I wave the empty bottle in front of Collins’ face, water running down my forearm, say,‘this is shit, let’s celebrate properly.’
His face is built around a cheesy smile, all the surliness gone, he is compliant acceptance.
Weaving into town I text Alan and Hilary, tell them to meet us in our local Italian restaurant.
Hours later, in the fog of booze and food and cigarette smoke, Hilary is leaning in close, brandy and cigar on his breath. Telling me that he was right about Collins and that he needed to do it for himself, that if we’d have given him the bank he wouldn’t have appreciated it, would have coasted. I don’t want to agree. Stubbornness and pride make me want to deny it. Hilary spits on my face when he talks. Alan and Collins are together at the bar. Collins looks over his shoulder, beams at me and it occurs to me that I can’t deny Hilary was right to not put him on the bank. Anger flares up in me. Anger at his arrogance. I excuse myself, go to the toilet. My face is stark in the mirror. White with dark rings under my eyes. Eyes which stare right through the mirror, right through the reflection. Veteran eyes with a thousand yard stare. Bamidele is behind me, hand on my shoulder, muttering words I don’t understand into my ear. His stomach cut open, the purple of his intestines visible underneath the peeled back skin of his torso. He sees me looking at them and pulls at them, unravelling them and looping them about my neck like a scarf.
Back in the restaurant I remember the chop in my inside pocket and then it is as good as over again.
67.
Janet is trying not to judge me. She’s trying to keep her face neutral. I can see that she’s overflowing with questions.
I am naked and shamed.
Everything is in the open. I’ve worked my way through the whole Zoo, she knows who they all are now.
‘I would like to try something,’ she says.
She’s waiting for me to reply, so I say, ‘Okay.’
She takes a packet of post-it notes and places it on the desk before me, then adds a marker pen.
‘This is a just a hunch, so I want you to just go with it and trust me. But I think you’re ready now.’
The sentence rises at the end in a question, so I nod at her, my eyes on the post-its.
‘If you feel uncomfortable at any point just let me know and we’ll stop. I think this will help. Okay?’
Again I nod.
‘Right. I want you to take the post-its and I want you to write the name of everyone who is important to you. Everybody who means something to you. Is that okay?’
I nod and reach out for the pad. Hold it in my hand and strum the edge of it like a flick book.
‘When you’re ready,’ she says, soft and reassuring.
I grasp the pen and place the end in my mouth. Search. Choose where to start. Glance at The Zoo.
‘Do I have to like them?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you want to me to choose the people who are most important to me because I like them?’
She considers it.
‘No. People can be important because they are a negative influence as well as positive. Go with the people who have had the most impact on you. Who have driven the direction of your life. For better or worse.’
It’s my turn to consider. Chew the end of the pen.
‘In here or out there?’ I say eventually.
‘Up to you. But I think it should for the most part be people from before you began your stay with us.’
I chew the pen again. Then write HILARY in block capitals on the first post-it.
‘Good,’ says Janet. She tears it off and sticks it on the far left of the desk in front of me. ‘Who’s next?’
I write SALLY. Janet examines me over her glasses as if to say interesting. I scrawl HARRY on the next post-it, my hand shaking as I do so. Then ALAN on the one below. I hand them all to Janet who lays them out. I’m struggling now.
‘Go on,’ she says.
Write BAXTER. Hand it to her. COLLINS on another.
‘Good. Any more?’
I think of the bank. Think of the effect it has had on my life. The damage it has caused. Momentarily consider writing Bamidele, before I realise I could never explain it, so instead scribble BEN. Push the pad back to Janet. Then grab it back. Write BERKSHIRE, then JESSICA, sit back and fold my arms. Lean back in the chair.
Lou? Should I include Lou? Yes. Write her name. What about Dan? No. Dan is always there, but not important. I feel a flash of guilt even as I think this, but know it’s true. Good old Dan. Dependable Dan. Ineffectual Dan. An appendage to a stronger personality. No, he doesn’t need to be there.
