Gathering Evidence

by Martin MacInnes

  Perhaps he had a fever, the infection worse than he realised. It might explain what had happened the night before, the intruder at the table. No-one had been in the house, of course. He must have dreamed it, agitated with fever, made unreasonable inferences from the sound of distant doors closing. What mattered was the car, the blood on the seats, his phone. The fact that the doctor had lied to him about checking the car.

  From that one deception, a whole concatenation of questions appeared, branching out one from the next. How had he got to the hospital? What exactly had the doctor told him about his condition when he was admitted? Who had authorised his release while he was still at such an early stage of recovery, barely able to care for himself? Why had he still not been shown any paperwork? Definitive proof of the results of the tests? He needed to think clearly, needed to decide what to do. The one thing he knew was that he couldn’t continue like this, couldn’t stay trapped in his own home.

  XX

  The prints returned the following night. The impressions were clearer and I was able to study the animal in more detail. The animal, this time, was moving cautiously, as if to avoid detection. The marks indicated anticipation, intent. The fore feet were placed on the ground separately, consecutively. I pictured the hind legs appearing to will contact with the fore, the animal seeming almost to step into itself, suddenly arriving further along the ground. The walking stride was approximately eighty centimetres in length. The short stride and clear straddle implied that, counter to the previous prints and to my earlier speculation, the animal was hunting.

  Were it not for the cloven hoofs we would have been confident we were dealing with a juvenile leopard, perhaps on one of its first lone hunts. This would have explained the repeated alarm of the troop. But the marks we saw were more like that of a boar. Was it a single, isolated, perhaps wounded creature we were facing? A dangerously unpredictable boar?

  We had to be better at clearing our signs. We built over the latrine with piles of fresh heaped earth, put leaves and stones gathered from the stream on top. We urinated further downstream, shared the trowel and dug a foot down each time we needed to defecate. At meals we wrapped remains into second bags and buried them. Rather than taking a bucket to wash, we went singly, directly to the stream, so our cleaning would wash off too. Without renewed contact from the gates we wouldn’t be able to communicate our new position. They wouldn’t find us when they came in. So we couldn’t move. I was more worried about the other possibility, that, having moved to a new site, the animal would follow us. We would then know that we were being hunted. I tried not to think about the rumours, the animals strung up in the trees, the skin of their necks flayed. We couldn’t leave the park, not yet. The storms were making it harder to isolate the animals and take our samples, and we still had three to go.

  The hoofs returned a third night. Again, the nature of the impressions indicated the animal was stalking. There was no advantage, at this point, in pretending the situation wasn’t serious. There was no doubt we interested the animal. However unlikely it might have seemed, I felt the animal was measuring us, surveying us. An attack may yet be imminent. We had taken turns to stay up, and though on several occasions we had shone our light into the darkness, on hearing what appeared to be a branch snapping underfoot, a light splash in one of the new pools, we were yet to see a definitive form. The prints had appeared, impossibly, in the slow daylight. We groaned, cursed, began packing our first things. I wrote what was intended to be a brief account of what had happened, covered it and tied it down on the most prominent tree by our camp. We were close to the given coordinates and the rangers would almost certainly find the place. We didn’t know how far out we’d have to go. I’d have to return here, to the present site, to amend the account as soon as I had the new coordinates. I briefly surveyed the rest of our things, imagined carrying everything. As we’d consumed most of our food and gas supplies, it should have been easier to transport it, but the opposite was the case. Our stuff seemed, if anything, to have grown. The temptation in these poor conditions – lack of sleep and diminished diet, isolation both from ourselves and from all others, worries about illness and, of course, the unattributed nature of what was continuing to happen around us – was to believe we were cursed, that it was all hopeless, that we were bound to fail in this and the best, most honest thing to do was simply stop, lay ourselves on the ground and admit that we couldn’t carry on. I controlled my breath and forced my eyes open. We could not leave the park, could not flee like this, our work incomplete, nothing resolved, unable to account for what had happened. We were just weaker, that was all, and it was natural that everything appeared heavier now.

  XXI

  It had spread to other objects, appearing on two of the plates on the draining-board by the sink, on the still damp linen and on the clothes hanging in the vestibule. It reached further across the wall, on which the first cracks had started to appear; unchecked, the damp would bring down the house. He imagined he could hear the popping of thousands of spores released each second, amplified in his brain, the yeast budding in his open scalp, the infection poisoning his blood, making his body weaker, the manner of his thinking more frenzied.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the doctor last visited. Everything was covered in a fine layer of mould, like ash after a fire. He had even found it reaching into the cupboards, searching out the things he held most precious. Mould on Shel’s winter coat, working on the seasons’ dust stored under the stiff collar, which she had liked to wear up but which had fallen over time, hanging unused. The mould, in growing over her collar, made a claim on her, as if it knew her, knew her history, every place she’d been to and everything she’d done, every time she’d turned her head in interest, every time she’d become distracted, every reverie, knew this and knew how she walked, how she’d learned to walk, who she watched when she crawled and took her first step, the smiles on Ivan’s and Catherine’s faces as they saw her move, attempt to stand, and falter, and go on trying, climbing over furniture, pushing against the wall, lifting herself up again. All this, he thought, was recognised by the thousands of spores budding and developing in the hard compacted wool collar of her coat.

