Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Are big cats your thing?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m just working my way round the park. You know, doing a bit of everything. Rhinos are my thing, actually. Black Rhinos especially.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Connla said. ‘I’m told they’re as intelligent as elephants.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘That’s right. You wouldn’t think it by looking at them, would you? You know, they can hardly see at all, yet a male can gallop full tilt around his territory without banging into anything.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re up for it,’ Connla said. ‘I wish you lots of luck.’

  She smiled at him then, her head tilted to one side. ‘I think I’ve seen some of your pictures. Was it you who took the one in Siberia?’

  He sat back. ‘The tiger? Yeah, that was me.’

  She looked wide-eyed at him. ‘What did you use? A delay switch, remote control or something?’

  Connla grinned across the table at her. She was referring to his recent trip for BBC Wildlife. He and two associates had spent six weeks in the tundra trying to photograph the Siberian tiger in its natural habitat. It hadn’t been easy; they were incredibly few and far between, their numbers having dwindled even further than Connla was aware. The Chinese medicine market was seemingly the largest culprit. Jenny was talking about the picture of a massive male, taken from above. The tiger was climbing a tree, its ears back, teeth bared, eyes like burning coal in his head.

  ‘Nope,’ he said slowly. ‘I was about one branch ahead of him. Lucky he weighed more than me or you wouldn’t have seen the picture.’

  She stared at him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, he climbed too high and too fast, the branch snapped and he took a tumble. Fortunately, he scared himself and took off.’ He smiled. ‘I, on the other hand, sat in that tree for a long time after.’

  A television was on above the counter showing the lunchtime news and Connla heard something that made him look up. ‘The creature apparently crossed the path of a young helper at the SSPCA rescue centre in Balerno,’ a reporter was saying, ‘at the northern end of the Pentland Hills.’ Connla stared as shots of an animal-welfare centre filled the screen, then a young girl dressed in a blue short-sleeved shirt and slacks was interviewed. Connla got up from the table and asked the woman behind the counter to turn the volume up. He listened intently as the girl told how she had been on her way to work that morning at about 6 a.m. when a large black cat ran out in front of her car. She’d almost crashed into the banked side of the road.

  ‘This wasn’t a domestic cat?’ the reporter asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘No way. It was much too big.’

  ‘A wild cat then?’

  ‘Och, no. A wild cat is tabby and not much bigger than your domestic one. No, this was big. I mean really big. And black.’

  Connla felt the hairs lifting on the back of his neck. He watched till the reporter handed back to the studio, and then he sat down again, slowly. The woman behind the counter brought some coffee and he sipped at it thoughtfully.

  ‘You interested in that stuff?’ Jenny asked him. ‘I suppose you’re bound to be, doing what you do.’

  Connla looked across the table at her. ‘Are there big cats running wild?’

  ‘I think so. There’s too many sightings for some of them not to be true.’ She shifted her shoulders. ‘Look at her, SSPCA. She’s not going to make it up.’

  ‘Where’s Balerno?’

  ‘Somewhere near Edinburgh, I think.’

  He sipped at his coffee again. ‘Nobody ever got a picture of one, did they?’

  ‘Not that I know of. If they did it would be all over the TV, the papers, everywhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it would.’

  ‘People used to keep them as pets, you see,’ Jenny told him. ‘Leopards, pumas, black leopards. The government passed the Dangerous Pets Act or something, and some of the owners just let them go. There’s plenty of game for them up there—Roe Deer, Muntjak, Red, hundreds of thousands of hares and rabbits, and all the right kind of habitat.’

  Connla set down his coffee cup and nodded. ‘There are probably twenty thousand cougars in North America, Jenny,’ he said. ‘But you only get to see one if it decides to let you.’

