The Last Zoo Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  This edition first published in 2019 by

  Andersen Press Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Sam Gayton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Text copyright © Sam Gayton, 2019

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978 1 78761 174 0

  FOR POE

  voilà |vwΛ'lɑː​|

  1. exclamation

  there it is; there you are: ‘Voilà!’ said the magician, producing a rabbit from a hat.

  2. noun

  any life form brought into existence by a reality bomb: ‘Genies were some of the first voilà to appear.’

  See also: the Seam, the zoo, reality bomb, glitch

  Extract from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, 2098 edition

  When he awoke, the dinosaur was still there.

  Augusto Monterroso, The Dinosaur

  1

  CAKE DREAM

  That night in Pia’s dreams they cut the moon like a cake and serve her an ice-white slice. The sponge is all silvery, dotted on top with candied meteorites. It tastes like cheesecake, of course.

  The moon comes served on a blue china plate, with a velvet napkin and a mother-of-pearl fork. Quite posh really, especially for angels. Usually they come into Pia’s dreams solely to make mischief – shaped like singing frogs, or gorillas wearing knickers, or elephants doing the hula. Hardly the holiest of visions.

  Yet here they are, the pair of them dressed like bistro waiters, letting her taste the moon.

  She keeps expecting the angels to make it taste like stinky blue Stilton, or yell out ‘TOTAL ECLIPSE!’ and vanish, leaving her hungry, but they don’t.

  Something is up. Pia knows it.

  But she’s asleep, and so there isn’t too much she can do except gobble up her serving and ask the angels for seconds, then thirds and fourths, until finally she is full and has to leave the last sliver in the sky as a crescent.

  The moon is pretty dry, as cakes go. Pia asks for something to wash it down with, and one angel flies off and comes back with a can of starlight. Pia expects it to taste all twinkly and sweet, but starlight tastes of nothing. When she complains to the angel, it looks surprised.

  ‘The flavour won’t reach you for a million years,’ it says.

  • • •

  When Pia wakes, the dream is still there. The angels have left it shining over her cot in the darkened cabin, pinned in place above her head.

  Now she’s awake, the dream takes the form of a halo. Most miracles the angels make appear this way. A circle is an angel’s favourite shape. It’s endless and elegant and completely loopy, just like them. Angels craft halos non-stop. They take beams of light and bend or braid them into rings, the way little kids do with daisy chains. Pia has seen them weave halos out of lamps, sunsets, birthday candles, monitor screens, you name it. Anything with a glow.

  This one above her now is plaited from moonbeams, cool and silver-white. It looks like a giant frosted doughnut. Or the ghost of one. Luckily, food phantoms do not exist yet. Imagine being haunted by all the long-gone desserts you’d eaten. Sweet revenge.

  Wow, she has woken up really pudding-obsessed. The halo is obviously still broadcasting the dream. It buzzes in her head like a sugar rush.

  Pia lies there, going drowsily from one thought to the next until the realisation hits her. Hits hard as a slap. The force of it sends her rolling out of bed and on to the cabin deck.

  She can’t feel the angels.

  They’re not there.

  But that’s impossible. Gone? They can’t be gone, no, no, she just isn’t feeling this right. Pia has a track record of missing things that are right in front of her: just-mopped floors, MIND YOUR HEAD hazard signs, the goggles she reported lost but which turned out to be on her head. This has to be another of those moments.

  Except it isn’t. Emotions aren’t something you can miss. You feel them or you don’t.

  And Pia doesn’t. Not even faintly, not even at all.

  The angels are gone.

  Where? She runs to the cabin window to look out on the ark. The halo comes with her, stitched in place seven centimetres above her head. It wobbles and nearly slides off. Pia steadies it with one hand. Her fingertips come away sparkly. The angels have sewn last night’s frost through the moonbeams like sequins.

  It’s a leaving present, she realises suddenly. A parting gift. Oh Seamstress, this is bad. The angels are so young. Just kids, really. They’ve barely outgrown their St Elmo’s fire.

  The cabin window is in sleep mode, blacked out. Pia clears it with a swipe. Hoping she’ll see them. Actually praying. Bright dawn streams into the cabin, sparkling off the sea and the puddles on deck and the rain beaded on the window glass. She throws her forearm across her eyes, blinded. A chill settles upon the top of her head and ears like a powder, and she remembers the night frost and, a moment later, the halo.

  Her hand rises up further to shield it, but the halo has already vanished, its pale frosted shape dissolving in the rich butter-yellow of the morning light.

  Pia just stands there. Numb with the hugeness of what she isn’t feeling. Numb with her numbness. How exactly are you supposed to save the world without angels? It would take a miracle. Which is kind of why the zoo has the angels in the first place.

  They might not have gone far. Can she call them back? Pia gets herself into her shirt and orange zookeeper dungarees and pulls on her scuffed boots.

  Her shirt is inside out.

