Tuan nodded but as he scanned the signs hanging above each section, his thoughts moved on from frock coats to other matters. ‘We’ll sort it later, yes? I’ve got some stuff I wanted to look up while we were here. I’ll only be over there, in the Transport section. I’ll come back and find you in half an hour or so. Okay?’
‘Finally I can get on. Have fun looking at planes. Weirdo.’
Tuan inhaled deeply as he moved away. He loved the smell of the library. It was musty yet not dirty, mixed with wood and floor polish and an entirely different aroma from the clinical odour of Whitegate. He strolled casually by shelves of books, angling his head to read titles as he passed. Then he found what he was looking for. He loved reading about planes, demystifying the huge machines that used to pass over the island.
He eased the book from the shelf and just as he was about to open it, the smell around him changed. It indicated the presence of a person standing too close. He could feel them there, too, as if the hairs of his body were being touched, like guard hairs in other mammals sensing unseen movement. He had known for sometime that someone was following.
ORDINARILY
A natural hunter such as Tuan could never be stalked so stealthily as to avoid detection. Until now, he’d assumed the person nearby was one of the many curious but harmless people he’d encountered at the library so many times before, some repeatedly. One old lady, Jan, was forever cornering him for a chat. But it wasn’t her, she smelled different from this. And Jan no longer lurked out of sight. Whoever it was had been hiding nearby while he and Bee talked. Used to the attention, Tuan had been so unconcerned that he had not bothered to look. Plenty of old ladies like Jan wanted to see if the dark narrow stripes were real or simply tattoos; blossoming girls were always desperate to check if he really did have the teeth of a vampire; testosterone saturated boys fantasised about bringing him down (if it came to it), and little kids just wanted to see.
But no stranger had ever before dared to come this close without speaking first; so close that they were by now almost touching. Tuan turned and shot an obvious glance, seeing then that it was a young man, youthfully thin and blond, and much the same age as Tuan felt himself to be. But Tuan knew he was older, a genuine adult by the standards of the people inhabiting this world, a place where everyone stayed looking like children for so long. He thought of Bee. He thought of how she was finally changing.
The young man was photographing Tuan using his phone, but dropped it in surprise after catching the sharp look. Tuan turned away and left him to pick it up even though it had landed next to his own foot, and after some hesitation the young man hastily retrieved his property, snatching it up but seeming to be careful not to touch the most unusual person on Earth. Feeling the independence brought by maturity as a substantial thing, Tuan opened the book as if unconcerned. He was not especially worried, but he did wonder where his bodyguards were, always out of sight yet normally at his side in seconds. Jan received the most enormous fright the first time they’d talked.
The blond man spoke, ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Ian Boyce,’ he offered a business card. ‘You’re… Tiger Boy… aren’t you?’ he said, quietly.
‘I suppose you’re a journalist?’ Tuan said, not taking the card.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You smell like one.’ Tuan shoved the book back into the gap on the shelf and began to walk away. ‘But also, you have a recording device in your pocket. I heard the click. Would have been quieter to use your phone.’
‘Wait. Wait! Please,’ Boyce said, voice straining to be quiet yet be heard. ‘It’s not what you think. I’m a great fan of yours. I’ve been following your story from the beginning.’ The stage whisper was too loud and somebody hushed him.
‘Following it or just making it up?’ Tuan stopped and glared. He had seen for himself the speculation about Tiger Boy presented as fact when he’d discovered the newspaper section of the library sometime ago. He had scoured the archives for the remainder of that particular day and by the end of it felt wretched. It seemed people beyond the island preferred drama to reality.
‘I only want to talk to you, that’s all.’
‘And there was me thinking we were going to have dinner.’
‘Two minutes of your time.’
‘Why?’ A small growl rumbled inside Tuan’s chest, surprising even him.
‘Why not?’ said Boyce. ‘Listen, you have nothing to hide, I know that, but why have people believe you’re some kind of animal when you’re just a normal kid?’
