Night of the Animals

by Bill Broun

  “I . . . I don’t quite know what to say. That fits with what the night watchman Dawkins said, sir. He said the man, this Mr. . . . Handley? Perhaps, he did indeed look as if he were spiring. Then he has some very serious mental health problems?”

  Omotoso rubbed his cheek. “To say the least.”

  Atwell had walked up to where she stood. Dawkins was there, too. There was also someone new, a very short woman in a most improbable and campy sort of archaeologist’s getup, including a khaki jacket with cap-strap epaulets, a rugged twill skirt, and, of all things, a pith helmet. She wore a kind of brace on her arm made of shiny brass gears. She had a round face with creamy skin and large, mildly protruding blue eyes, with two pieces of copper tubing arcing from her helmet down into her jacket. These features, with her short thick neck, gave Astrid the slight impression of a mechanical female bullfrog. To top things off, she held a small white snake curled in her plump hand. She was a kind of steampunk hobbit.

  Astrid kept looking at the woman as Omotoso continued.

  “Right. OK, here’s the thing of it, Astrid. Do you have any advice? With your community work and all, you know, your recovery meetings and such, how . . . how would you deal with a Flōt sot on the rampage?”

  “Kindly,” she said. “And I wouldn’t say ‘rampage.’ This is a man whose problems are much bigger than Flōt. If he’s in second Flōt withdrawal, he’ll be angry. If he’s a sot, he’ll be in first withdrawal, at best, and that means—well—people get fairly off their chump. If he’s had BodyMods, and he’s old, and he’s still somehow alive and taking a drink, he could . . . yes . . . he could be talking to animals or any number of imaginary friends. But ‘rampage’—I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “Right,” said Omotoso. “Point taken.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, Astrid, I’ve had a think, and here’s the hard bit: I, er, I need you to go home.” For a moment, she said nothing more. “Very sorry. You’ve had a long day. Just jack in the job, just for tonight, and go home and rest a bit, right? You are—temporarily—relieved of duty. Tempor—”

  “Sir, why? What the fuck is that?” She felt blindsided—and utterly betrayed. “I don’t understand. Why? What the fuck—”

  “Watch it,” said Omotoso. “This is still the constabulary.”

  Omotoso began shuffling one of his feet and avoiding Astrid’s gaze. He looked restless.

  “There’s been . . . there’s been a kind of occurrence, Astrid. I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to tell you anything even if I do know. But, er. It’s a man. Found badly injured about an hour ago at a small group suicide in Poplar. One of the cults, at it again. This man, he was still alive when the Red Watch got to the house, apparently. He claimed to be from your FA meeting, apparently—Marcus is his name. I think he was—this is rather tragic—he thought the Watch might somehow contact you. I think he was . . . scared. But here’s the thing. The same thing’s happening all over Britain tonight. At least twenty FA members around the country participated in a self-murder attack. And there are more and more reports coming in.”

  “Fucking hell. Marcus? I saw him earlier tonight. He was sober. He’s kind of a prick, but he’s all right, he’s—”

  “Not anymore. The Watch, Astrid. The bastards neuralpiked him. He was already full of drugs, and they killed him. May as well have done it for sport. They are cold bastards. But your name came up, and I’ve just been . . . asked . . . told, really . . . to take you off tonight’s situation, as a precautionary measure. The Watch, they’re absolutely terrified of Heaven’s Gate infiltrating any of the police forces. If there’s a perceived connection, an active suicider, they’ll want to have a look. It’s nothing to worry about, Astrid. You can understand that, I’m sure?”

  “But I thought . . . you know . . . that the king and his lot approved of FA and all? That’s not FA. It’s not immune, after all, from the same kinds of temptations any other organization has in England. I thought Harry liked us?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Indeed, there are things that concern me—new policies—that are going to touch on FA and hundreds of other orgs, I fear. Your name was in the mouth of a dying cult member. It’ll need to be cleared up. It’s bollocks.”

  “Marcus . . . he wasn’t a cult member. He was just a Dublin fecker. He was all right.”

  “I hear you, Astrid. And there’s something else. This is why I didn’t use the blue-freq system, Astrid. I have . . . heard . . . from people I trust. I have heard that the king—and God knows whether it’s even coming from the king himself—but I have heard that there’s a Privy Council L7 directive coming. Astrid, FA—the king’s people are saying there’s a link, with the cults.”