  Ugh. Doesn’t matter. Change later. Just go.

  Find them.

  2

  ANGEL FEELINGS

  Outside the cabin the world is blue and calm. Above the ship and below it, sky and sea are still. Both so different to the churning, frantic mess Pia is: shirt inside out, sleep in her eyes, one of her boots already coming unlaced. Quit worrying about all that, she tells herself. Just find something to wreck, something to tempt them back to fix.

  She looks around the deck’s garden: at the meadow grass, the flowers, the apple tree at its centre. All of it growing on the deck of the ark. A little patch of green, bobbing on the big blue. The angels have sung each seed up from the soil and capped a tiny halo on every blade of grass. Out of all
their miracles, this is the one they are fondest of. The one they keep returning to.

  So Pia seeks out the nearest dandelion and kicks its yellow head off.

  She looks away, and looks back; and looks away, and looks back. Her heart pounds and her head prays, waiting for the golden shimmer of hands to come and mend the dandelion back on its stalk.

  Nothing happens. No miracle. The prayer goes unanswered.

  What now? What next? What? Pia can’t even call out for them. The angels don’t have names: it’s zoo procedure not to give them any, especially when they are still young. Names encourage pridefulness, apparently, and pride in previous imagerations of angels has led to all sorts of problems.

  Pia steps further into the garden, to where the angels have built their little house. It stands about Pia’s height, round as a halo and made from beams of sunlight, all bent and shaped and pinned into place.

  The house has walls made of strong slats of noontime glare, and windows made from treacly summer afternoons, with curtains of gloomy winter twilight and an orange-pink roof thatched from a thousand strands of sunset.

  Pia can walk straight through the walls, but that will bring the place tumbling down. The angels’ house is fragile, like its owners. So she drops to her knees and crawls through the open doorway.

  Inside, the hallway is wallpapered with rainbows. Through them Pia can see the garden, turned vivid shades of indigo and red. She crawls forward, searching for something, anything. A clue, a sign, a note. Surely they’ve left one?

  Maybe it was the halo, she thinks gloomily. It’s possible. Angels struggle to communicate in words, and much prefer to talk in dreams and visions. They might have woven an explanation through the moonbeams using the night frost, and placed it on Pia’s head to make her understand the reason they were leaving.

  But what does eating the moon like a cake mean? Maybe her brain hasn’t interpreted it right. Maybe there were subtler symbols in there that she’s missed. Pia thinks back to the silver slice, with its cheesecake flavour and meteorites. Were they candied nut, or chocolate chip? She can’t remember now.

  If only she hadn’t melted the halo out of stupidity, she could slip it back on her head. Dream the dream again, figure out what it meant. She facepalms.

  Maybe it was just a distraction. A way to keep Pia dreaming, whilst the angels made their getaway. That’s an even worse thought. The zoo’s most precious animals have escaped. On Pia’s watch. And all it took was cake.

  She crawls deeper into the angels’ house, steadying herself every few seconds. The further down the hallway she goes, the more it scrambles her vision. The bending and pinning and stitching of light leads to weird optical illusions. ‘Like a hall of mirrors’, Mum used to describe it.

  Pia has called up images on her goggles of old fairground funhouses, and it looks about right. Things too wide, too wobbly, or too fractured to make sense of. And she can’t shut her eyes, or she’ll blunder into a wall and bring the whole thing down around her like a sunset.

  At the end of the hall, every movement makes her queasy. Magenta meadow grass rises impossibly high, then seems to curl to the backs of her eyeballs. Pia’s violet hands flatten and unfold in concertina shapes that zigzag as she shuffles forward. The sea is the sky, the clouds are on deck. Her empty belly heaves.

  Pia reverses back out again, sick and dazzled. This is pointless. The angels have billions of rooms in their house, and Pia can only access the hallway. The rest are not three-dimensional spaces, but spirals that the angels draw themselves up into whenever they want privacy, like snails inside their shells, until they are the tiniest pinpricks of light, too small to see.

  The house is empty, though. Pia doesn’t need to search the rooms to know that. Seeing the angels isn’t the issue: feeling them is. Being in their presence is as much emotion as anything else, and the feeling of angels has always been there on the ark.

  And now it’s not.

  • • •

  What do angels feel like? It’s hard to say. Everyone gives a different answer.

  ‘Like waking up on your birthday.’

  ‘Like standing on a stage and everyone applauding.’

  ‘Like your team snatching victory in the last second of the game.’

  Ishan says that for him it feels like looking up at stars and seeing one shoot. But for Pia, it’s nothing like her best friend’s sparkling wonder. It’s way more embarrassing.

  To her, angels feel just like (and she hasn’t even told Ishan this) getting away with a fart in an elevator. That exact same mix of giddy relief and triumph.

  Only now there’s no relief. No triumph. Only the terrible rushing sensation of approaching disaster.

  And all she can do is stand on the deck of the celestial ark and watch.

