We Are Animals

by Tim Ewins

  The phone rang again. Manjan thought it odd that his father hadn’t answered already. He normally answered on the second ring and it was still early in England. It was unlikely that he’d have gone out yet. Again it rang, and Manjan had the most unsettling thought. His father might be with a woman. He shook his head and threw this thought away. His dad was dedicated to his mother.

  Just as Manjan was about to hang up the phone there was a noise on the other end.

  ‘Hello,’ said his father, who normally said ‘Aye’.

  Manjan paused and listened to his father’s heavy breathing before asking him how he was. There was another breathy pause before his father uncomfortably answered that he was well.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Manjan started, ‘You sound...’

  ‘I, I need to you to come home,’ his father interrupted. Behind his father’s breath Manjan thought he could hear whispering.

  ‘You need to come home, and bring your girlfriend with you,’ his father said. The whisper sounded like it was happy with Manjan’s father.

  ‘Um...’ Manjan replied, unsure of what to say and increasingly aware of his distance from home.

  ‘I haven’t met her yet,’ his father said quickly before more heavy breathing. ‘I need to meet her’.

  Manjan didn’t reply for a while and listened closely to the line, pressing the receiver hard against his ear. There was someone else there and whoever it was wasn’t a new woman. In the pause in conversation Manjan could hear his father’s need to tell him something that he couldn’t. Desperation dominated the shared silence and Manjan could hear fear in his father’s breath.

  There was a large crash in the background and the whisper turned into an inaudible shout. Before the line went dead Manjan heard his father’s panicked voice shout ‘Don’t come!’ and then there was silence.

  26

  A fish out of water

  Fishton. 1977.

  There is only one road into Fishton. There are two ways in total, if you include by boat, but Ladyjan knew that the lamp-smuggling fish factory had a heavy presence down at the docks. Driving was their only option. She also knew that there was at least one dangerous man patrolling the nearest airport, so when Manjan and Ladyjan returned to England they landed at Victoridon airport, 300 miles south of Fishton.

  They visited a charity shop (a classic and authentic Victoridon charity shop, or so they were told by the owner) to search for a disguise for Ladyjan. Something she could wear on the journey north. She was too feminine for fake facial hair and it was too cold in the UK to shave her own hair, so in the end they decided on a large woollen hat that could be pulled down over her forehead, and some large sunglasses. They bought an extra-large jumper in the men’s section which would hide both her feminine shape and ever-expanding pregnant belly. She would have to concentrate hard not to keep touching the bump. She liked touching her bump.

  ‘How do I look?’ Ladyjan asked, after changing into her new outfit in the bathroom of a small car rental on the outskirts of Victoridon. Manjan made a jokey purring sound and smiled but neither of them laughed.

  They’d discussed what they would do when they got to Fishton all day on Palolem, all night on the bus back to Bombay and for the majority of the flight to Victoridon (they slept for the rest), but there hadn’t really been any outcome. All they knew was that Manjan’s father had shouted down the phone instructing Manjan not to come home and that he seemed to have someone with him. Someone Manjan’s father sounded scared of.

  Fishton was a dangerous place for Ladyjan so before they’d boarded the plane Manjan had told her not to come, but Ladyjan had insisted. She’d spent a lot of her life alone and, on reflection, she hadn’t liked it. Besides, she’d already left Manjan at one airport and as it had been the worst decision of her life, she certainly wasn’t going to do it again. Neither Ladyjan nor Manjan knew what they would find back at Manjan’s childhood home, but as Ladyjan kept nervously pointing out, it was unlikely to have anything to do with the fish factory. They didn’t know who Manjan or his father was.

  Ladyjan wore her hat, sunglasses and jumper for the entire drive from Victoridon but her disguise didn’t stop her from holding her breath and shrinking into herself every time they passed a lorry or van. She offered to drive, but Manjan said no. He thought she was too shaken up, but kept quiet when he was so lost in his own nervous thoughts that he went the wrong way, adding an hour to their journey. He also decided not to tell her when a bus nearly scared him into the barrier at the side of the road.

