Fear No Evil

  John Gordon Davis

  Fear No Evil

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1982

  Copyright © John Gordon Davis 1982

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

  John Gordon Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780007574445

  Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008119270

  Version: 2014-12-18

  Dedication

  To my lovely wife Rosemary

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Part Two

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Three

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Four

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Part Five

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Part Six

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Part Seven

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Part Eight

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Part Nine

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Part Ten

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Part Eleven

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Part Twelve

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Part Thirteen

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Part Fourteen

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Part Fifteen

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Part Sixteen

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  About the Publisher

  Map

  part one

  one

  Just over there, through the trees, was Fifth Avenue: cars and buses roaring, people hurrying, apartments, shops; the trees were budding, everything turning green, and there was a feeling of life in the sharp air around Central Park Zoo. It is a pretty little zoo, red brick covered with ivy, and at the entrance is a charming rotating clock tower: our childhood animals, cast in bronze, each are playing a different musical instrument, and as the clock turns it chimes a tune: the hippo is playing the violin, the kangaroo the trumpet, the goat the pipes, the penguin the drum, the jolly elephant the concertina.

  This Saturday afternoon a young man was standing in Central Park, just outside the zoo gates, listening to the musical clock. He was twenty-eight years old, average height, lean, his thatch of hair jet-black, his skin clear and unlined; he was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers and his face was flushed from running. It was a strong, nice-looking face, but what struck you most were his eyes: they were beautiful—bright, deep blue, almost mauve, in certain light nearly black, and penetrating, and very warm, with thick lashes and dark eyebrows. Now his eyes were on the musical clock as it chimed five, and they were sad.

  For down below in the zoo is very different from the musical clock. Over in the corner the great, solitary polar bear paced up and down in his cage, pad pad pad to the corner, blink, turn, pad pad pad back, blink, turn, pad back to the corner again; over and over, and over and over. His feet covered exactly the same spots, and his body went through exactly the same turning movement every time. All day, every day, for the rest of his life. In the Elephant House the great mammals shuffled back and forth, back and forth, their great trunks curling and slopping, curling and slopping, nothing to do, enormous feet shuffling over the same few yards of concrete, big eyes blinking. Sometimes they trumpet, an old primitive scream out of the great forests that crashes back off the Victorian walls. In the Big Cat House, the lions and the tiger and the jaguar and the snow leopard and the panther are prowling back and forth, back and forth, powerful hunting animals pacing four paces to the corner, blink, turn, four paces back, blink, turn; over and over. The lions are fortunate, for there are two in one cage, but in their pacing they get in each other’s way and have to make an identical movement to avoid each other, a terrible ritual, over and over. The other big cats are alone in their cages, and they cannot see each other. The puma is always trying to paw down the steel partition to get in with the jaguar. For the rest of their lives, four paces up, four paces down. It would make a difference to the big cats if they could just see each other, for solitary confinement is one of the worst punishments. But opposite their row are the cages of the gorillas, big hairy animals each twice the weight and size of two very big men, with faces and eyes that are almost human, and the male gorilla can see the female gorilla in the next cage just fine, but they just sit there and stare and eat their own excrement.

  As the clock chimed an old black man came down the path.

  ‘Hello man.’

  The young man turned with relief. ‘Hello, Ambrose.’

  Old Ambrose looked up at him worriedly, then nodded his silvery head at the gates. ‘You not goi
n’ to knock this place over too, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  Ambrose took a deep, apprehensive breath, and glanced side-ways. He reached up to the young man’s top pocket and dropped a bunch of keys in it.

  ‘Thanks, Ambrose.’

  Ambrose looked up at the young man anxiously.

  ‘You only got an hour. Midnight to one. While we’re all havin’ dinner.’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘And,’ Ambrose said, ‘the east gate will be open.’

  The young man nodded again. ‘Thanks, Ambrose.’ Then he pulled two letters out of his tracksuit pocket. They were both stamped, and had express delivery stickers. ‘Will you mail these? Tonight, as soon as it’s over?’

  Ambrose took the letters without looking at them and stuffed them in his pocket. He looked up at the young man, and now he had tears in his old eyes.

