A novel about art, natural history, food and reptiles.
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A novel about art, natural history, food and reptiles.
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What happened to Landy? Was he murdered? Or did he eat something that disagreed with him? Was he actually dead? Landy was not popular, but who might have harmed him? James Hopewell, Landy’s collaborator, had his suspicions. Was it animal rights protesters, university rivals, militant Darwinians, or a reptile-smuggling gang with a sideline in pornography? Fearing he might be next, James doesn’t wait to find out. When the chance comes to leave the country, he takes it.
An abandoned gîte seems a good place to hide. James rediscovers art, and tries to forget Landy’s unhealthy obsession with reptiles. But his solitude does not last long. Soon James is beset by women, who ask questions, make demands, feed him on exotic delicacies, tempt him with forbidden pleasures.
While eating his way through the animal kingdom, James has doubts. Is everything as it seems? There is the mystery of Landy’s toxic fish, and the case of the tuatara that did not croak. Many of the things Landy told James seem not to be true. James is afraid. Do Landy’s enemies know where he is? And what will happen if they come after him?
This book, in exploring the relationship between Man and Nature, describes many things that can be done with animals, including recipes and menu suggestions.
Chapter 1: Protest
There were more apes than Darwins, but the Darwins were more resourceful, and used their placard-sticks to attack the apes. The apes’ own placards, flimsy sheets of card printed with the words Am I not a Man and Brother, were useless against the thrusting sticks, which the Darwins quickly learned to aim at the joins in the apes’ costumes. Some of the Darwins lost their cardboard top hats, or had their cotton-wool beards torn off, but that did not discourage them. Less encumbered, they fought on, felling the smaller apes, beating the bigger ones back. Without the other protesters, the apes would have been routed. But they were not alone. A trio of vast, corpulent chicks shuffled into the fray, pausing for a moment to tug off their beaked headgear and survey the enemy. A few foxes and rabbits abandoned their leaflet-strewn table and scurried to join them. The chicks were hampered by large trifurcated feet, but used their feathery bulk to butt and topple any Darwins they could reach. The foxes and rabbits ran clumsily among the chicks, diving at the Darwins, grabbing at their ankles and impeding progress. The apes, heartened by their new allies, ripped sticks from the Darwinian placards, swung them triumphantly overhead, then resumed the attack. Soon the defenders of evolution were mostly on the ground, struggling with costumed chimeras, surrounded by discarded limbs, hats, heads and fluffy tails.
For a while, it was not at all clear who would win. The Darwins were disarmed, but the mock animals were disorganised. Then, from round the corner came a dozen creationists, dressed in neat leisurewear, singing as they advanced. The Darwins, seeing that they were defeated, struggled to their feet and ran, abandoning their placards, allowing the creationists to trample their slogan, Nature, red in tooth and claw.
James Hopewell, emerging from the bushes that screened the towpath, took advantage of the momentary calm to slip into Wallace House by a back door, avoiding the anti-vivisectionists he knew would be outside the main entrance. He pushed past broken lockers, chained bicycles and precariously stacked cardboard boxes, making his way up the narrow back stairs to Landy’s room. He really needed the money, and if Landy didn’t have it this time, James was in trouble. Gnasher would hand him over to Big Frank and Animal Dave, and if James did not do exactly as he was told, his fate would be worse than that of the squashed and mangled animals on the anti-vivisectionists’ posters. That thought quickened his steps. He hurried up the final flight and flung open the fire door, ready to march down the corridor and confront Landy.
James stopped abruptly when he saw two policemen outside Landy’s door. One leaned idly against the wall, holding a peaked cap loosely in his hand. The other stood with his back to James, blocking the approach to Landy’s room. What were they doing there? Were they guarding Landy, protecting him from the angry horde outside? How had he managed that? Everyone else in the biology department had to run the gauntlet of protesters, be jeered at, have their work derided, hear themselves apostrophised as murderers and torturers. But Landy had got himself a police guard. His rivals would be jealous, more so than usual. And James had been outmanoeuvred. If the police let him in, which they might not, Landy would sit safely behind his desk, avoiding questions and responsibilities, knowing that James would not dare mention the money, or what he would be obliged to do if he did not get it.
James hesitated by the fire doors. Should he turn back, dash away through the back door, brave the protesters again? But if he went back, what could he tell Gnasher that he had not told him before? It might be worth going to see Landy anyway. He could put pressure on Landy just by hinting that he would tell all. Landy might believe him. But was he too late? Were the police there to arrest Landy? James had always known that the tuatara was a mistake. He should have said no when Landy asked for it, and avoided all the trouble that had followed. It would have been so much simpler. James imagined Landy being interviewed, denying involvement, pleading ignorance, blaming everyone else, particularly him.