  He drove back to the small pub he was staying in. The vet had been out to have a look at the two new guests in the park and he and Connla had spoken at length. Connla advised him on a couple of things he might look out for and the vet had seemed capable enough. Connla had been in the UK for a week now, and had accomplished all he had set out to. He really ought to be heading for home, but as he pulled into the car park other things were on his mind. He sat in the bar and drank a pint of beer, watching the TV as the same report from earlier was reshown on the evening news. He ate dinner, then retired to his room with his camera bag and road map. Piece by piece, he laid out his equipment—his two favourite Canons, both equipped with standard 105-mm lenses but he also had a 180 mm, 300 and 400. Both the Canons were permanently camouflaged, with black electricians’ tape covering all the shiny bits. It was amazing how far away an animal or bird could detect the sun on a shiny surface. He had a shoulder stock to help support the bigger lenses, as well as his infra-red remote release and tripod. He sorted it all and cleaned it, all the time considering the news report on the TV. Lighting a cigarette, he flicked through the road map the rental company had furnished him with. He found Edinburgh, and finally Balerno, just off the A70, on the north-western flank of the Pentlands. It took him all of five seconds to make up his mind.

  He got lost on the M3 the following morning, missing the turning that would have taken him north to join the M40 for Birmingham and then up to Scotland that way. He ended up on the M25, with the Ml signposting the way north, but he checked the map and decided that the Al would give him a more direct route. He drove slowly, biding his time until the congested traffic eased, then he slipped the Land-Rover into the outside lane.

  He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He had stuff to do at the university in Washington. But the whole thing gripped him—the thought of finding wild animals in a place where they shouldn’t be. Exploration; real-life discovery. It occurred to him that if the majority of big cats had been released as far back as the Seventies, then they could be breeding. He had no idea how many had been set free. Nobody did. His initial research back in the United States had been totally inconclusive. No-one in the UK knew how many people were keeping leopards or pumas as pets, and anyone releasing them illegally into the wild would never admit it.

  He considered the information that Jenny had been able to furnish him with, which wasn’t much. She told him that, officially, most zoological parks were sceptical about the idea, but she thought the evidence was pretty overwhelming. Sheep had been killed, their throats torn out in a manner that wasn’t compatible with large dogs, the only other possible predator. There was also the way some animals had been eaten, their hides licked back with a very rough tongue. Dogs and wolves didn’t do that; they plucked the hide with their short front teeth. She had told him there had been sightings all over the country: the Beast of Bodmin, the Elgin Beast, one in north London, another in Kent and Norfolk. Clearly, most of these would be hoaxes or people not knowing what they were looking at. She gave an example of a woman in the New Forest who’d dialled 999 claiming there was a leopard loose in her kitchen. Jenny and another keeper had rushed out to join the armed policemen racing to the scene, but when they got there they found a slightly confused weasel.

  This new sighting yesterday, however, was different. The girl on the television was calm, collected and a helper in the animal-welfare centre; not the sort of person to be easily fazed. Her face was white when they spoke to her; she had clearly seen something. Connla considered it all as he drove. Most people in the UK had no experience of such animals, particularly in a wild environment; they wouldn’t know what to look for if they tried to track them. Connla, on the other hand, had been doing it all his life; his only problem w
as that he didn’t know the country.

  He drove steadily north, passing signs for Sherwood Forest. Images of Robin Hood sprang to mind: Little John on the log, Kevin Costner and Errol Flynn, the Sheriff of Nottingham cancelling Christmas. He stopped for petrol outside Darlington and then left the Al for the A68, his map indicating it as the more direct route, avoiding the large conurbation of Newcastle. The road was twisty, however, and one section seemed to be a succession of humpbacked hills that left his stomach in his mouth.

  By the time he hit the Scottish border he was tired and it was getting late. There was a border overlook point beyond the massive hunk of stone that had ‘Scotland’ written on it, and he pulled off the road. Various cars and motorcycles were parked, with people enjoying the dubious delights of a roadside hamburger van. Connla put his hat on and stretched his legs, then strolled across the road to get some coffee. It was much fresher up here, the sky dotted with cloud and the sun less fierce. The breeze was sharp, and he rolled his shirtsleeves back down to the wrist.