They’re all there.
‘Now what?’ I ask her.
She takes the post-its, writes my name in an elegant hand and sticks it to the desk, then lines The Zoo up above the post-its.
‘Now we choose which is which,’ she says.
68.
I’m cowering in my office when I hear the smash of glass and something heavy hit the floor.
I’ve been looking over the creative we’ve produced for an energy company we work for. The words and images swim before my tired eyes, out of focus and then reforming into something threatening and hostile. Rub my eyes and pull them back to the images of wind farms and sunsets and warm reassuring copy. Then, as soon as I allow myself to drift, they twist and turn, becoming fire and skulls and the words tell me things I don’t want to know.
When I hear the furore it comes as a relief.
I open my door to a room full of scared faces. Ruth points towards Hilary’s office. I mouth, ‘What’s happening?’ and she shrugs.
Another smash. Something hits the inside of the door of Hilary’s office, which shudders in the frame. I knock and Hilary shouts ‘fuck off’ from inside. Open the door a fraction. He growls at me and launches a book at the gap. It hits the wall instead.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask and he tells me to fuck off again.
‘I’m coming in,’ I say, ease myself into the room, close the door and press my back against it. Hilary’s eyes are cold as he weighs up a picture frame in his right hand.
‘Don’t,’ I say, trying to sound firm.
Hilary looks at the picture as if it’s the first time he’s seen it and replaces it on the desk.
‘Sorry, old boy,’ he says.
The office is a mess. The glass top of his desk is crazed with cracks, the bookcase tipped over, folders and textbooks spilled from it, the tide nearly reaching my feet. Pictures have been pulled from the wall and shredded into confetti. The glass in the picture frame Hilary was holding is shattered. It’s his wedding photo.
‘What happened?’ I ask him, although I already know.
He takes an envelope from the desk and holds it out to me.
I know what is inside before I open it. Before I read the words.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say and it has more than one meaning.
‘Irreconcilable differences. What does that mean anyway?’
I shrug. But I know. Even now I can see my family falling away into blackness.
‘I always treated her well,’ his voice choked, ‘she never wanted for anything. Fair enough, we argued, but who doesn’t?’
‘I’m not really in any position to talk.’
Hilary pulls a bottle of whisky from under his desk, takes a huge swig from it, winces, then passes it to me. The liquid is a razor on its way down.
‘I’ve tried talking to the old biddy, but she won’t have it. She won’t take my calls. I’m too old for this.’
‘You don’t need to be here. Let’s take you home.’
I hold my unbroken arm out to him. Help him clamber over the wreck of his office. He clutches the bottle to his chest.
In the car on the way to his house, as I struggle to change gear with the weight of my plaster, he drinks continuously, chuntering about how he loves Angie, how he’d never hurt her, how she knows that, and I agree with him, nod and smile, all the while thinking about condoms in a
pocket and hoping against hope this isn’t my fault, my heart plummeting with every mile unravelling beneath the car.
‘I think I’m losing my mind,’ I say, ‘I’m seeing things, things that aren’t there.’
Hilary doesn’t acknowledge me, carries on talking.
‘I know I’m a man and I shouldn’t be worried about this, but I haven’t been on my own for my entire adult life. I just don’t have the skills that she does, never thought I’d need them. Pathetic, isn’t it?’
‘Violent things. Awful things. I don’t know how to tell anyone. I’m going insane and I can’t stop it.’
Hilary sighs and drums his fingers on the dashboard.
‘I think I might hurt someone,’ I say, ‘I nearly hurt my son. I don’t trust myself anymore. I think I’m dangerous.’
Hilary shows no sign of having heard me. He turns the radio on. The car is full of classical music. It should calm me; instead it’s like blades over my skin.
‘Don’t let this happen to you, old boy. It’s not too late for you. We’ll go home. Get you cleaned up and then you need to go and see them. Beg and plead. Do whatever it takes to get them back.’
