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  ‘Sixty-two!’ he cried.

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Sixty-two, so Jake’s seventy-nine points and you’re eighty-one.’

  ‘Yes! I’ll go again,’ said Sam.

  ‘Hang on, I haven’t even been!’ said Oli. ‘Millie just had my go. I haven’t been!’ He went to rescue his toy, which had split the wood and was now drilling through breeze-block. He was about to shut down the motor, when the bedroom door was thrown open and a man in pyjamas stood there, gaping. By his side stood the Sleepeasy receptionist.

  ‘What the hell . . .’ said the man. Millie and the boys stared at him.

  The receptionist was a lady of middle-age: smart, stout, and carefully permed. She held a pass-key in her hand and her mouth was a little black hole of disbelief. She’d been on duty when the road accident had happened. She had been calm and efficient, and dealt with the worried Mrs Tack, agreeing to keep an eye on things. Sam in particular had reminded her of her own little boy, ten years ago. She’d meant to pop up and put an ear to the door earlier on, but there’d been a booking mix-up and some builders had arrived unexpectedly, needing accommodation. Then a big, foreign man had insisted on paying cash with a kilo of coins. The credit-card machine had gone down immediately after that, which led to the computer freezing. It was another guest who’d alerted her to the indescribable noises coming from the family room. Her eyes took in the smoke, the debris, the upside-down, flung-about furniture: her mouth opened wider as it hunted for an appropriate word. She looked at the children themselves. They had looked so smart, trooping in after the ambulances and fire-engines had departed. Now they stood there, tie-less and blazer-less – the sweet one had dirt over his face and his shirt had been used as a cleaning rag, the tails covered in what looked like oil . . .

  The man in pyjamas said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’

  ‘Were we keeping you awake?’ shouted Ruskin, over the noise of Oli’s digger. ‘That was the last race. I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘Was not!’ said Oli.

  ‘Oli, you gave your go to Millie!’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  The receptionist clutched the door frame. She was making small sounds, rather like a puppy. Just as she thought she had the right phrase, she noticed a new detail of the devastation. At last the fuel ran out and the engine stopped.

  ‘We’ll tidy up,’ said Sam. ‘It looks worse than it is, but honestly, we’ve been doing this at home all over Christmas.’

  ‘We always clear up,’ cried Ruskin. ‘I say, are you alright?’

  The receptionist was hyperventilating. She had seen the black gash in the peacock-blue carpet. Now she saw black smoke rising from the skirting-board.

  ‘You need to sit down,’ said Millie.

  The receptionist looked up and noticed that the room’s smoke alarm had been disabled: the wires hung out and the battery was gone. It was just as well, because acrid smoke hung under the ceiling – there was a breeze from outside and a wisp was blown into the corridor. The man in pyjamas was picking his way over the debris, his hands on his head. Unseen, the smoke continued to billow through the open doorway.

  The receptionist’s head started to jerk. She stepped into the room and found that her shoulders were locked up around her ears. Her fingers were splayed out in front of her chest as well, as if for protection. She looked up at Oli, sitting high on the TV, and his bug-eyes stared into hers. ‘Can you help me down?’ he said.

  At that moment, the smoke alarm in the corridor decided it had had enough. There were various types of smoke all mixed together in a rich cocktail: now was the time to warn the world. An ear-splitting shriek blared from every speaker and then it settled into stabbing squeals that split the ear. Within five seconds doors were opening, and the noise jerked the receptionist back into action. At least this was a situation she’d been trained to deal with – there were routines for fire alarms.

  ‘Outside,’ she said. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Why?’ said Ruskin.

  ‘Fire alarm. Car park. Everyone!’

  ‘There’s no fire,’ said Millie. ‘It’s engine smoke – you can see it.’

  In fact, there was a fire, though it was fairly small at present. The skirting-board had been so scorched by Millie’s drilling that flames were appearing. The wallpaper above was vinyl and it was beginning to melt. A sheet on a nearby chair was getting warmer and would burst into flames very soon.

  ‘Car park!’ said the receptionist. ‘Come on, quickly! Car park! Fire!’ She had to shout over the din. The corridor behind her was now full of people, peering at the children.

  ‘Get outside!’ said the man. ‘Do as you’re bloody told, all of you! Outside!’

  The children grabbed their blazers and meekly left the room. They joined a line of hurrying people, all shrugging themselves into coats.

  ‘Sam,’ shouted Oli. He was being hustled away by the receptionist, but Sam was still kicking on his shoes. ‘Don’t leave the toys! Get the toys! Wait,’ he said.

