Derek Chapman’s plan to cut Moran out of the deal and sell the tiger himself had stalled on a logistical problem—namely, that Toby Wright’s van didn’t have a ramp.
Wright had attempted to lift the transport crate up into the back of the van and failed. Even with Chapman’s help, it was still too heavy. With a defeated groan, Wright lowered his end of the cage back down to the pavement, forcing Chapman to follow suit.
“Look,” Wright said, stretching with his hands braced at the small of his back, “why can’t you just wait for Moran?”
“Which would you rather have? Half of twelve million later tonight, or all of it now?”
Wright eyed the crate and shook his head. “Between the weight of the tiger and the weight of the cage, we’re looking at close to three hundred kilos. It’s just too heavy to lift without help.”
Chapman bit back a frustrated snarl. Four million pounds, slipping away over a problem as stupid as this. But if the problem was the tiger and the cage … “What about just the tiger?”
Wright didn’t look keen on the idea. “You want to … take it out of the cage? A live tiger?”
Chapman scoffed. “Afraid of the big bad kitty cat, Toby?”
“Yes, I fucking am.” Wright gestured broadly at the drive, the van, the sleeping tiger in its cage. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this all is? What if somebody gets hurt?”
“Let me put this in terms you’ll understand.” Chapman shoved into Wright’s space, glaring up at him. “Either get this tiger into the van, or start looking for a new job.”
Wright’s expression wavered, then settled into weary resignation. He stepped back and knelt to unlatch the door of the crate. “If this thing so much as twitches, I’m running for it. Job or no job.”
Chapman rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s out cold, isn’t it?”
As a minor internet celebrity, Felicity Morris-Clarke’s sixteenth birthday party had attracted a certain amount of publicity. Fellow marginal online personality Jez_the_Spectator took it upon himself to livestream the event from his phone; shortly after the stream’s conclusion, on-demand playback was disabled due to “gross violation of community content guidelines.” While the footage never resurfaced, the stream’s chatlog eventually leaked online:
thagameslyaer: jezza i love you!
alephmale: dude this party sucks
illustrious_gentleman: Who’s the DJ?
8hfsi1hg89gh: lollll
8hfsi1hg89gh: did he say shark coochie
illustrious_gentleman: It’s spelled “charcuterie”
8hfsi1hg89gh: not what he said
alephmale: dude where are you going
alephmale: get back to the good shit
thagameslyaer: who’s that
illustrious_gentleman: It’s Felicity’s grandad
thagameslyaer: no the other guy
alephmale: is that a fucking tiger
illustrious_gentleman: It’s obviously fake
thagameslyaer: it looks dead
8hfsi1hg89gh: felicitys grandad is buying a dead fucking tiger???
illustrious_gentleman: No, wait, I see it breathing
alephmale: it’s just sleeping, dumbfuck
8hfsi1hg89gh: fuck you its dead
thagameslyaer: did it just move?
8hfsi1hg89gh: lolllll “i didnt order a tiger”
8hfsi1hg89gh: for real dude
alephmale: did that guy say 12 MILLION?
thagameslyaer: guys that tiger is definitely moving
alephmale: OH FUCK
8hfsi1hg89gh: hahahahaha holy shit
illustrious_gentleman: IT’S UP
alephmale: dude don’t follow it
8hfsi1hg89gh: lol it’s eating the shark coochie
illustrious_gentleman: CHARCUTERIE
illustrious_gentleman: RUN, put the phones AWAY
thagameslyaer: hey maybe don’t get that close
alephmale: dude back up
illustrious_gentleman: NO NO NO
8hfsi1hg89gh: now you’ve pissed it off
thagameslyaer: who’s that
alephmale: wtf is happening
8hfsi1hg89gh: dude get out of the shot
illustrious_gentleman: I think he’s pushing Jez oH SHIT
alephmale: holy FUCK
Jay pulled the van up in front of Chapman’s house; before it had even stopped, Sebastian was out and moving. He hauled himself partially up the wall, peering over the top. The cage was gone, as was Chapman.
The screams echoing from down the street, however, were a solid clue as to where both had got to.
Sebastian sprinted toward the commotion, dimly aware that Jay was trying and failing to keep up. He arrived in Clarke’s driveway to find a van there, its rear doors open. He also found Clarke and Chapman, shell-shocked.
All the noise was coming from the back garden, so Sebastian didn’t waste any time asking what had happened. He darted around the edge of the house, circling around to the back.
Freddie Clarke’s garden was home to a massive patio and swimming pool, which had played host to a spectacular display of teenage debauchery in the hours before a live Bengal tiger was brought into play. The party was now in a blind, screaming panic. Drunken and drugged teenagers scattered every which way, all desperate to get as far as possible from the vicious animal that was, at present, tearing into what was left of Toby Wright.
Sebastian elbowed his way through the mess to reach the catering tent and grabbed a can of cooking spray. Lifting it in one hand, he dug his lighter out of his pocket with the other.
The tiger snarled at Sebastian as he approached, protective of its kill. Sebastian shot a blast of cooking spray through the open flame of his lighter, launching a bright burst of fire into the tiger’s face. It laid its ears back, tail lashing, and darted backwards from each successive burst of fire until it finally turned tail and bolted, scrambling over the rear wall of the property.
Into the golf course.
Sebastian swore and hauled himself up and over the wall. The wide-open green on the other side offered precious little cover, a fact that the tiger appreciated as well. It made a beeline for the only hiding place it could see: the nearest construction site.
Moments after it scrambled down the side of a ditch into a massive culvert, shouts of surprise and alarm echoed up from inside.
