The Last Tiger

  Only he knew the real and full truth of his people and their rituals. Earthly remains were scattered across the island deep beneath the soil, resting far below the shallow root systems of the trees and giant shrubs, tunnelled graves backfilled, scarred ground seamlessly repaired; it was his secret alone. Flesh and bone in Tuan culture was always returned to Nature, a gift born of gratitude. The freed souls of men glittered in the night sky whilst those of women and babies lived on in the soil and the plants their bodies fed. As a boy he had been wise not to share this knowledge, for while his many secrets crippled Tua, leaving it vulnerable to the trampling stamping boot of greed, his intelligence had been his people’s good fortune. Forever they could rest in peace. But he did not save his mother.

  As he viewed her beloved frame stripped of flesh and displayed for all to see, he recalled the freak shows Bee had told him of as a boy, the travelling circuses that less than a hundred years ago would have been his life’s sentence. He recalled also the glass screens that had once contained him. But neither this nor the bones themselves summoned the real torment, for seeing her primordial nakedness provoked such a profound sadness that it smothered hostility. Although the skeletal remains were horrendous to see, it was the smaller display inside the case that proved too much.

  Martha’s skin (left) shows the stripe typical of Homo virga.

  Skin. Such a compelling and vital feature of a person. Not like bones that often linger long after death and seem so unlike the padded, living version of man. Bones are an everyday image, either in a picture or painting, as a motif on a shirt or in silver as an earring. But skin? Human skin was the face of the body. To take it and treat it and stretch it for display seemed the most inhumane act Tuan could think of. His stomach tightened. Ten square centimetres framed up like the head of a drum. And what part of his mother was it that he and strangers gazed upon? Her thigh? Back? Buttock? He couldn’t look without the cruel weight of his own mortality pressing hard upon his chest, as if utter devastation were not enough. Was this his punishment, he wondered, was this what happened when you strayed from the Path?

  He read on:

  Martha is on loan from the estate of Mr Giles Patterson, and is believed to be one of the last Homo virga to succumb to an influenza epidemic that swept the island shortly after the first outsiders began illegal logging.

  So it was Giles. One man entered the tiny room and another left, as within Tuan the very last of the child that was, withered and died.

  PRETEXT

  In bed the first night she was home, Bee was far more responsive to Boyce’s touch than she had been in a long while, and afterwards she noticed he slept soundly in smug satisfaction. The next night was virtually a repeat performance, making it seem as though things were coming right, even if it was obvious that she was not entirely herself. But the third night marked the end of trying to hide from what had happened in London, and she returned to weariness, often asleep long before Boyce came up the stairs. If he was insistent she gave in, if only to improve the prospect of a good night’s sleep sooner. So it continued, him uncertain and needy, Bee too tired and remote to bother. Life seemed determined to tumble back into the shadow of insecurity and disappointment.

  *

  In the silence of City Library, Tuan thanked the Moon for helping him keep so much from Giles. Strangely, it was not a shock to have seen his name. In fact it was grounding. Somehow it was inevitable, natural, that Giles would own his mother. But it was the ultimate betrayal. How long had Giles had her, he wondered, squirreled away in some corner, concealed from sight, hidden with shame? Had they all shared the same roof? Her trussed up like the bag of bones she was while Giles roamed the laboratories and house like a king; she unable to rest while he slept comfortably tucked up in bed. Giles had betrayed him, and in turn Tuan suddenly felt that he himself had betrayed his mother. Had he not collaborated with an enemy that should have been eliminated long ago? Back on the island, having recognised the man’s singular unpleasantness, serious contemplation of Giles’ execution resulted in a rejection of the idea. At that time it seemed wrong, an offence against the Ancestors, and Tuan had always considered this to be the right outcome. For Tuan, from distrust and resentment forgiveness had blossomed, followed by a deep love and affection, more so since Giles himself softened into vulnerability. Having grown to love Giles, the memory of murderous intent, however brief, had been horrifying. But not now, not with this definitive treachery.