  But his voice wasn’t strong enough and he was lost in a river of foul-tempered adults.

  Oli Ruskin was just nine-and-a-half years old and had built all three radio-controlled vehicles with his own hands. His brother and Sam had helped, but he’d seen the project through from inception, so he felt the pure love of ownership. He’d washed cars, cleaned windows, and walked dogs to raise the money. He had a paper-round every morning, with a bag so huge and heavy he could barely lift it. The thought of his precious models being in an unlocked room made him breathless with panic, but what could he do? He was being herded along the corridor.

  ‘Jake,’ he said to his brother.

  Ruskin didn’t hear. He was saying something to Millie and the alarms had now switched to an urgent, angry throb that was guaranteed to make you panic. More and more people were emerging, and when they reached the reception area, it was packed. People were doubling back to get warm clothes, parents were calling after children, and another receptionist had appeared and was screaming, ‘It’s not a practice!’ over and over again.

  Oli closed his eyes in despair. He slowed his pace, letting people overtake him. The woman who’d pushed him had gone. The angry man was running ahead. Oli took his chance and doubled back.

  The fire doors had all swung shut and the emergency lights had come on bright and blue. Oli hurried left and scampered back towards his room. Was it right or left, though? He’d forgotten the number and all the doors looked the same. He stood in the corridor, peering this way and that, thinking only of his toys.

  It was five minutes later that Millie noticed he was gone.

  ‘Where’s Oli?’ she said.

  Sam and Ruskin were arguing about scores and didn’t hear her. One of the receptionists had found a loudhailer and was explaining her legal duties according to the health-and-safety executive. There was a cold wind blowing and it swept across the car park in gusts.

  Millie’s eyes jumped from group to group. A cluster of men squatted together, drinking from beer cans. A young couple were locked in an embrace, kissing. A toddler seemed to be imitating the fire alarm and its parents were trying to silence it. She walked briskly back to the reception area. If Oli had stayed inside – or gone back to the room to rescue something – could he find his way out? She imagined him frightened and alone, and quickened her step.

  Once inside, she was faced by the same four corridors that had confused Oli.

  She thought hard, but couldn’t remember which one led to their room. She couldn’t even remember the room number – Mrs Tack had done the business. She chose a corridor at random and pushed through the first fire-door. As it closed behind her, she started to jog. She needed to be fast if she had four corridors to search. She was about to call the boy’s name, when she heard the most dreadful sound. It stopped her in mid-step and her body went ice-cold. The noise was close and the corridor gave it a terrible echo.

  It was the roar of something wild. And there was the stink of animal.


  Chapter Four

  ‘Help . . .’ said a voice.

  Millie felt her heart lurch and she was drenched with sweat. She was looking at Oli. He was in the elbow of the corridor, just ahead of her, his back pressed against the wall. He was looking straight ahead, at something dreadfully, dangerously black. It was a cat and it was huge. As the fire-door clicked shut behind her, the beast spun round in panic – then it jerked itself backwards, ready to spring. Shoulders, paws, and a gigantic head; its mouth was slavering, lips pulled back to reveal a shark’s mouth full of monstrous teeth. She couldn’t move, she was held by the flashing eyes. The jaws were opening, it was ready to spring.

  ‘Millie, don’t move! Don’t move!’

  As Oli spoke, the cat spun again, unsure who to confront. Millie realised it was as terrified as she was. She tried to scream, but she simply didn’t have the air to do it. She would die in silence, because the beast was turning once more, as if it had made up its mind. It was growling – a long, low, quavering groan as it went down low on its haunches. Its head was on one side, touching the floor, a demented look in its eyes. The claws were getting longer, sharp as meat-hooks.

  ‘Oy!’ said a voice.

  Millie felt a hand on her shoulder. Strong fingers gripped her. They eased her back, slowly. She’d heard nobody, but then she’d been transfixed, waiting to die. The voice came again and she noticed a thick accent. The hand was drawing her back.

  ‘Slowly, huh? Ver’, ver’ slow . . .’

  She tried to speak but, like the receptionist, her jaws had been locked by the shock.

  The voice whispered in her ear, ‘Stay behin’ me, alright? You OK now . . .’

  Then, presumably to the cat, the voice hissed, ‘You stay there and don’ you even move!’

  Millie was drawn backwards. She smelled the sweat of the man, and now she saw him: he was short and powerful.

  ‘Stay righ’ behind me,’ he whispered.

  To Oli, he said, ‘Keep still!’

