Gathering Evidence

by Martin MacInnes

  Alice was quiet, her head low, whittling a stick with her knife. She wanted me to rest and I could feel her watching. ‘Too late anyway,’ she muttered. ‘We’d all be infected by now.’

  Alice remained distant, disappointed. Jane seemed strained, torn in her awkwardness. The three of us split as usual in the morning, tracked and observed our separate groups. Alice suggested another switch, routine, she said, it will make us keener, but I refused; I would continue monitoring group C. I asked Jane and Alice to listen in particular for any unusual vocal communication, and saw them exchange a glance. The day passed, and as soon as I woke, early, I listened to the night’s audio. I heard nothing from her.

  I made my way to the nests. They weren’t obvious from the ground. I had to keep my neck strained and survey the forest at a level height. Eventually I spotted a dark bundle attached to a trunk, high above. After this, it was a relatively simple matter of walking out in lines, noting the position of each nest. I soon found what I was looking for. She hadn’t destroyed it. Nothing had fallen to the ground. This was significant. I tensed; something had happened to her. Intact, above me, I saw its large, imposing shell-like structure. I laid all my possessions at the base of the tree, stripped my boots to get better purchase. With the troop split several kilometres away, I felt unhindered as I climbed. I told myself to go slowly upwards, to survey each approaching branch before laying my hands on it. I was wary of routine dangers – stinging insects, fresh sap – any of which could make me lose my grip and fall.

  Something wet slipped onto my forehead and blurred my vision. I went to wipe it but caught myself in time. I needed to find a firmer base before loosening my grip. When I did so I realised that it was just sweat in my eyes, that I was jumpy and nervous and easy to scare. I was inhaling sharply – I wasn’t sure when it had begun. I smelled something but couldn’t be sure it was her body. I supposed I had imagined a different smell. I stopped, rested a moment. I was thirty or so feet above the ground. I looked back at the heels of my bare feet, my legs opened to turn around the tree. Above me, through the thick mesh of foliage, I could see the dark sheen of her nest.

  Through my hands I learned that I was shaking. I was unsteady on the tree because of my quicker pulse. I muttered something, shook some of the excess sweat from my saturated hair. I continued climbing until I was level with the nest. I considered the branch nearest to me, trying to gauge if it could take my weight. Finally, I stepped out. I repeated, my priority was my own safety; I had to ensure, before doing anything else, that on each new step I was secure. I took a breath – regardless of what happened, whatever I saw inside, I would remain calm – and lifted one leg and one arm out, making a small arc of my body and, twisting, stretching out from the base branch, looked directly inside her nest.

  It was more than big enough to contain a body. The rotting smell was stronger here. I was lost in the nest’s complexity, the repetitions and spirals inside, so much so I hadn’t even paused to consider my relief that it was empty, that she was not there. She had gone. Neither Jane nor Alice would find her – they’d report her missing from the sub-groups. I doubted we’d find a body.

  I felt calm. I hadn’t wanted to be confronted with the body, not yet, not ever. We had already secured blood samples; there was nothing further we could learn from a cadaver. I had held myself in a rigid, awkward position for several minutes; now that I realised this, I felt my body ache. I tilted back and brought my core weight down onto the base branch. I brought out the micro-camera, looped the string of wire from my pocket and hung it on my neck. I swung round again, easier the second time. Through the lens, everything was clearer. I was able to separate myself from the nest. I examined it, filtering out the materials composing it. Berries and figs and masses of philodendron leaves. All her food, the fruits her conspecifics laid out for her at the end of each day. Dense packs of ambrosia beetles and rotting wood. Bright yellow butterfly wings and a patch of synthetic blue fibre. There was more. The walls of dirt were hardened not just from saliva and rain but from a thick, black filament-like matter. I released the camera and used my free arm to tear a thin twig away from the foliage above. I leaned back over the nest, and, after a moment’s hesitation, an instinct telling me this was wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t disturb it, I pressed against the black resin with the end of the stick.

