“I still want him!” she screamed impulsively into the night; then turning away, she ran into the house, slamming the door on the bolt of lightning that followed. But she could not resist the power of it. She had taken no more than two steps into the room when it exploded. There was a sudden crackling in the electrical fittings and then all the lights went out.
* * *
BOB BERESFORD was getting soaked to the skin. He had been in position on the machan for a little over three hours, but the last thirty minutes or so had been a nightmare. The canopy of foliage above him offered no respite from the downpour of water and now every article of clothing was sodden and he was cold and miserable; yet for all that, he would not give up his position, for while there was even the faintest chance of the tiger coming back to feed, he was going to hang on. From time to time, a flash of searingly bright lightning illuminated the crudely made mannikin that he had substituted for the corpse. Consisting of the victim’s bloody clothing stuffed with straw, it certainly looked convincing enough from a distance, half-obscured as it was by its covering of foliage; but whether it would fool the tiger was another matter. Bob was far from hopeful that the tiger would even be abroad in such foul weather; and if that was the case, the hunted was displaying far more sense than the hunter. The cold rain gushed down Bob’s collar and into his shorts. Even his sturdy boots were waterlogged and the horrible sensation of being wet through made the uncomfortable task of sitting on hard wooden planks even more disagreeable.
“I must be crazy to do this,” thought Bob glumly. For the first time that night, he considered the possibility of giving up, of simply clambering down the tree, and wandering back to the nearby kampong in search of some hot tea. But a characteristic stubbornness made him reject the notion almost as soon as he had thought of it. He found himself asking why he really wanted to kill the tiger. He had told Harry Sullivan that it was purely because he wanted a trophy … but there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? In his mind, he had dedicated this tiger to his father’s memory and in shooting it, he would be perpetuating the ideals that the old man had stood for. It was still a terrible regret, a guilt, that he had lost touch with his father for several years, when Bob had gone away to study at the agricultural college. When he had left, his father had been a strong, active human being. On the infrequent visits home, Bob was appalled to see the rapid deterioration in him. By the time the three-year course was over, Roy Beresford was an emaciated, bedridden vestige of his former self. The diagnosis was terminal cancer. He had died only a few weeks after Bob’s graduation. Among the effects left to him in his father’s will were the old man’s hunting equipment, and it was from that point that Bob fell to filling his father’s shoes with an obsessive drive that amounted to fanaticism. The strange thing was, he was aware of his own motives, but felt powerless to do anything about them; in fact, he was not sure he wanted to do anything about them. He enjoyed the hunting, he really did, even when he found himself in an uncomfortable predicament like this one.
Bob reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out his cigarettes; or more accurately, he pulled out a sodden lump of cardboard and tobacco. He flung it away with a curse and a flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by an awesome clap of thunder. Bob stiffened in surprise. For an instant, the eerie light had picked out everything in incredible detail. The tangled stretch of undergrowth below him, the blood-spattered shirt and sarong on the straw mannikin, the myriad of falling raindrops, momentarily frozen in mid-air … and something else. A long lithe shape slinking from a patch of long grass off to the left. Bob had glimpsed it but briefly; there was no mistaking the characteristic shape of a tiger. His heart leapt into his mouth and he literally had to stifle a cry of excitement. Instead, he brought his rifle up to bear on the bait, the faint whiteness of which he could barely see through his lightning-blitzed eyes. He waited for the next flash, hardly daring to draw breath, anxious to avoid switching on the torch mounted on his rifle barrel too early. It seemed an age before the next one came, though in reality it was no more than thirty seconds. The first glance was disappointing. He could see nothing moving in the clearing and he was beginning to think that he had hallucinated the creature. The accompanying thunder was now directly overhead and the power of it made the tree shake, but Bob kept his gaze pinned directly ahead. Now, in the darkness, he thought once again he detected movement … but he made himself wait for more light, while he counted the seconds in his head.