  Sipping a polystyrene cup of instant coffee, he stood with one foot on the stone wall and looked out across the valley. Barren but beautiful, the hills were undulating rather than high; smooth-topped and reaching as far as the eye could see. The colours were spectacular—green and grey, streaked here and there with russet as two hills converged, and shot through with purple where the sun dug out the valleys. The air was clean and clear and reminded him of the Black Hills, and there didn’t seem to be anything like the same volume of traffic as in England. He remarked on it to the man serving in the burger van and was informed that the population of Scotland was only five million, compared to the fifty odd million down south. Refreshed, he drove on, but time was against him and he knew he wouldn’t make Edinburgh before the welfare centre closed for the day. He followed the winding path of the River Tweed as it led him through the deep, tree-lined gorges to Jedburgh and its magnificently ruined abbey. Weary from the drive, he checked into the first hotel he came to.

  Seven

  IMOGEN WASHED HER HAIR over the bath, naked to the waist, her breasts chill against the enamel rim. It was a major undertaking as her hair was thick and wavy, to the point of natural curls, and it hung down below her waist. During term time she plaited it or tied it up, but when she wasn’t working it hung free and messy and tangled. She wrung out the last of the shampoo suds and wrapped a towel round her head. The skin of her face felt like it was stretched across the bones, the aftermath of two days in the hills. She opened her eyes wide, blinking at her reflection in the mirror.

  She stood there and massaged her scalp, working at the hair to get the bulk of the moisture out. She never coloured it, never put a dryer anywhere near it, letting it dry naturally in a warm room or outside in summer. She rubbed moisturizer into her cheeks, neck and around the collarbone. Her breasts were full and shapely still and the lines in her skin were minimal. Not at all bad for thirty seven years on the planet.

  Yet to what avail? She shut herself away up here, from the world, from cities and people and men. Her main contact, apart from the visits to Edinburgh and her parents, was the greetings card publisher she painted for. Watercolour mostly, but they had made the odd print from oil and sometimes acrylic. They wanted Scottish landscape and she did not know anyone who had a feel for the land like her: even the oldest, most canny gamekeeper. Oh, they might know it better, its trails, its natural landmarks, even its weather, but she doubted they were aware of its soul like she was. To her the land breathed, it was alive, vibrant and vital in a way not understood by many people. She always knew where Redynvre would be, and he somehow seemed to know she was coming: what a thrill the other day when he bellowed out his greeting. She felt at peace with the land, the mountains, lochs and wildlife. The majority of the time she was content with that, comfortable with her privacy and silence. But then there was the school and the village and the unwanted attention constantly heaped upon her. It was at those times she felt lonely. Never in the hills when she had Keira and landscape and canvas, but back in the company of people. It was there that some explanation for her life was demanded, not just by others but oftentimes by herself.

  Downstairs, she boiled the kettle for tea and sat for a moment in her studio looking at the sketch she had done and thinking about the eagles. She had the hillside in her mind, the brutal weighted crags above which Redynvre had been grazing.

  A vehicle on the track outside made her look up, and she smiled as Jean pulled up in her battered old Citroën. Imogen splashed tea into the earthenware pot and stepped out into the sunlight. Jean clucked her tongue at Charlie Abbott, who came strutting over the grass to challenge her. Imogen leaned in the doorway, arms folded, hair still loose and damp against the material of her T-shirt. Jean waved to her, shooed away the cockerel and came over.

  ‘Your timing is wonderful, as always,’ Imogen said. ‘I’ve just made the tea.’

  ‘Sixth sense. I can smell it a mile away.’

  ‘Sit there.’ Imogen gestured to one of the canvas-backed chairs she had set round the small garden table that had belonged to her aunt. ‘I’ll bring it out.’

  She laid out mugs, milk and sugar and the two of them sat down in the sunshine.

  ‘I just had to get away,’ Jean told her. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I know how much you value your privacy in the holidays.’

  Imogen laid a hand on her freckled forearm. ‘You’re an exception,’ she said. ‘The only one, mind.’ But her thoughts were elsewhere. Daniel Johnson, the man from the RSPB, had promised to phone her today with the upshot of yesterday’s discussion. He was going to consider the situation with his colleagues and phone her as soon as they had reached a decision on what to do.

  ‘Men,’ Jean said, breaking in on her thoughts. ‘I have to tell you, Imogen. It has to be evolution. Nobody could’ve created them. I mean, how could you think up a man? Or why even, for that matter?’

