Precautions taken against tiger attack - the complete story (22,000 words)

Story outline
1. You is sinner
2. The Raid on the zoo
3. A theatre trip disrupted
4. Ministerial Diary Day 1
5. Okay Commuter
6. Panic
7. On the Beat Pete
8. There is a Light that never goes out
9. My tiger and me
10. Back to the Old House
11. Ministerial Diary Day 2
12. Panic 2
13. On the Beat Pete 2
14. Ministerial Diary Day 3
15. Chapter 1
16. There is a Light that never goes out 2
17. Okay Commuter 2
18. On the Beat Pete 3
19. Ministerial Diary Day 4
20. Chapter 2
21. Ministerial Diary Day 5
22. Chapter 3
23. There is a Light that never goes out 3
24. Okay Commuter 3
25. Ministerial Diary Day 6
26. Chapter 4
27. On the Beat Pete 4
28. Okay Commuter 4
29. Breaking News
30. Ministerial Diary Day 7
31. Back to the Old House 2
32. Chapter 5

1. You is sinner

You is sinner. You is all sinners.

And God has sent a tiger unto us to show his fury, to carry out his great vengeance on a sinful world.

You can walk away from me, but you cannot escape the fury of God. Wherever you go the tiger shall find you. Just as Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed with fire and brimstone, so shall London be laid waste by the tiger of retribution.

The tiger will not seek out the meek, the pure, the kind of heart.

But if you have sinned! He will show the claws of the mighty.

Repent while you may. When the tiger comes for you what will you say? That you had no time for God, that you were too engrossed in the pleasures of the flesh? For that flesh is nothing more than tiger meat.

Sinners, sinners, do not walk on by. The time of judgement is come.

For the tiger is here, he is amongst you, he is with us now in this street, in your room with you as you sleep, the tiger is with us at all times and the tiger will rip and tear and fling your mortal flesh aside. So save your souls while you may. Save your souls now, before the tiger comes for you.

2. The raid on the zoo

The crowd besieged the zoo gates, thousands of the hooded, masked and unmasked, armed with hammers, crowbars and petrol bombs, the gates were twisted, exploded, hammered and burnt. Eventually the crowd surged through an opening and poured into the unprotected zoo. Far away a police superintendent made the decision to do nothing. The zoo was too high risk to recapture and could afford to be lost, instead officers would surround the Bank of England and the city, for bankers must be saved even when the lesser parts of London are allowed to fall.

The riot leaders, following the commands of organisers far away, ran to where they were ordered, to steal the animals for which there was a market: rare spiders, snakes, lizards and the like. The more organised had thought to bring cages to carry them in, protective gloves to handle them and even metallic grips with which to carry their prey.

Others seized animals merely for fun. Penguins were stolen as potential bath time pets, llamas were stolen as potential sources of wool and across London for the next week or so certain low-quality fast food establishments were best avoided for all but the most exotic taste-bud.

But some of the looters forgot the purpose of cages. Yes they are there to keep the animals enclosed, to keep humans out, but they are also there to protect the public. To protect people from tigers and lions and other animals with tooth and claw, poison, stealth and strength.

One foolish boy, raised to ignore the notion that actions have consequences, forced open the door of the tiger compound. He strolled inside, assuming himself king of his new domain, free to grab whichever animal he saw and kill it for food, or catch it for sale. He understood neither the law of the land nor the law of the jungle.

In the panic caused by the riots the keepers had been unable to get to the zoo for a day and a half. The animals were not only terrified by the rioters, London filled with the howls, cries and screeches of an entire world’s worth of fauna, they were also hungry and alert and in the case of the tiger alert and on the prowl, crouching in the corner waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike down their prey.

Altogether eleven looters lost their lives during the raid. The boy didn’t even have time to notice his death, so swift was the tiger’s paw. Others died more slowly, some agonised deaths from the poison of rare snakes or spiders for which they had omitted to bring cages, trying to steal them home in a pocket or a Tesco bag, others were trampled by elephants and one boy had a heart attack, brought on by the powerful stench of a skunk he’d stuffed into his jacket and which had leaked and squirted a repulsive river of stench all over his drenched clothing.

But those eleven deaths would pale into insignificance. For the tiger door was open, and a swift feast on that first scrawny looter did nothing to fill the bellies of a cage of unfed tigers. One by one they strolled out into the night, into a zoo of looters who soon thought to flee, except for two more victims who were culled in the confines of the zoo.

Two more light meals did not suffice, and the tigers marched on, through the open front gate and out into the night of London on fire.

Now London lies in terror. In every alleyway and dark corner a tiger lurks, ready to strike. The riots a long-forgotten fear, a distraction from the real threat to civilisation. For a tiger once unleashed may never be re-captured, will never be returned to its prison.

One young boy’s error means that London is doomed. For in a fight between man and tiger, the tiger will always win. Flee now, while you have a chance. Flee, flee to lands far away from London, which is now the tigers’ domain.

3. A theatre trip disrupted

The day the tiger escaped we were due to go to the theatre, a sold out production featuring some Hollywood star making her West-end debut. Dave had secured me a couple of front row seats and the promise of a chance to meet her after the show; take some photos and maybe cadge an autograph.
But Sally didn't want to go. She stood in front of the door, arms folded, shaking her head. "We're not going out, not while there's a tiger on the loose."
Sally gets these ideas in her head.
"Don't be stupid," I said. "There's seven million people in this city, a thirteen mile maze of streets, what are the chances of the tiger deciding to attack us? We're only walking 20 meters to the car and another 20 metres from the car park to the theatre, we've more chance of winning the lottery three weeks running than we have of being attacked by a tiger.
"I know, but I've had a premonition. If we go outside this house we'll be eaten by the tiger."
A premonition? Well, if it's pre-ordained there's nothing we can do. Even if we stay in all night the tiger will pick the lock and sneak up on as we're sleeping, just to make sure that your premonition comes true.
"Don't be silly, it's only if we go outside it'll happen. Tiger's don't pick locks, that's why we should stay in tonight."
"But we're miles from the zoo, the tiger would never reach this far out, it only escaped a few hours ago. Even if it had escaped just so it could get us, it would never find its way through this estate without a map. Nobody ever manages to find the house without sat nav."
As ever, when faced with a reasoned argument she could never win, Sally stomped off in tears. It's as if my marriage is padded out by stock footage of a stomping-off woman.
I gave her a few minutes to rage and storm to herself, before joining her. The routine is well rehearsed by now. I poured her a glass of wine and found her on the sofa, slumped into herself with tears. I sat softly beside her, presented the wine as a peace offering and slipped my arm around her, so that she could reposition herself and cry onto me.
After ten minutes or so of crying she was ready to talk.
"They're real. My premonitions are real," her voice trembled between words. "They come true. I've got this to show for it."
So saying, she rolled up her skirt to show me her dog bite, the 19 year old scar from her childhood, a long twisted smile of skin above her knee and up towards her thigh.
I knew all about the dog-bite, she told me about it the first time I saw her bare leg. Well, about 45 minutes after I first saw her bare leg, during our post-coital getting-to-know each other chat. She'd told me about the pool of blood she'd left on the road that was, so she said, deep enough to swim in, and the hospital using up all of its supplies of blood to keep her alive.
"I never told you before," she continued, "but I knew when I left the house that day I was going to get bitten. I'd had a premonition the night before. I screamed at my mother, begged her not to send me out, but she forced me out of the house, said I had to go to school."
I said nothing. Sally's stories have a habit of being re-edited many years' later, to fit whatever argument she's making at the time.
"I knew I was going to get attacked by a dog," she continued, "but there was nothing I could do. I stumbled along the street in anticipatory tears, straight into my fate. I can still feel it's horrible, hot, slobbering breath as it bit me."
She cried into my shoulder. My finger stroked its way up and down the scar, the tooth-track of a long dead dog, followed the mark gently up and down, then up again towards her thigh. Slowly the mood changed, her tear-grip turned subtly into a love-lock, her right hand started to claw the hair on my chest and my finger started to stray further from the scar. All thoughts of tiger attack suddenly vanished and we started to ravish and ravage each other, as we had when we first met, a rummage and romp on the sofa, no time even to go upstairs.
And afterwards, straight to bed, for seconds. "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing twice."
"This is better than being eaten by a tiger," she panted, as we lay in recovery position, "don't you think?"
"Ah, so the whole thing was a ruse to keep me in the house was it?"
She giggled at this suggestion. "Oh yes, I got no pleasure from it. Once that tiger's caught we'll have no more of that distraction."
"Well I'd better make the most of it while I can," I said and we wrestled each other into round three. Yes, you heard me correctly, a third time, at my age an' all, there's a beast on the loose tonight all right.
So I thought that was that. A blissful night's sleep with my life's true love, tears and tigers forgotten.
But the next morning she's stood at the front door, arms folded, blocking my way out the house.
"Honey, I have to go to work."
"There's a tiger on the loose. I had a premonition, remember?"
"How could I forget?" I smiled cheekily, hoping to revive sweet memories, but all I got back was a scowl.
"I wasn't joking, there's a tiger out there."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, not this again." All the love of last night gone in a few words. Why don't I ever proof-read my thoughts before I open my mouth?
I could have lifted her out of the way, physically pushed her, but it would have been a fight, and I didn't want a fight. That's how my dad lost my mum, getting physical.
"Fuck it, I'll work from home this morning. Can you make me a fuckin' coffee at least."

I stomped off to the kitchen, but she caught me up and gave me a thank-you kiss, obediently making the coffee and an accompanying pancake, the dutiful wife. Great sex, great coffee and the best pancakes I've ever tasted, I shouldn't really complain.

4. Ministerial diary: Day 1

It all started with a call from Sally in the PM's office.

"The Man would like to talk to you," she said, "he'll be ringing in five minutes."

"Okay," I said, "I'll wait." I was about to go into a Select Committee hearing, so I went in, plonked my papers on the table, said hello to a few people on our side and said I had to "Go and freshen up."

I went to freshen up while I waited. What did the Man want with me? I wondered. Was it about the Select Committee report? We had been rather critical of the government's plans to make the dead work for a week before they were entitled to claim burial costs. The Committee thought this requirement unrealistic, even the Conservative members agreed that there simply weren't enough
jobs for dead people to do. Our report had led to some unfavourable press in the Guardian and the Independent, but surely the Man wasn't that angry with me, after all none of the real papers had picked the story up and the Sun had led with a survey showing that 99% of dead people supported the move.

It was twenty minutes before the call came and when it did it wasn't the Man after all, it was Gavin, his PPS. "How would you like to be a Minister?" he asked.

"I'd like that very much," I replied, thinking of the ministerial car, the little red boxes and the £30,000 per year salary increase. "I didn't know there was a reshuffle," I said, "what job do you have in mind for me?"

"There's no reshuffle, I can't talk about the job over the phone. Come to Sir Robert's office at 2.00 and you'll find out everything you need to know."

I returned to the Select Committee just as the first witnesses were leaving. I mumbled apologies and received back jibes across the spectrum of wit, including the memorable line from David Harris, the Labour MP, who commented "You've never looked so fresh." At least someone was paying attention to me for once. Ah, but from now on they will all pay attention, I realised, I will be a Minister of State.

The hours passed slowly and the minutes slower still, the Committee was hearing evidence about benefit fraud, mostly from academics who enjoyed boring us with meaningless statistics. According to one 97% of all disabilities were fraudulent, a fact I shall retain for the next time my surgery is besieged by protestors demanding disability rights. Up to now I have been sympathetic, but
knowing that virtually all disability is bogus has hardened my position, no more sympathy for those feckless scum feigning dementia, after all who hasn’t mislaid their keys once in a while.

At last it was nearly two and I walked over to Downing Street. I waited another half hour outside Sir Robert's office before being called for. Sir Robert is one of The Man's staff, a party official, tasked with the day to day running of the government. Politicians argue, but it is people like Sir Robert that actually get things done. Eventually I was called into his office. "Glad you could come," he said with a smile that made me forget the long wait, "have a seat, Minister."

