by Nick Green
‘He can’t have anything to do with Panthacea, can he?’
‘Uh…maybe he has a friend who…’
‘I want to know.’ Tiffany shut the bag in the boot. ‘We have to follow him.’
Suddenly Ben didn’t feel so keen.
‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘You said your parents would be wondering where you are.’
‘Well, they might,’ said Tiffany. ‘But I can’t leave it like this.’
‘They’re only pills.’
‘Pills my little brother takes every day.’ Keeping low, she stalked towards the building.
‘We can come back in daylight.’
‘Darkness is daylight for us.’
‘Tiffany,’ Ben hissed. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this but…you don’t know this guy like I do! He’s a nutter. He is one badly dangerous headcase.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Tiffany. ‘If he’s connected with Panthacea, even slightly…’
They flattened themselves beside an ancient fire escape, the only visible entrance. There was a shackle on it, unlocked.
Ben made one last effort. ‘You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, don’t you?’
Ignoring him, Tiffany shunted the door open and tiptoed into the blackness. Ben knew he had no choice but to go with her. Tiffany opened a second door. A glow picked out the edges of a yawning space. On silent feet they crept into a gloomy hall, drawn by a murmur of voices off to the right.
At the heart of this dead cavern, where it seemed that only rats scuttled unseen through decades of dust, something was alive. Beyond stout pillars, inlaid with surprisingly ornate brickwork punctuated by rusted signs, two figures faced each other across a pool of light. Dust-ghosts twirled in these harsh yellow beams, rising to the arc lamps that glared from their wall-mountings. Ben willed his whole being into the soles of his feet, bidding them to pad upon the air above the floor, in the silence of Eth walking. Luckily the factory was webbed about with shadows; it was easy to slip among them as they stalked towards the light.
‘…so what can I do for you, John?’ The gangly figure in the brown camel-skin coat looked at his watch, which he wore nurse-fashion on the inside of his wrist.
‘You asked me here.’ It wasn’t hard to catch the irritation in John Stanford’s voice.
‘Did I? In that case come into my office.’
The thin man beckoned with his right hand. His left, Ben noticed, was tucked protectively under his coat, as if his arm was hurt. The two men moved into an area enclosed by cardboard boxes, where a desk, a computer and a cabinet stood forlornly like a furniture shop display.
Seating himself on the desk, the man fixed his pale eyes on Stanford. Ben was reminded of the sick snake he’d once seen in a pet shop. ‘You have the architect’s drawings?’
‘Here.’ Stanford fished in his pocket. The thin man dropped the folded papers to one side without a second glance.
‘I’ll study them at leisure.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘So, how’s the work going?’
‘If that’s all you wanted to ask me, Doctor Cobb,’ replied Stanford, ‘you could have mentioned it on the telephone—’
‘What did he say?’ Tiffany hissed in Ben’s ear.
‘Ssh! They’ll hear us.’
‘He called that man Doctor Cobb. Philip Cobb is the name of the scientist who makes my brother’s medicine—’ Tiffany bit her own fist as if that was the only way she could silence herself.
‘Since you ask,’ Stanford was now saying, ‘it’s fine. Horton and Forrester have agreed the contract. The building can be underway shortly.’
‘Shortly? And the hold-up is?’
‘If you think your science is complicated,’ said Stanford, ‘you should try dabbling in real estate. It takes a week for a solicitor to stir his own tea.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘It’s nothing to concern you. Just acquiring the last bit of land from the so-called owners. They’ve been a pain but that’s about to stop.’
‘Is it?’ said Doctor Cobb. ‘I wanted the laboratory finished and in production by next summer. That’s looking less likely, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘We have this place in the meantime.’
‘Oh yes, it’s perfect, an abandoned dog-biscuit factory,’ said Cobb. ‘Just the sort of image I want plastered across my homepage. And as for the toilet facilities…I’d rather hold it in.’
Stanford appeared to bristle, a smell of danger wafting this way. Before he could speak, however, Cobb sprang from the desk like a spider.
‘No, no, stop there, stop right there.’