Tuan started to walk away, but Boyce placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. ‘You’re normal yet interesting, you know, in an amazing kind of way. Let the world see you for the incredible human being you are.’
‘Why? Because some people think I am an animal? I don’t care about those people.’
‘I know. Why should you, eh? I mean, it’s not as if we have any official line on you yet, anyway, so what do they know? But just give me a minute of your time?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’ But already Tuan’s resolve was lessening, his tone revealingly hesitant.
The journalist pressed on, ‘What harm could it do? How can it be wrong to save other people from their own ignorance? Come on… the public are stupid; we both know that. Eh? They don’t know any better. They think you are some kind of freak because that is what they have been told; it’s what they’ve read. Why not let them have the chance to decide for themselves. Read something true? Why not take control of the situation and give others a little insight into a world outside their own narrow existence. Do some good, show them its all been a massive lie.’
‘What has been a lie?’ Tuan was cool.
‘Hah, very funny. But you and I both know you haven’t done half of the things reported in the press. True?’
Tuan sighed and began to make his way back towards Bee.
Boyce fell into step. ‘Come on. I’m sure you’ve read all sorts of bad things about other people, but do you believe it all? Every word? And I imagine you have heard terrible things about journalists too, but we’re not all the same. Of course we’re not. Not at all, and I am sure you know that. Look, I just want to help.’
Again there were hissed requests to reduce the volume.
‘We’re not all bad, you know,’ Boyce whispered, ‘I really do want to help you.’
‘Then help by leaving me alone.’
‘Alone. Precisely. That is exactly what I was thinking. Because I bet you are lonely aren’t you, eh? And I reckon you must be fed up with the endless speculation. In the old days you’d have been put in a circus, did you know that? Imagine it. And that, my friend, is how many people still see you. A freak of nature, Homo ferus with stripes, if you know what I mean.’ Boyce moved ahead, turned and paused, forcing Tuan to break stride. ‘Okay, I get it. You’re not interested. But before I go, if I could just say one thing, as a fan and not a journalist: your stripes are totally amazing, I mean truly the most incredible thing I have ever seen. Look at you! You are amazing, and… well… you are really big, actually. Really big, considering. Anyway, they… the public… they need to hear your voice, or at least read your words, to know that you are just an ordinary human being.’ He pressed his business card forward, ‘If you change your mind call me.’
‘Ordinary? Me? Like them, do you mean? I’ve read it all and I don’t care what a bunch of plain-faced morons think. And I am not ordinary.’
‘So you don’t care that the world thinks you ate a live capuchin? Listen mate, don’t you know how much people love capuchins? Don’t you watch American TV? It’s full of the little guys clapping hands, grinning and scampering around in tiny suits.’
Tuan scowled, ‘I did not eat a live capuchin. I… I released a macaque from complete misery.’
‘Exactly, right now you are portrayed as the slayer of the cute when you are actually the saviour of the slightly less cute?’ The journalist chuckled.
‘It wasn’t funny.’
br /> ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Boyce backtracked, ‘it was real; it was emotional. Tell the story, Tuan, it is Tuan, isn’t it? Tell it your way.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Of course you’re not sure, you don’t know me from Adam, but if I said you could read what I wrote first, before it’s printed, would that help?’
‘No, I think I’ll say no.’
‘You don’t sound too sure. Is there something… some person… stopping you from saying what you feel? Maybe there is something you need to get off your chest and you’re afraid what that someone might think?’
This transparent attempt to create some level of intimacy was poorly judged, and for a second or two Boyce’s advantage was lost. The one thing Tuan rarely felt was the compulsion to express his feelings. The single brief discussion with Giles regarding sex had eradicated the fractional need he’d had. He talked with Bee from time to time, but that was more about pleasing her than a genuine need for a confidante. He did not experience repressed emotion. He had hidden feelings in regard to Bee but they were exactly that, hidden not repressed. He had no angst or simmering anxiety waiting to be eased by the soothing words of this stranger anymore than he needed to get anything ‘off his chest’. There was nothing he needed to say.
