Closure

by Jacob Ross

  Oliver French was trying hard not to shout. “We do not think it’s right that animals are being used in this way; in this day and age it’s disgusting,” he said. “This so-called work of art is cruelty. We’re not protesting at the use of animals by humans, but we say that non-human animals must be given respect.”

  The crowd cheered him on. “We don’t think a black man should even be considering using animals in this way. How can anyone think this is art?” The crowd murmured their agreement again.

  “Why does the artist’s colour make a difference?” Devon Derbyshire asked.

  George was wondering the same.

  “Africa is being stripped of its natural wealth of wildlife and resources,” French stated, and then asked: “Should Neon Banks really be considering more of the same?”

  George tried to forget the taste of some of the wild animals he’d been forced to eat as a young boy, during the colonial wars. He had been seven and wondered how he had not died from diarrhoea.

  When he returned to the present, he found that Devon Derbyshire, unsure who had carried out the asset-stripping in Africa, had signed off and returned the broadcast to Harry Cook.

  Harry Cook started to describe the apparatus involved in the art event as he moved past the rows of seating George had put out around the glass room. He entered the main glass chamber where Professor Draper stood with his assistant, an intensely composed and small woman called Helen Preston.

  They had taken two days to set up a complicated arrangement of measuring instruments, attached to a clump of elephant grass that circled a mature tree, itself held upright by a series of strong wires secured to the floor and ceiling. They had changed the atmosphere in the chamber, reproducing the heat and humidity of the tropics. Harry Cook was impressed. He marvelled at the technology of a hydraulically powered platform from where they would record the data, and a five-foot high secondary glass wall enclosure with an electronic door that circled the tree and the elephant grass. Both structures would contain the tigers when they arrived.

  Harry Cook commented, in passing, on the condensation on the glass enclosure, and so George Mbewe picked up the window-cleaning tools and let himself out of the store room, closing the door softly. He would be needed in the Great Hall after all. He left his little radio behind in case of feedback. Now, he would be able to see and hear everything first-hand.

  He entered the room through the small door behind the great tapestry. Harry Cook was talking to the professor. George discreetly watched the interview from behind the assembly of dignitaries and the radio station technicians.

  Professor Draper, now as relaxed and avuncular as a scientist could be, described what his instruments would be measuring.

  The specific tests were divided into three sections, he said. Firstly “friction”, where he and his assistant would be examining paw-to-dry-grass contact ratios i.e how much friction could four tigers create on the amount of grass it was possible to grow within such a localised area, considering they each weighed approximately 500 pounds. The second set of instruments would consider “spontaneous combustion”, i.e. would the heightened emotions of the tigers along with their hot breath and the reproduced heat of their habitat contribute to a conflagration; and finally, “liquidisation”.

  Just as the professor was about to describe the conditions required for liquidisation, George dropped his squeegee and the metal handle clattered on the granite floor. He had been trying to signal to Susan, the curator, to ask if he should clean the main glass enclosure of condensation when it slipped out of his hand. Harry Cook gave him a sharp look but the moment was saved when Tom Wright, the head keeper from the Zoo, radioed the Great Hall, informing everyone that the tigers were ready and waiting in the wire corridor, specially constructed to get them through to the glass enclosure, now dripping with moisture.

  Professor Draper and his assistant took their positions and Harry Cook left the enclosure, continuing to talk to his listeners. The process of getting the tigers into the Hall would take a few minutes and because the glass was soundproof they would not hear the felines approach. Harry Cook continued to enthuse about the workmanship of the construction, and George, patiently standing in a corner, found himself fixated on a slow but steady drop of water meandering down the thick glass.

  As a side panel in the main enclosure rose, Harry Cook informed his listeners in a voice that was louder than usual: “The tigers are here!”

  They were magnificent beasts, standing at least four feet at the shoulder and over eight feet in length. They prowled into the space, wary and watchful, sniffing out the environment and circling under the professor’s specially built platform, now raised eight feet off the ground. One of the tigers defecated and Harry Cook wondered aloud if that would change the outcome of the experiment in any way.

  That was Harry Cook at his best, George thought, displaying the tongue-in-cheek humour that had made him so popular with listeners. George had tried out Cook’s technique on his wife a few times, but it had failed to lift her depression.

  “We have radio contact with the Professor inside the enclosure,” Harry Cook said. “Professor, can you tell us? How do you intend to get the tigers into the second, smaller enclosure in order for them to circle the tree?”

  The Professor did not reply. He and his assistant were completely focused on their experiments. Both Harry Cook and George looked up and saw several large cuts of meat being lowered down through the tree branches.

  The tigers were interested; three were already walking under the tree in the second, smaller glass enclosure. Everyone in the Great Hall held their breath waiting for the fourth tiger to do the same. When at last it sniffed its way in, the professor with a flamboyant flourish of the hand, directed his assistant to close the glass gate.

  The tigers did not circle or begin to race each other around the tree. Bunched together, their tails began switching, and first one tiger, then another, jumped out of the tight enclosure and began to prowl again under the platform and around the perimeter of the main glass enclosure, their tails lashing at the air with concern.

