A woman is holding my arm. "Are you alright?" she asks.
"I've got to get it back," I say.
"Quite a nasty tumble," she replies.
"Yes," I say. "Here. Can you hold onto this for a moment."
As I hand her the frog all the colour drains from her face. She slowly crumples into a heap at my feet. I don't have time to worry about her. She is clutching a pale lilac handbag. In desperation I untwist the clasp and push the frog inside. "I'll be back," I call as I scramble over the railings into the compound.
I've temporarily lost sight of the frog, and go down onto my hands and knees probing through the grass to relocate it. There is a small movement ahead, and I pounce. Just as my hands grab at the grass where the movement was, a small yellow and black shape hops out and away.
I am suddenly aware of two huge pink feet approaching at a trot. They come to rest just in front of my head. As my face rises to peer up the ugliest, knobbliest legs you've ever seen, another face is descending to peer at me.
I am confronted by two huge eyes and a large brown bill. These are surmounted by an almost bald head sprouting a scruffy topknot of feathers.
The face hovers about six inches in front of mine and we gaze deep into each other's eyes. Please God, let it be the dodo that kills you with a single stare.
Nothing happens for seconds. The ostrich seems as puzzled by me as I am scared of it. We remain frozen, staring at one another, six inches apart. I blink. It blinks. I think it must be dodos. Thankyou God!
And then, from the corner of my eye, I see a little yellow and black movement. It hops across my field of vision and stops just behind the ostrich. I’m looking at the ostrich with one eye and the frog with the other. The ostrich is looking at me with both eyes. It seems unsure what to do. The frog isn't looking at either of us. In fact it seems quite oblivious of our presence at all.
If I reached out my arm I could touch it.
I slowly move my right arm forward and between the ostrich's feet. The bird's gaze flickers between my eyes and my hand. It decides the hand is more interesting, and as I reach through it's legs, it's head follows.
The ostrich is quicker than me. As I lunge for the frog, it lunges too, and I watch in disbelief as the little yellow and black body is hoovered into the giant bill.
I grab at the bird's neck with both hands. If I can prevent it swallowing there is still a chance.
The bird rears it's head up taking me with it. It is amazingly strong, but I manage to retain my grip on it's neck. It starts to run around the compound in circles. I have to take giant bounding strides to keep up with it, but I'm determined not to let go.
After a few circuits it slows down. It seems to be having difficulty breathing. It gives an enormous honking cough, and I see blur of yellow fly from it's bill and land in the grass beyond. I release my grip and dive for it before the ostrich can get a second wind.
And come up with a yellow plastic water pistol.
CHAPTER 20
Hey. I've thought of something else that comes in threes.
Women come in threes.
Look, I told you things happen in threes.
Look, you have to pay attention or there is no point in me explaining any of this.
I told you, a few pages back. Things happen in threes. Well, women happen in threes. They do to me anyway.
You see there's Gail. My wife. The woman I love, who doesn't love me any more. Then there's Julie. I love her as well, I think. I think she might love me, too. It's just that she hasn't realised it yet. And then there's Carole. I give a little shiver at the thought of Carole.
Three women. I can't handle three. Let's face it, I can't even handle one very well.
And now I've lost my frog. The frog that was going to help me solve my woman problem.
And now I'm standing in the middle of a grassy compound, holding a yellow plastic water pistol, whilst a demented ostrich runs circles around me.
"He's the one," shouts a woman's voice. "He's the one what accosted my Raymond."
I am vaguely aware that a considerable crowd has accumulated in front of the ostrich compound. A woman is waving her arm at me and pushing a uniformed attendant towards the fence. I think it might be Bob, from the reptile house.
"He's a pervert," she's saying. "He tried to entice my boy with presents."
I have no idea what she is talking about, and I hear the words without associating them with me. I begin to walk back towards the fence. Gail is probably wondering where on earth I am.
