dropped onto the lawn. Looking down, he saw that his left trouser leg was torn to the thigh so it looked as if he was wearing a strange sarong. No matter. He was over. He stood and strode toward the manor house, his left leg exposed.
The grass was damp and squeaky. The buttery sun made it sparkle. It was a beautiful day. Arthur gave a sigh of relief. Birds twittered and a red admiral butterfly alighted on his shoulder for a few seconds. ‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘I’m here to find out about my wife.’ As he lifted his head to watch as it fluttered away, he didn’t see the brick on the lawn.
He kicked it, then felt his ankle twist. He stumbled sideways, falling to the ground, and then rolled onto his back. Beetle-like, he tried to right himself, but his legs and arms flailed feebly in the air. He tried again and then groaned. The fall had winded him. His ankle throbbed. He had made it over the dizzying heights of the railings and then been foiled by a brick.
He lowered his legs and arms and looked up at the sky. It was Wedgwood blue and a cloud shaped like a pterodactyl drifted by. An aeroplane left a vapour trail. Two cabbage whites flew higher and higher until he could no longer see them. The brick lay beside his ear. It was chipped around the edges as if it had been chewed.
He tried to right himself again by sucking in his stomach and attempting to sit up, but it was no use. Idiot, he sighed. He would have to do his statue thing for a while before he tried to move again. He wondered if he had ever come across a National Trust statue that lay prostrate. Hmmm, probably not. Lifting up his leg, he tried to rotate his twisted ankle. It circled and clicked. It wasn’t as bad as he first thought. The manor was in striding distance. He was nearly there. A few more minutes and he’d roll onto his side and get up. He would crawl there if need be.
It took him a few seconds to realise that he was no longer alone.
First of all he sensed movement beneath his fingertips as the grass rumbled. It was a strange feeling, not a thumping, or a buzzing but more of a padding sensation. Something brushed his right foot. A dog? A squirrel? He tried to move his head, to raise it, but a pain shot down his neck. Hell’s bells. Ouch, that hurt.
The next thing he knew, his view of the sky was obliterated by something big. It was something with fur. It was something orange, black and white.
Oh, good God. No.
The tiger stood over him. Its face was so close that he could feel its meaty breath burning his cheek. There was an unmistakable tang of urine. Something heavy pressed down on his shoulder forcing it into the earth. A paw. A huge paw. Arthur wanted to screw his eyes shut but he couldn’t help but stare, hypnotised by this great beast.
The tiger had black lips and whiskers the thickness of crochet needles. Its lips curled and a string of drool glooped down, down into Arthur’s ear. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but he daren’t move. This was it. He was a dead man. He turned his head slightly so the drool slid out onto the grass.
When he’d imagined his death (and he thought about it often now Miriam was gone) his preferred method was to fall asleep and not wake up—though he would want someone to find him straight away. It would be awful if he began to create a stink. And he wanted to look serene, not have his face screwed up in pain or anything. He supposed Lucy would find him so that wouldn’t be nice for her. It would be most useful if he could have a premonition about his death and be prepared for it. If he could be sure that, say fifteen years on, say 8 March, he would go to sleep and not wake up, he could tip Terry off the day before. ‘If you don’t see me tomorrow morning, then feel free to break in. You’ll find me in bed, dead. Don’t be alarmed. I know it’s going to happen.’
Or, he understood that cancer was very common amongst men his age. He’d seen a feature on daytime TV on how you should cup your testicles to check for lumps. It had been disconcerting seeing a hairy pair of balls on his television screen at that time in the morning. Afterwards he had felt around in his pants and decided that prostate cancer wasn’t going to do him in.
What he hadn’t ever pictured was being eaten by a tiger. He could see the headlines now:
Pensioner Mauled to Death by Tiger. Thigh Bone Found in Grounds of Graystock Manor.
This was not how he wanted to go.
The tiger moved its paw, this time further down his arm. Arthur could only lie there as he felt the dreadful sensation of claws dragging his skin. There was a sharp pain and he flicked his eyes to see four red stripes of blood appear on his forearm. Blood bobbled to the surface. He seemed to float out of his body and watch the scene from above.
There was a painting once that he had seen in a book. It was a lion looming over a man. Was the artist Henri Rousseau? He was that man on the ground now. Did the man in the painting look terrified? Was there blood? As he lay there, paralysed with fear, he lost all sense of time. How long had he even been lying on the ground? He couldn’t say if it was seconds, minutes or hours. The tiger watched him, staring and waiting. Its yellow eyes unblinking, unemotional. Make a move, it willed him. Provoke me and let’s see what happens.
Arthur glanced at the tiger again. It seemed to be looking longingly at his exposed leg. He could hear Bernadette’s voice in his head. ‘You silly old bugger. Why did you climb the bloody fence?’
‘Elsie. No.’ A man’s angry voice suddenly bellowed out. ‘Get off. Bad girl.’
The tiger, or tigress, as Arthur now knew, turned her head to face the shout. Then she glared back at Arthur. They stared at each other and shared a moment. She was undecided. She could tear his head off at any time. Eating this white-haired old man would be a treat. A bit gristly maybe, but she could cope with that.
‘Elsie.’ There was a thud and a thick bloody steak landed on the grass a few inches from his ear. It must have been tastier than his head because the tigress gave him a haughty, I’ll let you go this time
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