The Zoo (2 page)

‘I do,' I confirm, ‘I fucking rock.'

Later, in the toilets, Baxter collars me and slurs about how he respects me and it is an honour to work with me and he feels he has learned so much already, but if he could work on this account he would give it his all, and all I can think is his breath stinks of garlic and beer and it makes me feel bilious. Washing my hands, I scour his objectionable face in the mirror, really look at it, this backwards face. The other way round, and yet what he sees every day. I think half a thought about self-image, then it's gone, like the water down the plughole, and I stalk back to the bar.

Collins is talking to the group. He looks like an aftershave advert: chiselled and tanned, crisp white shirt under pinstripe suit. But I know his suit is from Marks and Spencer's. The female clients love him, some of the male clients too.

The barmaid catches my eye, her walk telling me stories. I could sell to her, she has ideas.

‘The place where I used to work, the Creative Director, he was a real asshole,' says Collins, looking at me as if to point out that I'm not an asshole, ‘I'll call him Mr Chips, because if I say his name you'll all know who he is, and I may need him as a reference one day.'

He grins at us all, milks the pause.

‘Well, his wife phoned into the office one morning, really early, like 7.30 or something. It rang for a bit and then a newbie account exec picked it up and just answered “hello.” This really fucked Mrs Chips off and she screamed down the phone, “That's not how you answer the phone, young man.” The kid goes, “Fuck you” and this made Mrs Chips even angrier. ‘ “Do you know who this is?” she said. “No” says the kid. “This is Mrs Chips, your boss's wife,” and she's getting madder and madder by the second. She's really fucking spewing by now. ”Okay,” says the kid, “do you know who this is?” “No,” says Mrs Chips. ”Good, then fuck you.”'

Collins roars with laughter and the others join in. He has two silver fillings on his bottom teeth and a grey tongue. I peel the label off my beer and wait for them to calm down.

‘That's not a true story, is it Collins?' I say, loud enough so he can hear, quiet enough to be threatening.

‘What do you mean it's not true?'

‘I mean, I've heard that story before, about a different Creative Director, somewhere else. But same story.'

‘I'm not sure what you mean?'

‘It's an urban myth. A legend. It didn't really happen. It's like the pencil up the nose in the exam, or the hook in the car door. It's made up. It's a funny story, but it didn't happen. You should know the difference, Collins. This is what we do. We make up stories.'

I peer over his sagging head at the barmaid. She is glasses and cleavage and pouting lips. She makes me want to drink. I go to the bar and order a round of shots. One little capful of clear, burning liquid for everyone. She flirts with me and I look down her top. The edge of a black bra. It looks like home.

In the early hours, as we weave out into the night, I put my arm around Collins and whisper in his ear.

‘I was only fucking with you, Collins. That story was true, but it was about me. I was the account exec. Now I'm the Creative Director. Go figure.'

My room is about the size of a broom cupboard. The walls are steely grey and as soft to the touch as sea-smoothed bone. The ceiling is covered by chip paper. In the light of the uncovered bulb the bumps cast the shadows of insects and my skin crawls. I often stand on tiptoes on the bed, muscles in my thighs straining to keep me steady on the sagging mattress and surrendering springs, trying to flatten the chips into the ceiling. My under-exercised legs scream and I inevitably slump back onto the bed, frustrated.

Out in the corridor I see Beaker. This isn't his name. I don't know his name, or if I do I have forgotten it. But he looks like the Muppet. His head is long and cylindrical, his top lip doesn't move when he talks and his eyes panic behind thick glasses.

He mutters something I can't quite catch, but I think I hear the words ‘Amateur Photography Magazine'. He holds an imaginary camera to his face and mimes pulling focus on me. I smile, a lopsided affair that hides my teeth, and pose. The tourist at the edge of the precipice uncaring of the fatal drop behind. In the muted quiet I hear the click of the shutter.

In the day room we slouch around a large scratched table with smoothed-off corners and try to be creative. Creativity is the core element of our recovery. This is ironic considering it was one of the core components in my fall.

Plastic scissors and Pritt Stick and paper.

