Zoonami

by Adam Millard

  Jessica filled her plate with vegetables and sat back in her chair, arms folded. She wasn’t in the mood for this, not tonight, not when she was preparing for the biggest show of her life. I’ll bet Lucinda Purdy isn’t being force-fed fish, she thought. No, we all know what that bitch likes to be force-fed. Three of the judges at last year’s carnival knew better than anyone else.

  “I don’t know why you keep entering those stupid competitions, I mean…” Her mother forked mash into her puckered mouth, chewed noisily for a moment, then continued. “Can’t you just face up to the fact that you’re not the prettiest girl in Norfolk, can’t you…?”

  Jessica Hunt wasn’t the prettiest girl in Norfolk. She wasn’t even in the top hundred, but as a turd she polished up quite nicely. You’re just jealous,” Jessica said, though her mother’s words hadn’t just cut to the bone, they’d lopped the bone off and buried it in the desert, where it was now being dug up and pissed on by a pack of laughing hyenas.

  Vera Hunt snorted. Something like mash came down her nostril. “I know my place in this world and…” she said. “I know I’m a gnarly old bag, but I’ve still got my morals, unlike…” In went a forkful of trout, and as she chewed, the sound of bones crushing made Jessica gag.

  “I’m going upstairs,” Jessica said, pushing her plate forward just an inch—the internationally recognised distance required to signal the end of a meal. “I don’t suppose you’re going to come and watch me tomorrow at the Carnival, are you?” She needed someone to carry a coat for her in case it rained. That was the thing with the Cromer Carnival—it was no Mardi Gras. Three years before, it had snowed so heavily that they hadn’t been able to drive the floats through town. If people wanted to see them, they were instructed to trudge through the blizzard to where the parade had managed to get itself stuck. Rio must have been pissing itself.

  “Oh, I’ll be there, you can…” her mother said. “There’s a charity bingo game going on in the afternoon, and guess who’s going to be playing? You’ll never…”

  “I give up,” Jessica sighed. She just wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible.

  “That bitch, Judi Dench, and she won’t beat me this time, I tell…”

  Jessica turned and headed for her room. Her mother’s long-standing conflict with some desiccated actress was nothing to do with her. She had a battle of her own to prepare for. By tomorrow evening, that crown would be hers, and nothing in the world was going to stop it from happening.

  4

  Barry Rawlins pulled the caps off two beers with his last good tooth. Handing one of the bottles to Bobby Dern, the only guy in the world he would share a sleeping bag with, he said, “Fine night tonight, don’tcha think?”

  Bobby looked out across the North Sea. In the distance, two moons lit up the ocean. It took him a while to figure out that one of them was a reflection. “Sure is,” he said. It was a simple life for simple people, and you didn’t get simpler than Barry and Bobby. Some people back in Cromer didn’t like them because they were old gay guys. Twenty years younger and they would have been accepted, but people just couldn’t stand the thought of saggy old nut-sacks swinging together.

  Not that it bothered Barry or Bobby. Nine months of the year, they were out on the ocean, just the two of them, a crate of ale, and a magnum-sized tube of KY. When they weren’t making mad, passionate love to one another, they were filling the freezers with grade A cod. You never heard the people of Cromer complain about homosexuality when they were tucking into a large bag of fish and chips, and that was all that mattered to the two best—and gayest—fishermen in England.

  “I’ve been thinking, Baz,” Bobby said, blowing a tune on the spout of his bottle. “You know they made it legal for two gay people to get married.”

  Barry nodded. “Yeah, but it’s also legal to piss in a rozzer’s helmet if you’re pregnant. Don’t stop the rozzer from kicking the shit out of you afterwards.”

  Bobby frowned, sipped at his beer. When he finally figured out what his friend/lover/colleague was telling him, he said, “So, you wouldn’t want to?”

  “Shit, Bob, I ain’t even pregnant.”

  “No. Get married? I mean, we’ve been waiting for this moment our whole lives, and I just think the locals would be a bit friendlier toward us if, you know, we had rings on our fingers.”