  By the time they got to the town down the road from Fishton it was dark. Had they looked upon entering the town they would have seen the most beautiful clear winter sea, but that’s the thing with fear – you always end up missing something wonderful. Manjan drove down the quaint and cobbled streets to Hylad’s old house. There was a light on upstairs and a figure was in the window but it wasn’t Hylad. It was a small lady’s figure, probably mid-twenties, bouncing a baby on her shoulder. Manjan’s heart sank, even though his father had told him that Hylad didn’t live there any more. Seeing Hylad really would have helped rationalise what they were doing.

  The baby in the window cried and the lady’s figure bounced more vigorously. Manjan looked at Ladyjan with love in his eyes. Then he looked at her hidden bump.

  ‘We should sleep in the car,’ he said a little sadly. Ladyjan didn’t reply straight away. She held her tummy with her right hand and nervously stroked her little finger with her thumb on her left.

  Eventually she said, ‘It’s dark,’ without looking at Manjan. ‘We should go to your father’s house tonight.’

  * * *

  Lots of people in Alastor’s line of work lived for assignments like this one, but not Alastor. He worked for the money only. When he’d knocked on the door he’d expected to see a junkie, not a lonely old man. But work was work and he’d pushed his way through.

  It hadn’t taken Alastor long to tie the old man to a chair in the living room, and thankfully he hadn’t had to use much force. The man had submitted, probably realising he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a man of Alastor’s stature.

  Alastor had been trained to torture people to get any information he needed, but it soon became clear that the old man didn’t have the information he needed to give. For starters, he thought Jan was a boy.

  ‘This is your passport, yes?’ Alastor had demanded, and the old man had spluttered a yes (it was pretty obvious; his face was in the picture). ‘You know Jan?’ Alastor had continued with a stern, wide face.

  ‘Why?’ Manjan’s father answered, but a look from Alastor prompted him to continue, ‘Yes, I know Jan. He’s my son. He’s in India, miles away, so you might as well leave.’

  The old man was clearly mad. He thought Jan was an English boy, not a Swedish girl, and he was convinced he was related to her. But he was definitely the man on the passport (the first person on Alastor’s list of passports to intimidate) and he knew that Jan was in India. And, as it turned out, Jan rang the old man regularly. Alastor locked the doors and set up camp.

  For the next few days Alastor and the old man survived on the out-of-date cans of baked beans and lentils that the old man hadn’t cleared from the cupboards when his wife had died. Alastor sat opposite the old man every day and every night. They chatted and, as it turned out, got along rather well, given the circumstances, but the old man remained tied to the chair and next to the phone so he could answer when it rang and instruct Jan to return.

  ‘Hello,’ the old man had said, while breathing heavily the first time he’d answered, only to be asked about his car insurance.

  ‘Hello,’ the old man had said, while breathing heavily the second time he’d answered, and then had a very short conversation with one of his fellow fisherman. He wouldn’t be down at the docks for quite some time he told them.

  ‘Hello,’ the old man had said, while breathing hea
vily the third time he’d answered. ‘I’m well,’ he said after a long pause. ‘I, I need you to come home.’

  * * *

  Manjan barely recognised his old house when they pulled up opposite with the car lights off. The upstairs curtains were open, the lawn was overgrown and the light outside the front door hadn’t been turned on. Manjan couldn’t be sure whether these small oddities were something he should worry about or just the result of his father living alone. He hadn’t seen his father for a while – maybe he was now the type of man to forget to close curtains, mow lawns and turn outside lights on.

  ‘I’m just going to knock,’ Manjan whispered, and Ladyjan nodded with an unnatural speed. Even through her fear, she noticed how nice it was to see where Manjan had spent his childhood. It was nothing special, a terraced house with a tiny weed-covered path leading up to a dark door. Two windows upstairs, one window downstairs. Once loved.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m here,’ she muttered, and Manjan kissed her.