Suddenly, Landy’s door opened. The policemen stood aside. James glimpsed the fish tank, with its plume of tiny aerator bubbles lit by a purplish fluorescent tube. A pair of white-clad paramedics emerged, pulling a sheeted trolley. The shape under the sheet was far too big to be the tuatara, or any of the other animals James had procured for Landy. And it was wearing shoes, black, highly polished ones, which poked from beneath the sheet.
The policemen watched the trolley being trundled down the corridor, then went into Landy’s room and shut the door.
James felt unsteady. Seeing that Erith’s door was ajar, he slipped through it, almost immediately tripping over a box of marking. He picked himself up and shoved the box to one side.
“You dodged them, then?” Erith said, looking up. He was sitting behind his cluttered desk, peering gloomily into a large coffee mug. His bald pate was beaded with sweat, and shone brightly.
“The protesters?” James thought it best not to mention the police. “I came up the back stairs.”
“Did you see any rats?” Erith was uncharacteristically subdued. His voice was little more than a croak.
James shuffled through a drift of unmarked assignments, swept some books from a revolving chair and sat down, glad to rest his shaking legs. “No. There were apes, chicks, rabbits, the usual Darwins…”
“I mean real rats. Rabid ones. You didn’t see them, did you?”
“No.”
“Someone’s let them out of the animal room.” Erith sighed. “The Christians, most likely.”
“What do they care about rats?”
“God knows. Maybe they wanted to start a biblical plague.”
“Did you say rabid rats?” James said. Had years of envy finally sent Erith mad?
“It’s something to do with Burdock’s work. I told him it was a stupid idea, but…”
“Have you seen what’s going on out there?”
“You mean with Landy?”
“It is him, then?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know,” James said. “I thought…”
“Did you see anything?”
“Only from a distance. I didn’t want to get too close.”
“Very wise.” Erith gripped his coffee mug with both hands, raising it so slowly and laboriously that it might have been filled with mercury. When he got it to his lips he sucked noisily at its greyish contents, then allowed it to sink back onto the desk. “Best to keep out of the way where Landy’s concerned. He had a knack of causing trouble for everyone.”
“Had? You think he’s…?”
“Dead? I should think so. Wouldn’t you?” Erith tugged at his sparse beard, twisting its greying hairs as though trying to tease out an answer. “That’s what they’re saying. Smedley says so, anyway. He phoned me, just now.” Erith looked puzzled. “How does Smedley always know what’s going on?” he said. “It’s not as though he’s got a better view, or anything. His room’s in the basement. You don’t see him out and about much. But somehow he knows what’s happening almost before it’s happened. Anyway, let’s hope for the best. Smedley might be wrong this time. If Landy’s not dead, the police won’t ask us any awkward questions.”
“Why would they want to question us?”
“To find out who his enemies were. Isn’t that what they always do?”
“On TV. I don’t know about real life.” As he said the words, James realised that they were literally true. He knew nothing about real life, had kept it bay for years, was only now discovering its complications, its dangers.
“They’re bound to,” Erith said. “They’ll question us all, and find out how we all hated him.”
“I didn’t hate him,” James said. But was it true? What were his real feelings for Landy?
“You know what Smedley once told me?” Erith said. “He said that Landy was like an exotic subatomic particle: that he had a sort of negative charm.”
“I know. I’ve heard it before. And plenty of other things, too. Everyone liked to have a go at Landy, behind his back. But should we be talking about him like this?”
“Perhaps not.” Erith thought for a moment. “Did he know you were coming?”
“No.”
“So they won’t find your name in his diary, an appointment, or anything like that?”
“I was going to surprise him.”
“Proves my point. You may not have hated him, but you didn’t trust him, either. Anyway, they’ll find your name somewhere, won’t they? Among his papers, in the notes for that book he was supposed to be writing.”
“I worked for him,” James said. “They’ll find my name all over the place.”
Erith looked worried. “Look, I never said anything against him, did I? All that stuff about funding, it was just shop-talk. There was no malice. You’ll vouch for that, won’t you?”
“If they ask.”