  I heard something snap below. Silence. I had the impression I was being watched. Turning around, far enough to see a reasonable distance, would be dangerous. I could lose my footing. If it was Jane or Alice they would have called. Besides, they were far away, tracking their sub-groups. I waited, heard no further sounds. The illusion of an observer was not uncommon; I had to dismiss it. I knew it was reckless and I shouldn’t but I wanted to press on. I laid the stick down and held the camera again, hoping the same trick – creating an additional barrier, outsourcing my vision – would help establish clarity. It didn’t. As I observed the nest, I continued to sense an observer.

  Was I being irresponsible? Alice wouldn’t have allowed it; therefore, my only way of seeing inside was by going up alone, unacknowledged. How far in advance could they have warned me if the animal really had come back? Enough time for me to safely get down, considering her size and, though sick, the speed she was still capable of travelling? But I knew she was gone. I had to stop being irrational. For some reason, making contact with the nest interior, the black matter inside, had made me feel I was closer to her. I repeated, it wasn’t logical, it didn’t mean anything.

  I drew the stick out again and this time pressed more firmly against the resin. The structure began to give. I didn’t understand – surely I hadn’t pushed hard enough. The liquid, which had hardened and given solidity and structure to the walls, now loosened and began to run free. It disappeared inside the nest, neither spilling out nor visibly pooling in the base inside. The whole extent of the nest began to shift as the walls fell in, drooping and collapsing. It seemed to lose depth, folding into itself. In just a few seconds little appeared left, just an odd flattened mass of twigs, earth and leaves that would quickly become unidentifiable from the tree, being absorbed by it. Other fragments, whether fallen to the ground or caught on lower branches, would be gathered by birds, insects, as well as her conspecifics, and incorporated into their own nests, absorbed into their own bodies.

  Descending, I saw the black matter caught in my hands, though it hadn’t been possible to grasp it. The backs were marked, and I thought this was wrong, that it shouldn’t be like this. I gathered up my things at the tree base then dropped them again. The stream wasn’t far; I wanted to wash first. I looked up, back at the tree, imagining I could see the outline of her nest again, a symbolic structure rebuilt in a different place each night. A refuge, a place in sickness to retreat to, a protective enclosure to experience birth and death. General in primates, even – the tendency to be born and to die in the night. The hour of the wolf. I thought of Ivan, my father. Driving to the hospital after the call at 03.28, neither John nor I speaking for the length of the journey, John extending a hand to my back as we closed the car door and faced up to the entrance. I saw John, the cottage. I pictured our new house. All I wanted, I thought, was to be home.

  XIII

  He found, waking in the morning to the dim light coming in through the fog and the curtain, that he was bleeding. Not only had his previous wounds opened, spilling out into the bed-sheets, but new scratches were ripped across his body. He looked to his fingernails and saw crusted blood. The doctor, he thought, must be wrong; the tears and scratches weren’t provoked by nightmares but by the return of memory while he slept. Perhaps he wasn’t attacking an imaginary figure – this wasn’t about violence or aggression – he was simply grasping for something, reaching towards the life that he remembered, trying desperately to claw back those moments, to dive in, to move closer, to burst through to that life again.

  He was distracted through the morning’s session, the doctor twice asking what was wrong, wh
at it was that was on his mind. He told him no, nothing was wrong, nothing was on his mind. The doctor looked at him doubtfully, prolonging his gaze, before finally pushing on. The day took an age to pass. As soon as the doctor left he tried, systematically, to record the previous evening’s memory, the arm arcing over him, hoping that in writing it down it would flow, the image would animate and more would come. But he was frustrated; transcribing didn’t work. The table downstairs appeared sterile, remote. He struggled to connect with the memory that had affected him so powerfully the night before.

  He retired to bed early, crushing the sedative capsule and dropping it into the sink. As he pulled the sheet over him, he looked to the radio set on the bedside cabinet, focusing on it, trying to recreate the same conditions, willing the memory to return.