  The professor signalled his assistant to raise the meat and as it slid out of view the movement attracted one tiger’s attention. It stretched up the tree trunk, extending its claws to grip the bark then leapt with no effort at all, onto the lower branches. The tree began to lean.

  Finding its quarry among the limp foliage, the tiger wrestled it from the wire that held it. The wire snapped causing the tree to lean even more dangerously. Harry Cook, amazed by the prowess of the animal and noticing one of the tigers eye-balling him, fell silent.

  The animal that had retrieved the meat jumped to the ground with it, and a tussle began, each tearing at it with their mouths while trying to bat away the others with heavy swipes of their paws. The soundproofing was very effective. It was like watching a silent movie.

  One of the animals retreated from the fight and approached the platform sniffing. The assistant opened her mouth and presumably screamed as the tiger leapt up towards her but fell short.

  “Oh gosh…” Harry Cook said – all his usual jollity vanished. “I can see one of the tigers is making ready to leap up at the platform again. Oh look! Professor Draper has raised a gun. He is pointing it at the tiger.”

  The entrance gate rose and George saw chunks of meat had been laid to entice the tigers away. Distracted by the rising door the animals moved off, except for the one that continued to explore the potential for a fresh meal on the platform. Everyone watched it as it prepared to spring again. They did not hear the gunshot; it was the shattering of the huge outer enclosure of glass that alerted them to what the professor had done. It seemed, however, that the shot had missed the tiger. It bit through the glass and continued across the room until it found the arm of one of the statues. Harry Cook dropped his microphone and ran with the rest of the assembled audience as the arm crashed to the floor. A second shot sounded as they stumbled through the main door and slammed it shut, leavin
g the professor and his assistant inside.

  George ran under the tapestry towards the small secondary door. Neon Banks followed him, his eyes on the tiger which, though injured, was still on its feet. As they scrambled through the exit into the west wing corridor, quickly closing the door behind them, four more shots rang out, accompanied by the screams of the professor’s assistant. The screams went on and on.

  At last the Hall became silent. George and Neon Banks quietly opened the small door and re-entered, peeping around the giant tapestry.

  The room, now strewn with glass and upturned chairs, presented a very modern display. The tiger on the floor was motionless. Professor Draper held his now quiet assistant against him.

  What George said next was transmitted to Harry Cook’s listeners.

  “Look at this beautiful creature – I wish I had the words to describe how regal the animal remains even in death. I have not seen anything like it before – and it is still warm.” He sat next to the animal and ran his hand along part of its back.

  “The fur… each hair is as thick as a fine needle… that huge jaw and those eyes, big enough to engulf a person. I wonder what it would have been like to have tigers in Africa,” George said, but Neon Banks was too busy sorting out his camera equipment and packing up the excellent footage to answer.

  George wondered if he might have the pelt, but in the distance, the swirling sound of emergency vehicles broke his reverie.

  MICHELLE INNISS

  WHATEVER LOLA WANTS

  Jason Truman sat at the back of the café, at the same table they’d been sharing almost every day for the past six months. The same waitress, with the false blonde hair and too much make up, took his order. Double espresso. He’d thought about ordering for Lola but decided against it. She hardly ever arrived on time. She’d stroll in late and heads would turn. At least the men’s would; the women would shoot her dead with their looks.

  It was a shame but he had to end it. He had told her from the start: work and home, him and her were separate. But she had started to text him at work and now she had rung him at home. Luckily Katie had been in the bath when she’d called. Next time he mightn’t be so lucky. No, this madness had to stop. He had to bring it to an end, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

  In his office he was known as the level-headed one. If you were looking for calm appraisal and integrity, then Truman was your man. None of that applied to her. She had slithered beneath his skin. He remembered the first time they kissed. “Your lips,” he whispered. “They’re so nice, so big.”

  “What you tryna say?” she asked. “How are my lips so big?”

  He felt his face redden. Well they aren’t anything like Katie’s.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, pulling her closer. “You just taste so good.”

  Driving home later he found himself thinking that it was the first time he had ever kissed a black woman. When he was younger you just didn’t see white guys with black women; it just didn’t happen. It wasn’t that he hadn’t found some black women attractive, but he wouldn’t have made a play for one… not back then. But wasn’t everyone “in the mix” now?

  He’d asked her if they could meet up for lunch the following day. But she couldn’t do days. She was studying. Jason knew then that he was probably twice her age, but if he could hit on an eighteen year old woman who looked like her and pull it off, then even at fifty, he must still have it. Most married men his age had let themselves go – too much wine and rich food. He swam every morning in the pond on Hampstead Heath and the colder the water the more energised he felt.

  The next time they met, to his surprise, he began to blabber. “I want to kiss you all night.”

  She had smiled and said, “Shuuut up! No-one’s ever said nothin’ like that to me before.”

  He couldn’t help thinking: God, this woman is so beautiful but when she opens her mouth she sounds so… rough.

  He soon got used to her deep London accent. It became a part of her charm. Some of the things that fell from her mouth really did make him laugh, though. He couldn’t ever imagine Katie calling him “Babe”, or “J”, or “Sweet Pea”.