I watch a heavily bearded man suck his moustache in and out of his mouth, fascinated by the pinkness of the tip of his tongue, but after a while it begins to make me feel wrong. He starts an argument about the volume of the television with a microscopic Asian lady, who always cuddles an old radio. ‘We're trying to concentrate', he is screaming at her, spit flying from his mouth and landing in the hair of a catatonic next to him.

‘Fuck you,' she shouts back, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you . . .' Tailing off until she is just standing there whispering it. I try to read her lips. Across the table the Beard is riled, I can see it in him; he is tensed and unable to let it go even though she has turned the volume down. He storms over to her and she is still mouthing ‘fuck you, fuck you,' just a whisper, and he puts his Beardy face really close to her peanut of a head and roars ‘CUNT', throwing a hand full of coloured paper into her face. All hell breaks loose and I skulk away to the outside smoking area.

This from my childhood: crossing fields with my jeans soaking up dew. The sun on a window, highlighting the fingerprints of a child, one, two, three, more, a lattice-work of little hands.

I think this now as I breathe my smoke into the cold air and gaze in through the glass at the Beard being dragged down the corridor, the soles of his shoes drawing a rubber eleven on the tiles.

It's like watching a silent movie.

 

In the night I think of her and when we were first together. I hold her hand under the covers, the most lingering of touches. She grips my index finger, instinctively, gently. A newborn. Her body is warm next to mine, comforting. Although we aren't touching, apart from the so slender contact of her fingers, I'm aware of where she is, where every contour of her body is. She rolls towards me, her breathing a whisper which moves the hairs on my arms. Each movement is laden with potential, unspoken futures, and I move away, release my finger from her grasp. Immediately I regret it, the distance cold and prohibitive. I understand the shading on this moment will make up the background for others in the future, so I roll close to her again, my lips pressed against her neck. She smells of promises and of sharing. She moans and I wrap my arms around her, feel her chest rise against the inside of my forearms and now I remember her by the beat of her heart.

I freeze this, am just left with brittle sheets against my face and the orange of streetlights invading my room in slats, highlighting the shapes of The Zoo and mocking my restlessness.

In the morning the world is the colour of old chewing gum and I'm faced with a wall of depression that hems me in. I try to pass around it, but it envelops me completely until there is nothing else. I sit in the courtyard, smoke endless cigarettes and watch the hexagon of dull sky above me. A seagull flies across my view, far up. I think of its perception of the horizon and feel momentarily dizzy. I rest my face against the rough bricks and run it backwards and forwards. The texture against my skin, the noise of my stubble scratching against it, my nail under a piece of gum squashed onto the bench, the beaten down grey wood I sit on: these things are everything.

Managing Director looks at me, expectant and eager. He's waiting for me to say something, like he asked me a question, but I don't recall him asking one. It's hot in the presentation room, the floor to ceiling glass wall acting like a greenhouse. I can feel the warmth on my cheek and it is not altogether unpleasant, and I can't help but think of car journeys with my parents and a summer English lesson.

Managing Director peers at me over his glasses, his steely eyes seem to have sunk deeper into his wrinkled face. He's small. A wave of salt and pepper hair drooping over one eye. Stack heels. A handkerchief in a blazer pocket. A mouth puckered from years of smoking.

‘Well?' he asks, ‘What have you got for us?'

‘Dutch bank. Tenth biggest bank in the world. Recently re-located here, in London. Weren't touched too badly by the downturn in the world finances.'

I pause and look around the table at the supposed cream of our agency. They are gawping at me open-mouthed and empty-headed.

Through the plate glass windows of the meeting room I watch a plane cross a blue sky, a powder puff trail spreading behind it. Opposite I count the windows on a tower block, become annoyed that there are more on the left side than the right, that they don't line up properly. A magpie lands on the roof of the office block. One for sorrow.

I realise I've been talking, and they've been taking notes, only when someone closes a pad and they begin to leave the table.

The magpie explodes into the sky.

Sometime later I'm sitting in the worn corner of our local. Managing Director is half soaked, his head rolling a bit. He's muttering and his voice is all echoes and slurs in his pint glass. I would love to ram it in his face. Or smash it on the table and stick the jagged edge into his throat. I don't even think he would bleed, cunt is so dried up. If you cut him, his insides would have the texture of a mushroom.

