The Zoo (25 page)

He is a beautiful accessory that is no longer tied to us by necessity.

The Zebra by contrast is squatter, his flanks broader and less elegant. Although his markings go some way to compensate for his lack of finesse, they can only go so far. In those Rorschach stripes I see moths, a crow, a rictus smile, a betrayal and the end of days.

The Zebra's back is not strong enough to hold the weight of a man. He cannot carry us like The Horse can and he tries to make up for it with pretty patterns. It doesn't work and so he is below The Horse and always will be. He is the younger brother, trying to catch up with his more successful sibling by misbehaving and drawing attention to himself. The Cowboy doesn't take any notice, so neither will I.

Beaker has gone. He's nowhere to be found. No-one mentions it for a couple of days. The ward continues on as it always has, the steady momentum towards boredom. We get up. We eat breakfast. We spend time in the day room. We talk to people. We share. We eat our medicine. No one says anything about the fact that Beaker has gone. It disarms me. How easy it is for someone to vanish and we don't even bat a collective eye. It could very easily be me and no-one would notice, no-one would say a word. One day I'd be there and the next I wouldn't. It wouldn't change the ward at all. One day Beaker was there. The next he wasn't. No one so much as flinched.

I ask Mark whether he has seen him and he squints at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language, before shuffling away.

Beth sits next to me in group. Her leg is warm next to mine. I keep trying to catch her eye. She resists. I know I've hurt her, so I accept her shunning me. It has to be something I'm willing to do. I do want answers though. I want recognition from someone that Beaker was here, that someone at least remembers him. There is a pause in proceedings. Conversation breaks out between people. I nudge her and ask her whether she knows where he is.

‘People come and go,' she says, ‘it's just the way it is in here.'

She's right of course, the thing that bothers me though is he showed no signs of recovery at all, was just as mental as the day I got here, taking pictures with his imaginary camera right up to the moment he vanished.

Unless.

Unless he was telling the truth and he was a fake all along. I look about me. How many of the others here are faking it? To escape their lives maybe. To get a break from their everyday. Maybe to get away with a crime. It makes me feel alone. I could be the only one in here with anything wrong with me at all. The stump of my thumb throbs. Maybe there's nothing wrong with any of them at all. I glance at Mark, at the dust settling on his shoulders. He won't meet my eye. Look across at Beth, but she is gazing out of the window. The Beard alone will hold my eyes and his face is smeared with a knowing smile.

I spend the rest of the day in my room, lying on the uncomfortable bed until my back hurts, then I stand on my tiptoes and write my name into the chip paper ceiling with my thumbnail and then write all the names of the people who could come and get me out of here, who would want to get me out of here and the list is so short and so fractured that I give up, bury my face in the pillow and listen to The Zoo laugh at me.

On the way home I phone Lou. She doesn't answer on the first ring. Or the second. Or the third. On the fourth she picks it up and barks ‘What do you want?' down the phone at me.

‘Something you said at the party, Lou,' I stammer.

‘Was that before or after you smashed up my work?'

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I couldn't have expected anything else.

The city is crawling back from work. Flat light. Blind spots everywhere. I know I shouldn't be on my phone, but this is a conversation I have to have.

‘Before,' I say through gritted teeth. ‘Look, I'm sorry Lou, I've said I'm sorry, I mean it, I'll be sorry for ever.'

‘Whatever. What do you want? What did I say?'

‘About the bank. About genocide.'

She tuts down the phone. ‘Still not looked into that, eh? Conscience not got the better of you yet then?'

‘I think it's getting there,' I swallow it down, pride, anger, self-disgust, the whole fucking lot, ‘I know you think I'm a bad man, Lou. I just need to know what you meant.'

‘It's not a secret, James, everyone knows what is going on.'

‘Apart from me apparently.'

A Mercedes cuts me up. I blare my horn and swerve past it, looking into the confused eyes of a tiny Asian lady as I speed past her.

‘Apart from you. Get The Guardian from last week. It's all in there. How much do you know about Nghosa?'

‘About the minerals. Caster something,' I say.

‘Cassiterite and Coltan.'

‘That's it. And about phones.'

‘Not just phones, James. All electronic equipment. Everything you use on a day to day basis to peddle your bullshit is reliant on them. Everything.'

‘I get that. Bad electronics. Give us cancer and exploit people. Got it.'

‘You're a bastard.'

There is real hatred in her voice. If I want her to carry on I need to dial it back. I need to know.

‘Sorry, I was being flippant. This isn't a joking matter. I get all that. I just need to know what it's got to do with me.'