  PREDICTIVE TEXT

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine Pappy. You?’

  ‘As always, Bee, as always.’ Felix smiled, ‘The house is looking good. Quite a project.’

  Bee nodded. ‘Thanks. How’s Nana?’

  Felix shook his head a little and shrugged, ‘You know your grandmother.’

  Bee handed Felix a cold beer from the fridge. He looked at it and asked if she was sure he could have it.

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  ‘No reason. So where’s that man of yours today?’

  ‘Interviewing some MP or another. I’m not really up to speed with it all at the moment. I’m trying to finish my book.’ She nodded towards the laptop on the table. ‘I was sat outside earlier, it was beautiful but I couldn’t see the screen properly.’

  ‘So you came in?’

  ‘God no! It was too lovely. But I didn’t get much done. Just a few paragraphs. Had to wrap up though, it was pretty chilly.’

  ‘I see.’ Felix took a deep breath, ‘Listen Bee, I… we… just wondered if everything is okay? Your mum and dad commented that you don’t seem yourself at the moment. Well, you haven’t been for a while, actually. Nothing bothering you?’

  Struggling to raise a smile Bee, sighed, ‘Why would it be? I’m just tired, that’s all. Apart from that, everything is great. The magazine is going well, my book is coming along. The house is virtually finished. What’s to complain about?’

  ‘Nothing I suppose. Not put like that.’

  ‘So tell everyone not to worry, will you. If I seem out of sorts then it really is just tiredness.’

  Felix nodded, ‘Good. I’ll tell them. I’ve been meaning to say, how about you and that man of yours come to us for a night? We can have dinner and catch up properly. You know, chat about things, eat, drink, watch a film. Nana misses seeing you.’

  ‘Chat about what things?’

  ‘I don’t know. Monkeys?’

  Bee laughed.

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  She hesitated, ‘That would be lovely, but I’ll check with Ian. Just in case. What date?’

  ‘We can be free whenever, so you let us know what suits you. Okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Felix glanced at his watch, ‘Right. I haven’t got time for this beer.’ He put the unopened bottle back in the fridge, ‘I need to get going.’

  ‘Shame, so soon?’

  ‘I need to get back, Bee. Nana will have organised a search party! I have no idea where the day went.’

  The sound of a car turning into the drive caught their attention.

  ‘Ian,’ Bee said, as a matter of fact. ‘He’s back early. You never know when he is going to turn up.’ She smiled.

  ‘Perhaps I should hang on for a while. Be a bit rude to disappear the moment he comes home.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want to hold you up, Pappy. You should go.’

  Felix looked at Bee for such a long time that she felt uncomfortable.

  ‘But stay if you want to,’ she added.

  ‘Hello there, Felix,’ said Boyce warmly as he came through the door. ‘How are you? Long time no see.’

  Felix reached out a hand, ‘Good to see you, Ian.’

  Bee filled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘Hi,’ she said, taking Boyce’s bag, ‘Productive day?’

  ‘Oh you know how it is,’ he replied, grinning, ‘You win some you lose some. But I’ve probably got enough to work with.’ He kissed Bee on the cheek and threw an arm aroun
d her shoulder. ‘So Felix, what’s keeping you busy these days?’

  ‘The usual,’ he smiled, ‘although not enough to keep me out of Nan’s

  hair.’

  Boyce took a beer from the fridge, offering one to Felix. ‘I don’t know how you do it, keep so busy all the time. A man of your years.’

  ‘No thanks. Bit early for me.’

  Bee looked at her grandfather.

  ‘So how is she? Any better?’

  ‘Not really. In fact I was about to go home. I don’t like to leave her on her own for too long. I was away last night so really need to get back.’

  ‘If there is anything we can do, let Bee know.’