  Jason looked around the café. He slid his hand through the growth of silver that lit up the sides of his hair. He pulled down the sleeves of his silk suit despite the heat.

  He was just about to ask for a glass of water when the door opened and Lola came in. As she sauntered towards him, his eyes clung to the rise and fall of her short skirt as it hugged her hips and slim legs. The conversations around him trailed away. He saw the heads turn in Lola’s direction. He couldn’t stop himself smiling.

  All these men can only imagine what they’d like to do to her. I’m actually doing it.

  There was only one word he could use to describe Lola… ‘Hot’. It was a cliché and he should have done better, especially since he was in advertising and original thought was his trademark, but there was no other word for her. Lola was hot. He’d tried once to persuade her to ditch studying and go into modelling; her type was in real demand.

  “An’ what exactly do you mean by my type?” she asked looking puzzled.

  The red had risen to his cheeks again. They were the words he used at work. There were types. There was the size 0 – flat-chested, cropped hair, pass-for-a-boy type. Then there was the collagen enhanced, tall, long-haired type and there was her type. Curly hair, naturally thin, with lips that all those collagen-induced women longed for. Her colour, how would he describe it? Coffee – no, too dark; coffee with cream, but how much cream? Cappuccino? Latte? Halfway between a cappuccino and a latte? Shit! How could he tell her she looked like coffee with a lot of cream in it.

  “Come on, Lola, chill. You’re my type, beautiful and sexy.”

  He’d slid his hand along her inner thigh and she’d laughed.

  “Oh, I get you, that type.”

  Jason observed her now. She looked a little thinner. Her skin had broken out in spots. He hadn’t meant to, but he found his hand stretching over the table to take her hand.

  “You look like shit,” he said.

  “Feel like shit,” she said, staring down at her chewed nails. “I’ve been tryna contact you, J. How come you never texted me back?”

  He tried not to look at her. His eyes hovered over the silver rope bracelet twisted round her wrist like a sleeping snake. The waitress came to take her order. She asked for a glass of milk.

  Milk? It was usually a diet coke.

  He ordered another double espresso. They sat in silence until the waitress returned with their drinks. Jason watched Lola drink her milk with a pink straw. He wanted to reach over and kiss her; she looked so young. She looked up at him.

  “You know, don’t you, J? That’s how come you didn’t text me back.”

  “Know what?” he asked.

  “About… about the baby.”

  Jason felt the cup slip from his fingers.

  She’s phoned home again. She’s spoken to Katie. Oh shit! How else could she know about the baby?

  The cup bounced off the saucer, tumbling onto the table. Jason’s eyes fell on the waitress, who was staring at him. He tried to smile. He looked away and put the cup back onto the saucer, ignoring the dark stain seeping into the white table cloth.

  “What are you talking about, Lola?” he said. “What baby?”

  “Our baby, J.” Lola was stirring the rest of the milk with her straw. “I’m gunna have our baby. I’m pregnant, J.”

  They had been using an apartment that belonged to a friend of his who was working in America. Jason would meet up with her after work and they would go back to the apartment, spend two or three hours there, then he would shower and drop her home. It was the perfect set up. Her mother was a midwife and worked nights at the Royal Free Hospital and her father had gone AWOL when she was a baby, so she was never missed. They had started going to the apartment twice a week, but two nights soon became five. Jason knew then that he was losing control but he couldn’t stop.

&
nbsp; It must have been that last time.

  He’d forgotten all about that evening. They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. He lay on top of her, on the floor in the living room. He was just about to come.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “What is it?” Lola asked, opening her eyes.

  “I don’t have any condoms. I left them in my other bag at work.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, giggling. “There’s always the pill.”

  He beamed down at her.

  “In that I case I won’t.”

  Afterwards, he’d led Lola to the bedroom where they fell asleep. When he awoke, he hauled himself out of bed and dragged Lola to the bathroom and they had sex again in the shower.

  It was close to 5:00am when Jason finally got home, the latest he’d ever been. He slipped into bed next to Katie, who he thought was sound asleep. The next morning Katie told him that she’d waited up for him. He told her that the company was involved in a big contract, so coming home early just wasn’t an option. It seemed as though had Katie believed him because she didn’t dig too deep. Jason tried to get out of the house as soon as possible saying he’d grab breakfast on the way to work, but Katie said she had something important to tell him.

  She was going to have a baby.

  He’d almost asked her how. He hardly slept with her. He had tried to have sex with her in the same way he had sex with Lola, but, afterwards, she just lay there next to him in silence. He knew that she hadn’t enjoyed it. But none of that mattered now. Maybe the baby would bring them closer. Maybe he could start to feel the way he used to feel about her. He didn’t have a choice; he had to return to reality. From that day he stopped ringing Lola.

  He had wanted to tell Lola that it was over between them but he just couldn’t face her. If he met up with her, if he gazed into her dark, fuck-me eyes, it would start all over again. The smell of her perfume on another woman had brought back the sensation of his mouth buried in her flesh. Three weeks had passed and Lola continued to text him at work. Yesterday she’d rung him at home.