The Last Tiger

The Last Tiger

  Barbara Jaques

  Editor: Moz Walls

  Copy Editor: Lydia Davis

  Cover: Ed Knox

  Formatting: Elizabeth Freeman

  First edition published December 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Barbara Jaques

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Witness

  The weeks before

  Eye of the day

  Pulau Tua

  Before it all, bereft of love he strayed

  Old men and fighting

  Artificiality

  Rules of engagement

  The words

  Meaning and money

  Part Two

  Steps

  The order of love

  Ordinarily

  Two steps forwards

  The amazing tiger boy and his tamer

  Glorious gas tanks

  The richness of youth

  Coming of age

  In the absence of sweet sorrow

  Part 3

  Creativity

  Two

  Hidden tempest

  Free entry to the freak show

  Pretext

  Predictive text

  Proof of worth

  New life

  Kinsman Hall

  Infinite consequences

  Definite consequences

  Peaches and cream

  Ever after

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Special thanks

  PROLOGUE

  He’d never read a single word save those few just noticed in passing. A kiss planted on the top of her head, he’d then wandered away to some other task; a heartfelt but odd I love you so much cut loose as he went.

  Fingers ceased typing. The guilt was enormous, hanging heavy like the proverbial millstone, heavier still for this lingering statement which seemed tinged with some other meaning or message; guilt feeling obvious to all while, in truth, apparent to no one. The words considered unworthy of inclusion, that which he read but failed to absorb, described her emotions entirely and were not all the creative invention of an undiscerning mind. Lazily scanning the secret over her shoulder he had not fully understood the viewpoint nor seen the guilt between every line. Or so she thought.

  To act on such a thing as was written would mean confession, bringing to an end everything rational. On occasion, as now, her most comforting thought was that in time an answer would present itself of its own accord; after all, it was always safest to wait. When had rational been anything other than a burden? The answer was a very long time ago, in a life before they met the boy that was to become the man, when just being a little girl in a happy family was more than enough to sustain her.

  She highlighted the text. A finger rested above the delete button. To have written it was enough.

  Part One

  WITNESS

  Something pulled sharply down over the boy’s face, encasing his head. The thing was white, a bag, the same he’d watched intruders scooping food from, small pale seeds running through fingers like sand. The thought fled. Violently, he kicked out his legs and twisted his shoulders, pulling away hard, swiping elbows, thrashing head. But the grip was firm. A scream came, an eerie wailing screech he did not recognise or know he could make. Cloth sucked into his mouth, urgent breath pushing it in and out, in and out, in and out as he screamed and screamed and screamed. Too quickly his hands were fixed behind his back, tied now despite the struggle. Somewhere, through the bellow of his own cries, he could hear the girl shouting, trying yet again to help him, the sound of her rushing feet suddenly so close.

  He cried out for a moment longer but then fell silent; the guttural wind forced from her mouth announcing that her repelled body had landed hard nearby. Others were shouting, distant and removed. The boy stopped fighting and began to cry, wet black eyes frantic in the white light of the bag, nose streaming; open mouth sobbing silently now. Panic had morphed into dread.

  Dragged across the hot sand, the man’s tight grip hurt his arm. The boy staggered to right himself and put weight on his own two feet. Allowed to stand, he was then guided forward but when the boy’s toes touched water a new burst of terror sent him floundering. The man shook him a little, mumbling something in a tone neither kind nor harsh, and so the boy stopped. Urine emptied, pattering on the gently lapping waves. Then his arm was pushed forward and so he began walking into the sea. Nausea rose. Not from this beach, it’s the wrong beach. Not here. Suddenly he was flying, effortlessly raised into a boat. Boats, the boy knew, were bad. He kneeled on the deck, legs unable to support his weight any longer. Someone touched his arm close to the shoulder and rubbed it. It felt cold. Then in the same spot came a stab of pain.

  *

  The boy came round in a simple hut of much the same size and dimension as the one he had be fleeing from before he was stopped, although this floor consisted of planks firmly butted together and not sand. Something he did not recognise hung from the ceiling, three flat pieces of wood spinning around a central pole, sending cooling air in waves about him. He was lying on a bed staring at it. The bed was not like the sort the intruders kept inside their huts. It was more solidly made than that, with a mattress and sheet, although the boy had never seen such things before so did not have names for them. The intruders used thin bags; he, finely stitched animal skins. Other than the fan, a closed door, a bowl of fruit and another of water, the space was entirely bare.

  Arm sore from the stabbing and his body weakened through fighting and lack of food, the boy felt more stiff and tired than he ever had before. The worst part of it was not physical, however, since he was fit and strong, always busy with this or that, exercise something quite naturally part of his everyday life. It was not knowing, not understanding what was happening that presented itself as a perceptible ache inside him. He did not know the intruders, not the original ones nor the second group that included the girl, nor did he know those that had come by boat to snatch him away from his island. He did not know where he was or why.