A second woman is pointing at me now. "He..He..He gave me a frog to hold," she says. The very act of saying it almost makes her faint like she did before. She is holding a lilac handbag I notice. I have a feeling that there is something I should be telling her about the handbag, but somehow it doesn't seem important just at the moment. She'll find out in due course.
A small boy pushes his way to the front of the crowd. I've seen him before somewhere. He climbs up on the railings until his mother pulls him off.
"Hey, mum," he yells. "He's got my water pistol."
"You keep away from him, Raymond," screams his mother. "He's a pervert."
"But, mum. He's got my water pistol. Make him give it back."
"Do something," she screams at the attendant. Now that I'm closer, I can see that it is Bob. He looks a bit nonplussed by the situation.
The woman on his other shoulder is standing, pale faced and gently sobbing. "Tried to make me hold a frog," she says, to noone in particular.
As I reach the fence a small, mild looking woman, who hasn't spoken up to now, says, rather quietly, "I saw it all." She is ignored by everyone.
"What's up?" Bob asks me, but before I can answer Raymond's mother starts up again.
"He gave my boy a hat to lure him away somewhere. That's what's up. Bloody pervert." The woman takes a swing at me with her handbag as she speaks, but her aim is wild, and she merely succeeds in clipping Bob around the ear.
"It's a real one, too," says the boy proudly. "Isn't it mister?"
"Tried to make me hold it in my hand," says the other woman. "A frog. Me."
"I did see everything," says the timid woman. But her intervention fails again. I feel unreal. I can hear these people talking, and I can tell that they are talking about me, but I don't really understand what they are talking about. That happens to me quite a lot. I wonder if I'm going invisible again?
Bob is clearly out of his depth. I hand him the water pistol as I climb over the fence. It is grabbed out of his hand almost immediately by the boy. His mother takes a swing at the boy, but only succeeds in clipping Bob for a second time on his other ear.
"I only work here," says Bob rather helplessly to her.
"I actually touched it," says the woman with the lilac bag. "Actually felt it."
"Excuse me," says the timid woman. "I think this man just saved that bird's life."
Raymond is examining the water pistol. He gives it a couple of experimental squeezes on the trigger. On the third squeeze a jet of water is expelled which hits his mother square in the face. I think that may have been a tactical error on his part. She swings at him again with her bag, and this time almost knocks Bob off his feet. He isn't coping with this at all well.
I reach down and take the hat back from Raymond. "Muuum!" he yells, but I ignore him. His mother ignores him too.
"Put this on," I say to Bob. "It will lend you an air of authority. And try to think of them as donuts. I find it helps."
"Thanks," he says. I think he may be slightly concussed.
I start to push my way through the crowd. It parts magically in front of me. I feel like moses.
"Bless you my son," I say as I pass a small bald man on my left. "Bless you," I say to a woman on my right. I make slow progress through the crowd laying hands on people as I go. Somewhere behind me I can hear Raymond's mother, and Raymond, and the woman with the lilac bag, and Bob. But the sounds gradually fade. They seem to have forgotten all about me. They a
re quite content to argue amongst themselves for the time being.
A hand touches my shoulder. I look round and find that the timid woman is following me. "I saw what you did," she says.
I walk more rapidly, trying to shake her off. But each time I look round she is still there. "Saw everything," she says breathlessly. I start to run.
Hey. I'm running again. Haven't done that for a while.
By the time I've done two circuits of the reptile house and one of Nocturnal World, I think I've shaken her off. I make my way by the most direct route back to the restaurant.
As I pass the cutout model of the happy donut I pat him on the head. "Bless you my son," I say.
It strikes me suddenly that a donut is the same shape as a halo. I've never thought of that before. Perhaps all those pictures of people with wings and circles round their heads are actually trying to tell us something about donuts.
It's just a thought.
Gail is still sitting at the terrace table. She has turned her chair to face the sun and pulled her skirt up so that her legs can tan. She is sprawled back in her chair with her eyes closed and her face tilted to the sky. She looks beautiful. I know that I shall always love her.