  Imogen glanced at her. ‘What? Oh, yes. How is Malcolm?’

  ‘Och, I’m not talking about Malcolm. He doesn’t qualify.’

  ‘As a man?’

  ‘As anything. Malcolm’s Malcolm. He just is.’ Jean sipped tea and gazed across the waters of Loch Gael, which was still today, with barely a ripple against the banks. ‘I think I’ll move out here and live with you. It’d be so much easier.’

  Imogen sat forward, concentrating now. ‘What’s going on, Jean? What’s happening?’

  ‘Och, the usual.’

  ‘Gossip?’

  ‘Aye. I was in the post office just now and Mrs Patterson was very off with me. She asked me if I knew what her husband was doing in your horse’s field the other morning.’

  Imogen felt her mood sour. The sun still shone, but it seemed a little darker to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, her cup halfway to her lips.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Jean said. ‘It’s just villages for you.’

  ‘But I get so sick of it.’ Imogen stood up, flicked the rat-tails of her hair away from her back and looked across the loch. Morrisey was in his boat, crossing to his patch of vegetables. Colin Patterson and his leching. He made it so obvious, so ugly. How was it that some men could be like that? What was it about her that attracted them? Patterson was by no means the first. What did they see, these men? What vibes did she give off, and why? Imogen had no idea, but conversations like this were the bane of her life. There must be something deep-seated within her that attracted wasters like Patterson. ‘I have absolutely nothing to do with him, Jean. His wife ought to know that.’

  ‘I know, lass.’

  ‘And it’s not just him, is it. It’s MacGregor, and that stupid lump of lard from Kyle.’

  ‘McKewan?’

  ‘Aye, him, with his cronies and their infantile giggling whenever I go in a bar.’ She let the air rush from her cheeks. ‘You know, Jean, sometimes I think I should move, never mind you.’

  Jean smiled at her. ‘Don’t do that, Imogen. I’ve got a better idea.’

  ‘Y
ou have?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Much better.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A man.’

  Imogen frowned. ‘I thought we’d just agreed they’re worthless.’

  ‘They are.’ Jean leaned forward, elbows resting on the table top, the chickens scratching for crumbs at her feet. ‘But I’m not talking about any old man, dearie. I’m talking about the best.’ She tapped her skull with a fingernail. ‘I think we should make one up.’

  For a few moments Imogen just looked at her, not totally sure what she was talking about, and then a slow smile spread across her lips. ‘Oh, I see; to stop the gossip, you mean. If you give me a boyfriend you take away the threat to the women.’

  ‘And keep the lechers at bay.’

  ‘So you mean, make one up.’

  ‘Exactly. Make-believe; pretence. We’ll give him a name, an identity and an occupation. We’ll make him live in Edinburgh or Glasgow, and you can visit him for the weekend.’ Jean laughed out loud, then.

  ‘It’d be fun, Imogen, and a sure-fire way to stop the gossip mongers in their tracks.’

  Imogen wandered barefoot across the lawn, which ran in a gentle slope right to the shores of the loch. She stopped halfway and looked back. ‘Jeanie, I think I’ve got better things to do. Who cares if they gossip? I’m used to it, had it all my life. I must give off some scent or hormone, or something that attracts it.’

  ‘You’re just different, Imogen. That’s all. Look at you; you’re beautiful.’ Jean was out of her chair and had crossed the grass to join her. ‘You don’t conform. You go your own way. You take off for days at a time on your horse. It’s them that has the problem, not you. They’re jealous because you’re absolutely nothing like them.’

  ‘You think that’s what it is?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Jean slipped an arm through hers and together they walked to the shore.

  ‘They’re small-minded folk from a small-minded place. Your only saving grace, as far as they’re concerned, is that you are at least Scottish. God help you if you truly were an outsider. They want you in a box, Imogen. That’s the nature of the kind of people they are. They have to label everything. Right now your label is single and alternative, and that’s dangerous in a small town. So, let’s change the label, give you a boyfriend and shut them all up. It’ll be a laugh, if nothing else.’