‘The prey also may be killed by the lion enclosing the animal’s mouth and nostrils in its jaws (which would also result in asphyxia).’
The lion reared up and threw its full weight at the Perspex divide. The entire side of the enclosure shook with the impact. Daniel caught his heel on a drain cover and tumbled over backwards causing one of his slippers to fall off.
‘Perhaps it’s “nosotros habíamos amado”, or is that the preterito anterior?’ pondered Jumbe. ‘How does anyone ever remember? I would simply hate to be ordering a cocktail in one of those really chi-chi salons which have become so very popular on the Gran Via in Madrid, near the Jardines de Sabatini – you must know it – and find that I couldn’t…’
‘Smaller prey, though, may simply be killed by a swipe of a lion’s paw.’
M rose, wiped tears from his cheeks and led Daniel to the entrance of the enclosure.
‘Of course for ambience there is nothing to beat that little tapas bar just off the Calle de la Montera,’ said Jumbe. ‘They serve the most perfect Tortillas de Camarones but the Ceviche, well, it’s out of this world, it’s as if…’
‘All the lion’s teeth are equipped with very sensitive nerves that allow the lion, during a bite, to find the veins and the arteries of its prey, by feeling the blood flowing inside them.’
The lion was roaring in an excited, blood-curdling manner. Daniel had never defied his father before – one did not defy M, it would have been an exercise in futility – but as his father slipped the key into the lock of the enclosure door, Daniel tried to pull his hand in any direction other than that involving lion and lion-related environs.
‘These nerves also help the lion know when its prey is killed, because the blood stops flowing and its prey stops breathing.’
Within seconds the door had closed with Daniel very definitely on the wrong side.
‘Oh,’ said Jumbe. ‘I wouldn’t come in here if I were you, I think there might be some lions, frightful beasts. I bought some Acqua di Selva cologne by Visconti di Modrone last week, which lends one a youthful burst of top-note freshness and one of them actually drank it, all of it and then sicked it up with a fur ball. It’s this kind of decadence which led to the collapse of the Holy Roman Empire. Ohh, are you wearing pyjamas by Max and Maude, let me see, I love their intricate stitching and bold combination of silks and man-made cottons in primary colours…’
The lion appeared to be bounding towards Daniel with jaw-gaping ardour and murderous malice aforethought. Daniel tried to run but he only had one slipper and his feet would not move. When the lion was so close that Daniel could smell his wretched breath, a switch flicked on in the extrasolar region of his brain and his legs began running independently from the rest of his body. They took him into the lion’s interior habitat area which appeared to offer a better option than, for example, waiting around to be torn into tiny shreds and devoured whilst still alive. His legs had not really thought through the issue of whether an enclosure containing four ravenous lions was likely to offer a small boy in pyjamas a hospitable reception but that’s legs for you – the bastards.
‘A Lions’ jaws are short (by comparison, for example, to a wolf’s jaws). They are also not capable of moving side-to-side, like the jaws of a herbivore. This helps the lion to give a steady and more effective bite, as the jaw follows a strictly vertical, scissor-like motion.’
‘I think you’ll find that wasn’t very wise,’ said Jumbe as Daniel entered his sleeping quarters. He sat down, neatly curled his tail around his feet and counted to three before Daniel’s legs, thrashing like egg beaters, blurred past him, furiously pursued by Kibibi, Malkia, Imara and Kibwana.
Daniel knew he was about to die with a clarity he had not experienced when hurtling down a raging river in a sinking dinghy or hanging by his fingertips from a multi-storey car park. Death had suddenly acquired a level of inevitability and immediacy that was almost but not quite poignant. Its bitter taste filled Daniel’s mouth but he would not swallow. He sprinted in several directions at once, feeling the arduous breath of the demon caress his naked heels.
‘Lions are not known for their stamina – for instance, a lioness’s heart makes up only 0.57 percent of her body weight (a male’s is about 0.45 percent of his body weight), whereas a hyena’s heart is close to one percent of its body weight. Thus, they only run fast in short bursts and need to be close to their prey before starting the attack.’