‘It’s possible I’ll hurt them.’
Hilary nods sagely. ‘Yes, it’s too late for me, but we can save your marriage before it all goes to shit. I’m going to make it my mission to put things right. It’s time for you to give it a whirl. Last chance saloon, old fellow.’
I trace the vein on the inside of my wrist with a numb fingertip.
69.
Sitting in my car outside my house I’m so cold my hands are numb. My neck is sore where I scraped at it with one of Hilary’s blunt razors.
There’s movement inside the lounge.
Swallowing my nerves I get out of the car and creep up the drive, open the gate at the side of the house and shimmy down the alleyway. In the back garden winter has taken hold of the grass, all the green has leached from it and it looks like a monochrome photograph. Framed by the window the kitchen is an oasis of warmth. It looks like the archetypal home in the tripe I pump out to sell stuff. Half expecting it to be locked, I try the back door and am shocked when it swings open. I slide my shoes off at the door. The sound of the TV wafts into the kitchen, welcome as the smell of freshly baked bread. The lounge door is slightly open. Through it I can see the back of Harry’s head, bobbing along with the theme tune of a kids’ programme.
I step into the lounge.
Sandra jumps up from the sofa.
‘What the f- . James. What happened to you? What are you doing here?’ Her plummy accent is sharpened by hysteria.
‘I’ve come to see my son.’ I say.
‘D-d-d-d-dad,’ says Harry, moving towards Sandra, who puts her arm across his chest.
I kneel, so I am at his head height.
‘I missed you, Harry. I love you. I wanted to see you. Don’t worry about this,’ I say, waving my arm in front of him, ‘Daddy had a little accident.’
He looks up at Sandra and then me, confusion on his face.
‘Sandra, don’t try and stop my son from coming to me.’ Attempting to keep my voice calm, to stop it being threatening. I’m not succeeding. I know she’s scared of me and despite myself I get a thrill from this.
‘Okay,’ she says and lets go of Harry.
‘Harry, come and give me a cuddle, I’ve missed you.’
He’s thinking about it. I can see the turmoil in his little head, see it register in flickers of his eyes, from his Gran to his Father.
‘Come on, Harry,’ my arms reach out. He leaves me hanging there.
Sandra kneels too. Looks right in his face. Right in my son’s face and says, ‘Harry darling, would you mind going into your room for a minute, Nanna and Daddy need some adult time.’
He looks at me, his eyes a question and right there I know I haven’t lost him, that it’s not too late, so I nod and he shuffles out of the room.
The minute the door is closed I turn on Sandra. ‘How fucking dare you try and stop my son coming to me. My fucking son.’
She’s rattled. Her gaze rests on my clenched fists.
‘You did this. Don’t try and turn the blame on me, young man.’
‘Fuck you,’ I say, ‘you meddling old witch. You’ve never liked me. And now you see your chance. I won’t let you though, I won’t let you use my son as a wedge between Sally and me.’
‘She doesn’t want you here. And she doesn’t want you near Harry. Not at the moment.’
The red mist is descending, filling the lounge, I can hardly see through it. This is not what I wanted. This is not what I planned. Anger and hatred are coiled up in my stomach.
‘Do not think that you can speak for my wife and child.’
‘I’m only repeating what she has told me. I think you need to leave now. You’re scaring me and you’re scaring Harry.’
I slam myself down in the sofa, kick off my shoes.
‘You can’t tell me to leave my own home. Now, why don’t you fuck off and meddle in someone else’s family and leave mine alone.’
Sandra is white. Her hands are shaking as she pulls her mobile phone out of her trouser pocket and goes out into the hall. I can catch odd words. Assume she is talking to Sally.
