“I’m glad to hear it. I hope you find your dog. Ten minutes...” she warned.
He waited until she had moved away. Today had been a disaster. He should have stayed at home and read the Daily Mail. But then he saw a flash of electric blue trouser. Damn it. He had to get the man’s attention. He stood and rattled the railings but they didn’t budge. So he began to wave. “Lord Graystock. Lord Graystock. Lord Graystock,” he shouted. This felt idiotic, like he was at a rock concert. But it had to work. He had traveled for miles for this. He had gone against the voice in his own head that had told him to stay at home in his daily routine. There was no way he was going back without an answer.
The woman and her dog would return. If he was going to do this, then he had to be quick. Without another thought Arthur spotted a ridge of metal along the top of the railing. He used all his might to lift his leg up and wedge his foot on the ridge. With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he managed to clamber up onto the top of the railing. He hung there for a moment, then rallied himself. Come on, Sir Edmund Hillary. Up and over, old son. He steadied himself and flipped his leg over. He jumped. The iron fleur-de-lis on the top of the railing got fastened in the hem of his trouser leg. There was a loud tearing noise as he dropped onto the lawn. Looking down he saw that his left trouser leg was torn to the thigh so it looked as if he was wearing a strange sarong. No matter. He was over. He stood and strode toward the manor house, his left leg exposed.
The grass was damp and squeaky. The buttery sun made it sparkle. It was a beautiful day. Arthur gave a sigh of relief. Birds twittered and a red admiral butterfly alighted on his shoulder for a few seconds. “Hi, there,” he said. “I’m here to find out about my wife.” As he lifted his head to watch as it fluttered away, he didn’t see the brick on the lawn.
He kicked it, then felt his ankle twist. He stumbled sideways, falling to the ground, and then rolled onto his back. Beetle-like he tried to right himself, but his legs and arms flailed feebly in the air. He tried again and then groaned. The fall had winded him. His ankle throbbed. He had made it over the dizzying heights of the railings and then been foiled by a brick.
He lowered his legs and arms and looked up at the sky. It was Wedgwood blue and a cloud shaped like a pterodactyl drifted by. An airplane left a vapor trail. Two cabbage whites flew higher and higher until he could no longer see them. The brick lay beside his ear. It was chipped around the edges as if it had been chewed.
He tried to right himself again by sucking in his stomach and attempting to sit up, but it was no use. Idiot, he sighed. He would have to do his statue thing for a while before he tried to move again. He wondered if he had ever come across a National Trust statue that lay prostrate. Hmm, probably not. Lifting up his leg he tried to rotate his twisted ankle. It circled and clicked. It wasn’t as bad as he first thought. The manor was in striding distance. He was nearly there. A few more minutes and he’d roll onto his side and get up. He would crawl there if need be.
It took him a few seconds to realize that he was no longer alone.
First of all he sensed movement beneath his fingertips as the grass rumbled. It was a strange feeling, not a thumping, or a buzzing, but more of a padding sensation. Something brushed his right foot. A dog? A squirrel? He tried to move his head, to raise it, but a pain shot down his neck. Hells bells. Ouch, that hurt.
The next thing he knew, his view of the sky was obliterated by something big. It was something with fur. It was something orange, black and white.
Oh, good God. No.
The tiger stood over him. Its face was so close that he could feel its meaty breath burning his cheek. There was an unmistakable tang of urine. Something heavy pressed down on his shoulder, forcing it into the earth. A paw. A huge paw. Arthur wanted to screw his eyes shut but he couldn’t help but stare, hypnotized by this great beast.
The tiger had black lips and whiskers the thickness of crochet needles. Its lips curled and a string of drool glooped down, down into Arthur’s ear. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but he daren’t move. This was it. He was a dead man. He turned his head slightly so the drool slid out onto the grass.
When he’d imagined his death (and he thought about it often now Miriam was gone), his preferred method was to fall asleep and not wake up—though he would want someone to find him straightaway. It would be awful if he began to create a stink. And he wanted to look serene, not have his face screwed up in pain or anything. He supposed Lucy would find him, so that wouldn’t be nice for her. It would be most useful if he could have a premonition about his death and be prepared for it. If he could be sure that, say, in fifteen years on, say, March 8, he would go to sleep and not wake up, he could tip Terry off the day before. “If you don’t see me tomorrow morning, then feel free to break in. You’ll find me in bed, dead. Don’t be alarmed. I know it’s going to happen.”
Or he understood that cancer was very common among men his age. He’d seen a feature on daytime TV on how you should cup your testicles to check for lumps. It had been disconcerting seeing a hairy pair of balls on his television screen at that time in the morning. Afterward he had felt around in his pants and decided that testicular cancer wasn’t going to do him in.
What he hadn’t ever pictured was being eaten by a tiger. He could see the headlines now. Pensioner Mauled to Death by Tiger. Thigh Bone Found in Grounds of Graystock Manor.This was not how he wanted to go.
The tiger moved its paw, this time farther down his arm. Arthur could only lie there as he felt the dreadful sensation of claws dragging his skin. There was a sharp pain and he flicked his eyes to see four red stripes of blood appear on his forearm. Blood bobbled to the surface. He seemed to float out of his body and watch the scene from above.
There was a painting once that he had seen in a book. It was a lion looming over a man. Was the artist Henri Rousseau? He was that man on the ground now. Did the man in the painting look terrified? Was there blood? As he lay there paralyzed with fear he lost all sense of time. How long had he even been lying on the ground? He couldn’t say if it was seconds, minutes or hours. The tiger watched him, staring and waiting. Its yellow eyes unblinking, unemotional. Make a move, it willed him. Provoke me and let’s see what happens.
Arthur glanced at the tiger again. It seemed to be looking longingly at his exposed leg. He could hear Bernadette’s voice in his head. “You silly old bugger. Why did you climb the bloody fence?”
“Elsie. No,” a man’s angry voice suddenly bellowed out. “Get off. Bad girl.”
The tiger, or tigress as Arthur now knew, turned her head to face the shout. Then she glared back at Arthur. They stared at each other and shared a moment. She was undecided. She could tear his head off at any time. Eating this white-haired old man would be a treat. A bit gristly, maybe, but she could cope with that.
“Elsie.” There was a thud and a thick, bloody steak landed on the grass a few inches from his ear. It must have been tastier than his head because the tigress gave him a haughty I’ll let you go this time glance and then sauntered off.
Arthur didn’t like to swear but...shit. He released his breath as a loud whoosh.
He felt a strong arm push under his back, helping him to sit upright. He tried to assist all he could. His arm hung loosely by his side.
Beside him, squatting down, was Lord Graystock. He had put on a blue shirt and matching waistcoat adorned with small mirrors that glinted in the sun. It was the same hue as his blue trousers. “What the bloody hell are you doing, man?”
“I just wanted to...”
“I should call the police. You’re trespassing on private property. You could have been killed.”