  “That’s a disgusting lie. That’s a lie. It’s not true, guv.”

  “I know that. You know me. I know this is all naff. But here’s another thing: with the Army of Anonymous on the prowl, too, the whole ‘anonymous’ thing isn’t playing well . . . with the nobility, right?”

  “That’s crazy. We’ve nothing to do with AA-UK, with English republicanism, with politics of any sort. God damn it!”

  She felt gutted about the directive. She had seen dozens of suicidal men and women saved by the fledging self-help organization. The L7 order would deeply damage if not destroy it. It would mean mass EquiPoise examinations. It would mean the inevitable hoodings, forced “serfing,” the reclassification of middle-class members.

  “FA helps the king. This is a nightmare. And all that you said before, where you asked me for my advice? Were you just splurtin’ brown sauce on my chip butty?”

  “No! Come on, you. I . . . It’s not the kind of thing anyone wants to bring up. Is there someone—one of your FA friends, perhaps?—someone, someone like that you can, you know, sort of have a chat with, too?”

  “I’m off FA at the moment, sir. I’m not drinking—but I’ve sort of gone off it.”

  “Gone off? That doesn’t seem wise. You didn’t sound like that a second ago.”

  “Yes, sir. Off.”

  “Yes, well,” said Omotoso. “I’m—you’re not just saying that, because you’re afraid of the Watch and the directive?”

  Omotoso was now looking at her directly, with the same kind of tolerant expression he might have worn were they standing beside one another. “But that’s . . . that’s your business, naturally. OK. Go. Go home. Go. Is that clear? Inspector?”

  Atwell was standing right beside her now, clearly trying to eavesdrop. She wore a somber expression and kept shaking her head whenever Astrid spoke, which Astrid found both consoling and grating.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like how you sound. Something’s off. You know, Constable, Astrid . . . you . . . I see this special thing inside you, like a guardian ori,* as my mum would call it—a ‘head within the head.’ And all will be well—for you, anyway. But . . . I’m sorry. I really am. You must go home. Do not delay. Take care of your mum. And yourself. Ring your FA mates, right?”

  “I don’t want to ring them.”

  “Astrid. Things look bad now, but you once told me that someone told you ‘The best is yet to come.’”

  “On that score, guv, I think Mr. Handley . . . I believe he knows something we don’t, Chief Inspector.”

  “Good night, Astrid.”

  She blinked off, her heart pounding again, her thoughts swirling like blown oak leaves. A crowd of people enveloped Omotoso and he was gone. Astrid felt as if she wanted to embrace Jasmine Atwell, out of fear and pain and confusion.

  The round-faced woman with Dawkins and Atwell was staring at her.

  Astrid said, to Atwell, “Constable.”

  “This is, as you can probably surmise, Una,” said Atwell. “She just walked out. Dunno how. There must be an opening in the main gate somewhere.” Atwell leaned in toward Astrid. “She’s dumb—I mean, she’s a mute. And she’s very worried.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Astrid. She felt speechless.

  As Astrid recount
ed the conversation with Omotoso, and explained that she’d been relieved, Atwell nodded slowly, with an open expression, surprisingly unperturbed. It made Astrid feel both warmer toward her and, in another way, suspicious. They remained several meters away from the giant media, police, and zookeeper scrum assembled on the Broad Walk along the eastern edge of the zoo. The air had grown considerably cooler. Astrid herself was beginning to feel queasy and chilled. She wondered if the enterovirus everyone seemed to be moaning about that week had finally infected her.

  “Listen,” Atwell was saying. “I’ll drive you home.” Her voice sounded a bit hoarse, and she was chewing something, a lozenge perhaps, in an irritated, rapid manner. “Ma’am, I’m ready to spit tacks, honestly. I’m not being assigned to any of the Bronze teams either, it turns out. It’s a real slap in the face. I know what’s happened with you is so unfair, but, honestly, this was also going to be my big chance. I’ve not once worked a major incident.” She sighed, said, “God damn it.”

  “I’m sorry, Constable.” Astrid looked down. “You are as fine a PC as I’ve ever seen. I don’t want to embarrass you now.”

  “Aww, thanks, ma’am,” said Atwell. They were quiet for a few seconds. “What should we do? This is just daft.”