So it was true, I really was a Minister. I decided to make the most of the opportunity. "If there's any choice in the matter I'd be interested in the Foreign Office," I said. Often with reshuffles the job is up for negotiation and I rather fancied a Foreign Office role, involving lots of free first class travel to interesting places, mainly 5 star hotels and conferences centres that put the 5 star hotels to shame.

"There's no choice I'm afraid, this isn't a reshuffle it's a new post - take it or leave it."

"I'll take it obviously," I said hastily, rather too hastily as it happens, Sir Robert’s eyebrows dropped disapprovingly.

"I haven't told you what the job is yet," Sir Robert said. "We need a Minister for Tigers, someone to deal with the emergency, you know, the tiger that escaped from the zoo yesterday. We need someone to handle the public order threat, the Home Secretary can't cope on her own."

I tried not to show my disappointment. "But the tiger will be caught in a couple of days, I'll have had the shortest ministerial career ever."

"Maybe," he said, "or maybe not. It might take longer than you think to sort out this whole tiger business, either way you'll get the chance to impress The Man. You'll be attending Cabinet, so it will be a good chance for you to get your face known."

"Cabinet?" I couldn't hide my excitement, me a Cabinet member at just 36, I could be PM by the time I was 43 at this rate. "I thought we only had five places at Cabinet," I said. (The coalition agreement guaranteed the Lib Dems five Cabinet posts).

"You won't be a member of the Cabinet, just present at sittings to report on the tiger, there is a distinct different."

"It's still an incredible honour," I said.

"Exactly. We've had our eyes on you for quite a while you know."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, the Man has taken quite a shine to you. The problem is there are a limited number of ministerial posts we can give to Lib Dems and most of these are fixed by political niceties and necessities." He leaned forward as if in a whisper, though in fact his voice changed not a jot "Frankly, two of the Lib Dem members of the Cabinet are promoted way about their ability and won't last the next reshuffle."

"Alex Daniels was over-promoted when he got his first paper-round," I said, repeating a joke that had been doing the rounds every since he'd surprised everyone by getting a Cabinet job.

Sir Robert looked at me sternly. "I didn't mention Alex Daniels," he said, "by all accounts Alex is doing a wonderful job. The Conservative backbenchers love him as does the Man: he’s always willing to defend the undefendable. No, Alex is probably the safest Minister in the whole government, yourself included."

I left Sir Robert's office with my tail between my legs. I had almost blown the greatest opportunity of my life. Now that I was a Minister, a Minister who attended Cabinet no less, I must make sure that I am less indiscreet.

5. Okay Commuter

The train station was heaving with people, an angry swarm of suits. There were no trains showing on the departure board.

I managed to find a member of station staff. “What’s happening?” I asked.

“No trains, mate,” he said, “there’s an escaped tiger.”

“A tiger? What’s that got to do with the trains?”

“Drivers are refusing to go out when there’s a tiger about. It’s not safe, see?”

“Not safe, but they’re enclosed in a solid metal container travelling at 100 mph. The only place that’s not safe from the tiger is here,” I gestured to the immovable throng of people. “If a tiger walked in here now it would cause havoc.”

“’Snot my decision mate. You’ll just have to wait for an announcement like everyone else.”

“But what if the tiger’s not caught, how’ll I get home?

“No need to worry about that mate, it’s guaranteed in the ticket. If we can’t get you home we have to lay on a bus, or taxis, and if we can’t do that we have to put you up in a hotel for the night. Let me look at your ticket.

“Oh dear, you’ve got a saver.”

“Yes, it’s five pound cheaper, so what?”

“Well, no guarantees for a saver ticket, you’ll have to make your own way if the tiger’s not caught.”

“Make my own way? It’s over fifty miles.”

“Well then, stay over with a friend, get a lift. Sorry mate, I’ve got a thousand other people to help.”

I walked away before I hit him. There were indeed thousands of us, zombified by the system, unable to go anywhere, but afraid to leave in case we miss the one elusive train.

I decided to do the only sensible thing I could. I walked to a nearby pub for some food. It was heaving with people who’d had the same idea but I managed to find an empty seat with another man in his 30s, clearly in the same situation as me, who was halfway through his scampi and chips.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

“Na, help yourself - name’s John.” He held out the two fingers of his hand which weren’t clasping his knife and I wriggled them with mine.

“The 4.39 I was due to get, gonna be home early for me daughter’s birthday.” With the two non-fork fingers of his left hand he removed a photo from his shirt pocket and passed it to me.

“Cecilia - she’s five,” he said, which meant that the photo was exactly a year old, unless she often ate cakes with four candles in them.

We struck up something of a rapport and took turns running to the station to check the latest news, but train after train was cancelled (if they’re cancelled they’re not late so you can’t claim a refund).

It started to get late.

“You got anywhere you can stay?” John asked. I responded with a shake of my head.

“Me neither,” he said. “Truth is I’m brassic, can’t afford a hotel, not even a doss house.”

“I’m in the same boat. I had to take a pay cut to keep my job.”

“If worse comes to worse,” he said, “we can sleep in the station. It’ll be safe from the tiger and there’ll be other people in the same boat.”

“It’ll be cold though.”

“That’s where we’re in luck. I’m a travelling duvet salesman, I’ve got two samples with me.”

“Blimey,” I said, “you couldn’t make up a coincidence like that.”

He produced the two bags he’d stashed under our table and took out a corner of what looked like a 16 tog kingsized.

“It’s a 16 tog kingsized.”

We needed them, of course, no trains ever showed. Mysteriously though we were the only commuters there, the rest had somehow got a lift, found a better place to stay the night. Some of them might even have had the right tickets to get an hotel or taxi.

We’d bought a bottle of whisky at the pub and sat for a while, under our duvets, chatting. A little before midnight a homeless guy comes in and walks up to us.

“Mind if I join you guvna, good to get a bit o’ company like.”

He laid out his few belongings beside us.

“You sleep here often do you?” I asked.

“Every night. Quiet and covered you see, get a good kip here.”

“Fancy a swig?” asked John, handing him the bottle. He did, of course, and we sat for an hour bantering, hearing tales of the street. In the end John and I ended up sharing a duvet and giving the other to the homeless guy.

We slept eventually, dreaming dreams of perfect worlds, where trains run on time and tigers behave themselves.

6. Panic

Silky used to like to listen to the radio in her kitchen. She’d given up on watching day-time TV, it was impossible to do any of the household chores when the TV was on. Spending time in the kitchen reminded her to eat, cook and wash up, instead of collapsing on the sofa with a bottle of wine, which she‘d done far too many times.
She was listening to a radio phone-in, laughing at other people’s follies, when the programme was interrupted by a news flash. “We’ve just heard that a tiger has escaped from London zoo and is said to be running amok. The tiger is said to have escaped just over an hour ago. Zoo authorities say that the tiger has not been fed recently and should not be approached. Nick Clegg, the Deputy Prime Minister, has told Londoners not to panic, but not to go outside unless it is absolutely essential.”
“Oh my God,” thought Silky, in fact she said it out loud, such was her shock. “London, that’s where I live.”
She hadn’t planned to go outside that day, anyway. Her biggest worry was Darren, her son. Darren was at school, out of her sight and protection. She tried to remember the glossy brochure the school had sent her, it had said something about school safety, but she couldn’t recall what it said about tigers. What would happen if the tiger tried to get into the school?
I should phone him, she thought, tell him to come home immediately.
That’s no good though, there’s a tiger on the loose. I’ll tell him I’ll come and collect him. I can get the bus, there’s a timetable by the phone, I’ll be there in half an hour.
I can’t ring him though, he’ll have his phone switched off in lessons. I could text him though, tell him not to worry, tell him I’ll soon be there to protect him.
I could just turn up, storm into the headmaster’s office and demand to see my son, and take him home.
The school would complain though. They’re like that. They don’t care about things like escaped tigers. They want “Attendance to be a norm, not an exception.”
Why the hell have they let a tiger out? Tigers should be in cages, it’s what I pay my taxes for.
Bloody Clegg. I thought he’d be better than bloody Labour, but first he releases all the prisoners and now he’s let the tigers loose.
Maybe we’ll be lucky and the tiger will eat all the fucking paedophiles Clegg set free last week.
Oh, what should I do? Phone, or text, or just turn up?
My poor Darren. Paedophiles and tigers queuing up outside his school waiting to pounce on him. What can I do?
She looked for the bus timetable, but couldn’t find it. She started a text to Darren, but gave up. What do you say to a child that’s in danger from escaped tigers? If it was lions it would have been easier, Darren understood lions.
Silky was in such a state she didn’t know what to do. It had been months since she’d been in a panic like this.
xxx
Darren arrived home that day at his usual time, but unusually excited.
“Mummy, mummy, I’ve just seen a tiger. A tiger! A real live tiger!”
But mummy was fast asleep on the sofa, so he didn’t wake her. There was an empty bottle of ‘mummy’s drink’ on the floor beside her, which meant that she might wake up in one of her moods.
He texted his friends about the tiger, but they didn’t believe him. Prove it, they said, show me a photo.
I’ll show them, he thought, and went back to where he’d last seen the tiger, so that he could take some photos of it on his mobile. Mum’ll be proud of me, he thought, catching photos of a real life tiger.

7. On the beat Pete

“This one’s a Josephine Harris” said Sergeant Ingold as I rang the bell, “no mention of a husband or boyfriend.”
We waited for a minute or more, I had to ring again a couple of times before the young woman eventually appeared, wearing just a dressing gown, with her hair bandaged in a towel.
“Miss Josephine Harris?” I said.
“That’s right,” she replied, “Jo Harris. What can I do for you?”
“We’re police officers,” I said, holding up my badge, “the escaped tiger’s been seen in this area and we’re evacuating all the houses.”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, why are you evacuating the houses. Surely you should be telling people to lock themselves safely indoors.”
It made no sense to me either, if the tiger was out here somewhere why weren’t we trying to catch it. Instead, a dozen police officers would end up spending the whole day visiting the houses in the area, by which time the tiger could be twenty miles away. However, my job isn’t to think, it’s to follow orders, no matter how daft they are.
“It’s a routine public safety measure,” I said as reassuringly as I could, “we cordon off the area, move out the general public, then move in the specialist tiger team.”
That seemed to placate her somewhat. “So where do I go?” she asked.
“Wherever you want, friends, relatives, anyone that can put you up.”
“So you’re not moving us to a safe place, you’re just kicking us out of our homes. While there’s a tiger on the loose.”
She was right. This was madness. “It’s just a temporary measure,” I said, “there’s no need to relocate people, it’s just for one night, two at the most.”
“Two nights? But I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve just moved here, I don’t know anyone. I don’t even have a car I can sleep in.”
“Well a hotel then?”
She laughed. “A hotel? In London? Are you paying?” I shook my head. “I can’t afford to eat between now and when I get paid on Monday, all I’ve got to live off until then is a loaf of bread, some tins of beans, a jar of marmite, half a pint of milk and some jam. I don’t even have butter for the bread, that’s it, the austerity diet I call it. How the Hell do you think I can afford a hotel. I don’t even have the bus fare to get to a hotel.”
Sergeant Ingold had been silent up to this point, and she’d addressed her answers exclusively to me, but clearly the Sergeant had decided that the conversation wasn’t progressing and he stepped forward to take over negotiations. Rather than repeat the same arguments I’d made, he simply made his hand into a fist and struck her harshly in the face.
She collapsed on the floor, through shock as much as anything.
“You hit me,” she said, as if the thought of being assaulted by the police was unthinkable. I used to think the same when I was a naïve young cadet.
“I don’t wanna hear your stories about being hit,” replied Ingold, “no more than I wanna hear stories about being too poor. You don’t have to stay in the Ritz, just anywhere you can afford.”
“But…”
“No buts, here,” he said, pulling her up by the hair, “just get out of the house.”
She understood that he meant get out immediately.
“But I’m not dressed. I’ve just got out of the shower. I’m virtually naked.”
“Well that’s perfect, you can go on the streets, tout your wares and get a bed for the night. Save on hotel fees.”
With these words he swung her by the hair, which had fallen out of the towel in the initial confrontation, and flung her out of her own doorway onto the pavement. Not letting her get up, he proceeded to kick her prostate body for a number of minutes until he was content.
He looked at his clipboard. “Let’s try number 17, a Mr and Mrs Postgate.”
I tried to move, but couldn’t take my eyes of the girl. I was desperate to see signs of life.
“Leave her for the fuckin’ tiger sonny, we’ve got a job to do. The public need us.” With heavy pat on my shoulder he moved me onwards to the next house.