  He sat up. The room was dark. He must have fallen asleep. He didn’t remember turning off the lamp. Without thinking he turned to the time display on the cabinet, and he murmured her name. Her form returned, her breath, her warmth beside him where he lay. He saw her hazy, remote expression as she went to switch the dial. Suddenly another scene appeared and another, and he saw, in snatches, the whole of their life together, the years and years by each other’s side. He saw isolated moments, snapping forwards and backwards in time, and knew he couldn’t let the action go, couldn’t let it disappear. Preserve the act, keep it alive. Start from here, the kinetic expression, movement, the real effect, Shel’s arm moving in an arc over him, her character, the fact of her life.

  He pictured her travelling with work, adapting her hotel room in the city, forming a brief and temporary culture, making small adjustments, leaning on the formalities, pressing on the room, making it different from all the others. Enjoying the thimble-sized capsules of milk, taking pleasure in delicately peeling off the paper tops, digging her elbows against her lower ribs, the heels of her hands together, the thumbs and forefingers pressing, peeling the tops away. The tray, the jug, the tall sticks of coffee, the paper-wrapped tea-bags, the boots left at the foot of the bed and the clothes hanging in the cupboard and folded over the chair pulled out at the desk. Writing to her mother each trip, postmarks for every new city. Still captivated by runways, walking slowly to the retractable steps, delaying the walk, with the strange lights flashing on the tarmac, never the smell of fuel you would expect, the odd toy-like vehicles darting between the terminal and the planes, the theatre of the runway, the dramatic horizons, the mysterious systems of lights, towers and flags.

  He saw her backpack stamped over her shirt in sweat, saw her cycling to the university, saw all the books she carried, arriving with her hair wet, her face red, always new ideas on the journey in, the beginning of the day, breakthroughs, strings of connections appearing by themselves, the rush of the air cooling her smile, the wet shirt hung over the chair in her office, the blinds open for the eastern light edging a heat across the dampness, always knowing where she was, quick to orient herself in each new place – the wind and the tide, the sun and the stars – grateful for space just in getting off a bus, delaying, looking around, seeing where she was, where she had come to, as if it wasn’t inevitable, carrying the alternatives and watching, fixing her eyes on the driver, oblivious to the line forming behind her, the muted expressions and the curses, the confusion of the line coming in, and saying slowly, clearly, ‘Thank you,’ nodding and stepping off.

  Refusing to drink from any wine glass with the faintest finger smudge across it, the smear of a person on glass, cannot bring this to her face, as if the identity remained stuck. Modelling her voice according to the company, the ease of taking her for several different people, the sense that this is not controlled, none of this is controlled, it just happens. The sound of her voice, unable to extricate herself from it. The scowl on her lips realising she is wrong about something. The quiet movement, murmur as she tells herself not to be transparent, to compose herself, to remain neutral. Stopping always when she passes a mirror, suspicious, doubtful, never willingly appearing in photographs, leaving discreetly to the bar, the bathroom, sensing a picture is about to be composed, stepping aside and creating problems in ceremonies, birthdays, weddings, work events – everyone should be recorded – watching the composition from the side, curious. Sitting on the sofa in the evening, back against the arm, knees raised supporting articles, books, reading-glasses on and hair up, one sock pulled halfway off, rolling back, relieving the tension but keeping her toes and the lower part of her foot snug. Little treats, to feel better. Long evenings reading in the half-light. The desperate desire for the consolation that these evenings together were somehow still held, they continued. That he could reach out and feel this world they share still happening.

