Frank remembered something horrible that had happened when he was twelve. He and Edgar had come home from Strangmans for the summer holidays. Edgar was sixteen then, tall and blond, and was developing a strutting arrogance. Their mother had suggested, unusually, that they all go out together to the zoo. ‘We don’t think enough about the animals,’ she had said. ‘Mrs Baker says they have souls just like us.’ She had given them one of her sad, serious looks.
They went to Whipsnade, and walked round the enclosures. As they passed the monkey house Edgar said, ‘Let’s go in here.’ He led the way, Frank following reluctantly with their mother, who had retreated into one of her dreamy, distant states. Inside it was horrible, a long concrete corridor with barred enclosures along the sides, a rank, filthy smell, clumps of straw the monkeys had thrown out of their cages littering the floor. A few people walked along, laughing at the antics of the small monkeys. A big orange orang-utan glared at them from the dimness of its pen. Edgar looked at Frank, then turned to their mother. ‘Look at the chimp, Mum!’ There was only one chimpanzee, sitting alone in its cage on a pile of dirty straw, staring at them. Edgar waved a hand and the chimpanzee leaned back, baring its teeth in a grin that Frank somehow knew meant fear and terror.
‘What an ugly thing,’ Mrs Muncaster said.
Edgar laughed. ‘Doesn’t that grin remind you of Frank?’
Mrs Muncaster looked at Frank forlornly. ‘Yes, I suppose it does in a way.’
‘The boys at school call him Monkey because of that grin. Monkey Muncaster.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t do it, Frank,’ Mrs Muncaster said.
Frank had felt so hot he thought he might faint. Edgar smirked at him. Mrs Muncaster said, ‘It’s awfully smelly in here. I can’t imagine these things in the spirit gardens, I must say. Let’s go and see the birds.’
And now Edgar was in his house. Sitting in the moth-eaten armchair, he looked round the room again. ‘I thought you’d have something better by now.’
‘It does me.’
Edgar gave him that baffled stare again. ‘I never understood why you did science at university. Was it to try and compete with me, show me you could do it?’
‘No.’ Frank heard the tremble of anger in his voice. ‘I did it because I like it. It’s what I’m good at.’
Edgar looked disappointed. Then he sneered, just as he had at the zoo. ‘Studying meteorites?’
‘Yes.’
Edgar shifted in his chair. ‘Got anything to drink?’
‘Only tea and coffee.’ They stared at each other. ‘I don’t think you should drink any more. You – you’ve had enough.’
Edgar reddened. He set his lips, then leaned forward. ‘Do you know what I do, what my work is?’
‘No. Look, Edgar, perhaps you should go. There’s nothing to drink here . . .’
Edgar stood up, swaying slightly, his expression threatening now. Frank stood too, suddenly afraid. Edgar walked across the dusty carpet, right up to him, then said, his breath stinking of alcohol, in Frank’s face, ‘I’ll tell you what I bloody do.’
Edgar told him: told him what his work was and, as one scientist to another, how they had managed it. The explanation made total, horrible sense. ‘So you see, we cracked it,’ he crowed, his voice full of beery satisfaction.
Frank staggered back, face full of horror. Now he realized why Edgar’s people had been reluctant to let him come to the funeral. All he had ever wanted was to be left in peace and now there would be no peace, no safety, for the rest of his life. Horrors as bad as any in science fiction had been created and Edgar had told him how. He stared at Edgar, suddenly understanding that his brother – a lonely, broken man – wanted Frank to know his power. ‘You shouldn’t have told me,’ he said in a sort of desperate whisper. ‘Dear God. Have you told anyone else?’ He grabbed at his hair, found himself shouting. ‘Jesus, the Germans mustn’t find out . . .’
Edgar frowned, the seriousness of what he had just done beginning to penetrate his fuddled brain. ‘Of course I haven’t told anyone,’ he answered sharply. ‘Calm down.’
‘You’re drunk. You’ve been drunk half the time since you came here.’ Frank reached out and grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘You must go home, you mustn’t tell anybody else. If anyone found out what you’d told me—’
‘All right!’ Edgar was looking anxious now. ‘All right. Forget I said it—’
‘Forget!’ Frank howled. ‘How – can – I – forget!’
‘For God’s sake shut up, stop shouting!’ Edgar was sweating now, his face beetroot. He stared at his brother for a long moment. Then he said quietly, as much to himself as to Frank, ‘Even if you did talk, no-one would believe you. They’d think you were mad, they probably do already – look at you, grinning little cripple—’
And then, for only the second time in his life, Frank lost control. He ran at his brother, all flailing arms and legs. Edgar was much bigger than Frank but he was very drunk and he stepped backwards, raising his arms ineffectually to try and defend himself. Frank came on, hitting him again and again, and Edgar tripped and fell over, against the window. His weight broke the rotten sash and he fell through it in a shower of glass, arms windmilling, wildly crying out as he disappeared.
Frank stared blankly at the smashed window. The October breeze blew into the room. There was a groan from the garden below. He stepped forward, hesitantly, and looked out of the window. Edgar was lying on his back on the stone flags below, clutching his right arm and writhing in pain. Frank thought, that’s it, I’ve done it, the police will come and they’ll find out everything. He screamed at the top of his voice, ‘It’ll be the end of the world!’ Rage and terror filled his whole being. He turned and, pushing the table over, ran into the kitchen and opened cupboards and pulled out plates, sending them crashing to the floor. The insane notion had come into his head that if he smashed and broke everything in sight somehow he could drive the terrible knowledge of what Edgar had told him from his head, along with all the rage that filled it. He was still running around the flat, breaking furniture, bleeding from several cuts, when the police arrived.
Dr Wilson was a small round man with a bald head, wearing a white coat over a brown three-piece suit. He sat at a big cluttered desk. The eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses were keen but weary. As Frank entered he put down a document stamped with the government crest: shield and lion and unicorn. Frank saw the title, ‘
‘All right.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘Just sitting on the ward. They didn’t take us for our walk round the airing courts today, because of the rain.’
‘No,’ Dr Wilson said, smiling. ‘We’re organizing a special day out for some suitable patients in a couple of weeks. To Coventry Cathedral. The Dean has offered to take a dozen patients on a tour, with some attendants, of course. I wondered if you might like to go. It’s a beautiful medieval building. Fifteenth century, I believe. I’m looking for some – educated – patients to take. Might you be interested?’
‘No, thank you,’ Frank answered, his face twisting into its monkey grin. He wasn’t interested in churches, had never been to one – Mrs Baker hadn’t approved – and to go in his shapeless hospital clothes, part of a group of lunatics, would be shaming.
Dr Wilson considered his response, then said quietly, ‘The charge nurse on the ward says you avoid the other patients.’
‘I just like sitting on my own.’
‘Do they frighten you?’ Dr Wilson asked.
‘Sometimes. I want to go home,’ Frank said pleadingly.
Dr Wilson shook his head. ‘It does pain me, Frank, that someone of your education, your class, should end up on a public ward. You’re actually Dr Muncaster, aren’t you? A PhD?’
‘Yes.’
‘You shouldn’t really be with the pauper lunatics. Some of those poor people – they barely have minds any more. But I can’t just let you leave, Frank. You pushed your brother through a first-floor window. It’s a miracle he got off with a broken arm. To say nothing of screaming about the end of the world. Someone heard that out in the street. There’s still a police case open: causing grievous bodily harm is an imprisonable offence. Fortunately your brother didn’t want to prosecute. As it is, you’ve been certified as insane and you must stay here till you’re cured. How are you getting on with the reduced Largactil dose?’
‘All right. It makes me feel calm.’