Again the lightning flash and this time his senses thrilled as he saw, quite clearly, a large tiger prowling nervously from the undergrowth in the direction of the bait. Now there was not a moment to be lost. The tiger would soon realize that a switch had been made. Bob would have to be ready to fire at the next stroke of lightning, flicking on his torch at the same instant in order to prolong the light. He steeled himself, tried to settle into a comfortable shooting position. He was aided here by the fact that it could hardly matter if he made some noise amongst the din that was already going on. He sighted along the rifle, keeping it trained as near as damnit onto the faint glow of the shirt and sarong. Then he waited, for what seemed a long, nerve-wracking eternity. A succession of images shot through his mind’s eye. His father, lying in a hospital bed, thin and horribly emaciated, his skin curiously yellowed by illness; a great stag’s head trophy glowering from the wall of his father’s study; his mother, dressed in black at the funeral, not even having the decency to cry, just looking down at the lowered coffin with a curious expression of finality at her face; and the memory of something she had said to Bob, the day he learned that she was to remarry.
“What do you think your father was, a damned plaster saint? He was the most selfish man who ever lived! Where was I when he was off on his hunting trips? At home, bored out of my mind! What did he ever do for me, you tell me that?”
She’d been hysterical, of course. His father was not like that. He was the greatest man that ever lived and it was typical that she should attempt to drag him down that way. Well, Bob had shown her, right enough. He’d fixed her wagon— For Christ’s sake, where was that lightning?
Abruptly, unexpectedly, it flared in the sky. Bob hit the torch button and there was the cat, standing over the mannequin, sniffing at it suspiciously. He looked enormous, how could anybody miss a target like that! Bob sighted up high behind the creature’s shoulder and then events seemed to slip into a hazy slow motion. The cat sensed that something was wrong. The glare of the lightning was still on him even though the thunder roared from the sky. He turned his head to gaze up into the trees and the two orbs of his eyes glowed red in the torch beam.
Bob squeezed the trigger, the gun bucked against his shoulder. The tiger began to wheel away in alarm but then a concussion shook his whole body, a patch of hair flew up from his shoulder. He reeled drunkenly sideways, seemed to recover and then began to race forward towards the jungle on his left. Bob worked the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the spent cartridge, but another shot was unnecessary at this moment. The tiger’s front legs seemed to fail him and he flipped upwards in the rain, turned a slow, agonizing somersault, his mouth open roaring pain and surprise, his long tail thrashing from side to side. Turning the complete circle, he crashed down onto the ground, rolled over sideways and lay for a moment, clawing the air with a single front paw. He attempted to get up, just once, but then the last vestiges of life deserted him and he slid back again, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
Bob stood gazing down at the dead beast for a few moments, his heart beating wildly. For the moment, he could hardly believe that he had achieved what he set out to do. He had been extraordinarily lucky. Then he gave vent to a cry of pure exaltation and he fired three shots into the sky, one after the other, the signal for the villagers that the man-eater was dead. He hoped that they would hear the shots in the middle of the storm. Then clambering up, he threw his rifle down to the ground and half climbed, half fell after it. Retrieving it, he snatched it up and sloshed through the
sodden undergrowth to claim his prize. The tiger lay quite close to the bait, looking strangely ethereal under a haze of deflected rain. His great yellow eyes were already clouding over in death. Bob felt a ridiculous sense of elation fill him and he began to dance childishly around his victim, laughing out loud. Then he came to a halt, wheeled almost drunkenly back to the carcass and planted his foot on the tiger’s flank, as though posing for an imaginary photo.
“Got you, you bastard,” he whispered.
Lightning flashed, but it was weaker now, moving away to the east. The rain was easing off and the thunder that sounded a few moments later was now just a rumble of discontent, not a roar of anger. Bob fired off another three shots at the sky, making sure there would be no mistake.
“Hope the buggers bring some cigarettes with ’em,” he murmured. He glanced down at the tiger’s face, but something in the beauty and dignity of it, gave him a twinge of remorse. He did not look at it again for a while. Instead, he squatted down in the grass and waited patiently for the villagers to arrive. The rain faded away almost as quickly as it had begun and a strange, funereal silence settled over the jungle.