  Fear for now lessened, it was the gaze of calm eyes that drifted from the fan to the door. He knew what it was. He had passed through one only a moment before becoming trapped inside the hut on the beach and back through it just before capture. The question was, should he try and open this one when before doors only meant trouble?

  Did another beach exist on the other side of this door, he wondered? He could smell the sea, albeit faintly. He thought for a moment before sitting up. Instantly his head felt light. Resting on the edge of the bed until he felt better, he then stood up and walked over to it. He pushed. The door did not give so he pushed again. Then again, harder. Another push, harder still, repeatedly shoving with the heel of his hands. He stopped only when he heard a voice and the sound of someone moving on the other side. Suddenly the door swung inwards forcing him back and a huge man entered, followed by the fat white man with no hair who he’d watched before on the island. A third entered, thin and short – shorter than the boy – but similar to the large man in his appearance, with mid brown skin and cropped black hair. All three wore green masks across their mouths and noses. The larger man took the boy’s arm and before he had time to react, the smaller stabbed something into it.

  *

  The next time the boy woke up he felt so sick it was all he could do not to vomit. The oppressive heat, smell of boat engines and rolling motion upset his stomach and in turn shifted his focus away from where he was and why. It was a different bed in a different room, a space so dissimilar from all he had encountered before he should have been interested. But he felt too ill to look. Pushing his face into a soft blue pillow, he tried to go back to sleep for sleep was escape; sleep meant a degree o
f peace. There, this strange and frightening world made way for the one he thought of as real, a place he could be with his family, his friends. There he could play. There, the boy felt he was free.

  Before he could drift away, the door to the tiny windowless cabin opened. The boy’s eyelids raised, face motionless as he stared. The same three men entered, again with masks covering mouths and noses. The large man gestured for him to stand up before holding out an expanse of black cloth. Raising himself and climbing out of his bunk, the boy stared at it, unable to discern either identity or purpose. The large man again began to gesture and before long the boy appeared a boy no more. Body, head, face, all were shrouded in black, only his young eyes peering out in wonder as they left the claustrophobic interior of the boat for a ship. It was dressed in this burka, feeling utterly bewildered, that the boy made the slow, lonely journey thousands of miles to a place beyond his imagination.

  THE WEEKS BEFORE

  It was an extraordinary gift for a tenth birthday and when the time came for it to jump from promise to reality, Bee’s mother and father wished her well and waved goodbye with smiling faces. But before that, in the days and weeks leading up to it, she had heard them whispering in the bedroom and talking with Nana in the kitchen, questioning why Pappy must be so extreme all the time. If he wanted to take Bee away on holiday then why not go somewhere like Bournemouth, somewhere easier, somewhere less worrying, they muttered. Why must he always involve everyone in this part of his life? To Bee, this seemed a peculiar question, for her grandfather was never wrong. How could he be, when he sat at the centre of all things important?

  Her father had sounded the most frustrated, her mother agreeing and placating as he dragged things up from the past; odd moments from childhood where he believed himself unduly exposed or let down. He’d sounded so much like a child that Bee had begun to feel let down too, as if the very edge of security were threatening to crumble, and all over a holiday. Yet in front of her, and others, both parents acted as if they were pleased, invariably describing the opportunity as the chance of a lifetime. Parents, Bee realised, were not necessarily everything they seemed to be.

  Pappy was Bee’s hero but even she knew he was not consistent. No one was. This was the reality learned over the course of ten years; sometimes you can have something, other times not, just because that day things are decided differently. There were times when Pappy did not seem like family at all but like Felix, man entirely separate from grandfather; from father and husband. The difference was obvious and with an old head on young shoulders, Bee wondered if it was this that annoyed her father. People divided their lives, she knew, for even she had school friends and home friends that she would never want to combine. So maybe it was this annoying her father, and not just Pappy involving people when her father believed he shouldn’t. Perhaps this is what her father had meant when he hissed the word selfish to her mother.

  *

  She landed with her grandfather in Singapore first thing in the morning. Fair hair fuzzed and ruffled, lack of sleep and too much soft drink had left Bee feeling so sick it was if she had been poisoned, but she purposely kept her grumbles to herself and trundled after Pappy as they made their way through various airport procedures. In fact, she had not intimated anything negative at any point during their journey – either about how ill she was feeling or the frightening enormity of the trip – not even back in England when her lurching stomach and tight throat tied up in knots as she walked away from her parents for the first time in her life.

  A smiling official at passport control invited her to take a boiled sweet from a dispenser perched on the counter top. This friendly act caused Pappy to pass judgement as they walked away, berating the contrasting attitude found in British airports where, he claimed, sucking a sweet might hinder your chances of entry because you don’t have pursed lips in the photograph, Sir. Bee could not be bothered to listen properly and nodded every now and then out of politeness, more interested in the fact that they had finally arrived, that her feet were actually walking on Asian ground and her mouth sucking an Asian sweet (although it was suspiciously like every other boiled sweet she’d eaten). After collecting their luggage from carousel number five they walked out into the main body of the terminal building. It was enormous, much bigger than the one they had left, and the air felt icy fresh. So stepping out from the pleasantly cool into the close, damp heat of the tropics under a low sky, Bee suddenly felt she had been walloped in the face by a warm and slightly moist, soft grey blanket.