  He took the collar in his hand, felt it give, felt it, everything that was acknowledged in it, the uncountable iterations of Shel’s identity, to be on the verge of collapse. Powder soft, the black-green smear carried away in his fingers.

  The spores turned under his nails. As he looked down from Shel’s coat he saw his feet and felt a great pity for them, for the weight that they carried. Each piece of chipped skin, every scar, every deformation in the outgrowth of a nail, every blotch, every asymmetric hair growth, formed a transparent record of his life. He remembered, what seemed so long ago now, being out in the open, running, thudding again and again off a hard surface, then not thudding but springing, moving lightly and making only minimal contact with the ground.

  Kept to the cottage, confined by the fog and by his illness, he missed it, missed it all, even the rough feel of the wool socks on the base of his feet as he ran, the fibrous, sweaty crunch, hard skin stretched over the bone. He missed it desperately, sensation, real sensation, the most ordinary and unremarkable experience of life. Attached to the cottage, the mould around him a kind of company, he saw the growth taking nutrients wherever it could, taking pollen, vapour, taking himself, his own body and all its ongoing processes. Taking his mind, his memory, his thoughts – energy intensive and attractive – every shard of perception and awareness more material for its growth, further proof of his confinement in the smallest room and the room closest to the outside, an outside he thought he might never see again. It seemed remarkable, incredible, wonderful that he had ever been anywhere else. He tried to keep remembering, to recall his whole life, the most fleeting impression onwards. He continued, another sensation, pain first, pain strongest, recalling the ache in his head after the attack, the tenderness in his mouth, his lower face, the rawness and the sense o
f that part of his body being unsupportable, recalled the way he lay in bed and his efforts to find the least agonising position to set himself, to be himself, to have himself continue in, felt unbearable tenderness for the person laying the body down and trying to manage pain, trying not to panic, to be reasonable, to go on living with it, shifting position by increments, felt astonishment towards this level of perseverance and optimism, trying every new position, putting the body here and then there, shifting millimetres further one direction and then another, a grotesque form of what he had been doing his whole life – walking, moving, taking himself from place to place, this impossible companionship, this ceaseless accompaniment, bringing him always somewhere, seeking out old places and invariably returning to the familiar, carrying on, always, he had to, there was nowhere else, adjusting the position by increments, millimetres, seeing how the new arrangement felt, how it fit.

  There was a sudden noise from outside, close. A dragging and a thud, repeating. The vestibule door was open. The sound was coming from the steps by the door. The sharp retort of three knocks. He stayed where he was, listening, hearing feet shuffling on the doorstep. The doctor called out in a bright, cheery voice, a tone that felt rehearsed.

  ‘John? Hello, John? I know you’re there. I can hear you. Is there a problem? Is anything the matter, John?’

  He didn’t answer.

  He flinched, hearing a rattling sound as the doctor seized the handle. The door shook in its frame – the whole downstairs level seemed to rattle. He was dizzy again; he thought he might be about to faint. He put his hand up to his scalp, feeling the heat beneath his fingertips. He thought perhaps he should let the doctor in, let him attend to the infection, but he wasn’t sure he could trust him. Silence from outside. He crept closer to the door, entering the vestibule. The pain in his scalp worsened, but he ignored it as he approached the panel of frosted glass. He peered through the warped glass, seeing if he could make out any shadows. The doctor must have gone.

  The door shook again and he recoiled, saw the doctor’s silhouette against the glass, his long arms, his hat. His face was pressed against the door and his words came out distorted. He thought he heard water in his mouth, hanging saliva, as the doctor struggled to get his words out.

  ‘John, it’s me. John? I just want to check you’re okay. I just want to make sure there aren’t any problems, and that you’ve not had an accident. Don’t keep me out here, John. Let me in. If you don’t signal to me then please be aware that I will return. I will come back throughout the day, and at a certain point I will be left with no choice. Do you understand? Mr Harper? John? Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Open the door, John.’

  ‘Not today. It’s my throat. I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to infect you. A day on my own would be good. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, John.’ His head turned on the other side of the glass; the doctor had seen something, was considering something. ‘John,’ he said, his tone more measured, ‘I have certain responsibilities I need to attend to. I really do think you should open the door. John?’

  He heard his breath, a quick panting noise, something expressed through the nose, a note of desperation.

  ‘I really think it’s in your best interests to invite me in. Don’t you agree, John?’

  XXII

  Death most likely occurred through the night, adjacent to her mother in their nest. Alice had found her, and despite the previous nights’ prints no wounds or marks indicated an attack. The coincidence, however, unnerved us. I said I would investigate; Alice and Jane should continue monitoring the other groups as best they could. We had to continue working, had to occupy ourselves. Waiting, huddled in our tent, was the worst thing we could do.