But the journalist’s words had given rise to an idea. Suppose he did tell his story? Suppose he could end the intrusion of constant surveillance by giving the world what they wanted? Tuan thought about it. Whatever anyone else said, he could not see how this person would be able to twist his words, for what else could he say other than the truth? There was nothing to tell beyond the tale itself. He remembered Giles’ warning, that journalists and the paparazzi would seem sugary-sweet, appearing to roll over submissively, offer loyalty with ease. He had cautioned him not to be fooled and not to trust them under any circumstances. Tuan wasn’t sure if he was being fooled. This man did seem sincere; what he said made sense.
‘Listen Tuan, I think I’ve upset you. I misread the situation. Clearly you are your own man. I respect that. You’re one of the good guys, and when you’re so well known, being a good guy can be a tough call. Give me a shout if you change your mind.’
By now Tuan was only half listening, but the half that heard began to waver even more. He was thinking that Giles had said the time would come when they would have to tell the whole story, and when it came they would face it together. Tuan wondered if he should tell it now, his way, and let that be an end to it. If people knew the truth about him, got to know him, perhaps he could live a more normal life, whatever that was.
‘So what sort of things do people want to know?’
Boyce grinned, ‘Oh, mostly simple stuff.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh… such as… I dunno… what your favourite food is; what music you enjoy; how old you are, that kind of thing’
‘Really?’ Tuan was genuinely surprised, ‘Funny, because age is the one question that isn’t so simple to answer. Not for me, anyway.’
Boyce encouraged him to elaborate.
‘Where I am from you are what you are, in a way age is immaterial. You are a child and then you are on a type of journey, and then you become an adult.’
‘So you have no official age?’
‘I do, but it’s not referred to all the time in the way of people here. We have our passing years numbered but no one celebrates the number, only the progression of life. Most people eventually forget their age.’
‘I am not sure I can see much difference in the system. You know how old you are by counting.’
Tuan shrugged.
‘So you are how old?’
‘Twelve or so… I am not sure. Maybe thirteen. I was certainly no more than ten when I was first found. I didn’t recognise the weather here, with so many seasons. It made it hard for me to follow time, at first, anyway. I’m getting used to it though. And obviously I have talked to other people… counted back.’
‘Whoa! Twelve? No way! But you’re not sure? I mean you look years older than that. You could actually be older? Would it be correct to say that you’re not absolutely sure?’
‘I am not sure, that is correct.’
A vicious sounding hiss filled the air carried on the glare of a librarian.
‘But how? How can you not be sure? You’ve been studied, right? Cells looked at, that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. But comparison isn’t easy in my case, because everyone agrees and disagrees at the same time. It’s boring.’
‘So…. does this mean I can interview you? Officially?’ Boyce moved towards a small dark wooden table lit by an arching brass lamp, tucked away in an alcove.
‘I suppose so, but only for a few minutes. I want to read it before you publish... to decide if you can publish.’
‘Sure. You’ll get to read it.’
*
The few minutes became ten, became fifteen became twenty, and only then did Tuan register that the library had ceased to be a silent place. Somewhere in the vast building a crowd had gathered and gabbling voices were reverberating with increasing pitch. Revulsion withered all good feeling, as he realised Bee was probably at the centre of it. How could she not be? It was a sound he knew, the sound of baying journalists.
Tuan banged the table and stood up. ‘You fuckin’ shit!’ Tuan’s extended vocabulary was courtesy of a young West Country whitecoat who enjoyed teaching what Giles would not. He grabbed Boyce’s neck, squeezing and choking him before shoving him to the ground. The journalist offered little resistance. Tuan was powerful. Once free from his assailant, Boyce scrambled to his feet and watched with awe as Tuan followed the sound, bounding with huge easy strides across the glossy parquet flooring, reaching the horde at the same moment as Boyce slipped unseen from the building.
An elderly and ineffectual security guard was half-heartedly trying to force the pack back outside; several older librarians were barking instructions, insisting the journalists leave. Others watched with folded arms, lips tightly pursed with disapproval when they weren’t slack and aghast with shock.