We have one meeting and the reward is to come and sit here for the afternoon, in the dozy womb of a half empty pub.

I need to piss again.

It splashes on my feet as I focus on the yellow river lapping back and forth in the metal tray of the urinal. As I dry my hands I read the condom machine. Rooting around in my pocket I find a pound coin and choose ribbed for extra pleasure. For him and for her. When I get back to the table I slip the packet into the pocket of Managing Director's overcoat, for his wife to find later. It makes the next pint taste that little bit sweeter.

‘This could be the making of you,' he says to me, but it sounds like one long, gloopy word, the syllables running all over each other.

‘What?' I ask.

‘The bank, this could be the making of you.'

‘I wasn't aware that I needed making?'

He's fumbling with a packet of crisps. Gives up. Throws them down onto the table.

‘We all need making. Every single one of us. Write your own history, son. This could be your Sergeant Pepper or Rattle and Hum.'

I squint at him as I drain the last of my pint, his face distorted and rolling in the liquid. I'm unable to comprehend the juxtaposition of those two albums. In the car park back at work he fumbles with his car keys and drops them underneath the wheel. I pick them up, hand them to him, then lean against the wall and watch him trying to start it.

The ward is quiet. Angel ladders fall through the skylights and kiss the floor at intervals. I dip my hand into one, expecting heat, but there is none.

In the day room I sit opposite Mark. He's drawing something, concentrating real hard, I can see it in his brow. He cocks his head from side to side like a bird. I look at the top of his head for a long time. His shoulder-length hair is tied back in a scraggly ponytail, starting from the middle of his head. I've never really noticed this before.

‘What are you drawing mate?'

He glances up from his work, then pushes a finger hard onto the paper and pivots the drawing round it. I try to move it closer, but he holds it firm. The drawing is childlike and shows little talent, but I've asked so I look. It's of him, I can tell from the hair. But it's a disproportionate him, viewed from the back. He is at a doorway and above the door is an exit sign.

‘What is it?' I ask him.

‘The doorway to wellbeing,' he replies, his voice drowsy.

I study his face for irony, but there's none. One of his eyes is closing, as if his face is wrinkled in a smile, but it's not. A giggly eye – full of medication.

‘Do you fancy a fag?' I ask, putting the packet on top of his drawing.

‘Go on then,' he says, sliding the cigarettes back to me, then, picking up the drawing, he folds it very deliberately into four, going over each crease again and again, and then pushes it into the pocket of his tight jeans.

Outside I perch on the back of the bench, my feet on the seat. Mark circles the yard. On the other side of the wall someone shouts something I can't decipher. I'm not even sure it is English.

‘Did you hear that? Mark? Did you hear that?'

He either hasn't heard me or chooses not to reply. I tap my feet on the bench and little puffs of dust rise about them.

Somewhere in the past she puts her arm around my neck as I am sketching at my desk and I breathe in the vanilla perfume on her wrists.

‘I love it when you draw,' she says.

‘I don't get to do it so much anymore,' I reply.

‘I know. Bloody computers.'

She snorts with laughter.

‘You're such a fucking Luddite,' I say, craning my face back to try and kiss her, but she pulls away.

‘You're working.'

‘You've distracted me now.'

‘I'll just sit here and watch.'

‘It's too late. You've broken the spell. You're supposed to be my muse. Not distract me.'

‘Don't sulk. You look like a petulant child when you pull that face. It's not attractive.'

She sits down on the sofa at the back of my office, crosses one leg over the other and rests her hands palm down on her knee. Like the teacher she is.

‘Go on. Carry on. I like watching you.'

I raise an eyebrow at her then turn my attention back to the paper. It's a campaign for a pest control company. I've run this over and over in my head for a couple of days now, but am no closer to a solution. I'm struggling to decide between two approaches. Either balls out declarations of being able to kill everything or softly-softly, makes your garden a nicer environment. I pop the lid off a marker pen and take an illicit sniff of it. I half-heartedly sketch out a facsimile of an ant, but the moment has gone.