8. There is a light that never goes out

The church was empty but for the vicar, who was replacing the candles surrounding the font. It was silent in a way that only churches in a busy, bustling city can achieve.

He didn’t hear the young girl approach, so engulfed was he in the thousand and one tasks he had to do before the next service. She didn’t wait to catch his attention, just stood behind him and spoke, her words as awkward as her poise. “Forgive me father for I have sinned,” she said, “I must talk to you about the tiger.”

He turned round, startled initially by there being someone there, just a foot or so behind him, then startled by her appearance; ghostly thin, pale and empty-seeming, and then finally, after what seemed a minute, he finally got round to being startled by her words.

“This isn’t a Catholic church,” he said, “I don’t take confession, but you can come and have a chat with me, tell me what’s worrying you.” He understood that this wasn’t going to be a normal conversation and led her through the back of the church into the vestry, where they were certain of privacy.

On the way to the vestry he casually offered her something to eat, which she declined. Although he had only just met her, he already feared for her life, for the girl wasn’t just thin, she was emaciated, undoubtedly anorexic, bones protruded from her face, reminding him of pictures he had seen from Auschwitz. Somehow, he demanded of himself, I must help this girl.

As soon as they were both sat down she started to talk. “It’s about the tiger, father, it is here for me, sent by God as vengeance for my sins.”

“I think the tiger came from the zoo”, he said patiently, “in fact I’m rather sure of it, it was in The Times and the Guardian, they can’t both be wrong. It was let out when the riots happened, nothing to do with God, or your sins.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she said, “God sent the tiger for me, look, it came for me.” She held out her pasty-thin left arm, along which were a maze of scars. The vicar recognised the long line up from her wrist as an attempted suicide and the others as evidence of self-harming, he had met many fragile people in his work.

“These are my tiger scars,” she said, “his claws cut me here and here,” she gestured to some of the marks on her fair skin.

“And why do you think the tiger did this?”

“I have sinned father, I have sex with strangers. For money, and God is punishing me.”

“Many people sin, it is not God’s nature to condemn them, to send tigers to punish them, God wants to help you, not to harm you.” His words felt like empty nothingness, though he was entirely sincere, looking into her cold, empty eyes he could see that his words were just words, they had no connection with her impossibly hard life.

If I could just help this one girl, he thought to himself, then my whole life in the church is justified. I have to do better, I must find a connection with her.

“Of course,” he said, “if you’re unsure of what God wants of you, you can simply ask him. Let us close our eyes and say a short prayer.” He watched her close her eyes, just getting her to turn off her gaze seemed a minor triumph, maybe she could be helped after all. He began a prayer. “Lord, in these days of roaming tigers and new fear, look down on us and protect all your children. Though we are sinners, we have kindness in our hearts, show us the light, a way to redeem our sins. Keep us from tigers and the harms of the mortal world and guide us through this period of tiger terror.”

The prayer lasted less than two minutes. When the vicar opened his eyes the girl had disappeared.

9. My tiger and me

They make out that the tiger's dangerous. "London in tiger terror," the headlines say, "Keep away from the tiger if you value your life," the government leaflets advise.

It's all nonsense, she's as tame as a kitten, she lets me stroke her, tickle her tummy, anything.

I have to keep the tiger hidden, as the army has been given orders to shoot to kill. She lives in my brother's room, where it's safe. My brother's not there, he left with my parents when the tiger got loose. They took me with them, to auntie Jane's, but I escaped and came back.

I was scared when I arrived home and found the tiger here, I suddenly believed all the news stories, that she was going to eat me. But really all she wants is affection, the sort of attention she never got in the zoo. She loves the way I pet her. She's my little pussy cat.

They say that pets start to look like their owners, but the opposite is true with me and the tiger, I've started to look like her. Look, I've grown claws, real tiger claws, sharp; and long enough to kill a man, my teeth long, sharp and brutal enough to eat his body once he’s dead. My body has become overgrown in fur, a rich, orange coat with black, tiger stripes and as the base of my back, there are the beginnings of my very own tiger tail.

It is not my tiger that people should fear, for she stays indoors, living harmlessly on the meat I supply her with. It is me they should fear, I'm the one with the claws, the teeth, and a cunning tiger brain. I don't just prowl the streets, I can open doors and windows. I know what I want and I know where to get it. I can see which houses are occupied, which lights are switched on and off, which cars have been moved, I know where you live. I will come for you.

I am behind you, I'll always find you, I am the tiger.*

* Editorial note: For some reason the above account ends with lyrics from the Abba song 'I am the Tiger', off their seminal album Arrival. The song remains under copyright and is repeated here with kind permission of Bjorn and Benny (they wrote all the songs you know, English wasn’t even their first language).

10. Back to the old house

I met Ian and Doug at the Dog and Ferret as planned. We sat outside, in the beer garden, where we had a good view of The Streets below us; a seemingly unimaginative name for the streets where we grew up, yet one which perfectly captured the estate’s anonymity and blandness.

“I can’t believe they’re knocking it down,” Ian said.

“About bloody time,” said Doug, “estates like that are just breeding grounds for crime.”

“They bred us,” I said.

“Oh yeah, we did okay, but in those days there was a work ethic, you were expected to get a job, learn a trade, get the fuck out of The Streets as fast as you could.”

“Not everyone got out,” said Ian, “Mugs, Fraser, Jambles.”

“Yeah, there were drugs and booze then, but only for a minority, it wasn’t compulsory like it is today. There probably isn’t a single person living there now that isn’t on benefits.”

“There’s no-one on benefits now,” I said, “nobody there at all. Two days notice, that’s all they had to get out. It didn’t have to end like this.”

As I spoke we gazed down on the first of the bulldozers as it launched into a terrace house on the outskirts of the estate.

“I wonder where they put them all?” said Doug. None of us answered, we stood there in the pub garden, watching our past crumbling into rubble, wallowing in our memories.

We had met when we were all four or five years old, neighbours in the same tower block. We didn’t demand our rights, moan about being socially excluded, we made our own social inclusion in them days. Those toddler-based friendships shaped our lives, for thirteen years we were as close as, well, as close as people crammed together in a tower block. Then as soon as we turned eighteen ‘voom’, we were off, launching ourselves into the wide world, only to see each other at birthdays, weddings, and reasonless pissups.

“Anyone want another beer?” asked Doug, already on his way to the bar. He knew us so well.

“Funny to think this is all due to the tiger,” said Ian, when we were alone together.

“I never really understood the logic,” I said.

Ian shook his head in agreement. “S’posed to be something about laying a trap for the tiger once they’d cleared the estate.”

It still made no sense to me. How could they know that the tiger would come this way, when there are some many square miles of city it could take itself to? And what sort of trap could they only set here, not anywhere else in London?

The demolition continued below us. Ian got his phone out and took a photo just as a wrecking ball came crashing into our tower block. It’s the picture on my facebook page if you want to take a look.

“So that’s our childhood gone,” he said, “another part of our lives wiped out forever.”

“It’ll be our turn soon I said,” sharing his mood.

We stared silently as the wrecking ball finished the job and our home for our formative years was reduced to so much rubble and dust.

“They can take our houses but they’ll never take our beer,” Doug said cheerfully, returning hands-full with three pints of foaming bitter. Our mood lifted, maybe life would go on a bit longer after all.

“Watch out Doug,” said Ian, “there’s a tiger behind you.”

Doug turned round to look and me and Ian laughed hysterically.

“Gullible,” Ian chanted with childlike glee. The three of us would never grow up.

11. Ministerial diary: Day 2

The ministerial car was waiting outside my house to pick me up this morning. My ministerial car, with my personal driver, an ex-London cabby who goes by the name of Gab. Whether this is short for Gabriel or merely an allusion to his verbal dexterity I am yet to determine.

Gab took me to my new offices. Though I technically run my own department, I am based within the Home Office, on the 2nd Floor in Marsham Street.

I was greeted by my Private Secretary, Chloe, who introduced me to something close to 100 civil servants who make up the Ministry for Tiger Precautions, including the Assistant Private Secretary, a spotty teenager called Nigel. Amazingly when Chloe is absent Nigel is the senior civil servant within my department, I shall just have to hope that Chloe is never far away.

Sir Robert had already appointed me a Special Advisor, Major Reginal Huntly, a former soldier in one of our 'unofficial' specialist forces and now a Conservative policy advisor on all things tiger related. I also had a PPS, my fellow Lib Dem Dorset MP Reg Spicer, who I knew I could rely on to help me navigate the maze of ministerial papers and persons.

Although the Department had only been established that day, there was already a pile of correspondence for me to sign, including some minor policy decisions that required careful attention.

As with any first day at the office, by the end I was exhausted and was pleased that I completed the last of the papers just as the hands of the clock were turning to five p.m. However, no sooner was the in-tray empty than Chloe handed me a new pile of papers.. "This is the new Bill," she said.

"The new Bill?"

"The Precautions to be taken for the Prevention of Tiger Attack and Related Measures Bill, Minister," she said, "the one you're taking through parliament."

A Bill, this was the first I'd heard of it, but I pretended to know all about it, though Chloe saw through my lies thirty minutes later when I set off to go home, leaving the Bill behind me.

"Aren't you taking the Bill Minister?", she said, "the First Reading takes place tomorrow and there are likely to be questions. I've prepared a short briefing."

"Ah, of course," I said, picking up the papers and making to put them in my briefcase, again unwittingly showing my ignorance of all things ministerial.

"You'll need a red box, Minister," she said, "it's a confidential document, until it's published tomorrow."

"Ah, of course," I said again. I will have to be careful to get to grips with my portfolio quickly, civil servants are notorious for taking advantage of minister don't properly know their brief and I don't wish to fit into that category.

So it was that I was given my first red box, another symbol of my high level status in the corridors of power. Red boxes are lead-lined, locked cases, which are used for carrying confidential papers, so strong that if by misfortune a minister is killed by a bomb, or, to be topical, by tiger attack, the ministerial secrets and memos survive intact.

I arrived home early, just after seven, but sat up until midnight reading the Bill I was to present the next day. Although the First Reading doesn't involve a speech, indeed I am not actually required to say a single word, I merely have to be in the room when the Speaker mentions the Bill, there was none the less a strong possibility that a question might be asked in relation to the Bill and I
needed to be an expert on its contents.

I retired exhausted, I will have to talk to Sir Robert about getting a junior minister to share my burden during the Bill's passage. Being a Cabinet level minister is more hard work than glory, I just hope that the public appreciate the efforts I am putting in so that they can sleep safely in their tiger-free beds.

If I can just get this Bill through parliament, and the tiger safely back in its cage, I could be in the Cabinet permanently come the next reshuffle.

12. Panic (2)

With the shop closed and supplies to the capital cut off, there was only one way for the populace to meet its needs for food, refreshment and the comforts of life: looting.

The boarded up Tesco Expresses, Sainburys Locals and corner stores became like Mecas for the mob. Hunger had driven the model citizen to join the criminal gang in their fight for survival and the shop was full of pensioners unable to cash their pension, mothers unable to feed their children, single men out of beer and ready meals and the feckless, chancing criminal who’d been looting plasma TVs the week before and now needed something to eat and drink while they watched them.