‘It always comes back to you, doesn't it? Always has. Always will.'

‘Please, Lou.'

‘Okay. Okay. The Dutch bank, your bank, is funding the rebel army.'

I pull off the road. Bump the car up the curb and put on my hazard warning lights. My hands are shaking.

‘They're paying for it all? All the stuff I've seen on TV?'

‘Allegedly, yes. I can't believe you don't know this. Don't you ever do any research into your clients before you take them on?' she asks, words thick with scorn.

‘Not generally. Why would I?'

‘Ethics. Morals. I don't know. Because it's the decent thing to do.'

‘Is that it?'

‘As far as I can tell the Rebels are pretty much solely funded by your cash cow. A couple of steps removed maybe, but it's them – no doubt. The Government was intent on pushing up the price of the minerals and the majority of the bank's investment is in electronics. It doesn't take a genius to put it all together.'

‘No,' I mutter, ‘no, it doesn't.'

‘It's not just a coup though. You say you've watched the programmes? You know about the raping, about the burning villages, yes?'

‘Yes,' my voice barely a whimper.

‘You know about the children in the Rebel army. That they're training children to be ruthless killers? That they're training boys that it's okay to rape women?'

My head is on the steering wheel. Reality is filling the car as if it's plunged into an ice cold lake and the water is pouring in on me.

Lou is still talking. Her voice getting higher and higher pitched as her anger increases.

‘It's a no win situation. The government exploits children to mine Coltan and Cassiterite then sells them cheap to the west. The Rebels just want control of the trade. It's not like they're trying to take over to make things better for the people. They'll do exactly the same. They'll also increase the price of the minerals and they'll still use children to dig it out of the ground. The only difference is they're using children to fight their way to it. Children, James. Children younger than Harry. Is this getting through to you?'

I can't speak. I know she is telling the truth. If I'm honest with myself I've known it for a while.

‘The only winners are the bank, your bank, and the electronics companies, because they control the Rebels and they control the minerals. Every time a new games console comes out, the demand for them increases and thousands of people die. Do you understand?'

Silence.

‘Do you understand? That BMW you are sat in is paid for by the rape of women, murder of children and the destruction of a country. Does that make it any clearer for you?' she repeats.

‘Yes,' I finally manage to say.

Cars pass by, buffeting me. I feel like I'm drowning.

‘Look at the Amnesty website, James. You'll see that I'm telling the truth.'

I already know she is. There is no doubt in my mind.

‘I will,' I say.

‘Looking isn't enough, James. You're part of this now. Whether you like it or not. You're contributing to this. Looking isn't enough. It's what you do that counts. You've caused a lot of damage to a lot of people. And I'm not just talking about my art. You've got some making up to do.'

Something occurs to me and before I can stop myself I've blurted out, ‘Have you been texting me?'

‘What?' she says.

‘Texts, emails and stuff.'

‘Don't be fucking ridiculous, why would I do that? I don't even want to talk to you.'

‘To tell me that stuff. To make me realise?'

‘Fuck's sake, James. You're a grown man. Take some fucking responsibility for the things you do.'

Sometime later I realise she has hung up and I'm still on the side of the road. Rain is drumming on the roof of the car. Headlights streak past me, smears of light through the rivers running down the windows.

Then I'm alone. Really alone.

I understand now why Ben didn't want to sign off the ads.

I'm through the plastic sheeting again.

I can't be in the day room. I can't be with the others. Blank faces. Denial. The lingering impression that they are fakes, actors, charlatans hasn't left me, if anything it's got stronger. As I went for a fag earlier Mark and Beth were talking and when I opened the door they stopped. I wanted to ask what they were talking about, even when I knew the answer would be a lie.

It hurts that Beth has turned on me. I can't deny it. I know I have brought this upon myself, I know I scared her, I should be pleased I am keeping The Zoo away from her and I am, but I can sense her falling away from me and it hurts. I wonder if this is what The Zoo wanted all along. That it planned an endgame of divide and conquer to keep me away from the others, to let me think that I'm winning by holding it at bay, while all along it's laughing at me.

Bamidele is waiting for me just inside the plastic sheet. We walk together in companionable silence towards the light and the warmth. In the dark I reach for his hand and it's rough and cold to my grip.

Through the hole in the plastic.

Into a world of ash and smoke and screams.

