Free Natural History by Neil Cross

challenge of my life,’ confesses the jungle temptress.
    Monkeyland’s star attraction is Rue, the chimp made famous by a 1982 Mirror exclusive that revealed how cruel circus owner Jerry Lovelock was using violence and intimidation to train his animals.
    Animal-loving Britain took gentle Rue to its heart after gruesome footage showed Lovelock beating her with a plank of wood and shouting: ‘You f*****g bitch, I’ll sort you.’
    Mirror experts revealed that, at ten times stronger than a human being, Rue could easily have injured or killed her crazy master.
    Lovelock left Britain following our investigation and now works as an ‘animal consultant’ in France.
    â€˜Rue has been through a lot,’ says Jane. ‘She’s a very special lady. Her welcome has made us all feel very honoured—especially­ my son Charlie, whom she seems to have adopted!’
    In the photograph, Jane wears shorts and caterpillar boots, and kneels, her arm about Rue’s shoulder. Charlie kneels to the left. Rue is holding his hand.
    Patrick read the piece out loud, in the office. He peered at her over his spectacles.
    He said, ‘“A very special lady”?’
    â€˜I didn’t say that.’
    â€˜I should hope not.’
    â€˜They make it up anyway,’ said Jane. ‘No matter what you say. So why bother?’
    A week later, Rue was killed.
    To capitalize on Rue’s death, Richard arranged lunch in Soho with a journalist friend, a good contact. His name was Nick Avery, and he accorded in no way with Jane’s expectation of a tabloid journalist; he was well-dressed, plummy, homosexual.
    Nick was on his eighth cigarette and his fifth espresso when Jane directed into his Dictaphone the quote she’d written the previous night and rehearsed all that morning, on the train to London.
    â€˜The fact is,’ she said, leaning over the table, squinting into the cigarette smoke, ‘we don’t know who’s responsible. But the police are taking this very seriously, not just because of Rue, but because of certain threats my family and I received over the course of 1995.’
    Richard sat back, arms crossed, job done, while Avery quizzed Jane for half an hour.
    Next morning, the banner head on page one showed a picture of Jane—in shorts, naturally—and the legend: TV JANE: ‘My Stalker Horror.’
    She came home late the next night.
    A couple of local reporters were at the gate, and Jane stopped off to speak to them—to offer a wry no comment and a cup of tea; they must be cold. They declined. Jane thanked them, went inside.
    Patrick was upstairs, reading. Jo was watching Star Trek: The Voyage Home on video. It contained a scene where life was given to a lifeless planet—it happened in real time, as the viewer appeared to orbit the alien world.
    Charlie was in his room, listening to music with the earphones on.
    Jane went upstairs.
    Patrick could read her mood by her footfalls. Now he heard restraint, apprehension.
    She paused at the door. He measured it, the shape and intention of the pause. And then she came in.
    â€˜Are you awake?’
    He peered over his half-moons. ‘Reading.’
    She sat down on the bed. Unlaced her boots.
    â€˜What a day.’
    He folded a page, closed the book.
    â€˜How are you?’
    â€˜Tired.’
    â€˜Me, too. When are they going to leave?’ He nodded at the wall. He meant the local journalists.
    â€˜Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Next day. Soon.’
    â€˜Why did you tell them?’
    â€˜Why did I tell them what?’
    â€˜About the threats.’ He’d seen the headlines. ‘Did Richard put you up to it?’
    She crossed her leg and massaged the arch of her foot. ‘No.’
    He opened The Three Musketeers.
    â€˜It was kids, ’he said. ‘It was just kids.’
    â€˜Probably, yes. Probably it was.’ She took the book off him. Then she curled up and laid her