  Barry erupted in a fit of laughter. When he finally composed himself, he said, “It was the rings on our fingers which put us in a bad light with the Cromer people in the first place. But I see what you’re saying. You want us to get married, settle down, adopt a couple of teenagers and a Yorkshire Terrier named Barney.”

  Bobby rolled a cigarette and lit it. “You know I don’t like dogs,” he said, “or teenagers, for that matter.” He stood up, made his way across the trawler’s deck. There were four moons now, thanks to the beer. Is it a metaphor? Bobby wondered. Four moons, four testicles on board? Is it a sign from God that we should get married? No, it was a sign that he should toss the rest of Barry’s special homebrew overboard and take a long lie down.

  Suddenly, a set of heavy, hairy arms wrapped around Bobby. “You’re not serious about that marriage malarkey, are you?” Barry’s alcohol- and tobacco-infused breath, for some reason, turned Bobby on. He was easy like that.

  “I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I mean, it worked for that DeGeneres fella. From what I hear, his ratings have never been so high.”

  Barry embraced his lover more tightly. “Yeah, but, why fix something that’s not broken? I mean, what if something happens between us? You’re going to want half the boat in the settlement, and I’ve done some research: boats tend to work better in one piece.”

  Bobby knew he was wasting his time, but he wanted to do something to prove how much he loved his fellow fisherman, to make those Neanderthal Cromerites realise they were in the wrong, that it was okay to be old and gay. If anything, it was better. It meant there were fewer lecherous old men poring over the bikini-clad hotties.

  “Look, you big hunk of hairy fisherman,” Barry said. “We’re happy as we are. Ain’t nothing going to change that; not the townsfolk, not the government, not nothing. You remember the great KY strike of 2001?”

  Bobby nodded. “Some pretty sore times, those were.”

  “Yeah, and we got through it, just like I told you we would.” Barry sighed. “Trust me. We don’t need to get married. We just need to keep doing what we’re doing, and to hell with those anti-geriatric gay-bashers.”

  Just then, something in the distance caught Bobby’s eye; a slight rippling of the water, as if something had emerged, just for a moment, before heading back down into the stygian blackness. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Barry peered over his lover’s shoulder into the darkness. The ripples were there, getting bigger and bigger, but nothing else. “Probably just a seal popping up to say hello,” he said, watching the ripples grow and then dissipate. “You’re a little jumpy tonight, aren’t—”

  A deep rumble cut him off mid-sentence. As more ripples appeared in the water, Bobby stepped away from the side of the trawler. “What was that, then? The seal’s having a farting party?”

  Barry prided himself on being the butch of the relationship, but even he couldn’t prevent his eyes from widening and his mouth from flapping open and shut, a little like the fish they caught. “I have no idea what that was,” he said. “Maybe something’s scraping along the bottom of the boat. Who knows what’s out here, but my guess is coral.”

  “Growling coral?” Bobby had heard it all now. “Yeah, that’s what it was. Everyone knows about the famous growling coral of the North Sea. It’s got its own Wikipedia page and everything.”

  It came again, a thunderous roar that seemed to be right beneath them. The trawler did a little dance from side to side, the fishing-boat version of Gangnam Style. Bobby grabbed onto the closest thing he could for stability, which just happened to be Barry, and any comfort he expected to find there was instantly washe
d away as he discovered Barry was shaking like a shitting dog.

  “Do we need to radio this in?” Bobby said, not wanting to look out into the darkness just in case Godzilla popped up. Shit, what if Godzilla’s homophobic? Quickly, Bobby released his lover and headed down into the boat’s cabin.

  There it was again, loud enough now to warrant hands over ears. The water was getting choppy out there now, and the trawler was starting to feel it. Barry practically fell down the steps and into the cabin. “Shit, Bob, what’s going on out there?”

  Bobby had no idea, but it wasn’t a fucking seal, and it certainly wasn’t the wind, thunder, or a combination of the two. Something was happening beneath them, something powerful enough to buffet them around. All thoughts of marriage were now forced to the back of Bobby’s mind, where he kept important shopping lists and lewd images of Donald Trump. Surviving the night was all that mattered now. He picked up the radio and began turning the frequency dial.

  “150 to 163Mhz,” Barry said, holding on to their shared bed, lest he fly back up the stairs and out into the wet, gloomy night.