She opens her eyes as I sit down. "You've been gone a long time," she says.
"Yes. It was miles," I say.
"I got you a donut," she says. "But your coffee will be cold by now."
I look down to the table. There is a congealed cup of coffee and a sorry looking donut. "Do you think angels like donuts?" I ask.
Before she can answer a breathless woman trots up the steps and stands panting by our table. It's the third woman. The timid one.
Had you noticed that they came in a set of three again? Raymond's mother, lilac bag and the timid lady. You see. I keep telling you things go in threes.
"Is this man your husband?" she demands of Gail.
"Yes," says Gail cautiously.
"I saw it all," the woman continues.
My heart sinks.
"Your husband should be reported to the authorities for what he did."
Even if I run away now I don't see how I can get out of this. Gail will know where to find me. My heart sinks still lower at the prospect of spending my life in jail.
"What's been going on?" asks Gail. "Is someone going to tell me?"
The timid lady seems to be getting her breath back. She has stopped panting quite so wildly. "Your husband risked his life to save one of the animals," she says.
I did? When was that?
"I've been trying for half an hour to get someone to listen to me. And then your husband took matters into his own hands. Quite literally."
"What did he do?"
Yes. What did I do?
"Well he only managed to get the ostrich to cough up a plastic water pistol that that wretched child had fed it. That's all. I've been trying to get someone to do something for half an hour, and none of the zoo people would take me seriously. If your husband hadn't done something himself that bird would have died."
"Tom. Is this true?"
I am basically an honest man. I always try to tell the truth. I am about to explain about the frog, and Bob's hat, and the foil dish, and the lilac handbag, but maybe this time it would be better to say nothing.
"Would you like a donut?" I ask the woman.
***
Geoffrey laid the lunch table. He put out two of everything. Two knives, two forks, two spoons and two plates. He put a glass tumbler by each place. He worked carefully and made sure that all the cutlery was laid out neatly.
He looked at his watch. Was it really only lunchtime on Saturday? That meant there was still one and a half days to wait.
He sighed at the thought and tried not to look at his watch again. He moved one of the tumblers a quarter of an inch to the right and sighed once more.
***
When we drive home from the zoo, Gail puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it gently. When I look at her she smiles at me. "I'm so proud of you, Tom," she says, and squeezes my leg again.
I feel downhearted. I should feel good. I'm riding in my car with the woman I love. She's put her hand on my knee, and she says she's proud of me. But then I know she tells me lies.
And she doesn't say she loves me.
"Weren't you wearing a jacket when we arrived?" she asks suddenly.
The jacket! I'd forgotten the jacket. This is the second one this week. I only have three. You see, even jackets come in threes.
"It got used as a tourniquet," I say. "On the ostrich. The zoo said they'd send me another one."
"Do they know the size?"
"About six foot I would guess."
"But, Tom. You are only five foot seven."
"Yes. It was taller than me by several inches."
Gail gives up. Long experience has taught her when to stop.
"Ugly things when you get right up to them," I say. "Did you know they can kill you with one blow from their wings? Or is that swans? I can never remember."
Gail smiles to herself and squeezes my leg again.
CHAPTER 21
"Are you awake?"
I prod Gail gently, but there is no response. She is lying against me with her arm across my chest. Her breathing is slow and regular. I wish I could get to sleep, but everything is churning round and round in my head. I resume my staring at the ceiling. There is just enough light in the room for me still to be able to make out the pattern of circles and squares. I can't decide if the pattern is made up of a grid of squares overlaid with circles, or an array of circles with squares superimposed.
I wonder if it differs depending whether you look through one eye or two? I squint through my left eye. Definitely squares with circles. Through my right eye it's circles with squares. When I look through both eyes it stays as circles with squares. That seems to clinch it, except that as I look the circles with squares gradually flip over to squares with circles. I knew they would.
They always do.
I try blinking rapidly, then switching from one eye to the other and back in quick succession. But I've tried all these tricks before. I never reach a conclusion.