  Bee flicked off the kettle, ‘I’ll let you know about the meal, Pappy.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Boyce

  ‘I invited you both to ours, for a bite to eat. And to stay over. It would be great if you could make it.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ Bee interrupted.

  ‘Really?’ Boyce looked at Bee and she turned away. ‘What date were you thinking, Felix?’

  ‘Undecided.’ Felix replied, picking up his car keys. ‘I thought you could let us know when you are free. I think you two have many more commitments that Nan and I do these days.’

  ‘Well let’s try and fix something up.’ Boyce walked Bee’s grandfather to the door, closely followed by Bee.

  ‘Bye, love.’ Felix kissed her and shook hands again with Boyce. ‘See you both soon I hope.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  After Felix had gone, Boyce’s smile slipped. ‘So what did he want? You never said he was coming.’

  She shrugged and quietly walked away. ‘He was passing. I haven’t seen him for a while. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  But Bee could see he was irritated, the display of friendly affection gone with Pappy.

  ‘How about eating at the pub tonight?’ she said, trying to sound upbeat, ‘I have some more I would like to do on my novel, but after that we could go out. What do you think?’

  Boyce shook his head. ‘No. I think a quiet night in is what we need. You can tell me what you and that grandfather of yours talked about, what made him act so awkward when I came in.’

  Bee was genuinely confused. ‘He wasn’t awkward. Or if he was it was because he felt rude leaving as soon as you arrived.’ She moved to leave the kitchen, taking her work with her.

  ‘Can I read it yet?’ he asked, pointing to the laptop tucked under her arm.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Come on, Bee. I want to see what it is that keeps my best writer from me.’

  She smiled a little, but laid a hand over the computer, a shield against extraction. If he read it, would he see through it, she wondered, and if he did, what then? ‘It would be better if you waited. It’s a first draft really.’ Bee tried to look unconcerned.

  ‘So it’s what?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The genre. Before, you said you couldn’t place it. You must know by now. What is it?’

  ‘Uh, romantic fiction, I suppose.’

  Ian groaned. ‘Really? Isn’t there enough of that around?’

  Bee could think of nothing to say so repeated her statement that it was a first draft, ‘It’s a bit muddled in places,’ she added.

  ‘Then I might be able to help.’

  ‘No, I think you should wait.’

  Kissing her on the top of her head, Boyce took the laptop anyway. Marching off with beer in hand, he said he would read it later.

  *

  ‘Not a second passed when she did not think of him, and not for a moment was she ever free of the hollow feeling that expanded painfully at the memory of his touch; more agonisingly at the loss of it. At times she wished he were dead, at least then his spirit could haunt her, if he possessed such a thing. How she would love a phantom whose adoration of her so obsessed him that he could find no rest without her. At other times she wished it was she who were dead, and love, the memory of it, could dissolve with the rot of her body, returning to nature all the borrowed trappings of a living self and with it all that tortured her every moment. Yet still she would have it no other way.

  If he could have taken himself back to the place from where he had been dragged so many years before, returning there relieved and grateful, she would have endured the loss knowing that someday he would choose to come back and embrace her once more, reclaiming his rightful position at her side. But he was not any such place, nowhere near his birthplace anymore than he rested either on or beyond his deathbed, nor was he truly alive. What remained of him was a shell, a bitter representation of his former self, a spectre; stripped of dignity he was enfeebled and unable to go back or to move forward, chest-deep in desolation, a man no more. Yet still she would have it happen the same, and despite the disgust her selfishness aroused, for herself she would easily bear it again.’

  PROOF OF WORTH

  The first thing Tuan did was to sell Giles’ family home. He didn’t bother getting a good price but gave it to Char for exactly ten pounds. At first she objected, insisting he would come to regret the sale, and if not the sale, then the ridiculous price. But Tuan’s obstinacy was so entrenched he effortlessly rebuffed all refusals, and with her own stubbornness already weakened by temptation, Char quickly became the proud possessor of the only house she ever truly thought of as home. The family flat had never amounted to the sort of space she craved, and while she loved the people in it with all her heart, it was never somewhere homely. Her mother had been loving and practical and everything a mother should be, but the place was a tip with too many young limbs fighting for the remote control.