Sebastian hurried down into the ditch, boots sliding in the mud, and sprinted for the mouth of the culvert. The light was dim, but he made out the shapes of two construction workers, cornered at the end of the blocked tunnel by the massive bulk of the tiger.
He had just enough time to consider what a bad idea this was before he drew the knife tucked into the back of his jeans and rushed forward.
Sebastian had intended to put the knife into the back of the tiger’s neck. Unfortunately, its reflexes were better than his; it heard him coming and twisted, moving so quickly that between one heartbeat and the next it had spun around to face him. The knife glanced off its shoulder instead, and Sebastian once again found himself looking into the tiger’s eyes.
There was no indolent curiosity this time, no lazy regard. Only confusion and pain and rage: the indignation of nature’s perfect killer, caged in a place it didn’t belong, made to perform for the amusement of those who once knew it as a god of death.
Sebastian shouted, “Run!” and the tiger lunged at him.
He leapt into the tiger’s forward rush instead of away, confusing it just long enough to slip past and come up behind it. The tiger wheeled around to face him again, and now its back was to the mouth of the culvert, where the two construction workers fled toward daylight.
The tiger didn’t seem to care, its crazed ire now fully focused on Sebastian. He kept the knife between them in a guard position as he moved, he and the tiger slowly circling each other. Sebastian’s eyes fixed on its silhouette, watching for any sign it was about to pounce. The bottom of the culvert was curved and slick with mud, but Sebastian didn’t dare look down, relying on touch to navigate.
Shifting tension in the tiger’s haunches heralded its next attack, and Sebastian barely had time to dodge. He swung the knife half-blind as he slid through the mud and scored a cheap hit across the tiger’s flank. It hissed, leaping away, and then they were circling each other again.
The tiger’s tongue lolled from its open mouth, sides heaving with every breath. Sweat trickled between Sebastian’s shoulders, waning adrenaline leaving a tremor in his hands and arms.
The fight’s outcome now rested on whichever combatant made the first, fatal mistake.
Sebastian took a steadying breath and feinted toward the tiger’s left; it moved to counter him and was too slow to respond as he switched direction at the last second. His knife bit deep into the tiger’s right leg.
The tiger crumpled to one side—and Sebastian’s foot slipped in the mud.
His leg went out from under him, dropping him to one knee. There was a blur of motion in his peripheral vision—the tiger’s good paw, swiping at his head. Wickedly sharp claws raked the side of his face, and pain bloomed white-hot in their wake.
Sebastian gasped and stumbled back, blood pouring into his eyes as he scrambled blindly away. The heat of the tiger’s body washed over him, and then its weight was on him, 250 kilos of apex predator bearing him down into the mud.
Instinctively, Sebastian threw his knife arm up to protect his throat. Crushing pressure clamped down on muscle and bone as the tiger’s jaws closed over his forearm, teeth sinking easily through his sleeve into the flesh beneath. The tiger thrashed its head, clumsy with exhaustion, shaking his arm like a toy until the joint of his shoulder screamed in agony.
The knife flew from Sebastian’s hand, splashing into the mud.
Sebastian kicked at the tiger’s belly and rear legs, deflecting its weary attempts to disembowel him. He swiped the blood out of his eyes with his free hand and spotted the knife, lying half-buried a few feet away.
Dragging himself through the mud with one arm, struggling to keep the tiger at bay with the other, Sebastian strained toward the knife. His fingers clawed blindly through the muck—and then it was there, his fingers closing around the hilt, and he drove the blade up, hard, into the tiger’s chest.
There was a stitch pounding in Jay’s side by the time he finally made it to Clarke’s house. He arrived in the back garden, only to see the tiger go over the wall—and Moran follow.
Jay wasn’t getting over that wall unassisted, and he doubted Clarke would go and fetch a ladder for him. Instead, he hurried back to the van.
There was a crowd milling around the entrance to the golf club when Jay pulled up. All of them were shouting; the words “fucking” and “tiger” featured prominently.
“Went after it with a knife,” one of them was saying. “Mad bastard—must’ve been trying to distract it—”
Jay leaned out the van’s window and barked, “Where?”
The man reeled back, surprised, but stammered out, “The new culvert—up in the north-west—”
Jay didn’t wait for him to finish. He hit the accelerator and drove the van through the open gate.
He found the construction site with little trouble; the mud surrounding the new drainage ditch was churned up by footprints, coming and going. Jay killed the engine and leapt from the van, sliding down into the ditch.
A massive, mud-caked, furred body lay in the muck at the bottom of the culvert, unmoving. Beneath its bulk, faintly visible in the dim light, was the limp form of a human being. Jay choked back the emotion that welled up in his throat and crept forward into the mouth of the culvert.
The tiger’s bulk shifted, rising up from the floor. Jay’s blood froze in his veins as he stumbled to a halt.
Then there was a low groan, and the tiger’s body slumped to the side as Moran shoved its dead weight away.
“Sebastian!” Jay rushed to his side and went to his knees in the mud. His hands fluttered in the air, unsure what was safe to touch. There was blood all over Sebastian’s head and neck, more on his clothes; three long, grisly furrows marred the side of his face, one of them just barely missing his eye.
His body shook, and it took Jay a moment to realise Sebastian was laughing.
“You mad fucking bastard,” Jay gasped out, “did you just knife-fight a tiger and win?”
And then he was laughing, too.
The sound of sirens drifted in at the edge of hearing, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Jay held Sebastian in his arms, keeping his head up out of the mud, until the paramedics arrived.
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