I wish Gail was awake. I prod her again. She snuggles up against me but there is no interruption to her breathing.
I can see lines on the ceiling, too. Very faint lines, crisscrossing under the paper. They are why the ceiling was papered in the first place. Embossed paper to cover the cracks. But it never really works. You always know the cracks are there.
"That's a nice ceiling. Very pretty paper, and such an unusual colour."
"Thankyou. Chose it myself. Wanted to create an atmosphere of sophisticated informality. Decided that the colour and texture of the doors and walls should be echoed through the ceiling to harmonise with the japanese theme that we were trying to convey."
"Cracked was it?"
"Pardon?"
"The ceiling. Cracked was it?"
"There was a fine crazing, actually. Nothing significant."
"Thought so. Good these embossed papers aren't they? You'd never really know."
Once the cup is cracked it's impossible to uncrack it. Once the trust has gone........
I wonder what they did before they had embossed paper? Probably had to paint pictures all across the ceiling and hope you wouldn't notice. That's probably why they painted the ceiling of the Sistine chapel. Because it was cracked.
"Blimey look at all them cracks."
"Yeh. Looks bleedin awful don't it."
"We oughta get summink done about that. Get it painted or summink."
"What, pictures you mean?"
"Yeh. I reckon if we was to put a few cherubims and seraphims up there noone would notice the cracks. What do you fink?"
"Maybe. Maybe. Mind you some of them cracks are pretty big. I reckon cherubims wouldn't be big enough."
"We could get em painted big."
"What, big cherubims?"
"Yeh. Grown up ones like."
"You don'
t get big cherubims. They only come little. They don't ever grow up big. I fought everyone knew that."
"Why don't they grow up, then."
"Cos they're myffical. That's why. Surreal figments of the imagination."
"Well we could 'ave lots of 'em then. A crowd of cherubims like. Wiv a few seraphims frown in for luck."
"No. I reckon we should fink bigger. Not just a few little cherubs. Let's go for the 'ole effin shabbang. Angels, archangels, the trinity, the works."
"Yeh. I reckon you might 'ave summink there. We could put Michael an' Gabriel up there. Wiv that big crack running down the edge of their wings. Noone would ever notice."
"I wonder who we could get to do it?"
"What about that Michelangelo kid?"
"What, that kid what keeps painting graffiti in the Vatican loos?"
"Yeh. It'll keep 'im out of trouble, and 'e does a pretty good cherubim. Have you seen that one in the third cubicle. The one with the..."
"That's enough, Favver. I don't fink we wanna 'ear all the detail, fankyou. Why don't you go and find the Michelangelo kid then?"
I prod at Gail again, but she is well asleep. I wish I could sleep like her, but all that keeps going round in my head is Julie, and Carole, and Gail, and Ostriches, and Gail. And Gail.
I saw a cartoon once of Michelangelo painting the Sistine chapel. He was very small, lying on his back on the top of a huge mound of scaffolding, right high up by the ceiling. There were two small figures down at ground level, and one was saying to the other, "You'll have to excuse the mess. We've got the decorators in."
That was all. It made me smile. I thought it might make you smile, too.
Look. I can't help it if we have a different sense of humour. At least I'm trying.
Our bedroom ceiling is pink. The whole bedroom is pink. I decorated it when we first moved here. It probably needs doing again. I don't know if it will ever get done. I don't know anything any more.
I don't think I'm ever going to get to sleep. I feel wide awake.
I wish Gail would wake up. I need someone to talk to.
When I was a boy, my ceiling used to be white. I wanted to paint it black with gold stars, but my dad wouldn't let me. He said, "When you've got your own house, son, you can paint your ceiling any bloody colour you want, but this one is staying white!"
"Hey dad! I've got my own house now. I painted it pink."
It's a good job my dad wasn't pope.
Gail makes sucking noises in her sleep. I think for a second she might be trying to kiss me, but it's not likely. She's probably dreaming of someone else. I kiss her instead.