“Mummy isn’t this stealing?” asked the little boy, “I thought it was wrong to steal.”

“It’s not stealing,” his mother informed him, “’cause they’ve closed the shop down. We’ve no choice, we have to help ourselves if we want to eat. We couldn’t pay if we wanted to, there’s nobody behind the till.”

“We could use the self service tills, they’re still taking money,” the boy suggested.

“Na, you know I hate those tills, always going ‘unrecognised item in the bagging area’ and making you wait for assistance. Besides, you need a staff member to okay it if you’re buying fags and there’s no-one here.”

“You could leave some money on the counter instead,” the boy pleaded.

“Na, it’ll just be stolen by the looters. Just help mummy, we’ve got a lot of things we need and it’ll all be gone soon.

“Look mum, they’ve got kit-kats on special offer.”

“Okay dear, but don’t just get sweets, we can only carry so much and we need provisions to last us. Get some of the ready meals, as many as you can fit in the bag, I’ll stock up with tins. Oh, and you’d better get some ice-cream, the posh one, the one we can’t afford usually, Tom and Jerry or whatever it’s called. That’s it, get four of those, they’re lovely.

And so it was the mother taught her child important lessons of life, when looting a store always seize the essentials: tins of beans, packets of cheese, bottles of (the best) gin, and don’t worry with sweets and trivia.

It was his mother at her best, focussed, in control of the situation, fighting for her rights, for survival. If only she was always like this he thought.

With bags heaving from their efforts they left the store.

13. On the beat Pete (2)

“The only language they understand is brute force.”

Sergeant Ingold was explaining our tactics for dealing with the looters. Since the shop closures that followed the tiger’s escape from the zoo, a new wave of looting had started: not people stealing flat screen TVs from Comets and Currys, but the looting of corner shops and Tesco Expresses for food. And not the thugs and criminal gangs that had led the last wave, this was people from all classes and all ages, city men in suits, even little old ladies. As Ingold said “Everyone’s a criminal now, which means it’s us against the rest of the world.”

The police had learnt from the first round of rioting that any disturbance must be nipped in the bud. Helicopter surveillance ensured that a rapid response team could be sent to any trouble spot within minutes.

I was volunteered to help. There were about 200 police with riot shields surrounding the store they were looting, a Tesco Express. A malicious hoard of criminals were loading up with their ill-gotten gains.

“Why are we waiting?” I asked Sergeant Ingold. The looters had by now realised we were there and had started to bombard us with stolen tins, as well as the usual stones, bricks and bottles.

“Special orders apparently, we’re to wait for backup.”

“Backup, but there’s two hundred of us, we outnumber them four to one. What backup do we need?”

Ingold shrugged his shoulders aggressively, I could tell he wasn’t happy at hanging around, he was itching for a fight.

A tension boiled the air around as both sides waited. Nothing happened.

The crowds charged into our shields trying to escape, but couldn’t find a way through. The surge ceased and the waiting continued. Nothing happened, normal pay turned into overtime pay, day turned into dusk.

Suddenly a flurry of activity broke out behind me. Six trucks pulled up just behind our line, there was a further surge of activity and then the back of the trucks opened just behind us.

Out of each of the six trucks came six tigers, six huge, ravenous looking beasts, each of them over twelve foot long, all armed with claws each of which was more deadly than a flick knife. The tigers were kept on leashes by six police handles, who struggled with their charges but managed just about to stop them assaulting the police.

The six tigers were led to the front line. One of them was just behind where I stood, I could hear its ominous purr behind me and my spine tingled with fear. I stepped well away from the tiger as he inched forward, and in this way six tiger-sized gaps appeared in the police line, through which the tigers were marched. Then an order was barked out from somewhere, the tigers were de-muzzled and released and charged hungrily and angrily into the mob.

Chaos broke out. The tigers were savage, brutal and deadly. Some of the looters tried to fight, but even those with knives had no chance against tiger claws, a naturally evolved killing machine.

The looters besieged our lines again, this time in a desperate surge, trying to escape the bloodshed. We held firm and shoved the looters back to their fate.

One of the handlers was standing next to me, watching proceedings. “I don’t understand,” I said to him, “I thought the state of emergency was caused by one escaped tiger, but it turns out we have the tigers.”

“These aren’t tigers,” he said grimly, “these are tiger children.”

That made no sense, for the tigers were all fully grown adults, not mere cubs, but he made no attempt to explain further. We stood in silence for a long time watching the tiger children, if that’s what they really were, savage their way through the looters.

Eventually it was all over. The looters were defeated, lying in pools of blood, Tesco Express looked like the fields of the Somme, shelves overturned, tins, smashed bottles and jars and packets of cornflakes decorating the dead, injured and dying.

The tiger children were recalled, muzzled and leashed by their handlers. With resistance measuring zero the police went in to arrest the survivors, dragging the handcuffed injured into awaiting ambulances.

I didn’t join in the arrests, I wasn’t needed. I stood and watched as five of the tiger children were bundled back into their trucks, which then proceeded to drive off, back to wheresoever they came.

The handler near me however, couldn’t find his tiger child. I watched him combing through the wreckage, lifting planks, bodies and jars, as if a tiger might be hiding underneath. But there is no sign of his tiger child, nowhere is it to be seen. Somehow in the chaos another tiger has escaped.

It seems as if I am the only one to notice, as the mood amongst the men is jubilant, the first great victory of our campaign.

From the wreckage untouched bottles of beer, wine and whisky are retrieved and handed out amongst the boys and we drank a toast to our victory, as the corpses of our foes lay around us and, somewhere, out there, a tiger child runs free.

14. Ministerial diary Day 3

I have been allocated a bodyguard. Buster his name is, an ex boxer who has previously been guard to a Belgian prince and French celebrity chef, who was receiving death threats following a "reckless" mince pie recipe.

To the House for the Second Reading of the Bill. It really has become a crazy piece of legislation. A tiger escaped from London zoo last week and as a result I've been appointed a minister of state with responsibility for tiger control and am introducing legislation that will give the police and military extraordinary powers, including the power to seal off and evacuate entire streets if the tiger is near, the authority to seize property 'for the general public good' and, one of the amendments I've been asked to include today, the power to lock people up for 3 months on no charge, if they are thought to be assisting the tiger in its tigerly activities.

The Labour front bench are tabling amendments to increase the powers in the Bill still further, whereas Labour backbenches are introducing amendments to water the Bill down; and yet they say it's the Tories and Lib Dems that are a coalition of two distinct parties.

Chloe has produced a wonderful briefing that has a detailed defence to all the measures in the Bill, and for those amendments we smile upon, and she's also anticipated over a hundred possible questions. Best of all, the answers are all less than one paragraph and in a language I can understand, not the nonsensical civil service speak I've heard other ministers read out uncomprehendingly.

xxx

I just about survived my first real test. Luckily the opposition front bench didn't dare ask any awkward questions, they don't want to look weak in the face of the tiger. The toughest questions were from the Tory backbenchers who enjoyed making me uncomfortable with passages of the Bill that overrule the Human Rights Act. Hugo Spores MP even had the cheek to quote one of my speeches, where I opposed the last Labour government's emergency terrorist measures on human rights grounds. "Does the minister believe that one tiger is more of a threat to civilised society than the combined might of Al Qaeda and every other terrorist group in the world?" No frankly I don't, but I wasn't getting paid £110,000 per year and being driven in a ministerial car when I made that speech.

I didn't say that, of course, most of my answers were ministerial non speak about enabling the appropriate response, being prepared for every eventuality and that none of these measures would ever be used except in the most extreme of circumstances, when all other eventualities have been exhausted. I even said, “I will give your concern my fullest attention,” it came so easily to me, I'm clearly destined for greatness as a minister.

On to my first Cabinet meeting, where I was warmly applauded for my performance in the chamber. In the sanctity of Cabinet I took the opportunity to raise one or two of my own concerns about the Bill, but there were quickly laughed aside. Actually, it turns out that the emergency Cabinet meeting had been called especially to discuss proposals to introduce even tougher measures in the Bill, so I looked a right fool saying it was too tough. Luckily everyone was nice about it and I don't think anyone will hold a grudge at my implied criticism of a Cabinet decision.

My day finished at ten, when I finally left the Cabinet. I took the opportunity to get a Houses of Parliament whisky bottle signed by all 23 Cabinet members, as they can fetch a moderate fortune in the local rotary charity auction. I was unsure whether to add my signature to the bottle, as technically I just report to Cabinet and am not a full member, but the Man said it was fine, then laughingly added that if the tiger was caught tomorrow it would prove my only chance.

It's a sobering thought, given the secret nature of the discussion the meeting never officially happened, so if it does prove to be my only Cabinet meeting nobody will ever know. I decide to start keeping a ministerial diary, so that there will be a record of my career, wherever it ends. After all, I am the first ever Minister for Tigers and likely to be the last, so it will be an important historic document. Alan Clark made a fortune from his diaries, I will have to try and liven up my love life if I want to get the tabloids interested though. I'm not sure what to call it yet, I thought of Big Cat Diary, then remembered the TV programme of the same name.

Outside the Cabinet office I was greeted by Buster, who was now joined by two other bodyguards, both heavily armed. Apparently I was now an Amber target, given the importance of my Bill as an internal defence measure. It's reassuring to know that there are now three people whose job it is to put themselves between me and the tiger should it decide to attack me, making me one of the safest people in London.

Felt very safe and secure during the drive home. The streets were almost empty, fear of the tiger must be spreading. It will be a good thing when my Bill is finally passed.

15. Chapter 1

God almighty, I’m trying to get this tiger story into some sort of order, but it’s a herculean challenge.

All I have is this random collection of anecdotes, stories, diary entries, newspaper articles. In some, the tiger is real, vividly described, a wild beast on the prowl, in others it serves more as a metaphor for a defunct society. In some accounts, life continues as normal, with just an added dimension of fear underscoringevents, an awareness of the imminence of death protruding into daily existence. Yet in another account London is abandoned, the streets are empty, industry and commerce has stalled, only a handful of survivors remain in a barren land.

This isn’t one story, it’s a million individual tales, and none of them fit together, it’s like a box filled with a piece from every different jigsaw in the world and I’ve been asked to assemble the picture.

I had to see the truth for myself. My paper weren’t really interested, “We’ve covered the tiger,” my editor said dismissively, knowing how even the evacuation of the capital city is only news for a day or two, people lose interest.

I was angry though, I forget about what, and shouted my reply. “How can a newspaper close down its main office, relocate its staff 150 miles away and say that there’s no story. The people need to know what’s going on.”

If my track record wasn’t so strong I would have been sacked on the spot for my outburst. As it was Mike felt obliged to appease me, offering me a week to do a piece for the weekend supplement, maximum of two pages, plus picture.

There were no trains in or out of the city so I drove. It was a strange journey, every street and road was empty of people and traffic, abandoned cars littered the way, even on the M25 I saw just 4 other cars and within London itself there was nothing. It was like entering a city-sized Marie-Celeste. Even so, I had to pay my congestion charge in advance of my journey, even in these empty, abandoned streets the charge still applies and the fines for non-compliance are astronomical.

I drove to the newspapers offices, now dark and empty, along with the rest of the buildings in the street. Mike had reluctantly given me the keys and security codes, so I was able to drive into the underground car park usually reserved for executives. I parked in the CEO’s personal space.

Even though the office was in darkness, everything was working. Once I’d switched on the lights, made myself a black coffee, I found I had internet connection and could access all the files on the intranet. Even the drawer in my desk, which was usually slow and sticky to open, opened and closed smoothly, as if it had been especially oiled in my absence.

I began working through the information, trying to make sense of it, though I already knew it was hopeless. Quite simply it was madness, why would an entire city become abandoned just because one solitary tiger had escaped from the zoo? It made no sense, let alone a sense that could be conveyed in two pages of text.