  The commotion—solarcopters, spotlights, emergency gliders, fotolivers, and the cacophony of the poor animals—had reached such a frenzy, Astrid could barely hear herself think. But when the conviction to do what she did next hit her, she didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m going in, Jasmine. This man, this Cuthbert, I need to see him.”

  “In? That’s insane. No. You are not going in, ma’am. It’s not worth losing your career over, is it? Astrid? And there are wild animals about, aren’t there?”

  “I need to see him.” She gave a forced little chuckle, but she couldn’t sustain a smile. She felt scared. “I think he may be . . . in a way . . . related to me.”

  Atwell said, “Oh, dear. You’re off the deep end, you are. Astrid. Do not go in there.”

  Astrid looked away from her colleague. She said, in a strained, shuddering voice: “My whole life. As a . . . child . . . and a teenager . . . and then an adult, you understand? From the time I was a little kid. Until now, see? I’ve felt bloody alone in one thing or another, almost always alone. I’ve had it. I’ve had it! I don’t care if what I’m looking for isn’t there or not. He’s come back for me—someone has.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I don’t know. It’s Mr. Handley, perhaps? Or it’s me? But I feel there’s someone in me who’s got to come see him—and to help him. It doesn’t make sense. And the timing’s bad, isn’t it?”

  She turned toward the zoo fence and began scaling it. “Don’t stop me,” she said.

  “No!” shouted Atwell. “Astrid! Don’t!”

  She was over the barrier in seconds. At that very moment, when her feet touched zoo-soil, Astrid felt herself beginning to awaken to a world half-created. It had been the most frenziedly un-Astrid thing she’d done in her life. For her to enter the zoo this way—it was a step off a cliff. And she hadn’t thought it through, at least not like a human being. She thought of her heavy Encyclopedia of Mammals tome back home on her bed, and its chapter called “The Wild Mind”—animals did think, it claimed, but it wasn’t like Winnie-the-Pooh, and it wasn’t like the shark in Jaws, and it wasn’t what the white-haired Brian Cox said on Wonders of Life. It was deeper and stranger, and yet it was not amoral.

  The prospect of a drink of Flōt now revolted her. As she ran through a few shrubs, toward the big cats zone, her mouth seemed to water, but it wasn’t Flōt she desired. Oh, Jesus, thank, Jesus, she said to herself. She wondered if she was a “thinking animal” somehow now. Whatever it was, it drove her forward. Could she read the jackal mind, communicate with chimpanzees, night-ride the elephant soul? She thought, This is crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy. But it felt like some new plane, one she would have to walk through and to crisscross to find Cuthbert Handley. It was astral and psychokinetic, a place of tangling dimension-strings covered with fur and reptile scales and timespace flowing with blood. Yet she retained a sneaking inkling that a much simpler explanation existed, for everyone and everything she had encountered in this night were uncannily familiar. In one sense, the zoo’s interiors were all her own. Nothing truly had surprised her.

  seven

  close encounter at the lanterne des morts

  “MUEZZA? BARMY CAT? GONE THEN?”

  Cuthbert felt a visceral sadness now, his thoughts like skinless pink tubes snaking around his tummy. He also needed to relieve himself. Why did the cat have to go? Muezza was, apart from Baj, the closest thing he’d known to a friend in many years. He spotted the Green Line again, patchy and worn, and he trudged on, but then he started banging his knees together like a boy trying not to pee; he wanted to find a quiet little corner. He was no longer quite spiring. The soft, uplifting fogs of Flōt were wearing thin, and he could feel a stinging sensation in his penis. Recently, he had begun to piss in his trousers. It was a relatively new inclination, and common among older Flōters, and it contained more than a seed of childish rebellion, but it horrified him. He said to himself, ’twas time to put the mockers on the habit, wasn’t it?

  Up until about four years ago, he could still enter an Indigent pub—that (just barely) worked. He used to favor the White Lion of Mortimer, in Stroud Green Road. It was a famous dive, insalubrious and half its seats ripped out to pack ’em in, but he felt comfortable there. Everybody would be spending their dole and eating algae-flavored Discos and cultured-lamb kebabs brought in from the Kurdish joint across the street. Cuthbert even had a few mates at the White Lion, for a time.