  I determined to record everything. The mother (CI) carried the deceased infant, the dependent daughter she’d been keeping such careful watch over, while the sub-group formed at the beginning of the day, and both were included in core group activities. The infant body was carried and passed between four central adult females. CI groomed her repeatedly, as did an older male, possibly a sibling, and several other females, until lack of reciprocity drew all but the mother away. Younger animals indulging later in play behaviour attempted to include her, persisting without apparent frustration, possibly reading her stillness as a new form of recreation. CI remained proximate to the body at all times. Food continued to be gathered and provided. CI alternated between attempts to nurse and attempts to feed from external sources. Husks of partly eaten, decaying fruits gathered around the body and were not removed.

  CI propped the body in a seated position against a tree base. She turned, stretched, then waited, as if testing it, imploring a reaction. It wouldn’t move. She appeared to be practising the most basic animal movements, preparing it, encouraging it, as if she could instruct it back into life through repetition. The body fell. Several conspecifics expressed sharp cries of irritation and displeasure, quickly re-fixing it. They didn’t like it when the corpse’s face became hidden from view, planted in the ground, responding with urgent corrective behaviour. The face itself seemed an essential prerequisite for social inclusion. It would be interesting – if a wider sample base were available – to investigate the average duration of this behaviour. How long will an animal typically persist in looking to discover the face? When, and by what signal, will it ultimately abort, and no longer lift up the infant body, when it falls, in expectation of a face? Is there a specific identifiable point in the decomposition process where the face becomes untenable, definitively strange?

  The evenings passed quietly, without sustained shrieking and with no further appearance of unidentified tracks in our camp. I continued following mother and child. A rotting odour appeared. CI swatted flies away, evidently frustrated and inconvenienced by their interest. The humidity of typical bonobo territories is likely another factor defining the period in which group members fail to realise the body as nonviable; the period is limited by the great speed at which the body softens and carries away. The rains, additionally, speed up the process. By comparison, the common chimpanzee can spend weeks routinely interacting with the cadaver, mothers in particular continuing to express their own understanding of the body’s viability. This phenomenon was observed, once, in the drier uplands to the east, over one hundred and eleven days.

  The foul odour disturbed the group. The animals were more cautious and, following CI’s example, began paying especially close attention to any fruits gathered, opening the case and distributing the seeds by hand, looking into the vacated space with apparent scepticism. The animals seemed to search for the source of the odour throughout their foraging. On four occasions members of external subgroups appeared, curious, drawn by the odour, but these were lower status males and CI comfortably repelled their advances.

  Throughout this period CI attempted, with increasing difficulty, to maintain normal behaviour, carrying the body dorsally, on her back. She folded the infant’s limbs into her own, pushed the small hands and feet in at unnatural, unsupportable angles, bending them in order to fix the body temporarily in place. As the body diminished it began falling, loosened from the unnatural grip, a source of audible displeasure to CI. CI then adapted her movements in an attempt to compensate for this new precarity, moving slower both arboreally and terrestrially and avoiding sharp and sudden turns.

  Conspecifics were making fewer efforts to engage with the infant, but confusion reigned after CI made a radical shift, re-fixing the position of the body and attaching it ventrally, on her front. This led to several adult females approaching and inspecting for the first time in two days. One possibility is that the infant body, smaller, noticeably diminished and now carried on the mother’s underside, where she could be nursed, was taken by the others for a newborn animal. After smelling and licking the softening, rotting body, the conspecifics moved away, displaying agonistic behaviour, screeching and crying out.
CI affected an aggressive posture in response, briefly standing bipedally and extending her arms as wide as possible, with the inevitable effect that the infant body came loose, and she was unable to catch it.

  CI’s behaviour suggested she too may have become uncertain as to the infant’s identity. Her renewed solicitations and attempts to nurse, the more regular periods spent removing the body and considering its status, indicated the belief that the infant really was newborn. On first glance, this behaviour appears distinctly counterintuitive. Carrying a prone body ventrally is, for simple gravitational reasons, impractical, clearly a poorer option than the dorsal alternative. Should CI maintain quadruped locomotion and dorsal carrying then her back is presented almost as a horizontal unit; gravity attaches the child to the mother. Ventrally, though engaging the infant in a more intimate position, the body is much more likely to fall, costing CI greater energy as she attends to it and tries to lift it again.

  Again, the existence of a wider sample base would allow opportunity for further investigation; we could only speculate. But the action – superficially costly to the mother – must have been purposeful, and I focused on the projection of the infant as newborn. Was the change from dorsal to ventral part of a strategy to draw greater reserves from the mother, an attempt somehow to revive the infant, inspiring greater attentional levels? A plea for help from others too? Was she simply tricked by the change in size? Was the renewed intimacy really in aid of increases in heat transmission produced by ventral contact? It was an odd phenomenon to witness, regardless – a brief period of something akin to imaginative time travel; various efforts to wake the body up imparting radical chronological jumps – and I couldn’t help wonder what the experience was like and how much the mother was reminded of the genuine postnatal period.