An hour in I made my second cup of coffee. As I was boiling the kettle the phone on my desk started to ring. Madness, I thought, who would ring a London number when the tiger’s on the prowl. Mike knew I was here, of course, but he would only ever use my mobile. “Why would I ring your desk phone,” he’d said on another occasion, “you don’t take your desk phone with you when you go for a shit.”

I picked it up after nine rings. “Hello,” I said.

I didn’t recognise the voice on the other end.

“If you want to know the truth about the tiger,” the man said, “then meet me in the Plough and Compasses in one hour precisely.”

The phone went dead.

16. There is a light that never goes out (2)

“Lord watch over us in these trouble times, shine light upon us so that we may see the one true way, even in the darkness.”

The vicar’s words powered through the empty church, seeming not to care that there was no-one to hear them. They were God’s words, after all, and God’s words always find a way to be heard.

The vicar had stayed in London in spite of the tiger. “There are people here who need me,” he said. His predecessor, who had predicted nuclear Armageddon as harbinger of the second coming, had built a nuclear bunker under the church, stocked with enough tinned food and drink to last his family at least two years. The new vicar did not share the belief in nuclear war and was using these resources to feed the needy in his flock.

He ran a soup kitchen every evening, making inroads into the enormous pile of Heinz and other tins. Usually, of course, his soup was made using fresh ingredients, by one of his volunteers, but she had moved away because of the tiger, besides which there were no fresh ingredients to be had.

Though many people still came to his soup kitchen, his church services were empty. His usual flock had departed, going to stay with friends and family in safer parts of the UK.

Why he preached sermons to an empty church he never said, for there was nobody there to ask him. Had anybody been there they would have heard him speak with clarity and passion about the issue of faith under the fire of fear.

She crept into the church while he was speaking, the thin girl with the tiger scars up her arm. He was so engrossed in his words that he never even saw her. She sat and listened as he spoke of the sacrifice God had made in sending his son and urged the church to show no fear in the face of the tiger.

When the sermon finished and the vicar finally noticed her, he greeted her with unrestrained joy, took her into the vestry and fed her Heinz tomato soup in his makeshift kitchen.

She looked no better or worse than when he had last seen her. Still bone-thin and troubled, but at least she was eating, possibly for the first time since the tiger broke out. He watched her slurp her way through two large cans of soup.

After she had eaten there was an awkward silence, he didn’t want to scare her off with prayers again.

“Coffee?” he asked with enthusiasm, “the perfect finish to a meal.”

She shrugged okay.

“Father,” she said as he worked the cafetiere.

“Yes,” he turned to her.

“How can I become a good person?” she asked.

“Ah now, there’s a good question,” he said, and bringing her coffee to her spend the next hour trying to answer it.

17. Okay commuter (2)

I woke up with various muscles and nerves in my body screaming in alarm. Christ, where was I, asleep on a floor, a hard, sticky floor. I felt behind me; I’d been using an empty whisky bottle as a pillow. And beside me – I was sleeping with a strange man.

“I gotya tea,” a voice said, another man, a tramp no less.

Oh yes, the tramp we’d given a duvet to, it was all coming back to me. We were at the station, sleeping on the floor. The trains had all been cancelled because of the tiger.

“Thanks,” I said, sitting up. The tea was sweet and weak, but warm.

“Gor, yer don’t arf snooze,” the man said, “I’ve been up since seven?”

“What’s going on?” I asked, hoping the man would have picked up the latest news.

“Nuffin’. Nuffin’s going on. There’s nobody here.”

“Nobody? Not even staff?” He was right though. I got up, put on my suit and coat and looked around the station. The three of us were the only ones there. What had happened to the hundreds of thousands of commuters who used the station?

The boards all read ‘No trains until further notice’. There were no staff, the ticket office was closed, with the same ‘no trains until further notice’ message, this time in bright red lettering.

As I was touring the station, John was waking up, I returned to find him drinking tea and on the phone to his wife.

"Jeez," he said when he'd hung up, "the whole of London's shut down, just cause of one fuckin' tiger."

"Closed down," I said, "what do you mean, all the trains and buses."

"All the trains, buses, shops, factories, offices. All the companies are relocating workers elsewhere until the tiger's caught."

I tried phoning work, but got an answerphone message saying that the offices are closed. "I'm going to walk to work," I said, "it's only five minutes away and I want to see if I can get in, get a shower, change into my spare shirt, find out what's going on."

"I might as well walk with you if you're going to have a shower," said John, you're not the only Mr Stinky around here."

We left our duvets with the tramp, who promised to guard them with his life. The walk to my offices was eerie; it's a trip I've made every day for a number of years, yet this time it was like the end of the world had come early. There was nobody about, not a soul, no traffic, no cyclists, a few cars parked by the side of the road, many of which had their windows smashed.

"What happened to London?," asked John, "it was here yesterday."

We walked on in silence, both of us wondering how one single tiger could close down an entire city.

We passed the pub we'd eaten in the night before - closed, the shop where we'd bought a bottle of whisky - closed and boarded up.

There were some signs of life in some of the houses near my offices, twitching curtains, lights left on, but that was all, everything else indicated that London was empty.

My offices were shut and though I had keys to the inner door, I couldn’t open the main door, which I had never previously known to be locked, we keep a 24 hour caretaker.

Things looked bleak as we walked back to the station. "Sharon offered to drive in and pick us up," said John, "but I ain't having that, it's not safe for her to drive into London, just look at it."

I looked around, I didn’t see what he was scared, after all a tiger can’t get into a moving car, and there wasn’t anyone else about to cause trouble, but I didn’t like to disagree with him.

"So what shall we do?"

"Walk." We had established the previous night that we both lived in the same town, so we could travel together. However, it was over 40 miles away.

"That'll take ages," I said.

"It's the only option," he said. He was right.

We collected our duvets from the tramp and explained our plans to the tramp.

"Salong way where you're going, what with the tiger an all. I'll be your guide."

"It's very kind of you," I said, but we can't afford to pay you and it will take several days."

"Ah, you're alright, I've walked there dozens of times over the years. Just let me keep the duvet and we're quits."

John shrugged his approval, so we had a plan.

"Right, I said, where do we go." I looked at the tramp, but instead of moving he just held his hand out at me. "Cecil." He said.

"Pardon?"

"The name's Cecil. If we're gonna be travelling together we should be on first name terms."

"Good point," I said. We all introduced each other formerly. "Right, let's go. Which way, Cecil?"

"The leisure centre's this way."

"The leisure centre?"

"You said you wanted a shower."

"Ah, yes," I said, "but everything's closed, we might as well press on."

"Leisure centre never closes, I've got a pass."

He held up his Total Leisure card and neither John nor myself had the heart to argue with him.

It was only ten minutes walk to the leisure centre, but it seemed much longer, itching as I was to get our journey underway. We passed more desolate building, empty streets and nobody at all. At the leisure centre Cecil swiped his card in the doorway and it opened. We walked in, unchallenged.

We walked around, there was nobody here, just the three of us. We followed Cecil to the showers. "The council gives the homeless a free pass see," he explained, "likes to keep us clean for the tourists. Doesn't let us use the other facilities though."

The changing rooms were like a Marie Celeste, people's suits, jackets and shirts were hanging unclaimed on numerous pegs, along with towels and shower gel.

"Where is everyone?" asked John.

"That stuff's always 'ere, they leaves it so as they can pop in from work, 'ave a change of clothes lined up. No-one ever nicks nuffin' 'ere." I was heartened by the fact that trust remained 100% intact in a changing rooms frequented by tramps and the homeless, maybe there is hope for humanity after all.

We took advantage of some of the abandoned towels and, given that we'd just spent the night sleeping on the station floor, John and I decided to borrow a shirt each as well. We vowed to bring them back when the tiger was cause.

We left the leisure centre feeling highly refreshed and ready for our long trek. "Right, let's be off," I said.

18. On the beat Pete 3

The Chief Inspector called me into his office.

“Take a seat Pete,” he said amiably. He was sifting through a big pile of papers on his desk, it’s funny, in a world where the computer is king the paper files never go away. Some things never change.

“You’ve been working a lot of overtime lately,” he said.

“Yes, we all have, with the riots, the house clearances and everything, we’ve all been at it all day every day.”

“I know it’s very stressful, I hate to be putting my force through this, but you appreciate I have no choice.”

I nodded agreement. I had no idea why he’d called me in and the fact that he was being nice made me suspicious. I’d been speaking a bit out of turn to some of my colleagues about the tactics used during the emergency. The tigers released into crowds of looters and the innocent people being forced out of their houses. My complaints had clearly reached the ears of the Chief Inspector, which worried me immensely.

“You live in Catford don’t you,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“That’s right,” I said, “I rent a flat there.”

“There are a few houses going spare at the moment, more central. The new legislation allows empty houses without an owner to be requisitioned for emergency staff like yourself. I think I can arrange a house for you. The great thing is it’ll be yours outright, a home of your own, not just for the emergency.”

“How come it’s free?”

“The last owner died with no family and without leaving a will. In normal times the money would end up being spent on four separate sets of lawyers as distant relatives squabbled over ownership, this is a much better system all round. It looks after the people who look after everyone else.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I don’t know how to begin to tell you how grateful I am. If only there was some way to show my appreciation.”

He waved his arm dismissively. “You don’t have to do anything, just continue to do the good work.” He combined these words with a hard stare, which I understood as meaning that my criticisms had to stop.

He handed over the paperwork for my new abode.

“It’s just a one bed house,” he said,” but it’s got a small garden, very central, a bit of a result really.”

I nodded agreement, as I concentrated on the details of the property.

I recognised the address. It was the house we’d removed Josephine Harris from the previous week. Clearly she hadn’t made it, despite our best efforts to help the tiger had got to her. The perfect illustration of why what we were doing was so important.

I picked up the keys, said “thank you” to the Chief Inspector and left the office on a high. I was a property owner.

19. Ministerial diary Day 4

Chloe welcomed me into the office this morning with an urgent piece of paper; an emergency requisition request for properties in the Westminster area, that would allow empty properties to be taken over to provide accommodation for the 132 staff working in my department.

“It’s so that staff don’t have to travel far to work, these are dangerous times with the tiger on the loose and we owe a duty of care to our employees.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, “this is using emergency powers under my Bill.”

“That’s right,” she said, “it’s why your Bill is so important.”

“But my Bill isn’t passed yet. How can you create new powers using legislation that isn’t passed?”

“It’s an emergency measure, of course, the usual rules don’t apply.”

“Just as long as it’s legal,” I said, adding my signature to the document. “I wouldn’t want to undermine the parliamentary process.”

I had also been given emergency accommodation near to my offices, another requisitioned property. It wasn’t first class accommodation by any means, I had taken over the flat above a corner store, with just a bedroom and kitchen to live in, though I did have my own personal shop to hand in case I needed anything. It came in very handy when I needed needle and threat to replace a button on my suit last night. I couldn’t’ resist taking a kit-kat while I was in the shop, am keeping a strict note of everything I use so that I can repay the storeholder should he or she return.

To the House for the Committee Stage of my Bill. Because of the sensitive nature of the Bill the meeting was held in secret and wasn’t recorded in Hansard. Another first for me, the first ‘secret debate’ since an emergency session of parliament during the second world war. Quite what that discussed then I don’t know, it’s still regarded as top secret sixty plus years later, it must either be some deadly nuclear secret or some really naughty scam to line Winston’s pockets. I wonder - you notice how all Winston’s descendants are remarkably wealthy, without any of them ever seeming to do anything.

The Committee is packed with our supporters, just three Labour MPs and they are all front bench, totally supportive, not wanting to rock the boat at all. It ended up being a pleasant chat. I mentioned my shop, seized under the emergency powers. Apparently the Labour Shadow Home Secretary has got an entire hotel to herself, which she plans to use for running left-wing conferences once the emergency is over. At the moment she’s sleeping in a different room every night, and doesn’t always bother to tell her husband which room she’s in. “Last night I heard him prowling around the third floor, he’s worse than the tiger sometimes,” she said.