  Outside, the air was cold, and Manjan wrapped his arms around his torso. The gate creaked the way it always had when it opened and Manjan looked down at the familiar cracks in the path. Did the downstairs curtain move? Maybe his father would be in.

  He knocked. No one answered but Manjan thought he heard a snuffling noise inside. He knocked again and waited, rubbing his arms to keep himself warm. After a minute or so he opened the letterbox. It was dark inside and there were newspapers strewn across the floor. If it wasn’t for the snoring the house would seem abandoned, but there was snoring.

  Manjan held onto the small roof that protruded out above the front door in the same way he had when he was a child, lifted himself up onto it and wedged his fingers into the crack between the window and the frame. With a little wriggle of his ice-white hands it opened, and he managed to squeeze himself into his old bedroom. It smelt of whisky.

  The landing outside was also covered in newspapers, baked-bean cans and mouldy-smelling towels. Towels Manjan recognised as the subject of many of his mother’s mad washing weekends. She’d wash everything on those weekends, dirty or not. Manjan stepped over a large sweatshirt that he did not recognise and moved downstairs as quietly as he could, towards the snoring.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Manjan froze as a set of pale, slender fingers pushed through the letterbox.

  ‘Jan,’ a whisper came into the hall. Manjan breathed a stifled sigh of relief and quietly walked to the door past the room which contained the loud sleeper.

  ‘Shh,’ he shh’d in a more hushed voice than people normally shh. His fingers slowly opened the door to see a clearly pregnant girl wearing a hat, sunglasses and a very baggy men’s jumper. She mouthed the words ‘I couldn’t leave you’ but made no sound. They looked at each other without moving for a few seconds before Ladyjan turned her head towards the snoring room. ‘Your father?’ she mouthed and Manjan shrugged, but his eyes said that he suspected not.

  Together they carefully trod to the doorway and peered round. There, spread out across Manjan’s old living-room floor, with one arm across his chest and the other resting by his side, was the wide-faced man from the airport. He was dressed in a large military jacket and jeans and the room stank of smoke and booze. Ladyjan put her hand to her mouth, her eyes shifted to sadness and tears began to silently roll down her cheeks. She pushed her back against the wall, so she couldn’t see into the living room any more.

  Manjan didn’t recognise the wide-faced man, but it wasn’t his father.

  * * *

  Alastor awoke with a banging head, as he had for the past few days. He knew how his day would pan out. He would make himself a strong black coffee, read the newspaper (not the newspaper he would normally read but some tabloid tosh the old man had delivered every day). Then, he’d watch daytime television until 3 pm, when he would eat whatever was left at the back of the cupboards. He’d spend his evening continuing to empty the old man’s drinks cabinet. Waiting really was easy.

  He went to rub his eyes with his left hand. His hand moved but his arm wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder and felt a pain in his forearm and bicep. He turned his head and saw he had been tied to various things in the room – curtain rails, chairs, the doorknob. One of the ropes even left the room, out the window and presumably onto a tree.

  Alastor roared angrily and thrust his body upwards in an attempt to break free but he remained stuck to the spot. Focusing his eyes through the pain in his head he saw a girl sitting on the chair where Manjan’s father had been tied. It was Jan. He spat in her direction, but it landed on his own chest. Ladyjan laughed and called him something she’d never called anyone before. She sneered when she said it.

  ‘Where’s my father?’ A man’s voice came from a different direction. Alastor frowned and looked around him. Someone he had never met was sitting on the sofa next to him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Where’s my father?’

  Alastor looked confused. ‘You are Jan too?’ he concluded. No one said anything for a long time. At last Alastor shouted angrily, ‘You are Jan too?’

  Both Manjan and Ladyjan jumped, and Manjan shouted back, ‘Where is my father?’

  ‘Screw your father,’ Alastor screamed again, thrusting his body like a fish out of water. Without words he continued to yell and writhe. All the furniture and décor to which Alastor was attached began to shake and Manjan and Ladyjan felt as if they were in the centre of an earthquake. Alastor broke his right leg free, smashing a nest of glass tables as he did. He kicked the floor repeatedly, moving his other leg violently to the side, over and over again.