I want to speak to Harry. To calm him down, to tell him everything is going to be alright. In the hall Sandra is sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. I try to step over her but she stands and puts her arm across the stairs. I can’t believe she’s doing this, didn’t think she’d have the balls. I peel her fingers off the bannister and lift her arm. She immediately puts the other one down. I peel that one away. The first one replaces it. Anger boils over. I raise my hand, anger encouraging me to backhand her across the face. The look on her face, horror, disgust, fear, pity, stops me.
As I make my way into the lounge she says, ‘Sally is on her way back to deal with this.’
‘Good,’ I say and sit down on the sofa, my hands shaking so hard that I can’t light an illicit cigarette.
70.
The Zoo is lined up in front of me. In front of the line of yellow post-its. Above them both is Janet’s face, expectant and eager.
Inside I am confused and terrified. Feel like this is a test, one orchestrated through the collusion of The Zoo and Janet. One that I don’t want to fail.
Is this what The Zoo wants? Has it pushed me here? There certainly feels an inevitability about this. I’ve been hiding from it for so long, maybe it is time to confront it? But what if doing this angers it? What if by trying to define it like this I awaken it again? The damage it could inflict in here is terrible, it’s already shown that, and I can’t help thinking about the piece of paper with Beth’s name on it. But then Bamidele pushed me this way too and he seems to know what it wants.
And there is Janet. She seems to have been wanting me to get to this moment too.
‘Shall I help you?’ she asks.
My eyes pass over The Zoo.
The Cowboy.
The Knight.
The Pirate.
The Soldier.
The Lion.
The Rhino.
I push them aside to make a gap where The Ape should sit.
The Horse.
The Zebra.
The Dog.
The Chicken.
Then I look at the names.
JAMES.
BEN.
BAXTER.
COLLINS.
JESSICA.
SALLY.
LOU.
ALAN.
HILARY.
BERKSHIRE.
HARRY.
I can’t. I can’t equate my son with all this violence. I shake my head vigorously and mouth no.
She can sense my anguish. Pats my hand, says, ‘it’s okay, don’t worry. We can stop whenever you want. You can change it any time. Just try putting a name next to one of the toys. It doesn’t matter if any are left over. It’s just an exercise.’
I snatch up HILARY. Run through The Zoo
. There is only one place he could sit.
He is at the top. He is the principal and takes his place as a leader of men with a stoic acceptance I respect. He knows this is his position, he expects it, but doesn’t seek it, and this is why it is his.
I stick the HILARY post-it to the desk underneath The Cowboy.
Next I pick up BAXTER. This is harder. Much harder. I dial through the story of The Zoo. A flash of warm feeling that surprises me. I am genuinely fond of the boy. I am worried for him.
He is an Andalusian, purebred and Mediterranean, you can see the passion in the flare of his nostrils and the arrogant tilt of his head. I’ve never seen The Cowboy ride him of course, I believe though, that if he wanted to ride him then the horse would allow it.
I position BAXTER under The Horse.
‘Good,’ says Janet, ‘you’re doing great.’
‘More?’
‘Yes please,’ she says. My hand hovers over the next post-it.
71.
In the empty lounge I huddle around a small fire of photographs on a plate and my mind projects images of murder onto the wall. I light a cigarette from the flames and it burns until the ash falls onto my carpet.
Sally is gone.
Harry is gone.
My family leaking away from me like heat from a bleeding radiator.
Sometime in the night Bamidele appears on the other side of the flames.
‘The first time I went into the mine it was so hot that I could not breathe.’ He sounds older. ‘It was like climbing down into hell. Now it takes me so long to get down there I stay for a week. Hundreds of us in there. Hot. Torches strapped to our heads. The bang of our tools against rock,’ his voice drifts away, his face distorting in the flickering candlelight. Changing. Hints of Hilary. Skin turning white. Eyes sinking into black pits.
Thinking back about Sally, her arm around Harry. Pulling him away from me. Screaming in my face. Stopping herself from swearing, but full of venom. Sheer hatred. Refusing to allow me to speak. Screaming infidelity. Screaming cheater and I understand that she knows. She knows.
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