Just as well the Committee were all sympathetic to the Bill, as I had failed to notice that one of the latest round of Government amendments included a grant to a London university to experiment by mixing tiger genes with children, creating a new race of ‘tiger children’ that would “increase our understanding of the tiger threat” and “help us defeat the tiger.”

I didn’t like this amendment at all, but luckily it went through unchallenged. Thank goodness for a sympathetic Committee, though I do wonder how we’re going to get this section past the Lords, who always latch onto this sort of thing.

All in all a very tough day. I returned home to find that my shop had been looted, the police were everywhere, seizing the remaining stock as evidence. It made no sense to me, but I left the forces of law and order to get on with their essential work.

I texted The Man about my problems and he is going to move me up the security traffic light to red/amber, which means there will always be a guard on my house 24/7, even when I’m in the Ministry.

Am about to go to bed, happy to know that Buster is standing guard outside my door. With the looters and tigers, not to mention the stress caused by my Bill, I shall be lucky to sleep a wink. Sometimes I think my ministerial salary is nowhere near enough to compensate for everything I have to go through.

20. 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. Did you not wonder how I got in?” the tiger asked me.

“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.

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 Plough and Compasses. 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 pit 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.

21. Ministerial diary Day 5

Up at 3.30 a.m. to go to Manchester for an interview on BBC breakfast. Apparently the Man has been getting some flak about the Bill in the media and thinks a friendly chat with the Minister for Protection from Tigers would convince people that the Bill is necessary.

The BBC have moved to offices in Manchester, Bristol and Birmingham while the tiger is on the loose. I can see why they need to protect their staff, but it makes for a long journey for Ministers like myself who aren’t able to leave London. All part of our public duty I suppose.

My entourage sets off at 4.00 a.m. Three cars, myself, Chloe and Buster in one, a car in front and one behind filled with the rest of my security team. My security level has risen to amber plus one, so this is my life now, security everywhere I go. No chance of a normal life.

I reflect on the change in my fortune. Just a week ago I was a backbench MP, one of hundreds, even my constituents would struggle to name me. Now I was a minister of state, with a presence in Cabinet meetings, in charge of one of the UK’s most serious emergencies and one of the most important pieces of legislation in history. And now I’d be appearing on national TV.

Though this was just one interview, this could be the making of me, with over three million viewers. Plus it was a breakfast show, if it went well people would be talking about my performance all day and it would be repeated on News 24 every half hour. If this goes well there will be many more interviews to follow over the next few days.

Though in a perfect world a Minister would not be judged on their media performances, in the twenty-first century the reality is that TV is everything. If I come across well I’m almost guaranteed a Cabinet post long term when the tiger is caught. After that, who knows, maybe my dream of being PM at 43 isn’t so unrealistic after all.

Chloe had prepared a detailed brief for me and anticipated likely questions, including a likely question about the tiger attack on last night’s episode of Eastenders. Did I think Heather would live? Would Ross Kemp catch the tiger? As if I knew or cared what the writers planned for Heather and Ross. I never watched the programme, and have no intention of starting, especially now that my time is so precious with my intensive ministerial duties.

Chloe made me learn a few lines about which are my favourite characters and why I hope Heather will recover from the wounds.

I also learnt that Eastenders is being filmed in Honolulu at the moment, apparently, it’s too dangerous to film in London because of the tiger. This is a state secret though, not to be revealed in any circumstances, even if there’s dead air.

Buster was in the back seat with us and he helped me rehearse, playing the interviewer and asking me Chloe’s questions. We spent most of the journey doing this, with Chloe making comments on my answers and amending the script accordingly.

We made Manchester in good time, hardly seeing any traffic, until we reached the city’s outskirts. Even though it was early I would normally have expected to see lorries at least. It seems that the tiger has had a big impact on internal trade, something I must mention to The Man next time I see him.

As we arrived at the BBC studios I received a call from Perry in The Man’s office. It has been decided to cancel the interview. Apparently Vinnie Jones had agreed to do the interview instead and The Man felt that a tough guy like Vinnie explaining why we needed to stand up to the tiger was more likely to appeal to the public than ‘another boring minister in a suit’.

Very disappointing, but the journey wasn’t entirely wasted, I had a good opportunity to catch up on essential paperwork, meaning one less red box to take home at the weekend.

22. Chapter 3

It took me less than half an hour to get to the Plough and Compasses. Yet again I passed through empty streets, in all my time in London I had seen nobody, my only conversation was with a tiger.

“Hello” the man said when I entered the pub, though in fact he was hardly a man, a stupendously youthful figure in a suit.

I nodded a greeting and helped myself to a beer before joining him.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” he said, “I couldn’t come to you in case I got called away urgently.”

“Called away?”

“I work for the government, the civil service. I’m number two in the Tiger Bill team. I’m on pager, email and text alert, could get called away at any second.”

“I thought that the civil service had been disbanded during the emergency.”

“Not us, we’re too important. We’re the reason the crisis happened.”

This was getting very surreal. The young man was doubtless genuine in his claim to be a civil service high flyer in an important department, but his youthful looks gave the scene the feel of being in a children’s play.

“What do you mean you’re the reason the crisis happened?”

Instead of answering he asked me a question in return. “Why have you come to London?”

“To report on the tiger story.”

“Then it must have struck you as strange that one escaped tiger should lead to the evacuation of an entire city. Stranger still that you’re the only journalist reporting the story that the nation’s capital city is closed until further notice, that seven million people have been moved from their homes, millions more are unable to work, millions of businesses are shut down, relocated or operating emergency measures, and the headline in today’s papers is about a footballer’s affair with a fashion model.”

“What are you saying?” (What was he saying?).

“This has been planned for years. The tiger is just an excuse, another excuse would have been found if it hadn’t escaped, assuming there is a tiger on the loose. Nobody’s actually seen it.”

I didn’t let on about my encounter, after all the tiger I spoke to claimed not to be a tiger at all.

“The emergency situation is being used to give the government and its supporters unprecedented powers.”

“The Tiger Protection Bill?”

“The Tiger Protection Bill is the most important piece of paper in this country’s history. The reverse of a constitution.”

“The reverse?”

“It takes away the rights and powers of the population much as a constitution grants them. The government can do anything it likes. The state of emergency enables them to seize property, ends the right to trial, they’ve even abolished the parliamentary process, the Lords stages of the Bill are replaced by a nod of the head by the three Peers in the Cabinet. And worst of all, these powers are being used before the Bill is even passed. It’s an incredible precedent, it means that the government can do absolutely anything it likes based merely on possible future legislation. It effectively it bypasses democracy.”

“It’s a public document,” I said, “it’s available to download for free on the parliament website. If it was as bad as you say we’d know about it.”

“Ah who reads Bills,” he said with a sigh that was contrary to his age. “Everyone expects the media to report these things, but the media are all owned by three or four billionaire friends of the PM. Nobody’s going to read a Bill and if they did what could they do on their own?”

“It sounds like a conspiracy theory.”

“It is a conspiracy theory, only a real one. It’s back up by papers, hard, cold evidence.”

It was at this stage that he passed me a wad of paperwork. A quick glance confirmed that these included the latest draft of the Tiger Protection Bill, but also confidential emails and memos from within the Tiger Protection Department.

“How have they got away with it?,” I asked. “I know that the press in this country isn’t exactly without bias, but every single journalist? Every single lobby group, every activist, every union? What are people, just plain stupid?”

“Yes, that’s it, everybody’s stupid. Really, really stupid. They assume that the government could never get away with anything this extreme, so they assume that this Bill couldn’t possibly do what it does.

“Read the papers, they show that this whole thing has been planned for years. These memos from two years ago set out the plan. These emails here show that Cabinet members were planning land seizures years under the Bill and had not just identified the land they would seize, but were actually making plans to sell it on. And these letters, all headed the Tiger Emergency Department but dated two years before it was even formed.

It was all true. With this evidence I had the government bang to rights. This had become the biggest story of my life, but I was well aware that if it didn’t make my career it would certainly break it.

“What about the talking tiger?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I was a mad. Perhaps I was.

“I have to go,” he said, “the Minister awaits. If you could get this published then it isn’t too late to save our democracy. Do your best.”

I would do my best, but even though I worked for a supposedly left wing, independent newspaper I couldn’t help but remember the enthusiasm with which the paper urged its readers to back the Lib Dems, and then the enthusiasm with which the same left wing paper urged the Lib Dems to go into coalition with the Tories. There was a separate conspiracy theory which said that the sole purpose of my newspaper was to get stupid left wingers to vote for a pro-Conservative party.

Besides which, for all the shocking evidence of government conspiracy and media corruption, it didn’t explain where there was a tiger walking around describing itself as a little girl. It was time to go back to the other Plough and Compasses and hoped I wasn’t too late for the return of Amy.

23.There is a light that never goes out (3)

The soup kitchen was busy, as busy as the rest of London was still and silent.

The vicar knew most of the people there, they were his regulars, they had nowhere else to go, tiger or no tiger. They were the reason he’d stayed.

There were also a few strangers, people passing through on their way elsewhere, or people trapped in London by the closure of all transport routes. They were very different to his usual customers, wealthy people, suddenly reduced to queuing in soup kitchens with the homeless and destitute. As the vicar would say; “It just shows how we’re all equal in the eyes of the Lord.”

He was talking to a couple from Surrey, who had come to London for a show and found it impossible to leave afterwards, all trains and buses cancelled because of the tiger.

Suddenly there was a kerfuffle behind him, someone in the soup queue was shouting. It was Sir Maglo, one of the vicar’s regulars.

“What’s up Maglo?,” he asked, placing his hand gently but firmly on the vagrant’s shoulder.

“Whatsup whatsupwhatsupup???? Illtellyerwhatsup tellyerwhatsup, lookater serving the food thatswhatup.

The young girl looked frightened and exposed by the attention.

“Sir Maglo, this is my new assistant Sonia,” the vicar said calmly and politely, as if he were introducing people at a dinner party, “Sonia, this is Sir Maglo, he’s descended from Dutch royalty. What’s the problem with Sonia Maglo?”

“Danishdanishthefuckindutchnuffintodowivem. Fuckindutch. Whatswrongwiver? Lookater, lookater, allskinanbone, if the soupasgoodashesays whysshe allskinanbone. If she don’t eat it I’m notfuckineatinit. Where’s the fat girl? Icantrustafatgirl, fatgirlsknowtheirfood.”

The vicar was about to speak, to subtly allude to Sonia’s condition, but he didn’t have a chance.

“The soup’s good,” Sonia spoke, “look.” So saying she scooped herself a cup and started to drink, “Soup’s good, join me.”

“Donmindifido,” Sir Maglo said, and soon he and Sonia were in a world of their own, talking intently as if they’d been friends since birth.

The vicar returned to the couple he’d been with. “You really must come to Surrey when this is all over,” the woman said, “you can talk about your good work, the people you help here.”

The vicar chatted to the couple for another half hour or so when suddenly he felt the atmosphere around him change. An eerie silence had replacement the general buzz of banter. Had he trusted his nostrils the vicar would have smelt fear in the air.

The silence was broken by Sir Maglo, who suddenly broke into a run, screaming as he went “Theresafuckintiger, theresafuckintiger.”

Sure enough, there in the dark shadow of the church was a twelve foot beast of the jungle, poised as if to spring, but for now just laying, watching. Watching everyone slowly inch away, everyone bar on thin waif of a girl, who walked steadily towards it, sleeves rolled up, showing off her scars.

“I knew you would come for me,” Sonia said, “I knew God had send you for me, I confess my sins, you may punish me as you see fit.”

The vicar had prepared for the tiger as only a vicar would, he wasn’t armed with gun, or even knife, but he had kept to one side a joint of lamb and he followed behind Sonia waving the meat at the tiger. “Don’t take her,” he said, “here’s some lovely lamb for you tiger, much nicer than her.”