  It feels just like that time she went to the Rhinosaurus rex ark when she was five, and its skin was like the surface of a mountain, with its eyes pooled in their crags like big angry puddles, and Pia got so scared she peed.

  And then Gowpen told everyone, and all the other kids in the zoo started calling her Pee-a, even though their nanabugs told them not to, until it got so bad that they had to reclassify pee as a swear word for a while, so that it got filtered from conversation and no kids could use it, which actually made things worse, because suddenly no one was allowed to say the word ‘people’, or sing the alphabet song past the fifteenth letter, or order anything with peas from the canteen ship, which made everyone super annoyed – mostly at Pia.

  And now, her life is repeating. She’s made a mess, again. Accidentally, again.

  And again it doesn’t matter one bit. Because soon the whole zoo will know, and hate her for it.

  3

  SUNSET PAGODA

  Did any of the other celestials see them go? Pia runs below deck in panic mode, clanging through doors, boot soles squeaking on the scuffed pink corridor floors, one thought in her head.

  Ask the genies.

  The zoo has only two angels (well, not even two at the moment) but dozens of genies. At least one on each ark. Over sixty species of voilà on twenty-two arks, but the genies are by far the most common because of how useful they are.

  Before there were angels, everyone hoped that genies might be the voilà the zoo (and the world) needs. But it turns out that the wishes they grant are only really practical for smaller stuff, like mending light bulbs and summoning more paper clips. Which is useful, but not on a save-the-planet level.

  As genies grow older and more powerful, they get paired with a human ’genieer: an expert in wishing. There are about a dozen different types of wishes that have been safely scripted out, but the most commonly granted are zephyrs and thrints. Zephyring is a form of teleportation, while thrinting is 3D printing – rearranging proteins and carbohydrates and fats into something that resembles food. The more powerful the genie, and the more skilled the ’genieer, the better it tastes. Pia always orders double helpings of dessert whenever Rubio and his genie Ajjimajji are on duty in the canteen. Those two have brownie ice cream down to an art form.

  But a genie’s wick only burns so bright for so long. Finally, the oldest and dimmest of them end up at the retirement home on the celestial ark.

  Officially, its name is the Sunset Pagoda. Which makes it sound a lot more glamorous than it is. It’s just an old storeroom deep in the ship’s belly, with fire-retardant walls and floors covered with sand. A place where genies can fizzle out in peace.

  Five of them burn there at the moment. Hokapoka, Shazam and Kadabra are all so feeble they rarely leave their lamps any more. (Very few genies live in actual lamps, of course: it’s just a catch-all term. Genies will burn in anything, really, so long as it’s fireproof. Old aerosol cans are common. Tins too. Genies crawl inside them like hermit crabs.)

  Solomon and Bertoldo might have seen something, though. The angels were always coming down to p
lay with those two old dears. Pia encouraged it. It was very sweet to watch. Being celestials, genies are made of light too (amongst other things). The angels loved bending them into all sorts of hilarious shapes – cylinders, cubes, question marks. The genies loved it too. They’d float through the air like carnival balloons, hooting with laughter as they twirled.

  Mum had liked to call it ‘genie yoga’.

  • • •

  Pia hurls open the door to the Sunset Pagoda. Even though the lights are on, the room is velvet-black. Warm darkness drapes itself across her eyes. It comes from all the shadows the genies wrap around themselves like cloaks. Over time the pagoda has grown thick with them, the way a room grows thick with cobwebs.

  In the centre of the darkness, spinning lazily in the air, two rings of licking flame burn above a pair of battered aluminium drinks cans. The lilac ring is Solomon, and the lime-coloured one is Bertoldo. Pia can hear them giggling to each other as they twirl.

  Her heart thuds. Each genie is twisted into the shape of a halo. The angels have been here! And not so long ago.

  ‘Do you know where they went?’ she blurts. ‘Solomon! Bertoldo! I need your help!’

  The two genies unravel, and clothe themselves in shadows while Pia holds a hand over her eyes. Seeing a genie’s naked flame is considered rude (only by the older ones, though, self-conscious about the dimness of their fire).

  ‘Did you see where the angels went?’ Pia asks them again, looking up. In their normal shapes, genies look a lot like people – only made of fire and clothed in shadow, and with extravagant facial hair.

  They both whoosh towards her, each one about the height of Pia’s forearm. Both their flames are shrouded except for the flickering tips, upon which burn faces and smoky trailing beards.

  ‘Did they say anything?’ The questions keep tumbling out of her. ‘Or, I don’t know, give you a clue? Maybe in the form of a dream?’

  Solomon’s and Bertoldo’s eyes dim with confusion. They’re the youngest in the pagoda, but by genie standards, they are both very, very old.

  ‘The angels.’ Pia balls her hands into fists. ‘Do you understand?’ She has to take a breath and swallow before she bursts into tears. ‘I have to find them.’