  ‘For God’s sake, Davey, do you know what you doing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ambrose stared at him, then blurted: ‘They’ll shoot you, Davey—like an animal yourself …’

  Davey just shook his head slightly. Ambrose blinked, then grabbed his hand emotionally.

  ‘Lord bless you!’

  He turned and hurried back down the path.

  two

  Down in the vast basements of Madison Square Garden, seven long-distance haulage trucks were lined up. One each was painted in big, old-fashioned Western lettering, The World’s Greatest Show. The crews were hurriedly loading circus gear. Four of the huge vehicles were for the animals, each divided into adjustable compartments, with sides that folded down to form ramps. But at this moment all the animals were upstairs in the circus ring, parading in the grand finale.

  Applause roared above the oompah-oompah of the orchestra. At the front, two elephants pranced on their massive hindlegs. The big male held a top hat in his trunk tip which he waved to the crowd, while the female flounced in a massive polka-dot skirt and held a parasol in her trunk tip. Hanging onto her tail was a baby elephant called Dumbo, dressed in dungarees. Behind them came two huge grizzly bears, also on their shaggy hind legs, dressed as people, and behind them pranced a little bear dressed in a pinafore, waving to the crowds with his paw. Next came four chimpanzees—three big females and one small male—dressed as cowboys, brandishing sixguns, Stetsons jammed down over their ears, and chomping on cigars. Behind came the magnificent performing horses, prancing in time to the music. On their backs rode three African lions and a Siberian tiger, leaping from back to back in time to the orchestra’s beat; then came the sea lions, flapping along, balancing balls on their snouts, and the clowns clowing and the trapeze artists somersaulting and the leggy girls wearing sparkling tights, and the jugglers juggling.

  And in front of the whole parade strode a tanned, handsome, middle-aged man in a scarlet coat and a white pith helmet, smiling and waving to the crowd. The name he went by was Frank I. Hunt, and he was the ringmaster.

  A few minutes later it was all over. The animals hurried down the concrete ramp into the neon-lit basements, their keepers running alongside. They herded up the ramps into the trucks, and into their cages. All three elephants climbed into one truck, and their keeper chained them to their iron ringbolts. The lions and the tiger leaped up into another truck; the three bears scrambled after them into their compartment, then the chimpanzees. All their equipment was hefted in, blocks, barrels, seesaws, and hoops. It was quick and efficient.

  The first truck rumbled up the exit ramp, out onto the streets of Manhattan. Then the next, and the next, at one-minute intervals. The convoy of the The World’s Greatest Show went rumbling uptown through the night, spread out on Amsterdam Avenue, heading for the George Washington Bridge.

  The last two trucks to leave Madison Square Garden carried the elephants, the big cats, the bears and the chimpanzees. They drove slower than the others, trundling along with their extraordinary cargo. Finally they approached the cloverleaf system for traffic turning off onto the bridge. But they did not take the turnoff: as soon as they reached it they accelerated and kept going, hard.

  Miles across town from the Washington Bridge is the Bronx Zoo: two hundred and fifty acres of rolling, rocky woodland in the heart of the city, with winding roads and paths for people to stroll along while they look at the animals.

  It was just after midnight. The zoo grounds were dark, the trees silhouetted against the lights of New York. There was a faraway noise of traffic, and sometimes you heard an elephant trumpet, a wolf howl, a big cat roar.

  Suddenly, through the trees, appeared a shadowy figure of a man. He stopped, listened. Then he disappeared in the darkness.

  Five hundred yards away through the dark trees, past the reptiles and the elephants and the apes, was the Victorian big cat house.

  Outside, the young man reappeared. He crouched, unlocked the door. He stepped into the dark smell of the cats. There was a shattering roar.

  Ten pairs of feline eyes opened wide, ears pricked, bodies tensed. The young man went quickly to the snow leopard’s cage. The great cat was heaving herself against the bars, purring voluminously; the young man swung over the guard rail and leaned through the bars. He clasped the big head with both arms and hugged her and scratched her back as she writhed against the bars, trying to push herself against him.

  ‘Hello, Jezobel—yes, you’re beautiful …’

  The big snow leopard could not get enough of him, pushing and rubbing, and all down the row of cages the other big cats were pacing excitedly in anticipation.