He tossed the meat expertly in front of the tiger’s face and the tiger caught it with its paw.

The vicar became aware that the three of them were suddenly alone, the rest of the soup eaters had shrunk away, it was just him, the girl, the tiger and silence.

Eventually the tiger spoke, its voice that of a young child. “Thank you for the lamb,” it said, “don’t worry, I won’t harm the girl, I’m not a tiger, I’m a girl too. Besides, there’s no meat on her.”

To Sonia the tiger said “God has sent me here, it’s true, but not to punish you. He’s given me a message for you; you are forgiven for your sins, but you must reward God’s love for you by loving yourself. You need to eat Sonia, eating is good for you.”

So saying the tiger proceeded to munch into the lamb, teeth gnarling expertly through to the bone. In the noise of the tiger feeding the vicar silently guided Sonia away, into the safety of the church.

24. Okay Commuter (3)

It was strange walking down empty London streets, no sign of life – no pedestrians, no cyclists, no cars, even the planes has ceased to fly overhead, redirected no doubt to a route that steered clear of the tiger. At one point I was about to say “there’s more life in a tramp’s vest,” but remembered just in time what company we were in and managed to hold my tongue.

“I’ve sorted out a route,” said John, who presented us with his mobile. A thin red line snaked its way from Liverpool Street in the direction of home.

“Na, don’t need no map, it’s all in ‘ere,” said Cecil, tapping his head.

“It’s fifty miles,” John protested, “you can’t have memorised the whole journey. This is the latest satellite navigation technology, saves us the quickest route to any location, accurate to an inch.”

“I nose what I nose,” Cecil said, “I ain’t never needed no googlemap.” With these words he started to march off.

We followed after him. “Well it’s lucky I’ve got one,” John shouted to his back, “we’re going the wrong way, look we’re headed East.” He held out his phone, desperately trying to show Cecil how we were diverging from the thin red line.

“And where on this map of yours are we going to eat?”

We were both silent.

“Hay, your google god not got something stashed away for us? Then you stick with me, we’ll get there, but we’ll get there via food and shelter.”

Thus ended our arguments and from that point onwards we followed Cecil unquestioned.

About an hour later we arrived at a church. The smell of soup and destitution was in the air, behind a cauldron stood a vicar, stirring the pot absentmindedly. Beside his stood a white, ghost of a girl, a living skeleton, with bones in her cheeks where her smile should be. Queuing in front of the caudron was a long line of tramps and travellers like ourselves.

“Knew this place would still be serving,” Cecil said, “best vicar in London is this one, never preaches, just gives you food and a blanket when you needs it. Not as good as your duvet mind,” he said to John, “never known so many togs.”

The food was just soup and a stockish biscuit, it wasn’t clear whether this was meant to be eaten with the soup in place of bread, or as a desert, but given the circumstances there were no complaints. We snuck a couple of spare biscuits into our coat pockets. The vicar saw me and smiled conspiratorially. It’s always disconcerting when a man of the cloth winks at you when he catches you stealing. A similar thing had happened to me when I tried my hand shoplifting as a child and I vowed to myself I would never steal again.

Eventually we were ready to set off. I won’t describe the rest of the journey in detail, nor repeat the fascinating stories Cecil told en route, there isn’t enough space to cover everything here. Just to say that we trudged somewhere in the region of eighteen miles over the course of the day, resting only briefly and occasionally, with just the biscuits the vicar had given us to fuel us through the journey.

Every rest break John would take out his phone and call his wife and kids, letting them know we were making good time and would soon be safely back with them.

The streets continued to be eerie and empty even as we reached the outskirts of the city. Who would have thought that the fear of the tiger would extend this far, it was as if the tiger were a virus which had spread through London and beyond.

After a long, hard walk we finally reached our destination for the day, a second soup kitchen. This was less well attended than the first, but even more welcome, we were starving hungry by then. We ate in silence, but afterwards started talking to a group of Cecil’s friends. We were looking for somewhere to ‘pitch our duvets’ as John put it and it was agreed that it would be safer to join a large group, so we followed them to their camp under a railway bridge, where a raging fire was soon roaring.

With full bellies and tired feet we were nevertheless enthralled by the yarns and stories told by the collection of vagrants, hobos, tramps, bums and gentlemen of the road (they each had their preferred term). We watched the sun set and the moon appear and the moon become encamped behind a cloud, all was darkness bar the faint amber embers of the dwindled fire.

And still we talked. My life, the daily trek to work and back, seemed so lacking compared to those around me. One man, a distant kinsman of the Danish royal family, described in sparkling prose his fall from grace, another man described the failure of six separate marriages, the collapse of which had eventually driven him to the streets. I heard tale after tale of fights, journeys, discoveries, loneliness and revenge.

With mind buzzing I eventually crawled under the duvet I shared with John and we settled into an uneven sleep.

25. Ministerial diary Day 6

An emergency has been declared. The tiger is officially declared a ‘category red’.

New measures in my Bill mean that the governance of the country no longer requires the full parliament to sit in a category red situation. As a result my Bill no longer has to go through the Lords, where thousands of objections to it would have been made, along with enormous delays and doubtless many concessions and amendments. Instead, a Committee of five peers debated the Bill, and they were all Cabinet members.

The Bill passed through the Lords stages in a record five minutes and 30 seconds, with no amendments whatsoever.

A representative of the Queen is on hand to declare Royal Assent for the Bill and that’s it, another record, I have been a minister for less than a week and I have taken a Bill through parliament.

xxx

Evening

To Downing Street for a victory dinner. The Bill has been passed, my Bill is a Bill no more, it is now an Act of parliament and there is much jubilation all round.

Even Buster and my other bodyguards, too many to name individually, are given cans of beer to toast our victory. All of the cabinet’s security teams are here, several hundred altogether, a noisy and boisterous bunch.

Our dinner was more formal, though the champagne flowed.

The very first course was lobster and to make things entertaining we were tasked with choosing and catching our own from the Downing Street fishtank. Alex Daniels MP was the last to catch his and took several minutes aimlessly flapping around the tank with his lobster net. Eventually one of the chefs helped him lure the lobster into its entrapment.

“Outwitted by a lobster,” The Man whispered in my ear, to my great amusement.

“It’s lucky there are no lobsters on the Labour front bench,” I quipped back and was delighted to generate a laugh, subtly disguised behind a cough.

Alex was most gracious about it and laughed at his own clumsiness. He can relax, he knows that the Man trusts him, a Tory in Lib Dem trousers he poses no threat as he could never stand for the Tory leadership, and is therefore a useful, albeit useless, ally. If I were Prime Minister, of course, I’d make the lobster Treasury Secretary before I’d go anywhere near Alex Daniels.

We seated at the table, thirty of the most important and powerful people in the land and me. I was honoured beyond words to be in this company.

While we were awaiting the lobsters The Man stood up, raised his glass and proposed a toast. “This is a landmark moment in political history,” he said to cheers, “and the man responsible is with us today. I give you the Minister for Tiger Protection.” I rose and to a bow to a warm round of applause from everyone. I would go down in history The Man said.

There were over a dozen courses altogether, I lost count after the third or fourth starter. Midway through the dinner was interrupted for the entertainments, which included a troop of clowns, can-can dancers and a right wing comedian who mostly made jokes about the tiger eating Muslims. The Tories round the tabled laughed loudly at his act, though us Liberals were less comfortable. It’s all right to think it, but to say it out loud, in company!

I sat next to the Chancellor who was explaining how the Act had already made him a rich man, well, a richer man. He had used the Act’s powers to seize an acre of derelict land in Hounslow and had already sold it on to a Taiwanese investment company for £1.7 billion. “I’m almost as rich as The Man now,” he said, laughing happily.

“You’ve done well,” I said, “the ink’s hardly dry on the Act, that sort of deal usually takes months to finalise.”

He laughed as if I had told a great joke.

Towards the end of the evening The Man took me to one side and hinted strongly that a permanent post would be mine at the next reshuffle.

“What if the tiger isn’t caught by then?” I asked.

“Oh I expect it’ll be over any day now,” he said, “your period in government will be over, but don’t worry,” he put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye, “you can trust me to ensure that you’re back in the government in no time.”

At the end of the night Buster had to be carried to the car, drunk as a Lord (and the Lords around the table were pretty sizzled I can tell you). My other guards were nearly as bad, it was lucky we didn’t come across the tiger on the way home.

26. Chapter 4

After my meeting with Nigel I decided to return to the other Plough and Compasses. What sort of journalist was I, you might ask, if my day simply involved crawling from pub to pub? But I wasn’t revisiting the glory days of British journalism, when journalists were selected purely on their ability to drink ten pints over the course of an evening.

I was simply returning to my sighting of the tiger, the tiger who claimed to be a little girl called Amy. It was over 3 hours since I had spoken to her and it was highly likely that I had missed her return. Never-the-less, this was the only place in the world I would ever get to see her again, so I poured myself a pint and settled into my snug for a long wait if necessary.

As it turned out, I had to wait less than twenty minutes before I heard the handle of the front door turn and watch a twelve foot Bengali tiger stroll into the room.

“Hello Amy,” I said, as friendly as possible, though my voice betrayed the primal fear that I naturally felt in the presence of a highly evolved killer. “So where’s the tiger?” I asked, “Is she giving me an interview?”

Amy said nothing for a while, I watched her sniffing her way around the room as she prowled towards me. She could probably smell Nigel on my clothes, though she said nothing.

Eventually the tiger spoke, in the same little girls voice as before. “The tiger says that it would help no-one if she gave you an interview. She thinks that if you’re a real journalist you’ll find me a far me interesting story. I’m to take you to where I came from.”

“To your parents’ house you mean? I thought that the tiger was at your parents house?”

Amy took a long time to reply, like a child mulling a difficult question.

“Not my parents house, no. I’m to take you to where I was made.”

“Where you were made?”

“I was not born like this,” she said, referring to her tiger form, “you need to see where I became a tiger. Me and the others.”

I knew that there was no point asking any more questions at this stage. I followed her out of the door. We walked the bare city street for over a mile, a man and a tiger that talks like a child, we were all there was to be seen, a sight to behold on any day, but now, at the end of the world, it seemed like a joke, or a scene from some bizarre children’s story.

Eventually we reached an industrial estate and Amy led me through the streets to an abandoned warehouse, a long forgotten artefact from the 70s, with crumbling bricks, smashed windows and the dusty sheen of abandonment.

Amy led us down an alleyway to a side door.

“In here,” she said.

We crawled through a broken window into a disused lavatory. From there Amy led us down corridors and onto the main warehouse floor. Whilst the building looked desolate and abandoned on the website it was clear that it was in fact up and running again, the corridors were freshly painted, the lights were on and in the distance I could distinctly hear the rumble of machinery.

Amy paused outside a door. “This is the nursery,” she said, “where I grew up.”

I cautiously opened the door, genuinely having no idea what I would find inside. What I found was a collection of cages, each of them filled with tiger cubs at various stages of growth. So much for the tiger being

“Help me,” said a voice from one of the cages. I turned to inspect. In a cage in a corner was a tiger cub, less than a year old, with a child’s face implanted where its own face should be.

“That one went wrong,” Amy said matter-of-factly. “It’ll be taken out and disposed of. The rest have all taken properly.”

I didn’t have to ask what she meant as I could hear their voices. One tiger crying like a baby another kept calling out “set me free” “set me free”. Altogether there were thirty or forty tiger cubs all like Amy, each with children’s minds inside them.

I took photos and video footage, though other than the tiger in the corner they all looked normal and it would be impossible to prove that the voices were really coming from the tigers.

I didn’t have to ask Amy what the tigers were for, their use was obvious. The Americans alone have spent untold billions bombing trees in conflicts with third world enemies. Tiger children were natural killers of the jungle but with the brains to identify and target specific enemy.