Finding himself in the furthest corner of the enclosure, twenty metre-high Perspex fencing on one side and a sheer wall of stone on the other, Daniel turned to face the beasts who had formed a heavy breathing carnivorous semicircle around him. The lions looked at each other. None of them had ever eaten live meat and the level of their excitement was tangible. Malkia chirruped in sensual anticipation and Imara and Kibwana jockeyed against each other for position but it was Kibibi who was first to attack.
‘The inability of the jaw to move side-to-side is common to all cats. Lions, like all cats, do not chew their food, but swallow it in chunks. Generally speaking, the lion combines a set of big, thick and sharp teeth with an impressive bite force of 1000 pounds (1 pound = 0.453 kg).’
In the wild, it is difficult to be certain who would emerge the victor, should a rhinoceros meet a lioness in battle. Like Kruschev and Kennedy, it was the vagaries of the outcome and the prospect of both sides suffering a terrible defeat that forestalled the conflict, but it was only ever deferred.
Just as she was about to deal Daniel a first, terrible blow, Kibibi sensed, more than saw, a fully-grown male rhinoceros dressed in a metropolitan policeman’s uniform with sick down the front, smash through the ranks of her pride and plough into her side with deadly finality. Her head flew into the rock face beside Daniel and her skull was cleaved in two. Her eyes still open, her steaming brains plopped onto Daniel’s remaining slipper. ‘Fuck this,’ said M, leading Daniel by the arm and slapping aside Imara’s half-hearted attempt to strike out at him, striding out of the enclosure and locking the door behind him.
*
Daniel sat with M in the car as they had sat before, as they would never sit again.
‘If this is supposed to be character building,’ said Daniel, ‘consider my character built.’
M remained silent, his head resting on the steering wheel, his face masked with lion blood.
‘Do you love me, Dad?’ asked Daniel.
M looked at his son, his surviving son. ‘Love died with God and table manners on the day you were born. All there is left is a dull ache that never goes away. It’s in here.’ He smacked his head on the steering wheel over and over again. ‘It will never, ever leave me alone, you will never leave me alone until I make it happen with my own hands. I see that now.’
Chapter 30
Jonathan ‘The Paintbrush Accident’ Murray had erased his past so comprehensively that all that could be said with any certainty was that he had been born and even this was the subject of some conjecture. Had a team of beardy, unwashed, sandal-wearing, prog rock-loving, girlfriendless archeologists undertaken a meticulous fingertip excavation of the billowing fronds of his psyche they would not have found the tiniest shred of empathy for his fellow man amongst the shards of clay pipes and Roman coins. There was a certain hubris about Jonathan’s contempt for the human race, an alacrity with which he would seize the opportunity to throw rocks at a drowning swimmer or accidentally slam someone’s balls in his car door. It was therefore no surprise that Jonathan was given the role of the D’Oily Cart’s children’s guidance counsellor and therapist immediately after the welcome demise of Florence Wagstaff who was mauled to death by an anteater which had become lodged in the hood of her cagoule. The very antithesis of natural causes.
The process for making an appointment with The Paintbrush was designed to be so gothically circuitous that all but a few children were discouraged from embarking upon it. Those that did were instructed to read the obituary column of the Rochester and Chatham Daily News where The Pa
intbrush occasionally left cryptic clues as to the funerals he would be attending the following week. If The Paintbrush (whose appearance was unknown to anyone) was present in the congregation and correctly identified the counselling session would take place in the twenty minute gap between the end of the service and tea and biscuits.
This led to a number of unfortunate incidents.
The cremation of Mr/Ms Fernier Strunphhurr (no relation of Vassillious Strunphhurr – the inventor of the weaponised ladybird) was interrupted when seven-year-old Marcia Miller asked the widow/widower of the deceased whether she could advise her about discouraging the children in her geography class from setting fire to her head again.