Tuan felt his heart begin to race at the sight of it all, ashamed of the feeling building inside. He had no fear of the individual men and women, no qualms about flinging them and their cameras aside one by one, knowing he could give back more than they could ever land on him despite his youth. Plain people were a weedy bunch on the whole. But the crowd itself, the crowd as a singular thing, was terrifying. He had never liked crowds, even as a young child, watching from the sidelines whilst his brave playmates ran amongst the legs of elders, as they celebrated or commiserated some aspect of life or death or love. His mother thought it perhaps stemmed from that moment he had found himself swept into the waves by a sea of legs, determined to see justice done, set on drowning a murdering rapist.
With sweat beading on his patterned skin, Tuan began repeatedly calling Bee’s name whilst gesticulating with an encouraging wave for her to push towards him. The gaggle, drawn by the repetitive rumbling cry, turned. Tuan watched expressions of surprise roll into excited delight, and he realised then that they had not been aware of his presence, and that Boyce must have been working alone. A synchronised swarm moved to envelope him yet at the same time bodies still surrounded Bee, a confusing mass of heads and cameras. Inwardly, Tuan teetered between a desire to collapse into the safety of a tight ball, and anger. Only a moment later he found himself indiscriminately pushing and shoving into the crowd, as if his arms were not his own, fear tamed. As scuffles broke out, so he pushed on, punching and elbowing anyone unfortunate enough not to move from his path. Reaching out a hand he finally felt Bee’s familiar grip. And then it was she that was manoeuvring, pulling him free before flinging a way through the main door.
‘I keep having to hold your hand,’ she gasped with a mad grin.
‘God! That was Step Four, for sure!’
*
The resident archivist had done what she could to disperse the crowd and make things better, before stea
ling away to the restroom and collapsing on a lavatory, shaking with grief, wondering what sort of person she had become. Wondering if the weight of culpability would be as obvious to others as it was to her. For at that moment she may as well have been branded on the cheek, she felt. One phone call to the press, one hundred pounds received. It wasn’t even very much. Guilt had forced her to extricate herself from the cubicle and try again in bringing order to mayhem, and this time with foresight she instructed the children’s driver to move from the side door to the front entrance. It was all she could do. As the car safely slid away, sirens wailed the imminent arrival of the police, and the archivist wondered if she would ever be free from the shame.
Sometime time later, on reflection, crisis over, she decided she could live with herself after all and she definitely should have asked for more.
*
Boyce left thinking what a dirty way it was for anyone to get a story, exactly the sort of behaviour that gave journalists like him a bad name, and made people like Tuan justifiably nervous. He could picture how it started, how one reporter or photographer, or whoever, just went for it despite Bee’s obvious (and he noted, blossoming) youth. The fractionally more scrupulous amongst them would have felt obliged to follow rather than risk missing out altogether. Boyce wasn’t proud of what he’d done and it wasn’t ideal, for sending out a whisper that the girl was alone was a low act, but what else could he do if he was to speak to the boy first? The boy! Some boy. And that the press had suspected the presence of the pair was certainly not his doing, he reminded himself, anymore than it was his fault they had gathered like vultures the same day he had decided to try his luck. It was opportune, it was fortunate, but it wasn’t his fault.
Boyce was fairly confident that it would be difficult for anyone to sell or print anything the girl said because of her age, but if he was to be sure of getting the full impact from his own scoop, then he needed to get the thing written up and offered out as soon as possible, just in case. Certain tabloids had no fear of the law. The value of increased circulation always outweighed the burden of fines and legal fees. If they decided to go for it, which sooner or later they would, he could lose his edge. So with the story in his pocket he’d hurried away, thinking how easy it had been to pay off the private security guards that roamed the library and kept watch at the door, reflecting on what a sad state of affairs it was when fifty quid here and fifty quid there could buy you something priceless. He patted his pocket and sidled away. All things considered, it had been a good day.