  But he got too comfortable, as he saw it now. He began to think he was Drystan again, and started, as Drystan, telling “lies” about his brief time at UCL. He grew garrulous. He boasted about how one day he had “dressed down moi tutor, Mr. Fusspot Daniels” over the parts of mitochondria, which was almost the exact opposite of what had happened with Cuthbert. He fussed about petty matters, such as whether he received fresh serviettes with every Flōt orb. He fell behind on his tab payments. Finally, one late afternoon, he wet his pants on a pub stool. He’d simply been too unmotivated to get up and go to the gents’. The barmaid, a Polish Indigent with silky red hair, had started punching his arm. “Damn you,” she said. He could still hear her low, succulent voice. “You are too fucking weird for the pub.” But what he remembered best was how good it had felt to be touched with feeling. It had been years.

  He didn’t dare go into pubs now, even if they were generally safe from the Red Watch.

  THE NIGHT WAS CLEAR AND COOL, and the stars had diminished with the light pollution he was kicking up. Apart from an aching bladder, he was beginning to feel a bit calmer, even with early Flōt withdrawal daggering and dragging down his insides and the growing presences surrounding the zoo. Perhaps he would just ramble for half an hour and go home, and be nothing more than another Indigent tooling about Regent’s Park at night. There would be no jackals, no otters, no unctuous cats, no mellifluous monkeys. He would forget the torn-down fence, the goat’s head, the Neuters and Luciferians. He would block out his father’s beatings. He would twist out from the strangling yokes of the Wonderments—and he would even put otters behind him.

  But he would never get away from the loss of Drystan—not in his long lifetime, and not in another ninety years.

  Abruptly, all he felt was that it was time for a slash. He unzipped hurriedly, where he was, and geysered into a sprig of wild mint growing along the brink of the Green Line path. The gibbons began again. “What’s that song all about now?” he asked them aloud. As the urine streamed, some other animal howled—a guttural, chittering sort of howl. It was not duet-like; it seemed martial and masculine. Cuthbert felt a little shiver, partly anxiety, partly a pee-shiver, and he looked straight ahead, self-consciously, just as if he were before a public gents’ urinal.

  He
gazed into the sky again for that comet, but a thick, fleeting tuft of cloud again had obscured it. Those culters, Cuthbert thought, arr, they must be gathered inside it now, out of their containers and all, looking down upon the Animal Kingdom, that Neuter Applewhite fellow getting his instructions from Luciferian cabin-mates. Cuthbert wondered what would happen when the craft landed on Earth. The pictures on BBC/WikiNous had shown dramatic tails of high-velocity ice-dust behind the comet. Only dream-skies held such objects, he felt, along with pinwheel galaxies and dripping supernovas. Such things didn’t land on planets—they inhaled them.

  He considered this Applewhite chap. Creepy bloke—no question. But Cuthbert reckoned that the man in some way connected to NASA, which would account for his confident speeches about space travel in his WikiNous videos. Cuthbert had seen in the Evening Standard/WikiNous how Applewhite, who called himself “Ta,” had met his middle-aged woman partner, “Do,” in Houston “We-Have-a-Problem” Texas. Couldn’t be coincidence, Cuthbert figured.

  Applewhite’s attack on the animals grew from his scatty concept that animals “Below Human” existed as earth’s most existential threat to the Luciferian soul. Animal bodies were spiritual voids into which the alien soul could, with an erroneous trajectory, sink like an eight ball. While humans had completed much of Heaven’s Gate’s goal of the extinction of animals through the destruction of ecosystems, the London Zoo and its connected research facilities remained as the world’s most concentrated vector of animal diversity. For Luciferians, it was like a giant dish of smallpox germs would be for peoples.

  Earth’s Animal Kingdom, for its part, knew more about space than Applewhite gave credit, Cuthbert knew. Laika the Sputnik 2 space dog, Little Joe, Felix the Cat—all had been forced into spaceships, as disposable lives, to guide their countrymen into the stratosphere. He pictured the jackals being led into some canine-engineered spacecraft of their own dogingenuity, shepherded by a Wolf Angel up a great ramp. Cuthbert would have asked the jackals to eat him before they left. He would be like the sacrificial goat, or the architect Tecton who had been turned into seagulls, to become a million pieces of himself, floating in space.