The Viking burial at sea of Field Marshal Vesta Turpitude, Jnr was called to an abrupt halt when eight-year-old Marcia Miller asked the Neptune Society’s Chief Operating Officer whether she would go to hell if she continued to eat the guinea pigs from the school’s pet society.
*
The reconstructionist pagan mummification ceremony of Torch Nightwing Starchild was well underway when Daniel sidled into the rear of the Temple of all Galaxies which was situated between a Halal butchers and Turnpike Lane tube station. It was not difficult to identify The Paintbrush because he was dressed in a retro herringbone check suit and the remainder of the congregation were bat shit naked and smeared in blue woad and ox fat.
‘Mr Murray?’ asked Daniel.
The Paintbrush did not look at the child who had taken a seat next to him but his left eye flickered and closed like a failing electric light bulb.
‘There is an almost lyrical quietus, an arrogance of misery in a funeral which is irresistible don’t you agree Mr – ‘
‘M, Daniel M.’
The Paintbrush jolted as if someone had just pulled a particularly thick hair out of his nostril.
‘Not dead yet then, Mr M?’
‘Evidently,’ replied Daniel.
The Paintbrush employed the tip of his crushed velvet tie to dab at the corners of his eyes and turned to see the face of the first child who had ever tracked him down.
‘So, what appears to be the problem?’ he asked, smiling at his own perspicacity.
‘Aside from my father trying to kill me and my mother thinking she is a mermaid?’
The Paintbrush sighed, this was exactly why his job as children’s guidance counsellor was so much easier when he did not have to offer guidance to children. He had never actually met a child in the flesh and had no idea where to begin.
‘Yes, well, how does that make you…’ The Paintbrush shivered at the limitless frailty of the human condition, ‘feel?’
‘Sad,’ said Daniel. ‘Sad for myself. It’s like I have a hole inside my stomach where happiness belongs and having nothing to fill it with. Every day is like being a spider hanging by the end of its thread in a rain storm, knowing that if it lets go it will be blown away into oblivion. Every night when I close my eyes, my mind struggles to break free and spiral downwards towards infinity and I know that if I let it I will never be able to find my way back.’
‘I see,’ said The Paintbrush who had no positive childhood experiences to call upon. That was a door which had been nailed closed and bricked over. ‘Perhaps you should try to interest your father in taking up a hobby.’
Daniel looked carefully into the eyes of the school counsellor. They were grey-green, like a pond in a neglected garden. There were no answers here. He stood up and left.
A wave of relief washed over the seaweed and pebbles of the barren shore of Jonathan Murray’s heart but the faint aroma of a long suppressed desire to unwrite some of the damage he himself had suffered, drove his legs to stand and pursue Daniel.
*
Daniel arrived at the path that ran along the side of the New River in Islington as a swathe of cold black water parted to allow a barge to lope past towards Camden Lock. A young girl in a fairy dress sat on the bow of the boat hugging a chocolate-coloured Labrador with a lolloping tongue. This was the other world which Daniel glimpsed from time to time, a world where cataclysm did not pursue you like you were magnetised to it. He sat down on the edge of the towpath and watched mottled monochrone clouds float across the surface of the water between the ducks and detritus.
The reflection of The Paintbrush sat down beside Daniel, lowered its feet into the lipid water until its shoes and the end of its suit trousers had disappeared. Daniel took off his trainers and socks and joined him. The tips of his toes scuffed the surface of the canal and he shivered at its icily silken touch.
‘I can’t remember what my mother looks like,’ said Daniel. ‘I try to imagine the texture of her smile, the way her eyes speak, the colour of her voice. I screw up my eyes and I punch my head and scream her name but there is nothing left. My father has burnt all her photographs and her features have been washed away like a wedding ring down a sink. She used to sit on my bed when I was younger and sometimes she would read from a journal she had written in a huge clothbound notebook with the word “fear” written on the front cover in blood but most of the time she would cry and I would hold her and stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be fine. I just want to know where her face has gone. If you can tell me that then maybe I can make sense of everything else.’
The Paintbrush took off his tie and threw it into the canal where it caught on the oar of a rowing boat before disappearing below the water like the carapace of a scarlet sea serpent.