  Late to meet her outside a bar, slowing before he reached her, watching her pacing, reading signs, posters, awnings, seeking messages, information, writing to distract her, the outline of her body moving across the street and back, her feet agitated, seeing her and being unusually aware of the architecture, the form of the street in the dark, the flux of unfamiliar people passing, the materiality of the scene with her inside it. Now urgently moving towards her raising one hand and trying not to look any higher, the tops of the buildings. The moment of surprise and transformation on her face. The extension of her body, reaching outwards and taller, shoulders higher, her arms around him, chestnut smell from her hair, damp from hanging rain, the cold of her cheek from waiting, the generation and exchange of heat across them, the prolonged hold of the embrace, the suggestion of flux, fluid bodies, the defencelessness of the two of them together.

  Coming in, coming home, locking the door behind her, hanging the key on the pin, standing an extra moment facing it. Bent down, crouched, tugging her boots off, laying them carefully in position with the gentlest of thuds as the heels knock the wall, sighing, commenting to herself, collecting herself, rising up again, turning, opening the inner door, stepping in, presenting herself.

  XIV

  I refocused on sub-group C, paying particular attention to the apex female and matriarch, mother of the disappeared adolescent, CI. CI was one of the candidates for seniority throughout the entire troop, with those who approached her displaying noticeable deference and subordination. More than any other animal, we were wary of taking CI’s blood. CI had one dependent daughter, less than a year old, kept, as if by lengths of rope, no further than a metre from her at all times. I watched, absorbed, the daughter play, her hesitant forays into independent recreation, tolerated with unwavering severity by the vigilant mother.

  Our voices assumed a different quality in the rains, both because we had to amplify ourselves in order to be heard and because the more reflective acoustics created odd distortions. Distance was deceptive and it was hard to adapt, turning round surprised by the location of the other person. The pools formed in the storms were no longer temporary additions but grew larger with each day, changing the acoustics further. The rain fell constantly but variously, speed and intensity driven by the thickness of the vegetal obstructions. We heard it bouncing in scattered pool clusters, creating an odd sensation of circularity, of the water looping around us, ensnaring us. As the rain came indirectly, coated in matter by the time it hit the ground, our speech was indirect too. There were few horizontal or vertical clearings beyond the small area we’d used to set up camp. Discussing with Alice a favoured fruit source among my sub-group, I had the strange impression, despite the fact that I could see her, and that she was standing right there mere feet from me, and that I could see her lips moving at the same time, that the sound she made was actually coming from behind me. I turned twice, trying to find the sources of the strange echo.

  The rains came heavier each day. I smelled rot in my clothes, my boots, and my ankles were becoming blotchy, apart from the bites, and starting to swell. The masks, the protective coats helped only so much; if you remained perfectly still for the duration of the downpour underneath the sheet of tarp and the transparent raincoat, it might be possible, in theory, to stay dry, but we
had to continue moving according to the whim of each sub-group. We dried a little in the evenings over the small fire, Jane initially, to our confusion, appearing tentative and coy. Alice muttered something at her. Jane was embarrassed about putting her clothes out because of the smell.

  It wasn’t just that she appeared so naive and frail that irritated us, it was the regularity with which she complained about conditions.

  ‘It’s just us here, Jane,’ Alice said. ‘We’re experiencing the same world you are. No-one else is listening.’ Alice somehow was able to be direct and critical yet not offend Jane, something I was yet to learn.

  I worried about my own symptoms, my vomiting, my restlessness and nausea late in the night. Coming into the rainy season, we were entering the period the animals were most likely to give birth, though with such a small group, and given the relative infrequency of birth in the species, approximately every four years, we wouldn’t necessarily witness any; none of the animals we’d examined displayed signs of late-stage pregnancy. As well as births, the season brought a higher risk of parasitic infection, with tapeworms a problem. The animals, certainly in other documented communities, practised a form of self-medication, adjusting their diet in the rains to take on particular plants whose coarseness acted as a detoxifier, cleansing the body, at least some of the time, of the parasitic invasion. They swallowed the leaves whole, dragging the rougher matter through their gut, breaking up the parasite body – exactly the kind of process easily disrupted by a genetic switch: suddenly the self-medication doesn’t function, and the parasite increasingly consumes the gut.