  ‘Wow! That’s hot,’ she gasped, the automatic glass doors shutting off the coolness behind her.

  Felix laughed. ‘Captain said it’s a cool twenty-eight, Bee. Not as hot as it will be later.’

  Relief from the apparently stifling atmosphere, Bee discovered, came in the form of an air-conditioned taxi and as they travelled away from Changi Airport along the neat palm tree and bougainvillea lined expressway towards the hotel, Bee could not believe her eyes. It was nothing like the meagre splash of yellow offered by the few weeds able to survive the drab M4 central reservation. Acres of lush green trees nestled amongst low-rise buildings all painted in a multitude of pretty colours. When eventually low-rise gave way to glittering skyscrapers, Bee’s mouth gaped. Three enormous structures seemed to hold up a long ship, high above the city. Once at the hotel they phoned home and then rested for a while, before heading out to see some sights then returning to the room once more. There they slept fitfully, rising the next morning to a breakfast of tropical fruit, boiled eggs and toast, American pancakes and, in Pappy’s case (and much to Bee’s disgust), curried fish. Then it was time to head to the ferry terminal for the final push to their destination, Eastern Malaysia. Bee, already feeling in love with all things Asian, said she couldn’t wait. She adored Singapore.

  ‘Hold that thought,’ Felix said, smiling to himself.

  *

  ‘Pappy. It’s very hot.’ Bee mumbled, face flushed, beads of sweat decorating her upper lip as she followed the driver who seemed not to notice the heat, carrying their bags and chatting away as if thirty-three humid degrees were no bother at all.

  Felix agreed and with a hand resting on her shoulder that was soon deemed too hot and rejected, said, ‘I’ll let you into a secret. The best way to cope is to relax into it. You need to forget about how hot you are. Just don’t think about it. It works. Trust me. I know it won’t make you feel any cooler, but it’s just the humidity making it seem worse than it is. At least it’s cloudy, eh? Imagine if the sun was beating down on you? Just ignore it and you won’t notice it in a few days. Make sure you drink plenty because that will help too,’ He handed her a bottle. ‘People always forget.’

  Bee nodded sorrowfully, she had not expected this. The high felt when leaving Singapore that morning had vanished. At home only envious approval of the heat she would apparently enjoy was declared; warmth favourably compared to the cold others would be left to endure, for it was bitterly cold back in England. But it was all rubbish. They were wrong. She would give anything to be cold again because it was just too hot. Feeling she now understood what humid really meant and that people at home who moaned about it on the odd day it was deemed a bit close had no idea what they were talking about, she decided it was horrible; a slow suffocation. She couldn’t breathe properly and wanted to cry.

  Yet the ferry terminal had been cool, so had the ferry, and even Malaysian immigration had not been too hot, despite its location in the open air. Queues of disembarked passengers contained by a large wooden structure neatly adorned with enormous carvings of geckos and monitor lizards, stood in relative comfort as air passed through a multitude of suspended whirling fans. But once through and waiting out in the interminable heat, emotions crashing low from flying too high, Bee felt only misery. The sight of the driver brought some relief, a man waving a card with the name Felix written on it. He’d been waiting close to the exit amongst other drivers, some booked, some hopeful, and they’d both somehow missed him. O
n finally spotting him, Felix had stridden over and the two immediately shook hands vigorously, broad grins revealing renewed acquaintance. Bee was introduced and the driver smiled warmly before taking her luggage.

  Bee stopped to drink from the bottle in the middle of the road running by the terminal exit.

  ‘Come on, Bee. Do that in the van. It’s just there.’ Felix gestured to an old white camper parked beneath a huge banyan tree. ‘It has air-conditioning. But no seats.’

  Bee startled. Felix laughed. ‘Okay, it has seats.’

  *

  Soon the ferry terminal was far behind. Once more enjoying the benefit of air conditioning, they rumbled steadily along rural roads, the men’s easy chatter gently soothing and lulling Bee. For the first time she realised her Pappy could speak a language other than English. Occasionally, when there was a pretty Brahman cow or water buffalo to admire, Felix would switch from Malay and declare the sighting, but for most of the journey Bee remained undisturbed, watching a new world go by whilst enjoying the sound of unfamiliar words, feeling in awe of everything. Soon, she was so drowsy that her head began flopping against the window with the movement of the vehicle, eventually shifting and bumping hard as the driver turned from the main road and began picking a route through and around the deep potholes and large stones that made up the final stretch of track. But she didn’t wake. Not until they’d stopped.

  ‘Are we here?’ she asked, quite brightly.

  ‘Always makes me smile, that question. Are we here?’ said Felix, ‘We are always here, you daft thing.’

  ‘Yes, we have arrived,’ the driver confirmed, taking out the two bags and dropping them beside an old table that served as a reception desk, ‘Time to wake up, sleepy girl.’