  “I know what fucking frequency it is,” Bobby lied. Truthfully, he only used the radio for Terry Wogan’s Radio 2 Breakfast Show. This was the first time either of them had ever had to call for help.

  Bobby picked up the mic and pushed the button. “This is Dorothy One. I repeat, this is Dorothy One, does anybody read me? Over.” After a few seconds of fizzing and no clear response, he tried again. “We have a situation here. This is Dorothy One, is anyone there? Over.”

  “It’s because we’re gay,” Barry muttered.

  “It’s not because we’re gay,” Bobby said. “It’s because we’re old and gay. If you were a few years younger, I—”

  “Dorothy One, we read you,” a crackling voice interrupted. “What is your situation? Over.”

  The boat tipped to the right; it was all Barry could do to remain on his feet.

  “Our situation is that—well, hell if we know, but something’s rocking our boat and it ain’t the wind. Over.”

  A moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Barry bouncing off the lavatory door.

  “Roger, Dorothy One,” the fizzing radio operator said. “We have reports of a small quake in your area. Shouldn’t be anything to worry about. Why don’t you and your fisherman friend put some pants on, and hold on tight. Should all be over in a minute or two. Over.”

  Bobby took a deep breath. It wasn’t bad enough that they were ridiculed and ostracised by the people of Cromer, now they had to deal with a homophobic radio operator, the person responsible for keeping them alive in bad situations. A witty retort was on the tip of his tongue when the RO’s words finally sunk in.

  “Did you say ‘a quake’?”

  Nothing.

  He pushed the button again. “I repeat. Did you say there was an earthquake?”

  “You have to say ‘Over’,” Barry said, picking himself up from the cabin floor. “Otherwise they won’t respond.”

  Bobby sighed. How many ships and trawlers had gone down because the captain forgot to add one simple word to the end of their panicked call? “Did. You. Say. Earthquake? Oh-ver!” He wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense, though the boat had steadied somewhat.

  “Roger that, Dorothy One. Nothing to worry about. The worst of it is over. Over.”

  Bobby turned to face his lover, the microphone dangling listlessly from his trembling hand. “Nothing to worry about,” he repeated. “The worst of it is over.”

  “Come on,” Barry said, forcing a smile. The boat was no longer tilting, but Barry wasn’t quite ready to let go of the toilet door just yet. “Let’s get this place tidied up and head for shore.”

  Bobby frowned. “You’re going back in?”

  “Not all the way,” Barry said, “but I don’t think I’ll sleep too well knowing we’re sitting on the East Coast’s version of Pompeii.”

  5

  Roger couldn’t believe his luck. There he was, sitting next to Brandie Stroman, the perfect woman, and she wasn’t calling the police on him or screaming at him to “stop gawping down my blouse, you reee-tard!” Apparently, the other patrons of The King’s Scrotum couldn’t believe Roger’s luck either, and were regarding him with some suspicion. He must ’ave ’ypnotised that poor wench! P’rhaps ’e’s got a bit o’ length on him in the ol’ trouser department. No way she should be wi’ ’im. Roger didn’t care what they thought of him. They weren’t better than him; they just thought they were.

  “What’s the matter?” Brandie asked, sucking mojito through a straw. Roger, for obvious reasons, found himself wishing he was that straw.

  Smiling, Roger said, “Nothing, I was just thinking about something Mr. Chinn said today.” He hadn’t been, but he couldn’t very well tell Brandie that he was thinking about being a straw.

  Brandie snorted. “I don’t imagine it was anything to smile about,” she said. “You were lucky not to get escorted off the premises by zoo security.” She stirred her ice with the straw. Beneath the table, Roger crossed his legs.

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, I think this is my final chance. No more fuck-ups; I need to make sure I feed those damn caimans every morning. Chinn’s already lining up a replacement. The trick is to not give him a reason to sack me.”

  “That’s not a trick,” Brandie said. “That’s how most people keep hold of their jobs. Take me for instance.” She straightened up, as if what she was about to say would rival the great speeches of Martin Luther King, Mahatma Gandhi, or Kelly Clarkson. “You might look at me and think, hey, that Brandie’s a good girl, well-behaved, doesn’t like to piss people off.”