‘Sometimes I think about jumping in,’ said Daniel.
‘What’s stopping you?’ asked The Paintbrush, ‘I probably would if I were you.’
‘Is this therapeutic counselling?’ asked Daniel, ‘Because if it is, it is very subtle.’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ said The Paintbrush. ‘I live in the back of a Ford Mondeo. Last night my evening meal consisted of a bowl of cornflakes and a scotch egg. I take anti-psychotic medication which causes me to have frequent blackouts and if I don’t take it I can hear my mother’s and father’s screams just before they died over and over again. Oh, and I am employed as a school counsellor but I detest children.’
A duck swam past so closely that its wing brushed Daniel’s leg. It felt like a kiss his mother had given him on his first day of school – fleeting, disengaged.
‘Part of my father loves me and wants to protect me which is really nice, it’s just that a far larger part of him wants me to die.’
‘So you feel abandoned by your mother and betrayed by your father?’ asked The Paintbrush, getting into his stride. He was so pleased with himself he did not notice his right shoe floating off.
Daniel realised that there was something impoverished about an adult’s language when they tried to describe the pain suffered by a child. They used words as if they were loaded weapons, they had lost the ability to navigate a path between the verdant groves and nuances which defined a newly formed personality, to differentiate between scars and bruises.
‘My parents owe me nothing, the world owes me nothing. I get up every morning and I don’t know if I am going to be given my packed lunch and taken to school or face my own death, but the ache I feel in the pit of my stomach isn’t fear and it isn’t hope. I can’t ask my father to stop trying to kill me because he doesn’t know why he started.’
The Paintbrush took a final look into Daniel’s eyes, at an honesty which was unendurable.
‘If a river is poisoned,’ he said, ‘you need to find the source.’
Without looking back he slipped into the water and began swimming in the direction of Camden Lock. His progress was inelegant – slower than the ducks and geese which quickly surrounded him, but at least it was progress.
Daniel sat and watched The Paintbrush become a punctuation mark on the ellipse of the water. He knew he had to find his grandparents.
Chapter 31
Daniel’s grandfather Jonah shared the Hatred Cafe, in which he lived and worked, with a cat of indeterminate age and origin called The Treatment. Jonah had never liked cats, p
erhaps because he sensed that they alone could see through the thin veneer of his humanity into the wretched effervescing cauldron of animosity which dwelt below. When Jonah found that a cat had entered his home and was sitting in his armchair observing him with practised indifference and poorly suppressed incredulity at the human condition, he picked it up by its neck with a view to violently terminating this expression and the cat attached to it.
This was a mistake.
Jonah realised that this was a mistake because as he held The Treatment’s throat between his fingers, he saw the festering contempt for all of mankind which dwelt deep within its black, black eyes; a hatred that was gothic in its intensity. What helped Jonah to concentrate on The Treatment’s expression were the claws which were imbedded in his eyebrows. Jonah was attached to his eyebrows but so too, in a literal sense, was the cat. On reflection he returned The Treatment to his armchair and the cat, in turn, returned Jonah’s eyebrows to his face.
It came as something of a surprise to Daniel to discover his grandfather’s telephone number in his father’s address book since he had been under the impression that Jonah was dead.
‘Did you kill grandfather?’ asked Daniel that afternoon, when it became apparent that his father had nothing planned that would be especially injurious to his health.
‘Yes,’ said M.
‘Only I called him an hour ago and he’s coming round to see me.’
M reflected for a moment, running his hand around the circumference of his catastrophic girth.
‘It would appear that he’s not as dead as I might have suggested.’
*
Jonah stood on M’s doorstep, hopping from leg to leg, like a four-year-old in need of the toilet, in an effort to contain the internal combustion engine that dwelt between his ears.
‘Boy called me, told me he had some questions needed answering,’ muttered Jonah. ‘Thinking of taking him to the cafe.’ His flammable expression suggested that he was afflicted with a personality disorder of arrogant potency.
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