The Zoo by Jamie Mollart

American Marine from the Second World War, and the mould has left a ridge of plastic that runs along the centre of his fried-egg-shaped base. The ridge is too small to gnaw away with my teeth, though I have tried, scraping at it, the sharp plastic scratching at my gums. I worried away at it, trying my eyeteeth, forcing it into the side of my mouth to test it against my molars. In the end, which could have been ten minutes or four hours or three years later, I gave up and picked at it with my fingernails, discovering at the same time that he felt very satisfying in my hand, the end of his rifle pricking the inside of my thumb – an inoculation against the hopelessness of the chewing.
    He doesn’t stand, he can’t stand, he leans and rocks on his ridge like a weeble and for this reason, despite the sensory pleasure I derive from him, he is lower in the ranking than you would immediately think he should be.
    He is the following of orders. The debasement of having no choice combined with the masculine ideal of killing for a cause. He is brute force and ignorance. He is the grunt.
    He is the taker of lands and the defender of lands.
    The Soldier makes up the last of The Figurines; beneath him are only the Animals, which make up the main part of The Zoo. He is the last that understands; beneath him are those that can only listen and obey.
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    In the morning Newbie is gone. When I ask Mark where he is, he looks at me blankly. I check Newbie’s room. The bed is made, the blinds up. The window is slightly open, shifting the plastic of the blind against its frame with a rhythmic slap.
    At dinner I sit next to Beth. Her hands shake as she eats. She takes tiny mouthfuls, barely a spoonful each time, then leaves half her meal.
    I push my plate away. I can’t face it. She asks me if I want a cigarette. I say yes and numbly follow her outside. The cold hurts the bones in my hands as I draw the smoke into my lungs.
    I ask her how she came to be here. I immediately want to withdraw the question. She examines me. Momentarily I think she is going to slap me: her hand is raised, her palm flat, then she rubs it against her face.
    â€˜How does anyone end up here?’ she says, ‘how did you?’
    She waits for me to answer, but I don’t, so she starts talking.
    â€˜I was an infant teacher. It’s a great age. They’re just starting to be people, but too young to have been affected by the world. They’re beginning to understand things, there’s no cynicism there yet though, just an intrigue. I tried teaching older kids and found it heartbreaking to see that gone. They change so dramatically, so quickly nowadays.’
    â€˜Hasn’t it always been that way?’ I ask.
    â€˜I know I’m sounding nostalgic. Think back to when we were kids though. Think about what we did and hat we had access to, then think about today.’
    â€˜I’ve got a son.’
    â€˜You must know what I’m talking about then? How do you keep it all away from him?’
    â€˜I can’t keep him away from anything from in here.’
    â€˜Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest anything. Where is he now?’
    â€˜His mother.’
    â€˜Are you still together?’
    I consider answering her properly and telling her everything.
    â€˜Sorry, that’s really personal,’ she says, ‘Don’t answer if it makes you feel uncomfortable’
    â€˜No. It’s okay. We’re not. Weren’t, even before this,’ I gesture to the building with my head. ‘She’d taken him away from me before I came here.’
    She rests her hand on the top of mine where it lies on the bench. Her fingers are minute against mine. Minute and pale. Doll’s hands. I can feel the pulse in her thumb. She makes no attempt to move it away. I stroke her little finger with my remaining thumb. Neither of us looks at each other.
    â€˜I became very depressed,’ she says.