“They’re bound to. Landy’s going to cause more trouble by dying than he ever did when he was alive. It’s a pity it’s only May. If it was the summer, I think I’d be inclined to go away somewhere. A long research trip. A conference. Something like that. ”
There was a silence, during which Erith stared at his cooling coffee, and James’s head filled with conflicting thoughts.
“Who do you think did it?” Erith asked.
“Did it? It might have been an accident.”
“Sitting at his desk? I don’t think so.”
“A heart attack?”
“He was always fussing about his health. He never ate a molecule of fat, or drank a sip of alcohol, as far as I know. The fact is, someone’s done him in, and we are likely to be suspects.”
“Why?” James said. Having had a little time to think about what might have happened to Landy, he had other ideas about likely suspects. Gnasher’s two biker friends were the most violent and frightening people James knew, but he did not want to mention them to Erith. “The police are much more likely to suspect the anti-vivisectionists,” he said. “They have a reputation for violence.”
“Landy didn’t do animal experiments,” Erith said, repeating a criticism he had made often. “He didn’t really like animals.”
“Except for his fish.”
“I don’t think those protesters care about a few fish in a tank. Bunny-huggers, Smedley calls them. They seem to be obsessed with mammals. They would have gone for Smedley, or Burdock, or someone like that. It must have been the Christians. They’re going crazy, getting ready for the Millennium.”
“Already?”
“It’s only ten years away. That’s not long when you’re looking forward to eternity. Haven’t you heard their slogans? They’re going to Heaven and the rest of us can go to Hell. It’s them that did for Landy, not the animal rights lot.”
James knew that Erith was wrong about the animal rights protesters. They were just as crazy as the Christians, and as millennial. And they did care about fish, as he had seen for himself a few days earlier, in circumstances that surely, if only he could work out how, had some bearing on Landy’s fate.
“I thought you said the Christians liked Landy.”
“Did I?” Erith frowned. “Surely not.”
“You said Landy gave them comfort by quibbling with Darwinism.”
“Just a joke.” Erith attempted a smile, but it faded rapidly. “An exaggeration,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. We scientists must stick together, especially when the anti-science lot are attacking us. Remember, I’ve never said a word against Landy”
Erith sank back into his chair, his face clouded by misery. James wondered why. What did Erith have to fear? Common room rivalry was hardly a plausible motive for murder. The police, after one look at Erith’s chaotic room and woeful demeanour, would know instantly that he was capable of nothing that required resolve or organisation.
James, on the other hand, had quite a lot to worry about. He was an associate of Landy’s, was owed money by him, had dealt illegally on Landy’s behalf, and was under pressure to do worse. There were things he did not want the police to find out, even if they had no bearing on Landy’s death. And there were probably things he did not know, which the police would also find out, and which would reflect badly on him. Landy’s sudden removal had deprived James of answers, as well as the money he needed to get out of trouble. And without Landy’s protection, however fitful and unreliable that had been, he was not only in greater danger, but had fewer choices.
Erith jolted upright. “Something moved,” he said. “There! Behind those boxes. Didn’t you see it?”
Spring had not yet reached the city. The canal water was dark and sluggish, choked with soggy cardboard, oily plastic, rotting wood and half-submerged traffic cones. James followed the towpath away from the university. It led into a long cutting, through dank tunnels, under bridges inscribed with baffling graffiti. The foetid air was trapped between the high, green-slimed walls of old factories that stood in line, waiting their turn for demolition. The thin strip of sky visible above the brick-lined chasm promised nothing but rain.
Without thinking about where he was going, James descended a flight of locks into the diseased heart of the city. Once, long ago, it had pumped out a ceaseless flow of goods. The city’s name, stamped proudly on bright metal, had been known throughout the world. But little of that mercantile glory remained. Here and there, cut off by watery loops and arms, barricaded with coils of razor wire and sheets of corrugated iron, were small islands of industry, places where people still made things. James felt the hum and clank of their machines, glimpsed faces at high, barred windows, heard cheery shouts or snatches of music from blaring radios. He saw waterside dens and ledges, rickety arrangements of salvaged crates and planks, on which, should the sun ever shine, grateful workers would sit for a while, drinking tea, hanging fishing poles over the side, hoping to catch whatever lurked beneath the dark water.
James almost envied those workers. Their lives seemed simple, predictable, untroubled, just as his had once been. They did their jobs, earned money, went home to wives and families, enjoyed themselves at weekends. Not particularly wanting to go back to his cold, empty flat, James trudged the towpath trying to work out what, exactly, had gone wrong. Was it all his fault? Or had Landy, in
Christopher Harris 2008