Night of the Animals(24)
He got to the place where he had fashioned an oval breach a few days before. It was time to crack on, he said to himself. As he stuck his head in, the hole seemed barely wide enough for him, and it was placed awkwardly high. Great stalks of holly entirely enveloped the other side of the fence hole, adding to the nettlesome task ahead. He first had to squeeze into the barbed gap itself, tugging his limbs while trying to keep himself above the ground. A few prongs of galvanized steel dug into his torso like fangs rising out of the ground from hell. His buffer caught, too, and its hissing rips distressed him.
But he kept pushing in. A spiny leaf of holly which had fallen to the ground got stuck into his palm and he let out a small cry. He stopped where he was, midway through the fence hole, and pulled the leaf off. He scrubbed his palm on his other arm to loosen the tiny thorns. It was all awful and he wanted to wail out for help. But he began shoving forward again. At one point, his foot seemed caught, and he thought he was trapped for good, and then, as if some iron-toothed chimera had deigned to free him from its jaws, the foot came free and Cuthbert Handley was in, bolt cutters in hand.
Even in his Flōt haze, as he stood up and surveyed this hidden area of the zoo, he could see he’d made an enormous error—the kind of stupid slipup Flōt engendered like clouds did rain. It was late in the day, but in fact, the zoo wasn’t quite closed. Visitors still strolled about. He couldn’t free anything yet unless he wanted to end up in a Calm House before the first animal escaped. Cuthbert thought of going back to his grotto but changed his mind, thinking it would only risk more attention. After a few seconds, he pushed the bolt cutters back through the hole in the fence. He couldn’t very bloody well be seen with them. But why not have a look around? he thought. You’re in.
“Oi’m in,” he said to himself aloud. “Fuck it. I’ll nip back later tonight and open the whole focking shite-stand.”
Not a few people were still sauntering quite unhurriedly along the walkways and gazing at exhibits. Zoo workers scurried about—carrying boxes for restocking, sweeping, gathering rubbish bin liners—carrying out their usual closing jobs. All the people ought to have represented a huge risk for Cuthbert; a single message sent to the Red Watch, and Cuthbert would be detained. But he was now too intoxicated to grasp any of that. He only saw the silent jackals, in their enclosure, and he felt a shrieking desire to get closer to them. We’re lie, they said to him. Lie.
two
a day trip to the wyre
CUTHBERT HAD SEEN AN OTTER ONCE BEFORE IN his life—or so he thought.
It happened more than eighty years before, on a scalding summer afternoon, in 1968. His family—Drystan, his mum and dad, and his maternal grandmother, Winefride, who lived with them—had driven from Birmingham to an area well west of the Black Country, not far from the Welsh Marches of Worcestershire, to visit a few elderly relatives on his father’s side. It was Cuthbert and his older brother Drystan’s first trip to a region their gran had told them strange tales about from their earliest years.
The visitors were first taking an early tea in their relatives’ cottage, and everyone—the boys, their parents and Gran, the old Handley aunties and a great-uncle—crowded a dark sitting room. Cuthbert and Drystan were unable to sit. They kept begging to ramble off by themselves into the nearby Wyre Forest, a radiant remnant of primeval woodland near the ancient settlements of Wribbenhall and Bewdley town.
“Please, Mum, please, please, please, please, please, please, ple—”
“Enough!” scolded their mum.
Cuthbert was only six, still pronouncing his l’s as w’s, and Drystan eight, and they were city boys. Apart from the heavily trod Dartmouth Park and empty tins of Lyle’s syrup, little that was green or gold grew any longer in their West Bromwich world of chemical dumps and football madness. Making matters worse, a new expressway had isolated West Brom from the park, a last salubrious leafy retreat that had been donated and laid out specifically for local factory workers a hundred years before.
“I’d like to see the deepest parts, you know, the sort of middle bits of that forest, I would. Can we have a look now?” asked Drystan. “Gran? What do—”
The boys’ father, Henry Handley, interjected, “With all due respect to dear gran, she’s not your gaffer, is she? Who pays for—”
But Drystan cut him off, saying boldly, “You should be better to Gran. She knows more than—”
“Huh,” his father said, with an odd, taut smile. He was a dumpy, freckled man with long woolly red hair combed to the side and, at the time, muttonchop sideburns. He was often both irritable and transparent, so when he said to his aunties with clenched, stifled fury and a forced Brummie* twang, “Awww. ’E’s a swait boy oo adores his gran,” it sounded as false as it did spiteful. They all knew he beat the boys regularly, especially the elder one; they often had puffy pink welts on their white legs and arms, still chubby with toddler-fat in Cuthbert’s case.
Their grandmother didn’t react to these edgy exchanges between her eldest grandson and son-in-law, who had developed a recent mutual loathing. She waited a few moments and quietly began explaining how it was best to avoid the forest’s interior, which she still remembered well.
“Things thee’ll want to forget—that’ll be in the middle of the Wyre,” his grandmother was saying, hamming it up for the boys but not without real unease. They needed a look at the world out of West Brom, but she also sensed the Wyre might be too much for them, especially little Cuddy. “It’s a tricky place, boys, but it’s lovely, too. But honestly, thee const* get right lost.”