  She told Tuan that she understood his motivation, after all, she herself had in many ways made great efforts to ditch parts of her own past. But she was anxious for it to be known that her acceptance was purely an act of friendship and not something born of necessity or greed. A clause was included in the contract stating Tuan could buy the house back for the same amount at anytime. He wouldn’t sign until it was removed.

  Sex the day they parted was like it was the day he had left for London years before. It was unusually tender, not the satisfying selfish indulgence they normally shared and they both understood that it was not only the house Tuan was leaving behind. When he told Char what Giles had done she empathised with his need to move on, but questioned why it would mean he could no longer visit. The earlier relationship had not been a success, but he was a friend, a bed buddy, and she told him she was sorry it was over. In reply he said he would always be there for her but he had to move on. She felt something of the loss, but these days the house meant far more to her than he did.

  *

  It could have been a ghost, the shape that stalked through the cemetery as the full Moon hung low in a pitch sky, heavy with the eyes of a million Ancestors: a silhouette, a shadow, a sorry wandering fragment from a time gone by. Quietly, the phantom-like figure with long wild hair and clothes of old, moved amongst the graves of those whose lives had long since finished, wishing his own had never begun.

  There had been no need to break-in, the greatest obstacle only an unlocked gate that he carefully opened and silently closed. Once in, roving amongst the acres honouring completed existence and bodies spent, the strange wakefulness of a graveyard by night did not pass him by. Briefly Tuan forgot his sadness, comforted to think that what had been and what remained might collide for a moment in some ephemeral meeting of living and dead. He knew there was nothing to fear; his people had always understood this. For whoever suffered anything more serious than simple regret when faced with death?

  At first, the bright lights of the surrounding city frustrated his sight, but once deep inside the necropolis his animal vision came into its own and he marvelled at the trees and shrubs, in abundance everywhere he turned. Bare branches silver in the moonlight; dense thickets of hardy leaf. Within them, he was cert
ain, were sisters, mothers and babies, renewing the earth under the gentle gaze of husbands, fathers and brothers, and the all-seeing Moon. How long it had been since his thoughts followed such a natural path so idly.

  Peace wrapped a comforting arm around him and was beautiful, a secret world almost as calm as the brief moment shortly before early dawn, when monkeys and birds are yet to stir, but the frogs and crickets have ceased their nocturnal chorus. He hadn’t thought of his childhood for such a long time it made him laugh out loud, drawn back to the joy of it all. The Seven Steps flashed into his mind, and from nowhere came the memory that the First Step was really called the First Way. How had he forgotten that word so early on? The First Way had been a wonderful experience.

  But serenity could not last. Before long, Tuan arrived at the tomb and there he found it hard to imagine the time so many years before when he had stood in grief, beyond consolation. Now it was morbid fascination that held his gaze, disgust that such a creature could rest so peacefully amongst the faithful.

  Tuan dropped his heavy load and it crunched as it hit the gravel. Sitting down, leaning against the cold stone, he pulled some papers that had been jammed into his pocket, and flattened them. Illuminated by the moon, he began to re-read words first read the day Giles had died.

  My Dear Boy,

  I have written this in circumstances that sadden me greatly and for which I apologise, unreservedly. At the time of writing, I know for certain something known in my heart for too long. If you are reading this, then today sees its conclusion. It is a foolish man who chooses to ignore ill-health rather than seek help, just as it is a foolish man who chooses to ignore his mistakes, for they too are never resolved by lack of recognition. In this letter to you, I recognise two truths:

  Firstly, again I have wronged you, but this time, my dear son, through abandonment. Apology cannot be enough. I want you to understand I am filled with the deepest remorse; a profound wretchedness from knowing it was my own weakness that cut short our time.