Chapter Three: Red in Truth and Claw

The last members of the public filed away past the welcoming sign and off the grounds of the ZSL London Zoo. The curator of mammals watched them through the glass doors as the guard locked up. Privacy, but so late in the day; how one was expected to care for the world's animals and habitats with punters thronging everywhere, bothering beast and biologist alike?

He nodded to the guard and retreated inwards, emerging from the entrance building onto the main through way of the zoo, cages rising on each side. He traditionally took the long route to his office at the end of the day, appreciating the absence of human calls, finding his own centre again amidst his charges.

A guard materialised from the dusk shadows to the left, raising a hand as he stopped in the centre of the path. The curator felt a flicker of unease - he did not recognise the guard, not quite, but the silhouette was familiar.

"Could I have a moment of your time, Dr. Morris?" said the guard.

"Of course, of course, I -" The curator stopped, his mouth hanging open. "I know that voice!" he exclaimed. The supposed guard approached with a chirpy smirk for the dumbstruck Morris.

"Good to see you again, Desmond," said Brother Richard.

"Richard Dawkins - I'll be da-arned!" The two embraced with hearty back-slapping, then Morris held the surprise visitor at arm's length, sizing him up. "You've been noticeably absent from the Balliol Old Boys Club for months - but you're looking good for it, my boy, you are! What have you been up to, eh?" He gestured down the way and they continued towards his office.

"Oh, a bit of everything really. I've been in the field, all healthy exercise and the like." His smile faded. "Have you heard about old Niko?"

"Not a word - he dropped off the map only a week or so after you did."

"I've got some bad news for you, Desmond. Let's get inside."

*

"Bloody hell." Morris passed a hand over his face. "That's terrible, Dickie, just terrible." He didn't see the annoyance that gripped his companion on hearing his old university nickname.

"Very much so. I was particularly moved when I found out myself." Brother Richard took the moment unobserved to look around at Morris' office, noting a familiar scholarly disarray most unlike the fanatical neatness which epitomised his own personal spaces, both with the church and at his "cover" accommodation on the campus. He'd always looked on the older man's untidiness with a certain degree of contempt, but here there was also one noticeable difference - no icon of worship whatsoever. It would seem that Morris had abandoned only one university tradition. "I pray to God that he is at His side." Morris didn't react. "Don't you?"

"Hmm?" Morris stared blankly at his guest for a moment, then caught up. "Oh, yes. Yes. I'm sorry, Dickie, this is a bit of a shock. I can't believe he would."

"No indeed. But we should keep our minds on less bleak thoughts, Desmond. Tell me how things are going here, for example. I hear you have an Arabian Oryx, that's very nice."

"Er, yes, we do. She's called Caroline." Morris looked rather distressed. He kept picking up a pen from his desk, then putting it down again as if he couldn't recall what to do with one. "We were hoping..." He trailed off, staring at his hands.

"Hoping?" Dawkins strolled casually around the small room, admiring the prints and photographs on the walls. Not prints, actually. Originals, paintings and drawings.

"Sorry. Hoping to breed her, but we're having a devil of a time sourcing a decent male. I heard that the Pheonix Zoo in Arizona have one, for all the good that does us."

"You should write them a letter, who knows. These are yours, aren't they, Desmond?" Dawkins tapped the frame before him with a fingernail, then turned to indicate the others dotting the room. "I recall you used to sketch all day long, your strange little doodles - you even did Nico once, didn't you?"

"I don't really recall at the moment, Richard. If I did, it's not how I'd want to be remembering him now."

"How is the writing coming along then?" Morris finally found himself focused on the conversation, found Dawkins watching him with his characteristically bright stare.

"Er. Er. Fine. Thanks for asking. Although I've not published anything for quite a -"

"Mammals, is it?" The stare unwavering, unblinking. Morris had seen it before, in the cages of the big cats. Was he getting at something? Did he know something?

"Of course. I, am, the curator of -"

"Not primates, at all?" No smile. Just the eyes. Of a predator. Morris tried to reply, couldn't.