Ben seized Tiffany’s arm and got ready to flee. It took him a moment to realise that Philip Cobb’s attention was directed elsewhere. They were not, after all, alone in this desolate building. Cobb ran to a pair of workmen who were struggling to operate an ancient goods lift. The lift had ropes rather than cables and a bulky iron cage that looked as if it belonged in a museum. The men were barged aside with surprising force.
‘Do that and you’ll regret it,’ Cobb snapped. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Granted, it’s similar to rocket science, but it’s not.’
He singled out one of the labourers, a kid who looked barely seventeen.
‘The lift is empty, you dunce. So you need to unload the counterweight before you take the brake off.’ He pointed up to a stack of weights that dangled at the top of the lift gantry. ‘If it’s not properly balanced it’ll come crashing down, wreck the mechanism and very likely you as well. So if you don’t want to end your days on my dissecting table,’ Cobb slapped a peeling cardboard notice, ‘learn to read.’
He trudged back to the office area. Stanford was grinning.
‘So how is your work going?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ Cobb said, acidly. ‘Anyway, we’ll get there. We’re just about meeting demand… even if we do have to trek between three different processing plants to make one batch. But that’ll change with the new laboratory.’
‘You’ll have it ready by this time next year.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ All at once Philip Cobb became jolly. ‘I say. Care for the grand tour? You can finally get to see the good work your money’s doing.’
‘It’s about time. I’d be charmed.’
Stanford strode after Cobb, skirting round the goods lift which the two drones were still trying to figure out. Ben hung back, looked around for Tiffany and saw her slinking off in pursuit.
‘No!’ he hissed. ‘We’re leaving. Now.’
She ignored him, ducking behind a bail of metal poles. He caught up with her just in time to see Cobb pull aside the vinyl drape that divided the factory across the middle.
‘Over here we have the extraction hall.’
Lines of portable lamps dazzled more than they illuminated. Wires and tubes snaked like roots across the concrete floor, weaving between chunky objects arranged in a grid. Ben wondered what they might be. Stanford seemed equally puzzled. The objects were somewhat larger than travelling trunks and glinted strangely in the lamplight. A flicker of movement from the nearest one made Stanford flinch. In that moment Ben saw it was a cage. A cage with something inside it.
He became aware of a foul stink.
‘Meet the inmates,’ said Philip Cobb.
The thing in the cage was a leopard. Stanford stepped backwards and bumped into another cage, containing a second leopard. Next to that lay a tawny cat with tufted ears. Over there was something black, perhaps a panther. Everywhere—cages. Stanford’s jaw was hanging open. Ben heard a stifled gasp beside him.
‘Where did I get them all?’ said Cobb, gesturing with a left hand that looked unnaturally small for his body. ‘Here and there. Private collections. Imports. The odd zoo closure. One or two I’ve had for years.’
Stanford peered at the leopard from a safe distance. It was crouched, as if to spring. But this was because the cage was too small for it to stand properly. Its rounded ears brushed the top bars. Ben wondered why, if it couldn’t s
tand up, it didn’t simply lie down. It blinked two burning eyes, turning its head mechanically within the cage’s narrow space, left and right, left and right, like something clockwork.
‘What,’ Stanford asked, licking his lips, ‘are they for?’
‘But of course!’ Cobb rubbed his hands, as if enjoying a delicious joke. ‘You don’t know. I envy you business-types. None of you cares a hoot about how anything works, so long as the profits come in. You won’t be bored by an explanation, I hope?’
‘Mein Vater war ein Architekt und meine Mutter war ein Doktor,’ growled Stanford. ‘And English is only my third language, Doctor Cobb. Make it as intellectual as you like.’
‘Oh.’ Cobb seemed taken aback. ‘Right then, look at this fellow. I call him Grizzle ’cos he’s got a mean temper.’
The leopard gave a snarl like a chainsaw.
‘Move round here where he can’t see you,’ said Cobb. ‘Look there, in his side.’