CHAPTER 14
AFTER THE COMMOTION of the previous night, the morning seemed a gentle absolution. Harry rose a little after dawn, made himself some tea, and took it out onto the verandah where he enjoyed it in a silent, thoughtful mood. He felt rather grieved at the way he had treated Ché the evening before and since this was the boy’s more usual day for visiting, he was determined to make it up to him in some way. But he was disappointed and a little shocked when at eight o’clock, Pawn arrived for work without her grandson. She came slowly up the garden path, smiling rather sheepishly, for she was well aware of the old man’s affection for Ché.
“Good morning, Tuan,” she murmured. “Ché not here yet.” She waved her arms apologetically. “He go to Kampong Machis to see dead man-eater, but he promise to come ‘long later.…”
“Dead?” Harry frowned. He had not expected Beresford to be successful so soon. The hunting down of a cat usually required considerable persistence.
“Yes, Tuan!” Pawn grinned and nodded. “Tuan Beresford shoot him. Now he bring into kampong for all to see. Much excitement. When Ché and his friends hear of it, they must go!” She shrugged expressively. “Boys … what can one do with them? But I make him promise to come here after.…”
“Yes, well, never mind, never mind,” snapped Harry gruffly. He did not want his concern to show. “I expect he will come along when he wants to.”
“Tuan ready eat now?” enquired Pawn hopefully.
“Ah, no … not just yet. Later perhaps.”
Pawn bowed slightly and went on past him into the house. Harry remained where he was, a faint scowl on his face. “It’s only natural,” he thought to himself. “Any boy in the world would rather go and see a dead tiger than pass the time of day with an old man.” Still, for all that, he felt rather put out by the affair, and though he sat gazing at the garden for the next few hours, Ché did not come.
Harry fell into a shallow doze that was rudely interrupted by the creak of the garden gate. He opened his eyes and sat up, expecting to see Ché running up the drive, but in fact, it was Melissa. She waved cheerfully to him as she approached. Beyond the gate, Harry could see her father’s car with Dennis at the wheel.
“Hello, young lady, what brings you here?” asked Harry, with a smile.
“Daddy and I are going over to Kampong Machis to look at Bob’s tiger. We, er … we wondered if you’d like to come along.”
Harry was somewhat taken aback.
“This tiger seems to be the biggest thing to happen around here in a long time,” he observed drily. “They’ll be organizing coach parties next.”
Melissa laughed.
“Don’t think we haven’t considered it,” she replied. “Anyway, what do you say?”
Harry thought out his reply for a few moments. His initial reaction was to refuse, to say that he simply wasn’t interested, though that really wasn’t true. He was as curious as the next man to see what the man-eater looked like; also, he might have the opportunity to apologize to Ché if he was still there. Besides, Harry knew that any refusal on his part would almost certainly be interpreted as jealousy, and while he generally didn’t give a tinker’s damn what other people thought about him, he was anxious in this case not to lose the friendship of Melissa, who was quite obviously infatuated with Bob Beresford.
“I’ll get my jacket,” announced Harry simply and he got up, went into the house, slipped on a khaki jacket and told Pawn that he was going out. She protested that he had had nothing to eat yet, but he told her that he would do that when he returned. Pacified, she went on with her other household duties. Harry went back out to Melissa and the two of them strolled arm in arm to the car. Dennis looked pleased, if a little surprised, that Harry had consented to the trip.
“Hello there, old chap! I’m glad you decided to come along.” He swung open the door on the passenger side and Harry climbed in beside him. Melissa clambered into the back beside her mother. Harry glanced at Kate in astonishment. It took a great deal to tempt her away from the home at the best of times.
“My goodness, it must be an event,” murmured Harry. “Hello, Kate. I haven’t seen you in ages.… I wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of thing.…”
“It isn’t!” Kate assured him. “Going along to gawp at a poor dead animal is certainly not my idea of fun. But as everybody took such great pains to point out to me, this may be the only chance I’ll ever get to see a real Malaysian tiger before I go home … besides, I’m more interested in getting a look at this man that Melissa’s taken such a fancy to.…” She winked slyly at Harry and Melissa blushed bright red.
