Reginald Titmouse had his life planned out.
He was one of those men who needed to know where the next day would take him – what the next year or decade would have in store for him.
He had even calculated that when he retired from his beloved post, his last day would fall on Friday the thirteenth.
He smiled when he recalled how many years had passed since those calculations were made, yes, he mused, exactly twenty seven years and four months from the day he was promoted to head the Zoological Garden’s reptile house.
Like those under his care Reginald was a quiet man who moved about in an almost slithery way and appearing where one would least expect him to, and his pale grey complexion unnerved his colleagues by almost blending into the background.
The week before his retirement Reginald gathered the members of his staff together and announced with a shy cough, ‘As you know, my retirement is due, so I have booked and paid for a farewell dinner at the magnificent Palm Court. I wish it to be a happy occasion for you and your spouses but as I am superstitious about Friday falling on the thirteenth I have made the booking for Saturday, the following evening.’
There was a round of applause. Reginald gave a weak smile, ‘Yes, I thought it would fall in well, after all, I am told that Saturday has a special appeal when planning a social occasion.’
So that was that. Friday came and Reginald was presented with the ritual gift of a watch. He had been asked if he had a preference and laughed at the throwaway line about not choosing a Rolex.
‘I would like a diver’s watch if that is possible.’
‘You plan to go diving?’
‘Why else would I need a diver’s watch?’
Everyone laughed except for Reginald. He would not miss the people he was forced to work with. No, he would not miss any of them, but his creatures – now that was a different matter, his reptiles with their beautiful scaly skin that dappled against the background, moving across the rocks like water reflected from the surface of a magical pool – they were his world.
He fastened the watch around his wrist and saw each of the staff leave one by one. Friday the thirteenth, he thought, what difference can a man-made calendar date have in the grand scheme of the universe?
He had already cleared his desk and his locker of personal possessions, so all that was left for him to do was say one last farewell to his friends, his kinsmen in Reginald’s mind.
The alligator house was especially steamy that evening as was the crocodile’s muggy domain. They gave him a sly, sideways glance like they knew he was leaving them. Sweat began to pour down Reginald’s neck wetting the colour of his pale green uniform. As he wiped it away with the back of his hand and turned towards the zoo’s snake house, he thought he heard a ripple, distinctive in character, murky with slime. He turned his head just in time to see the large Nile crocodile, one of his very favourites, climb out of the pool.
Reginald stood his ground and fixed his eyes on those of the croc. It slid back and disappeared below the warm olive coloured water. He gave a slow smile before heading on to say farewell to the zoo’s recently acquired resident, an anaconda bought at great expense from the Amazonian rain forest.
She was curled up in her enclosure almost invisible against the dark plants and rock formations. But Reginald’s entry made her stir. With the corner of his eye he caught the flicker of her tongue. She could smell him, and taste the movement of the air that surrounded him. With the flicker came a shift, a movement Reginald had become to love. She’s roused by my presence; he thought, she senses the trickling sweat sticking to my overall. He unzips it, takes it off and kicks off his shoes. It isn’t her head or tongue that fascinates him, but the sleek movement of her enormous body as she uncurls and begins the journey down the rocks and towards him.
With slow deliberation he folds his uniform, places his shoes on top and stows them under the pile of rocks he’d previously prepared. He knows she has not been fed because he had set the animal free to roam with the other goats. She moves nearer, excited by his movement to bury his clothes. He knows her stomach juices would be triggered by his nearness so steps towards the giant ferns and tropical plants native to her home. He waits, eyes closed until he feels her tongue touching the back of his legs, then upwards to his spine, her underbelly warm and dry – the scales smooth and large – beneath them, he can feel the power of the muscles that will crush his bones and snatch the breath from his lungs.
They will find the clothes eventually, but he doubts they will examine the pod, yet they might because he would. He would want to know what live animal his creatures were being fed on. He wonders if they did examine the pod, whether they would marvel at the technology of a watch able to withstand the pressures of a boa constrictor’s digestion tract. He thinks not, but they might wonder what drove a superstitious man to enter an anaconda’s compound at the dead of night on Friday the thirteenth.
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
In “Friday the Thirteenth,” we meet Reginald Titmouse, a peculiar head of a zoo’s reptile house whose life revolves around meticulous planning. On his final day before retirement, which deliberately falls on a Friday the 13th, Reginald makes an extraordinary decision. After arranging a farewell dinner for Saturday (to avoid his supposedly unlucky last day), he spends his final moments with his beloved reptiles, particularly drawn to a newly acquired Amazonian anaconda.
The story takes a dark turn as Reginald’s true intentions become clear. In a haunting finale, he chooses to become one with his cherished creatures, leaving behind only his clothes and a diver’s watch – a carefully chosen final possession that could withstand the digestive tract of a boa constrictor. This tale masterfully blends the ordinary with the macabre, exploring themes of belonging, obsession, and the thin line between keeper and kept.
About the Book and Author
Pat Barnett, a Manchester-born writer now residing in Pickering, North Yorkshire, brings her rich life experiences to this collection of supernatural and mysterious tales. From her early days in Gorton to her adventures in Australia and back to Yorkshire, Pat’s journey has shaped her unique storytelling style.
“Creatures” is a captivating anthology that weaves together tales of the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary. If you enjoy stories that blur the lines between reality and the supernatural, while exploring the darker corners of human nature, you’ll find yourself immersed in Pat’s masterful storytelling.
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