The thing to remember is, if you read it in the papers, it’s got an angle. You can’t trust it. And if you saw the story on Facebook and you’re full of outrage and scandal, well… well, bless you, but you only have yourself to blame.
What they never tell you is how charming he was. Or that he was handsome. They make him out to be a monster, but he has a strong jaw and eyes you could melt into, like he’s looking into your soul. Great teeth too. Natural. White as little doves.
He was attentive. You’ll never read that, not if you scour the internet for the rest of your days, but he was. He really knew how to listen. Big ears. I always used to tell him that. It made us laugh. And that’s the thing. He listened and he laughed. He lit up when we talked - his eyes, his face, his whole body crisped - and he always kept his focus right on me. That made a change.
I mean Mum, god, she couldn’t finish a sentence before she’d forgotten she was even talking to me. She’d be off into another room before she remembered. Or on her phone. Weeks would go by and I’d mostly see the top of her head and the angles of her face picked out in blue light. That’s why it was me doing the food run. Mum could have gone – she had the time – but she was always ‘busy’- which meant on her phone, or spreading outrage on mumsnet. She had quite a following. I wouldn’t mind, only she spent more time being an online mum-guru than being my actual mum.
When I met him, I was pretty low. I’ll always remember it. I was almost at the house. I’d just got to the fork where you turn off to Grandma’s and I couldn’t face it. She was senile and mean, my gran. I could never tell which of the two was making her say the things she did.
I’d knock and she’d make this whole theatre of being afraid and asking who it was, and then she’d call me in. She said she was bed-ridden, but she’d have left Penguin wrappers on the porch, and half-drunk cups of tea, so either she had squatters or she was much more mobile than it suited her to say.
And then I’d have to put up with the call and response humiliation. She never got bored of it. She’d never call me by my name, just that stupid nickname that the papers got hold of. And then it was: “Oh, what big thighs you have Like tree trunks!”! Well, all the better for keeping the boys at bay”. And then she’d laugh.
And “Oh, what a big belly you have! Have you left me any lunch in that basket, dear? Well, all the better. You’re a growing girl. Keep growing at that rate, and you’ll break the scales!” The laugh again.
“Oh, what fat cheeks you have! It makes you look like a chubby little baby boy. All the better, I suppose. At least it keeps you from the preying eyes of men!”
If you have a 15-year-old, there’s three things never to say to her. Trust me.
So there I was, sitting on the tree stump at the turn, gathering up my courage to go in, when along he came.
It’s true that he’s imposing. He’s big. With the things they wrote, you’d imagine him huge and menacing. They never mention grace.
The first thing that he said to me: ‘Excuse me, it’s Rosie, isn’t it? Rosie, may I sit with you a while?’ And he didn’t sit till I said yes. Such gentleness in his voice, such warmth, and yet such power. I felt a shiver down my spine. Every time. He did that to me.
What we talked about, who cares, but I felt heard. For the first time in my life. Seen.
I’d ask him questions too, just to hear that gravel-velvet textured voice of his, but mostly he just listened and kept his eyes on me. It’s as if my presence fed him, that’s what he said, and then he’d smile, giving me a flash of those dove-white teeth and a look in his eye like he could devour me there and then. He was very charming.
That day, Grandma’s taunts felt like little raindrops. I felt a mile high and, for the first time ever, beautiful.
I could hardly wait for the next morning. I thought I could sense him on the way – a rustle here, a snapping branch there- but he didn’t show himself until the turn-off. I nearly jumped for joy.
It was my idea, not his, about Grandma. I mean.. He had helped me see that she was a mean woman, that she was taking pleasure in putting me down. That it wasn’t innocent. And that she’d never stop. And she was old, he was right about that. She wasn’t ever going to get better. You see, that’s what was so kind about him. He explained it to me. She was mean to me because she felt so powerless. She’d nothing left. Her life would only get worse (and then she’d take it out on me, he warned me, and he was right).
It took me days to get up the courage to ask him. Weeks. And longer to convince him. But in the end, he said he’d do anything for me, and if it’s what I really wanted… I wasn’t there. The next morning, when I came, he said ‘It’s done’ and I swear I saw a tear.
I carried on, went to the house anyway, every morning, with my basket. We thought it best to do it that way.
He’d follow, off the path. And knock. I’d sit up in the bed and pretended to be Grandma, calling me in. He’d even put my coat on, much too small. We’d laugh and laugh, and then in he’d come in and slip under the covers next to me. I felt so small. Protected. Cherished.
I know what you’re going to say, and I… We’d had a blissful month of meeting every day, as if Grandma was still alive. At weekends, we just lay there, hour after hour, consuming each other. And yes, maybe he had begun to get possessive. But that’s his nature. And a little bit rough, but never more than I could handle.
And okay, I was scared. Sometimes. There were times when something changed in his eyes. It was… like the wild in him had won. Because he was wild – wild and beautiful and graceful… and… so strong. I still get goosebumps when I think of him, and even of that moment, when he loved me so much, his instincts took over and he had to have me whole.
And yes, I screamed. I wish I hadn’t. If I’d died then in his jaws, my life would have meant something. I was terrified, but at least I’d have been part of him. But no, I screamed in weakness. Stupid, childish fear, and that axe-happy thug of a woodchopper blundered in and…
It was carnage.. He kept saying ‘You’re safe now, I’ve killed the beast.’ But there was my love, bleeding on the floor and my heart bleeding with him.
I thought that it was true. I thought he’d killed him, but he was only injured. Badly – with gashes in his back and neck and face. His beautiful jaw ripped out of joint and slashed.
So now he’s here. In a zoo. A fucking zoo. People said this was too good for him. Ha. They have no idea. This place is worse than a prison, worse than death. Caged, publicly on show, for visitors to gawp at. He’s humiliated. They have destroyed him.
But I’m grateful for small things. I get to see him. I’m not supposed to come, but I do. I tell him stories. I ask him questions, but he doesn’t answer any more. He growls, a long, low, plaintive sound, almost a howl. The fire in his eyes has got weaker over the years. His wildness is exhausted. It’s leaching out of him into the concrete cage, the fake greenery and the frozen cubes of meat he’s supposed to survive on.
He begs me to end his life. Begs. He knows he won’t escape. It breaks my heart to see him suffer, and…
I haven’t given up. I owe it to him. I’m working on the zookeepers. Winning their trust. They don’t know who I am. I’ll find a way to get in to his enclosure one day soon. And then I’ll give myself to him. There will be blood. Mine, this time, and his. They’ll shoot him. That’s what they do when animals go on the rampage.
And then you’ll read the scandal in the papers.
WOMAN MAULED TO DEATH. WILD BEAST KILLS AGAIN. But if you believe the crap you read in the papers, you have only yourself to blame.
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Inspiration: prompt from 28 Days Later 2018
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