They were the ultimate form of guerrilla warfare. I had stumbled upon a military factory, one that would end resistance to the might of the capitalist machine. The young civil servant was right about there being a conspiracy, but he had hopelessly underestimated the scale of it.

I took the GPS coordinates of the factory as we left. If my editor would back me we could take a film crew here and bring the government down. Shutting down London so that the government could indulge in a land grab to make themselves even richer was one thing, but harming tigers would really be a big story. Nobody likes to hear about cruelty to animals.

Yes, there was no doubt about it, I had here the biggest story not just of my life, but the biggest story of the century. I would just have to be careful.

27. On the beat Pete (4)

There were a lot of things I didn’t like about the emergency. I could understand that without the backing of the courts we had to administer our own justice, indeed it was great to escape the burden of paperwork and bureaucracy. But I didn’t like the beatings and kickings, they seemed so random, so unjustified, as if anyone seen on the street was automatically guilty. What were they really guilty of I wondered, hunger and natural human need.

I said nothing though, if I spoke up I would be turned onto the street myself, with no food, no shelter, exposed to both tiger and police alike.

But I questioned the logic sometimes. Like the young woman we followed into the church, what could Sergeant Ingold actually think she’d done, all we’d seen her do was smoke a cigarette in the churchyard, was that a crime now?

We followed her into the church. I was surprised to find that the vicar was there, still in London. He was talking to the woman, he clearly knew her, you could tell by the way they were talking, relaxed, friendly.

Sergeant Ingold approached them. “You’re under arrest,” he said, grabbing the girl, just a tiny, fragile waif I a child I could see now.

The vicar spoke. “What has the girl done?”

“She’s guilty of conspiracy,” the sergeant said, “she’s in league with the tiger.”

So saying he stared to drag her away by her arm.

“No-one’s guilty without a trial,” the vicar said, holding onto her other arm and pulling in the opposite direction, as if she were the rope in a tug of war.

“Bloody human rights,” Ingold swore, “there’s a fucking emergency, there’s a tiger out there, we don’t need to bother with your fair fucking trial any more. She’s guilty because I say she’s guilty.”

The girl had collapsed onto the floor in the struggle and with the words “I’ll give you a fucking trial luvvie,” he proceeded to kick her prostrate body.

So engrossed was he in executing his judgement that he took his eyes off the vicar, didn’t see him pick up the alter candles, lift the heavy metal candlestick up towards heaven and bring it crashing down on the sergeant’s head.”

I watched sergeant Ingold collapse onto the floor in a bloody heap. Even from twenty feet away I could see that he was dead, his brains had started to escape from the confines of his skull, which is a more convincing test of life than checking a pulse.

The vicar looked at me with venom in his eyes. “Well?” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said, retreating to the door, “there’s no crime here, just self defence.”

I reported the Sergeant as missing, it was my one act of rebellion during the whole emergency. He was awarded a posthumous OBE a few months later.

With so many others missing or dead I wasn’t even questioned, my story was accepted as simple fact. The next day I found myself promoted to Sergeant and asked to take over Ingold’s duties. I felt cheered that my good deed, in ignoring the vicar’s assault, had led to me being rewarded.

28. Okay Commuter (4)

The next morning we awoke early with the sun, but even at that hour the camp was now abandoned. Those still awake when we had crawled to bed in the never-never hours were already up and gone away. We decamped and soon discovered where they had gone, another soup kitchen, this time a sort of breakfast bar, specialising in sausage sandwiches and coffee.

“Coffee,” said John with affection, “I’ve missed it more than I’ve missed the wife.” By instinct he immediately checked his phone, as he’d just been talking to her and was clearly concerned that he hadn’t hung up properly.

“Coffee’s good,” I said, “but the sausage is perfect. Who’d have thought that the homeless were getting grub this good, makes me wonder why I’ve been working all these years.”

“Ahahaha,” laughed Cecil, “we does all-right we does, tis why I wanted to come this round, no good grub like this along your computer line.” He was referring to the route John had traced out on googlemap, the one we hadn’t followed.

After breakfast we set off. We had walked 18 miles, but had almost twice that distance left to cover. The towns we passed through from this point onwards were outside London and the lair of the tiger. We expected these to be bustling with relative normality, with buses or taxis to take us home, or at the very least a chance to hitch a lift, but these towns too were barren and empty.

John and I discussed whether he should call his wife and arrange for a lift, but she would have to bring the kids with her and there wouldn’t be room for all of us. Besides which, John didn’t want to bring his wife to these desolate streets.

So on we trod.

Midway through the day Cecil directed us to another soup kitchen and again that night. We even got to sleep in real beds, as there was a hostel in the town. True we had to share with sixteen other men, but by this time we were accustomed to the company of strangers and this seemed no hardship.

The next day dawned and with it the final leg of our journey, just over ten miles. We trudged on, heartened by the approach of home.

Eventually we reached the outskirts of the town where John and I lived, the town from which we had both commuted without incident every day for a decade or more, yet which had taken us three exhausting days to stagger back to on foot.

On the outskirts of the town John’s wife picked us up in her car. “Hi,” she said, “I’m Kirsty, thanks for taking care of my husband. I’ve got spaggetti for tea, will you join us.”

“Not ‘arf,” said Cecil enthusiastically and I agreed, even though I was desperate to see my home I wasn’t going to turn down the offer of a home-cooked meal.

We picked up John and Kirsty’s kids from their neighbours and spent the next few hours in a form of heaven: a group of friends, sitting in comfy chairs, eating cooked food and drinking beer. I almost wept with the pleasure of it.

Eventually it was time for me to leave; Cecil was staying for a few days, either until it was safe for Kirsty to drive him home or until he got bored, whichever was sooner. John drove me to my door and we embraced, the sort of embrace you can only have with a man you’ve been sharing a duvet with for the past three nights.

As I approached my door I heard the phone ringing.

Without stopping to check my mail or anything else I picked it up. It took me a second to recognise the voice, but it was my boss. “Hi,” he said, I’m just phoning to let you know; the tiger’s been caught so we’re expecting everyone to come in tomorrow for a normal day’s work.”

“Thanks,” I said, not meaning it. I went online and checked the trains, which claimed they would run a normal service the next day.

So this was it, my escape from the routine of commuting had been but temporary. But – I remembered all I had seen, heard and learnt. I was determined that I would be a commuter drone no more. There had to be more to life.

29. Breaking news

A TV news broadcast, typical of the era, a woman in smart-casual dress and a suited man read the news in front of a bright backdrop. Their names appear to be Susan and John (or very possibly Jon).

(Susan) “And finally some good news for Londoners, with reports that the government has declared an end to the emergency. What’s happened John, does this mean they’ve finally caught the tiger?”

(John) “It sure does Sue, Timmy the tiger has returned to London zoo, along with HER three new tiger cubs.”

Footage of tiger in complain with three cubs, going about their tigerly business

(Susan) “So Timmy’s a mother. That must be a bit of a shock to the zoo authorities.”

(John) “They are a bit embarrassed Sue, though they’re obviously delighted with their three new charges.”

“So what does this mean for the ordinary Londoner, is it safe to return to the city?”

“It certainly is Sue. Earlier today I spoke to the Minister for the escaped tiger crisis and this is what he said.

Footage of a middle-aged man in a suit

“The emergency is over, the tiger has safely been returned to his cage – I should say HER cage – and it is now safe to return to London. All emergency restrictions have been cancelled and I am assured that the tube, rail and bus services will all be running normally as of tomorrow.”

(Sue) “Well I guess I’m going to have to start packing as soon as we’ve finished filming John. I must say I’m looking forward to getting back home, though I will miss Manchester. I’ve really enjoyed the time we’ve spent here.”

(John) “The people of Manchester have certainly been welcoming Sue and I will miss them. And now other news: Penguins have escaped from Bristol zoo, but are fears of a bird flu academic realistic? We talk to a penguinologist, who believes that the birds are essentially harmless, and Matt Huzzar, Chief Executive of Demolish Bristol, who believes that radical measures are needed to protect the public.”

30. Ministerial Diary: Day 7

Just 18 hours after the Bill is passed I get a call from Chloe.

“The tiger’s been caught,” she said, “well done.”

The Man phoned almost immediately afterwards. “What a triumph,” he said, “it was your Bill that did it, no doubt about it, just a day after it’s passed and the tiger’s safely back in its cage. You must be very proud.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’m pleased a well, it will be good to see things get back to normal. I’ll see you this afternoon,” I said at the end of our five minute chat, referring to the planned Cabinet meeting.

“Oh no,” he said, “you’re not in the Cabinet anymore, you’re no longer a Minister. I did say it was just a temporary job, until the tiger was caught.”

So I say goodbye to my Ministerial salary, my red boxes, my bodyguards, my office, my Westminster home. I’m a backbencher again, back to having less influence than the Health Minister’s tobacconist.

To the Home Office by taxi, to pick up my personal effects. They’re waiting for me in a shoebox, no sign of Chloe, Nigel or anyone else. I depart with no fanfare, no celebration, no goodbyes.

All I can do now is sit by the phone and await news of the next reshuffle. After all, the man did promise me a job. Transport would be good, or the Foreign Office, though I’ll take whatever he offers. I wonder what he has in mind for me.

31. Back to the Old House (2)

I sat with Ian and Doug in the beer garden at the back of the Dog and Ferret, looking down at the bright, shiny new factory that now stood in the place where the Streets had been, where we’d all three grown up.

“It’s the future of British industry,” Doug said, “we’re leading the world again, new technology. Makes you proud.”

“I don’t understand it,” Ian admitted, “a tiger-child factory, what is it? They look like tigers, tigers who talk like children, how can those be made in a factory. What sort of technology is it? It worries me.”

I said nothing.

“Great to be back in London,” I said.

“Yeah,” Doug agreed, “really glad the emergency’s over. Lost a lot of trade because of that tiger, most of my business is London based.”

“I thought you said you went on holiday during the tiger escape,” I said.

“Yeah, but only ‘cause I had nothing else to do.”

“I recon our block would have been there, where that shiny silver shed is now. I wonder what’s in that silver shed, is that where they add the children to the tigers.”

“Na,” said Doug, “that’s probably just a shed.”

We stood supping our pints and admiring the view. The shiny, glistening factory stood bathed in the vivid red glow of a September twilight.

“I’m applying for a job there,” I said eventually. “I’ve got a mate who’s working there, does something in the claws department, says he’ll put in a word for me. They pay very well indeed apparently.”

Ian and Doug said nothing. What they were thinking I couldn’t tell, were they surprised I was looking for another job, disappointed at my link with the tiger children. Or maybe they were jealous that I was going to be back on the site of the Streets.

“Another bevvy anyone?” Doug asked, striding to the bar without having to wait for an answer.

32. Chapter 5

Stephen has improved immensely since he started on his medication. He no longer has delusions about talking tigers and government conspiracies.

His intellectual abilities have declined slightly since he began his medication, but today he recognised the sun in the sky and showed great interest in a flower.

Most importantly, he seems happy and is no longer full of the intense anger he had when he first moved into Happy Home and has stopped banging on the door of his care-room and shouting out to be released.

I placated him somewhat by meeting his request to send some “secret papers” to an American, who he claimed was a friend of his.

Stephen’s papers were so ‘secret’ that he’d buried them in an envelope in a metal box under a particular tree in Hyde Park. I felt like a spy from a 70s thriller when I went to the park armed with a borrowed metal detector, a spade and the map Stephen had drawn. I wondered at first whether I was going to find a severed head, but it was just papers. Not exactly secret though, the first thing I came across was a copy of a government Bill, a document any one of us could download in a moment.

It’s a great example of the things you have to deal with when you work with the mentally ill.

I send the envelope off, anyway, and Stephen got a nice postcard from his friend saying “Stay cool Steve, it may take some time but the shit will hit the fan.”

I believe that my little act of kindness, combined with the medication, has helped to make Stephen a different person. I have every hope that he’ll eventually be able to come off the drugs and live a normal life.