  Ladyjan jumped out of her seat in a panicked frenzy and attempted to hold Alastor’s free leg still.

  He kicked her arm.

  He kicked her chest.

  He kicked her stomach, hard.

  Manjan leapt across the top half of Alastor’s body and held him down, while Ladyjan managed to restrain the rogue leg.

  Alastor spat again, this time right into Manjan’s face. Their eyes were only inches away from one another.

  ‘Your father is at sea,’ Alastor smirked. Manjan looked confused. His father was a fisherman. Alastor raised his eyebrows and quietly laughed, so close to Manjan that he could feel the breath on his cheeks.

  Manjan had never been a violent person. It wasn’t how he’d been raised. But now it appeared the people who had raised him were no longer around to see his demise, so he lifted his arm behind his head, tucked his thumb underneath his fingers and made a fist that would have hurt himself as much as it would have hurt Alastor, had it landed.

  But it didn’t land.

  The veins in Alastor’s thick neck raised and his face went purple as he lunged forwards, managing to head-butt Manjan in his chin at the same time as pulling the rope that was wrapped around his shoulders. The oak drinks cabinet at the other end of the rope fell and hit Manjan in the back of the head, and Alastor in the front of the head. For both of them, the world went black.

  * * *

  They hadn’t found much on Alastor’s sleeping body before they’d tied him up – a wallet, a clock on a pendant, some cigarettes – but there was one thing that Ladyjan had deemed worth keeping. Manjan’s father’s passport.

  She’d seen it in the breast pocket of Alastor’s jacket while Manjan had been looking for weapons in his wallet (there weren’t any), and not wanting Manjan to see the passport, she’d tucked it into her jeans.

  She let go of the unconscious Alastor’s now still leg and shook Manjan, but he didn’t wake. She pushed the drinks cabinet off the two men, grazing Manjan’s back against the lock and accidentally cutting Alastor’s face with a broken liquor bottle as she did.

  She tightened the rope back around Alastor’s foot and tied it to the chair where she had been sitting, and lifted both of Manjan’s feet in the air. She’d lifted Manjan once before, when they’d been t
rying to reach some bananas from a tree in Goa, but it was much harder without his cooperation and this time neither were laughing. She dragged his body through the door, into the hall and out of the house. Outside, she lifted him from under the armpits down the path and finally into the back of the car. She could hear him lightly breathing and she smiled.

  She went to sit in the driver’s seat but paused with one foot inside the car. Then, she took her one foot back outside the car and walked confidently back into the house. She didn’t look at Alastor as she walked straight past the living room and up the stairs, stepping over a large sweatshirt which, for all she knew, could always have been there. She stepped into the first door she could see and into what used to be Manjan’s father’s bedroom. She opened the top drawer next to the bed, pushed aside some old handwritten letters from someone who referred to themselves as ‘stable girl’ and found a passport. The picture on the back page was of an attractive lady a bit younger than Manjan’s father.

  She reached into her jeans, pulled out Manjan’s father’s passport, placed it in the drawer, and wept as she held the pain in her stomach with both hands.

  27

  A fish in the water

  Not so far from Fishton. 1977.

  ‘You’re scum,’ Alastor had hissed, holding Manjan’s father’s head back by his hair so his neck was facing the sea. ‘What are you?’ Manjan’s father gasped.

  ‘Jan,’ he stuttered, ‘my son.’

  ‘What are you?’ Alastor said louder, and Manjan’s father quietly agreed that he was scum.

  ‘That’s right, you’re scum.’ Alastor pushed his hand forward, forcing Manjan’s father’s face back into the water.

  The night air was cold, and Alastor’s face had gone white. He could barely feel his hands and his thick scarf was unravelling from his neck. He’d tighten it, but he needed his hands on Manjan’s father, one of the many downsides of his job. Alastor didn’t enjoy dunking Manjan’s father. The man seemed nice, and Alastor knew that he was only protecting his son. But there was a chain of command and, just as so many people feared Alastor, Alastor feared the chain.