  If only you knew what I thought of when I look at you, Roger thought. It would be some time before he would be able to pop off to the toilet, though he needed it something rotten. He wasn’t one for breaking the law, but he was almost certain you needed a license for what he was now carrying around in his pants.

  “Well, I’m not little-miss-princess-mind-your-effs-and-jeffs Stroman.” She seemed proud of the fact. “The trick is to let other people think you’re all sweetness and light, and when they least expect it…” She slammed her palms down hard on the table. The punters all turned to see what the commotion was about. Brandie turned and, addressing the whole room, said, “Can’t a girl have a drink without being objectified by you cunts?”

  Roger spat a mouthful of Guinness back into his glass. It was either that or cough it all up over the table.

  “The point I’m trying to make is,” Brandie said, back to her angelic self, “you might be stupid, Roger Whipsnade, but you ain’t an idiot.”

  I must be, Roger thought, because that made no sense, and I watched all six seasons of Lost. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for Brandie to elaborate.

  “You can take that simple charm of yours and use it to your advantage.”

  Roger didn’t know whether he should be insulted or she was paying him a compliment, so he did what he usually did when faced with a beautiful woman well out of his league. He smiled.

  “Take Chinn for instance,” Brandie said. “He’s a dick, right? Everyone at the zoo knows it, but we all put up with it because, well, no one likes queuing at the Jobcentre. But you, you don’t. You drive that sonofabitch insane. I’ve seen the way his wig flutters when he’s reprimanding you. But he won’t do anything about it, and do you know why?”

  “Because wig-glue is expensive?”

  “No, because you’re smarter than he is. Your constant mistakes and rudimentary errors make you untouchable. He can’t fire a dummy, and perhaps subconsciously you’ve known that all along.”

  I really haven’t. Roger nodded, all the same.

  “So what you’re saying is that if I go in to work tomorrow and do everything in my job description perfectly—feed the caimans, masturbate the pigs, eat the lice from the badgers’ backs—he’s going to have a reason to sack me?”

  “Precisely,” Brandie said, sucking hungrily at her moj
ito.

  “So I just need to keep on doing what I’ve been doing, and old Willy Chinn can’t touch me.” Roger liked the sound of that. It was much better than remembering things, carrying out delegated tasks, tossing off Wilbur.

  Just then, a huge arm appeared on the edge of the table. Attached to it was a man who, Roger couldn’t help but notice, seemed to be wearing the majority of his veins on the outside. His neck was thicker than most trees, and his perfect sandy hair suggested he had an unlimited supply of conditioner. Telling this guy to fuck off, Roger knew, would be a huge mistake on his part. Not even his stupidity could save him from the consequences.

  “Wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?” the hulking beast said. Roger was about to tell him, “No, not at all. Here, do you like watches? Have mine. It’s an old one, but it keeps good time,” when Brandie spoke first.

  “What do you want, Thad?”

  Oh, she knows this orange Vin Diesel, Roger thought. Well, that’s alright then. At least they’re familiar with one another, and think of how beautiful their babies will be. But there was something about Brandie’s tone that suggested she and Thad were not on the best of terms, and if looks could kill, Thad would have been on the other side of the pub now, bleeding out while the old geezers playing dominoes rifled through his pockets like the pack of geriatric hyenas they were.

  “Is that any way to greet your fiancé?” Thad said, holding up placatory tree trunk arms. Something beneath his bicep writhed, and Roger realised it was another muscle, one that he was pretty sure other humans didn’t possess.

  “Ex-fiancé,” Brandie said. “I dumped you, remember?”

  Thad grinned a mouthful of perfect white teeth, and even though Roger’s weren’t badly discoloured or misshapen, he closed his mouth, hiding them from Brandie, who was now rolling her eyes at Roger. Make him go away.

  She was asking him to help, to send Thad packing, back to whatever tanning salon he’d just emerged from. I could do that, Roger thought. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed the wards over at Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital, the shitty paintings decorating the halls. (The visually-impaired ward's rendition of Munch’s The Scream would haunt his dreams forever.) They had a Starbucks now, which was nice as long as you remembered to take out a loan before getting admitted.