Ben squinted from his hiding place, trying to see. Running under the leopard’s ribs was a clear plastic tube, held in place by scabby gauze dressing. As he watched, a dribble of dark fluid ran down the tube towards a vat outside the cage. Another tube coiled away from the vat to who-knew-where.
‘What is that stuff?’ asked Stanford.
‘Bile,’ said Cobb. ‘Milked from the liver.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s our raw material,’ said Cobb. ‘That’s what Panthacea is, mostly. The bile from big cats. The Chinese have known for centuries about its medicinal properties. I’ve taken it a step further. A virtual cure for wasting diseases—made from one-hundred-per-cent natural ingredients.’
Ben heard a sob. In panic he grabbed Tiffany across the mouth, hardly aware of what he was doing until she began to squirm and gasp for air. He relaxed his hold a little, enough to let her breathe, but she was shaking as if some terrible noise would burst from her at any moment.
Philip Cobb wiped his good hand through his hair. Ben couldn’t stop staring at the leopard. Now he understood why it didn’t lie down. If it did, the tube sticking from its side would be forced further in.
‘Of course,’ said Cobb, ‘the cages have to be just the right size. If we gave the animals room to turn, they’d lick at the tubes and pull them out.’
‘Doesn’t it…’ Stanford frowned curiously. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘They’re used to it. Ah, it’s feeding time.’
A pair of dark-haired young women had appeared in the hall, pushing trolleys that overflowed with hunks of meat. Cobb said a few words to them in some foreign language and the women began dropping meat through the bars of the cages, using pincer sticks at arm’s length. The hall echoed with snuffles, grunts and growls as at least two dozen big cats ripped into their rations. The panther writhed as it tried to whip around in its cage, straining after a bit of meat that had fallen out of reach.
‘We ship the bile down to my other little lab in Kent,’ Cobb bawled above the din, ‘which is where the pills are pressed. That’s the place you can see on our website. A country house with woodland views. You’ll have to come and visit sometime.’
‘Charmed.’ Stanford stopped to gaze at a gigantic tiger that gnawed the bars of its cage, licking off meat-blood with a tongue you could have used to sand the floor.
‘That’s Shiva,’ said Cobb. ‘We go way back. One of my first acquisitions.’
He approached the cage and, to Ben’s deep discomfort, produced a key. The tiger stopped its feeding frenzy. Cobb stepped within six feet, letting the key twinkle. The tiger stared. Cobb took another step. Five feet away. Three.
Shiva’s paw crashed into the cage door. Hooks the size of knives raked the bars as if playing a hideous harp. A roar came from Shiva’s throat, like an earthquake deep underground. Cobb didn’t move.
‘Shiva’s been with us four or five years. Did you hear of a charity called Tigers for Tomorrow? No? They went bust, trying to breed Indian tigers for release into the wild. They were desperate to find homes for their few success stories, such as Shiva here, who was almost old enough to be released. They were grateful when I stepped in.’
Stanford lit a cigar and took a drag.
‘But they didn’t know you were…?’
‘They weren’t in a position to ask,’ said Cobb. He shot Stanford a searching glance. ‘You’re not a vegetarian or something, are you?’
‘Hardly.’ Stanford chuckled. As they passed a cage containing a smaller, weaker-looking tiger, he flicked a lump of cigar ash down onto its head.
‘Don’t,’ snapped Cobb. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. That bile is precious. I can’t have it contaminated.’
They pushed through the industrial curtain into the relative stillness of the first hall. Ben scrambled from shadow to shadow, trying to find the way back to the exit, dragging Tiffany after him. She was stumbling like someone recently blinded. Cobb strode into his makeshift office, shut the key away in the desk and unfolded the papers that Stanford had brought with him. He smiled dreamily at the drawings.
‘Doctor Cobb,’ said Stanford, ‘you’ve impressed me. When I bought us this godforsaken place I thought only of a temporary warehouse. I never imagined you could get up and running with so little.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now that I see it for myself, however, I’m a little concerned…Those beasts. It’s not exactly legal, is it?’
‘I can show you my licence to keep exotic animals,’ said Cobb.
