‘Right,’ said the police constable on the bridge, speaking into the little two-way radio he held. ‘Right. I am standing at the north end of the bridge. I am facing west, looking down the steps. There are two men there with a lion. Right. I know. The lion is loose. I am dead sober. I am in my right mind. What I think we need here is the fire brigade with a pumper. Big net too, stout one. Chaps from the zoo with a strong cage. Ambulance too. Yes, I know this is the second time. As quick as you can.’ The constable looked up and down the bridge, chose a position from which he could climb a lamp-post or jump into the river, and waited.
More, thought Jachin-Boaz. This is not yet all. I have not yet gone all the way. I have not yet become unaware of the beating of my heart, have not yet eaten up my terror, not yet been angry enough. Let it come, let it happen. Words in his mind again:
TO RAGE WITH A LION
Nothing else was enough. No more thought. His mouth opened. Again the roar. He or the lion? He smelled the lion. Life, death. He hurled himself at the immensity of lion.
Boaz-Jachin leaped from the other side on to the lion’s back, his face against the coarse mane and hot tawny skin his arms embracing, fingers clutching raging death.
Jachin-Boaz, Boaz-Jachin screamed in blinding fires of pain, raw nerves and ripped flesh flaming, muscles torn, ribs cracking, lion-entered, lion-killed, lion-born, howling in millennia of pain, impossibly absorbing infinities of lion. Blackness. Light. Silence.
Their arms were around each other. They were whole, unhurt. There was no great beast between them. The day was bright on the river, the air was warm. They nodded to each other, shook their heads, kissed, laughed, cried, cursed.
‘You’re taller,’ said Jachin-Boaz.
‘You’re looking well,’ said Boaz-Jachin. He picked up his guitar, put it in the case. They walked up the steps, turned down the street towards Jachin-Boaz’s flat. The fire brigade pumper and a red car passed them flashing and blaring. The ambulance, a police car, a police van, a van from the zoo, all flashing and blaring.
‘You’ll have breakfast with us,’ said Jachin-Boaz. ‘I don’t mind being a little late for work today.’
The police constable came forward as the pumper, the ambulance, the cars and vans screeched to a stop. In a moment he was the centre of a circle of policemen, firemen, ambulance and zoo people, and his superintendent. The little dark man from the zoo sniffed the air, looked from side to side, bent to study the pavement.
The superintendent looked at the constable, shook his head. ‘Not twice, Phillips,’ he said.
‘I know how it looks, sir,’ said the constable.
‘You’ve got a good record, Phillips,’ said the superintendent. ‘Good prospects for promotion, a fine career ahead of you. Sometimes things get to be too much for all of us. Marital problems, economic pressures, nervous strain, all kinds of worries. I want you to talk to a doctor.’
‘No,’ said the constable. He put the two-way radio carefully on the bridge parapet.
‘No,’ he said again. He took off his helmet, set it down beside the radio.
‘No,’ he said once more, took off his tunic, folded it neatly, laid it on the parapet beside the helmet and radio.
‘There was a lion,’ he said. ‘There is a lion. Lion is.’
He nodded to the superintendent, passed through the circle as it parted on either side of him, and walked away down the street in his shirtsleeves.
A Note on the Author
Russell Hoban (1925–2011) was the author of many extraordinary novels including Turtle Diary, Angelica Lost and Found and his masterpiece, Riddley Walker. He also wrote some classic books for children including The Mouse and his Child and the Frances books. Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA, he lived in London from 1969 until his death.