"We know all about it, Desmond. The copy circulating amongst a... ha ha... a lucky few. Nico thought very highly of it, I hear." Brother Richard idly moved towards the desk, his gaze never wavering from its target. "The Naked Ape, Desmond? Similarities between men and monkeys? Evolved behaviour? We have that copy, Desmond, and it will be burned. Because this isn't a scandal, you realise..." He leaned over the desk, close enough to smell the doctor's fear.

"It's a Blasphemy."

"Oh my God," breathed Morris, blanching at the cruel smirk his words provoked. "You've done it, haven't you? You've - you've gone over."

"I've seen the light, Desmond. Nothing more, I've simply seen His glorious light." The fervour in his eyes dulled suddenly, became a non-stare of terminal disinterest. "It is now time for you to do the same. In person."

With a cry of dismay and strength born of terror Morris flipped his desk over, scattering papers and the little curios collected over his career everywhere. Brother Richard hopped back and tripped over the spare chair, tumbling as Morris broke for the door and fled.

Brother Richard leapt up with a curse and quickly checked the desk - the drawers were locked. He turned to the door and gave chase, his gait long and loping, the kill now inevitable.

*

Morris ran down the corridor to the outside door, breath gasping, chest tight. The building was dark; where were the night guards? He banged into the door, locked, fumbled for his keys as the echoing of footsteps began to catch up behind, his hands shaking as the adrenaline pumped. There! The pushed through and slammed them closed, desperately trying to lock them again.

"It is not, most likely, worth your while, to lock him in." Morris screamed a little, spinning to find the cloaked and hooded figure leisurely approach. It gently threw back the cowl.

"You? Attenborough, the television man? Good grief, you as well?" Morris almost laughed.

"I'm so sorry, that it would come, to this." Father David looked genuinely sympathetic. "I've, always liked, your paintings."

"Damn you! Damn you both!" Morris turned tail and ran as the door was rattled aggressively from within. With a crash Brother Richard kicked it open, wood splintering around the lock. He saw Morris disappearing into the gloom and glared at Father David.

"The drawers are locked, he has the key - and he's mine!" Father David watched him take off after his quarry, considered following, then went inside instead, down towards the unfortunate man's office, taking in the minor disruption of the locked and overturned desk.

There were of course his pictures too. Father David lifted one, entitled The Egg Thieves; typically strange, disturbing red-bodied beasts approaching a nest, the eggs within defenceless as their weird mother takes to flight, and a crescent moon motif decorating both the sky and the beasts. He liked it. He glanced at the others, then felt behind the frame for the string to hang it up again - and paused.

*

Morris shook the gates in desperation, but the chain and padlock were tight and heavy and he had no key for them on his fob. They were noisy in their resolution to keep him in - and a voice answered their call from behind: "You should face your judgement, Desmond."

The curator ran, skirting the outer wall like an animal trapped in an unfamiliar enclosure, disoriented, seeking any way out to safety and freedom. He came up against a barrier, the path arcing back to the centre, back towards one or the other of his pursuers. Which exhibit was this?

"This is the end of the line, Desmond." He spun, straining his eyes in the dark, unable to tell whether Dawkins was ahead on the path or behind. "I only want the keys to your desk. Give me the keys and this can all end." And then Dawkins was upon him, lunging out of the black like something foul and black, and Morris fell back with a cry, scrambling at the barrier, swinging himself up and over it and out into space. His cry rose up, then cut out with a thud to be replaced by a pained wheezing.

Brother Richard ignited his torch, opened it to shed a wide beam into the night. He held it out over the barrier and, looking down, saw the clusters of round reflecting eyes gaze flatly back; then they looked away, closing in towards the groaning shadow that was Morris. His groans became feeble screams as they pounced, then even they were silenced by the clamp of jaws upon his throat.

Brother Richard half watched, waited patiently while they tore and ate below, until eventually the noise abated. Then, calmly, he too crossed the barrier and, picking his way with more care, lowered the ladder into the pit and descended. Approaching the curator's remains, he saw a glinting in the grass, stooped, and found the keys he needed.

He rose again, holding the light up high so he could look around. The pit was not as wide as he had imagined; the big cats lay all around him, just the simple drawing of their breath was filled with power, but now they were sated and drowsy. They watched him pick his way back to the ladder with little interest.

Christians and lions, he thought, and as he climbed out again he laughed.