Source A: After the visitors had gone

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

“Walk behind me,” Elena said, without turning round. “Not beside me.”

I moved into the narrow strip of light cast by her torch. Ahead of us, the paths of the wildlife park curved between dark enclosures and locked service gates. During the day, those same paths carried families, pushchairs and the smell of chips. At night, every snapped twig sounded official.

“Is that a rule?” I asked.

“It is tonight.”

Elena had been a keeper for fourteen years. This was my first night shift, although I had spent six months studying animal care and had mentioned this fact twice before we reached the first gate.

She stopped beside the latch. “Check it.”

I shone my torch at the metal bar. “Locked.”

“Did you look at it, or did you pull it?”

“I looked.”

“Then you have inspected the appearance of a gate.”

I pulled the bar. The gate opened towards me with a soft click.

Elena waited.

“I see your point,” I said.

“I was hoping you might.”

She closed the gate, pulled it twice and recorded the time in a small notebook. I copied her movements at the next enclosure. This time, when I said “Locked”, she gave no reply. I decided silence was an improvement.

For the next hour, our conversation consisted mainly of instructions. “Count the buckets.” “Keep the radio clear.” “Read the label, not the colour.” Whenever I tried to explain what my course tutor had recommended, Elena said, “Tell me what is here.”

At the far end of the park, a young antelope stood outside its shelter. The night had become colder, and the other animals were already inside. Elena placed a bucket near the doorway and waited. The antelope stared past it but did not move.

“Should we call someone?” I whispered.

“We are someone.”

She waited another minute before asking, “What can you see?”

It was the first question she had asked without sounding as though she already knew my answer would be wrong.

I studied the enclosure. The shelter door was open. The path to it was clear except for a wheelbarrow parked against the fence. Its loose handle shifted whenever the wind moved through the wire.

“That wasn’t there this afternoon,” I said.

Elena followed the beam of my torch. “No.”

“It keeps knocking against the fence.”

“What do you suggest?”

I wanted to say that she was the senior keeper. Instead, I asked permission to move the wheelbarrow. When I had rolled it behind the service wall, the enclosure became quiet. The antelope watched us for a moment and then walked into the shelter.

Elena closed the inner door.

“Good,” she said.

The word was so unexpected that I nearly asked her to repeat it.

As we continued, Elena moved more slowly. At the next gate, she handed me the notebook rather than recording the check herself.

“Your turn.”

I wrote the time and pulled the latch twice.

“Three times,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I am enjoying your concentration.”

I looked at her, uncertain whether this was a joke. She smiled at the gate.

Near midnight, we sat in the staff room with mugs of tea. Elena took off her boots and told me that, on her first night shift, she had locked her keys inside the feed store. She had waited forty minutes before admitting it.

“You?” I said.

“Do not sound so delighted.”

“I thought you had never made a mistake.”

“No. You thought I did not want you to make one.” She stirred her tea. “Those are different things.”

On the final round, she walked beside me. At each gate, one of us pulled the latch while the other recorded the time. When the shift ended, I began the logbook entry: Elena checked all enclosures—

She placed a finger on the page.

“Write ‘we’.”

I looked up.

“Because tonight,” she said, “it was.”