local. Sit by an unlit fire with a flat pint and flick matches into the hearth. The rasp of the match against the side of the packet. The flare of the flame. I drink the pint and order another. As I cross back to work my legs are unsteady.

I close my office door against the world.

Mid-afternoon there is a knock on it. When I ignore it there is another.

‘Come in then,' I shout at the wood, barely even trying to cover my irritation.

Baxter looking uncomfortable in the door way. He shuffles and fidgets.

‘Are you coming in?' I ask.

He looks back into the office as if deciding and then comes in, closes the door behind him.

‘I've just had Ben on the phone asking about the campaign. I told him we were on track. Nothing I should know about?' I ask.

‘No. Not at all. I think we'll come in on time and on budget.'

‘Good,' I say turning the music off on my computer, ‘how's Jessica doing?'

‘Well, she's doing well.'

I nod sagely, then say, ‘you tried it on with her yet?'

I regret it immediately, aware that I sound like a dirty old man. Baxter shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I shrug to show I was joking.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a favour?' When he asks me, he doesn't meet my eye, instead focusing on the floor in front of him.

‘I guess that depends on what it is.'

It looks like an effort for him to be asking me this. I wonder when I became the monster.

‘Go ahead, ask away,' I say to make it easier for him.

‘I haven't told the others yet, but I'm getting married. I asked Melissa to marry me and she said yes.' He is all coy schoolboy pleased with himself. I want to tell him of the pain of marriage, about the work, about the death of love, about uncomfortable silences and empty beds. About how it used to be and how far I've let it all fall.

‘Mate. Congratulations,' I say instead, work my way around the table, pump his hand, clap him on the shoulder.

‘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.

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.