Bamidele's hand is in mine. I can feel his tension through my fingers. Around us the town is burning, plumes of smoke reaching up into the sky to escape the carnage. I can barely see a few feet in front of me. The air is full of noise, the crackle of burning wood, the crack as a hut nearby collapses, the whump as the ceiling hits the floor, people crying all around us. The darkness is tainted with the red and yellow and orange of fire, people bursting out of the darkness, their faces grey with ash, eyes stapled open by terror. As we stumble forward the smoke fills my lungs, I cough and splutter, unable to catch my breath, the heat scorching my tear filled eyes. I trip over something and lose Bamidele's hand, look down and see a woman cradling a bloody child, limp in her arms. Everywhere is so chaotic it's hard to focus on anything. The world flickers and shimmers, dances in flames. I cast about in panic, try to find Bamidele, but he is gone and I am alone in the burning confusion. I stagger deeper into the village, past shattered homes, treading on mounds of burning wood, wood that used to hold up walls, roofs, contain families. I trip and fall face first into the dirt, my hand on a pile of embers, instantly searing my palm. A dog trots past me, something in its mouth. As it gets closer I realise it is a hand, severed at the wrist and I gag and heave, nothing coming out apart from smoke. Panic now. Panic seared with a desire to return to the ward, to find my way back through the hole. I try in vain to get my bearings. Walk, then run, to my right, attempting to find my way to the fence, to work my way back round. Instead there is only a maze of burning buildings, of choking smoke. I bump into a man, his chest crossed in blood, and he flinches and pulls his hands up over his face, I splutter reassuring words, want him to understand I mean no harm, but my words are alien to him and he backs away from me into the crackling darkness. The world is just heat and smoke, I can see nothing, feel nothing, I wander, blind, disorientated, terrified until I collapse in the dark and the heat drops a suffocating blanket over me.

I wake quickly, as if from a bad dream, but there is only a blank space. I don't know how I got here. The last thing I remember was being in my car on the side of the road. I am wet with sweat. Unaware of the time I go to the blinds and pull them open onto a flat grey day. Midmorning? Early afternoon? Hard to tell. From the main office I can hear the thump of someone's stereo, so it's got to be in work hours. I fumble about on the desk for my phone, find it lying against the far wall. I turn it on. Ignore the cavalcade of emails that pour out of it. Phone my home number. Sally answers. As soon as she hears my voice she hangs up. When I ring back it's engaged. I ring her mobile. She rejects it. Again. Again. Again. I slam it down on the desk, it bounces near my foot, so I hoof it against the wall.

My desk is covered in a maze of post-it notes. A mass of scrawled capitals, some of them backwards, childlike, spidery, mocking and chiding. As I read them I curl up and clasp my knees against my chest.

Traitor.

Murderer
.

Spineless.

Fucking Killer.

Lie.

Joke.

Charlatan.

Killed them.

Kill him
too
.

I sweep them up, bundle them together. Muttering, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you don't know what you're talking about, fuck you, fuck you', when I catch sight of my desktop, at the screensaver of a pile of dead children, flies on their faces, flies crawling into their mouths, black eyes staring at me saying murderer, charlatan and killer. So I grab the mouse and maximise my email client and there too, every email the same, every one of them from me to me, saying murderer and killer and charlatan. I scramble the power off and fall away from it, smash into my bookcase, knock the award from Campaign magazine so it hits the side of the desk and the glass explodes across the room. A second later Ruth smashes the door open, her hand over her mouth and I can see the horror in her face. I say something about an accident and push past her, out of the office, into the corridor. Bamidele's there in the doorway, blocking my way. As I push him he's solid and real, he pushes me back, pushes me back with stumps, holds them up in front of me, the arms stopping in bloody stumps, behind them his manic grin, wide and white mouth as he laughs. The blood is in my mouth and my eyes, I taste the iron, as he pushes them into my chest. The sharpness of the bone, the warm wetness of the blood and he's laughing and pushing. I'm screaming, ‘Fuck you, you're not real, you're not real', even as I feel the bone piercing my clothes and the blood warm on my skin and in my mouth, ‘You're not real'. Then I'm past him too and he catches me with a glancing blow which unbalances me at the top of the stairs, then there is air. As I fall I look back at him, with his smile and the gaps where his hands should be, then I hit the concrete, the wind forced from me. I am up again, running now, stabbing pain in my side with every footstep and breath. I am away, in the street, away from him and his laughing, into a world of staring faces and flat grey light. I am panicking, running, a blood covered maniac. People step aside in horror as I gibber and stumble and trample them, until I turn into an alley and collapse to my knees and sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, throw up until there is only acid and bile and nothing left.