  He pulled out a small flashlight and hurried down the row of cages, into the keeper’s office next to the Siberian tiger’s cage. He pulled out a bunch of keys, feverishly selected one, inserted it. He swung open the steel door and stepped inside. There was a sound of swiftness in the dark, and a mighty weight hit him on his chest with a snarl.

  He crashed onto his back, half-stunned, with the huge tiger on top of him in a mass of jaws and claws going at his head, and he was laughing under the rough slurpings of her tongue, whispering ‘Velvet paws, Mama!—Velvet!—’

  He hugged her great striped chest as she stood over him, licking his face, then he shoved her firmly over and scrambled up. He pulled off his leather belt and looped it around the excited cat’s neck, buckling it firmly as she writhed against him. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and began to stroke her neck hard, to soothe her.

  ‘Sh—sh, Mama, sh—sh, Mama …’

  Then he stood up and led her out of her cage, through the keeper’s office and out into the hall. The Siberian tiger padded excitedly beside him. He swung open the big door, and the cold night air flooded in.

  He paused on the threshold, peering into the darkness. Then, holding the tiger by the belt, he started to run.

  The old cow elephant sensed who it was as soon as she heard him at the lock. She flapped out her great ears, and gave a squeak, lumbering up to the bars of her cage. She snaked her trunk through, urgently sniffing: the young man unlocked the door and stepped into the smell and gloom of the Elephant House.

  The cages were divided with walls so the elephants could not see each other. The cow elephant was pressed against her bars, trying to see him, and the two adolescent elephants were reaching out with their trunks, snorting and snuffling. Across the hall the solitary hippopotamus was staring wide-eyed into the darkness, her nostrils dilated.

  ‘Hello, Jamba …’

  The young man scrambled through the bars of the cow elephant’s cage. Her trunk curled around him; delighted, snorting, she lifted him off his feet. ‘Yes, Jamba, yes, my beauty …’ He lay against her face, hugging her and grinning, and the great animal shuffled and squeezed him. Then he whispered, she released him immediately, and he slid back down her trunk.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, my lovely …’

  He hurried down the row of cages, touching the trunks that were groping for him, greeting the elephants by name. In the far corner the hippopotamus had her square snout jammed throu
gh the wide bars, shoving with her haunches. The young man climbed through the bars, and she reversed massively and lumbered against him. He put his arms around her big fat neck and hugged her. His eyes were moist, and the hippopotamus’s eyes were rolling with delight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sally … I’m sorry, old lady … You’d be fine in the summer but not in the winter …’

  Big fat Sally, the only hippopotamus in the zoo, was huffing and grunting, her huge mouth slopping as she shoved herself into his embrace.

  He gave her one last hug, then turned and scrambled tearfully through the bars. Sally lumbered after him, and floundered into the bars, her flanks quivering; he strode across the hall and wiped his wrist roughly across his eyes. The old hippopotamus stood there, squeezed against the bars, and she gave a big heartbreaking snort. The young man did not look back.

  He hurried back to Jamba’s cage, pulling out his flashlight and a wrench. He flicked the light on the locking mechanism, and set to work to open the elephant’s door. All the time the hippopotamus stood rammed against her bars, grunting at him, her intestines half-clogged with the coins, lipsticks, and marbles the public had tossed down her cavernous mouth over the years.

  The young man was running out of time. He unlocked the door of the Ape House and ducked inside. In the keeper’s office he snapped on the switch for simulated jungle daylight.

  The big silver-back male gorilla, the females and a baby blinked, scattered under their concrete tree. The male scrambled up onto all fours, staring intently; he bobbed excitedly and shook his head to show nonaggression, then came lumbering. He shoved his black hands against the glass panel, bobbing and shaking his head, and the young man grinned and bobbed and shook his head too.

  He dashed back into the keeper’s office, inserted a key, swung open the cage door—and the gorillas crowded around.

  ‘Hello, King!’

  He dropped to his haunches, his eyes moist. He could only take two. There was no more room in the trucks.

  three

  It was two o’clock in the morning.

  The circus gear lay abandoned on the grounds of the Bronx Zoo, a mess of barrels and seesaws and hoops and ladders.