‘Keep, yes. But aren’t there people who might…’ Stanford sucked on his cigar. ‘What I’m saying is, you wouldn’t throw this place open to the public, would you?’
‘If the public wants to come and look around, I shan’t stop it,’ said Cobb. ‘However, it has not asked yet. John, no-one cares.’
Stanford breathed out a grey cloud. ‘Good.’
LOCKED OUT
The wind on her face felt cold. Had it started raining? She jerked to a halt as her T-shirt was grabbed. A truck blew past inches in front of her, horn blaring.
‘Easy.’ Ben let go of her shirt. ‘We’re away. They didn’t see us.’
Everywhere seemed half-real. She didn’t recognise this street. Far behind them the factory blacked out the moon. They must have been running for minutes.
Ben was speaking to her.
‘I said, there’s no way you could have known.’ He gripped her shoulders so she had to look at him. ‘You mustn’t blame—hey. You’re crying.’
Was she? That explained the coldness on her cheeks. And the shaking inside of her, as violent as Rufus coughing up hairballs…these were not coughs, but sobs.
‘Those,’ she gasped. She had no breath. ‘Those. Poor.’ She sank to the pavement. ‘Those. Poor. How could…’
‘You kids all right?’ A taxi driver slowed to roll down his window. Ben must have waved him on, for he was gone when she looked up. She mopped at her tears and gulped air.
‘What?’ she mumbled, when Ben spoke again.
‘I can walk you home,’ he repeated, ‘if you want.’
She shook her head, not because of anything he’d said, but to try and rid it of what she had seen.
‘What are we going to do? I can’t believe anyone could be so…Those poor cats. What are we going to do?’
‘Report it to someone,’ sighed Ben.
She could tell how much good he thought that would do. But surely someone had to care about this? The police, the RSPCA, Greenpeace, somebody…
‘It depends on them believing us,’ Ben said, gloomily. ‘Enough to break into that factory and look inside. When its burglar alarm kept ringing a few months ago, my mum couldn’t even get the police to come round and turn it off.’
Tiffany hardly listened. This was making as much sense as a nightmare.
‘How can they be doing this here?’ she wailed. ‘It’s not just sick, it’s crazy. Why bring all those animals into London? I’d have thought they’d choose a place in the middle of nowhere.’
‘This is the middle of nowhere.’ Ben sounded bitter. ‘If you don’t want the police poking their noses in, you’re a lot safer in a city than you are in Cumbria. It’s like hiding in the jungle. So much other stuff is happening, you fade into the background. That’s their plan.’
‘But Ben…’ Tears welled up again. She cupped a hand to her side, where an imagined pain was growing by the moment: a plastic tube, a festering wound. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ said Ben. ‘We will.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s late, Tiffany, we should be getting home.’
Like a sleepwalker she traipsed into the lounge, resigned to the ear-bashing she was sure to receive. Mum and Dad were watching television in ominous silence. She dropped into an armchair and waited for the grilling to begin.
After a while Mum said, ‘Do you know if Stuart’s managing okay up there?’
‘Uh,’ said Tiffany.
‘That is, getting ready for bed,’ said Dad. ‘Rather than reaching level four of Alien War Pigs or whatever it’s called.’
‘Perhaps you’d better check on him in a minute, Peter.’
Tiffany eyed her parents, puzzled. They weren’t exactly falling over themselves to scold her for coming in so late.
‘Are you feeling okay, love?’ Mum asked, after a while.
‘Mmm.’
The television newsreader rambled on. She became transfixed by his outrageous tie.
‘You’ve lain low today, Tiffs,’ said Dad.
‘There was a ballet programme on earlier,’ said Mum. ‘I tried calling you but you had your headphones on, I think.’
Then it struck her. Neither of them had noticed she wasn’t in the house. She’d been out all evening, spent some of it locked in a maniac’s car, and all the time they’d assumed she was upstairs. Without a word she got up and left the room.
‘Tiffany?’ Mum called after her. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’
She climbed the stairs. The bathroom light was on.
‘Hi!’ said Stuart. He spat out a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘Where have you been?’