“Mummy!” she protested. “Really…” Harry smiled. Seeing mother and daughter together like this, it was astonishing how alike they looked. The same thick dark hair, the same piercing hazel eyes. Kate concealed her age remarkably well and it was sometimes hard to believe that she could be the mother of a girl Melissa’s age.
“You’ve met this Mr. Beresford, haven’t you?” asked Kate innocently. “What’s he like?”
Dennis hastily hit the ignition and accelerated away, sparing Harry the need to give a suitable reply. There was a slightly uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Dennis started chattering to fill it in.
“Beresford had some remarkable luck, apparently. Managed to bag the tiger in the midst of that storm last night. I mean, it’s amazing he even managed to stay up the tree in that lot, it was coming down in torrents.…
They sped on along the coast road, until they reached the place where a bumpy dirt track diverged to the left, leading up to Kampong Machis. They parked the car on the outskirts of the village and continued on foot from there. A large crowd of people was gathered in the very centre of the kampong, all of them pushing excitedly around some obscured object on the ground. In the midst of them, Harry could see Bob Beresford looking rather harassed by all the attention.
“People have come from everywhere!” observed Kate in surprise. Though most of the crowd consisted of villagers from the local kampongs, there were also quite a few white people in evidence and the atmosphere was rather like that of a public holiday. There were large numbers of young children racing excitedly about and amongst one group, Harry spotted Ché. He was carrying a crudely made wooden rifle with which he was energetically shooting all his comrades. Harry detached himself from Dennis’ party and went over to talk to the boy.
“Hey there!”
Ché stopped, gave Harry a guilty glance, and then wandered slowly over to him.
“Good day, Tuan,” he murmured. “I was going to come later.…”
“Oh, that’s all right! What have you got here?” Harry took the wooden rifle from the boy’s hand and examined it critically.
“It is … only a toy, Tuan.” Ché changed the subject quickly. “Have you seen the tiger yet, Tuan?”
Harr
y raised his eyebrows at this unexpected show of recklessness.
Ché laughed.
“I have no need to fear it now,” he explained. “Tuan Beresford has killed him, so he can no more hunt me.” And he glanced in Bob’s direction with an expression on his face that could only be described as hero-worship. “Such a fine beast, Tuan! Such a monster!”
This last remark saddened Harry considerably.
“Not a monster, Ché, but a very beautiful animal. One of God’s creatures. You mustn’t be fooled into thinking otherwise.”
But Ché plainly wasn’t listening. He snatched back his toy rifle and aimed it at some imaginary target.
“When I grow up, Tuan, I too will be a great hunter. I will go into the jungle and I will myself kill all the tigers that hide there. I will set the people of the kampongs free!”
Harry stared down at the boy in dismay, wondering just what in the world had got into him.
Meanwhile, Harry’s companions had managed to push their way through the crowd to get a look at the slain beast. Bob was squatting beside it now, looking tired but proud. Melissa kneeled beside the tiger, ran her hand experimentally along the striped fur.
“Bob, he’s fantastic!” she exclaimed. “So huge…” A cough from her mother prompted her to make a hasty introduction. “Oh, this is my mother, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tremayne.” The two of them shook hands across the dead tiger. “Well … what do you think of him!” asked Bob.
“I’d rather see him alive,” replied Kate thoughtfully. “But as Dennis keeps reminding me, he was a man-eater, I suppose.”
“He’s a magnificent specimen,” observed Dennis. “Look at that coat. No doubt you’ll be having him skinned, Mr. Beresford?”
“I intend to, just as soon as I can find somebody who knows how to do it! I expect we’ll get it done tonight, when everybody’s had a good look at him and it’s a bit cooler.” Bob indicated the crush all around him. “I wasn’t expecting so much interest.”
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