Precautions against tiger attack: Chapter 2

It turns out there are 37 pubs called the Plough and Compasses in London alone. I didn’t frequent any of them. I googled their locations and found the nearest one, just round the corner from the newspaper offices, I had to assume this was the pub the caller meant to meet me in.

Like all of the buildings in the street, the pub was in darkness, though the front door was fortunately unlocked. I entered, switched on the lights and helped myself to a pint of beer while I waited. Half an hour passed and there was no sign of the mystery caller, I began to suspect that I had chosen the wrong Plough and Compasses.

I topped up my beer and returned to my seat. I had taken a wad of papers with me to read, individual accounts of encounters with the tiger. I was interrupted from my studies by the creak from a floorboard. I looked up, expecting to see the mystery man who had called me with the tantalising promise of ‘the truth about the tiger’, but it was no man who made the noise. Standing near the bar, just 10 yards from where I sat, was a 700 lb, 12 foot long Bengali tiger, with a thick, golden coat. It was staring straight at me with, with bright, shiny eyes.

The journalist in me reached for my camera and took a photo, while the coward in me scoured the room for the safest exit. The tiger was obscuring my route to the front door, but there was an exit through the beer garden to my left.

“The back way’s locked,” the tiger said, “if you want to get out you’ll have to walk past me.”

“You can talk!”, I said.

“Of course, why shouldn’t I be able to talk?”, the tiger said.

“I didn’t know that tigers can talk.”

“I’m not a tiger silly,” the tiger said, in a giggly, girlish voice, “I’m an eleven year old girl. My name’s Amy, what’s your name.”

“Hello Amy, I’m Stephen. Sorry for calling you a tiger, but …” she didn’t let me finish.

“It’s because I’ve grown to look like my pet, every comments on it.”

“You have a pet,” I paused, the words so weird I struggled to find them, “tiger?”

“She’s not really my pet I suppose, she just lives in my house. She lets me tickle her though.”

“The escaped tiger lives with you?”

“It’s not safe for her outside,” Amy said, “the army want to shoot her. I go out and hunt for food her.” She added; “Did you not wonder how I got in?”

“How?”

“Through the door of course. I knew you were here, you left the light on. I’m not a tiger, I’m just a little girl called Amy, but I have tiger claws and tiger teeth, just one blow from my paw will kill you. How would you like to die Stephen, making a run for the door or sitting there, drinking your beer.”

It was weird listening to this ferocious, fully-grown tiger talking in a chirrupy girl’s voice, but I was fully aware of how serious the threat was. Luckily I had an answer.

“I’m a journalist,” I said.

“So what?”

“I’d like to interview your tiger for the national press,” I told her the name of my newspaper. “An exclusive interview, over 5 pages, ‘the tiger speaks out’. What do you think?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Here, my id.” I took my i.d. card out of my wallet and threw it over to the little girl, who perused it with her tiger eyes and pawed it with her claw. She seemed satisfied it was genuine.

“I’ll have to ask her if she wants to do an interview,” she said, “wait here, I’ll come for you.”

With that the tiger turned and walked out of the door, rising on its hind legs to turn the handle. I took another photo.

xxx

My phone rang. It was the same voice as before, clearly whoever it was had both my work number and mobile, probably my email as well, yet I had no idea who they were.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I must be in the wrong Plough and Compasses,” I said, giving him the name of the street I was in.

“My bad,” he said, “I should have made it clear which pub, there must be dozens. I will wait for you here.” He gave me an address. “It’s just under a mile away, can you find it all right?”

“Yes,” I said, “but can you come here instead?”

“No, I have to be here in case I need to leave urgently. It’s meet me here or nothing.”

Damn, what could I say, what could I do. I daren’t tell him I was waiting for the tiger, he’d either think I was mad or come and shoot it before I could do my interview. I now had two leads; a tiger who claimed she was an eleven year old girl who knew the real tiger and a stranger who knew me and claimed to know everything else as well. But now I was being forced to choose between these two leads.

Two questions: was the caller genuine and would the tiger grant me an interview? I supped my pint while I pondered the dilemma, a rather fine Adnams Best. Make that three questions.

“What’s the beer like there?” I asked the man.

“The guest ale is Everards Tiger,” the man said, laughing.

“I’ll see you in half an hour,” I said.