  The man wore pyjama bottoms and a vest. He had coarse black hair and huge shoulders: he was half animal himself, with dark skin covered in tattoos. He took a step towards the cat: it snarled, less confidently.

  ‘Please help,’ said Oli.

  ‘Shh!’

  The man dropped to his knees. He put his hand on the animal’s snout, gently, and massaged its head. The cat relaxed slowly out of its awful attack-stance, but opened its mouth yet wider. The snarl turned into a yawn and the beast flopped onto its side.

  The man rubbed the cat hard, between the ears, hard enough to hurt. Then he took it by the chin with his other hand and knelt over it. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, gently. ‘I go for jus’ five minutes!’

  The cat lifted a foreleg and pawed him gently; Millie saw that the man’s right arm was covered in scars.

  Oli was still against the wall, peering down, his hands over his mouth.

  ‘Five minutes,’ said the man again. ‘I jus’ go to the truck for a little check, and – man-oh-man, end of the world! She so scared. Very scared, aren’t you, baby? Huh? What’s going on? is that what you thinking, eh?’ He was crooning, as if to a baby in a pram, and all the time stroking the huge head.

  He looked round at Millie. ‘You don’t say anything, OK?’ he said. ‘I am so sorry, but you get her so scared. We better go.’ He looked back at Oli. ‘This is big trouble – I am so sorry, I don’ know why I come in here.’

  He pulled the animal’s head right round and the cat got to its feet and allowed itself to be led. As the animal faced him, Oli went into spasms, his hands shaking; a high-pitched cry wavered out of him.

  ‘Is OK, OK!’ said the man. ‘She was thinking you dangerous, but she knows now. Is OK, keep still! Give me your hand.’

  Oli tried to snatch his arm out of the way, but the man caught it by the blazer sleeve. He took the child’s wrist and led the palm over the cat’s head. Slowly, carefully, he brought it round to the muzzle.

  ‘OK, you see? Now she knows . . . Now she know there’s no problem. Follow me.’

  ‘I want my brother,’ said Oli.

  ‘One minute, jus’ come with me one minute. Both of you.’

  ‘Come where?’ said Millie. She barely recognised her own voice. ‘I think we should leave.’

  ‘One minute.’

  The man led his cat along the corridor. It had a heavy, powerful walk, and from behind Millie could see that its belly was huge and heavy.

  Five doors down, they came to one that was open: a section round the handle had been broken and was jagged shards of wood.

  ‘Oh, Violetta!’ groaned the man. ‘You gonna get me in such trouble: we gotta go, right now . . .’

  The cat’s mood had changed. It was surly and bored, and it ambled into the room, clambering straight up onto the bed. The stink of wild animal was heavier than ever. Millie and Oli watched transfixed as the cat turned and turned, the bed-frame groaning under the weight. The sheets were torn and filthy. The cat settled; it dropped into comfortable repose and yawned again, as if to show off those magnificent fangs.

  ‘What is it?’ said Millie.

  ‘Is a panther. Is a black panther.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Oli, ‘I thought . . . that . . . it was going to eat me.’

  ‘She don’ want to eat no one; she’s got other things on her mind. She gonna sling the babes any day now, I think tonight maybe. Thass why I put her in my room.’

  ‘Oh . . . she’s pregnant!’ said Oli.

  ‘Course she’s pregnant – look at her! She got five or six babes there. Boy-oh-boy, she get scared so easy, man. You knock on the door, or what?’

  ‘No,’ said Oli. ‘I was looking for my room. I was walking past and I heard the noise, and I thought someone was . . . possibly interfering with my things . . . And then suddenly . . .’ The child’s voice was wobbling. ‘I was trapped!’

  ‘Is OK,’ said the man. ‘You did good – you a very brave boy.’

  ‘I thought I ought to stay calm, but she looked at me . . . She didn’t seem to like me very much.’

  The man was packing his things. ‘Well, you mustn’t take that personal! She jus’ got a lot on her mind. They go crazy with the babes; all the animals do.’ He had a small holdall on a chair and was stuffing bits and pieces into it. The panther was starting to purr with a deep, recharging sort of sound.

  Oli moved a trembling hand towards its ribs.

  ‘Yeah, you can touch her. No problem, now she knows you.’

  ‘You could have been killed, Oli,’ said Millie. ‘What the hell were you doing, wandering off by yourself?’

  Oli said, ‘I was looking for our models!’

  ‘Where’s your parents?’ said the man. ‘This is going to be big problem for me, you start telling everyone. Jeez, every little simple thing in this country go so wrong.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ said Millie.

  ‘São Paulo. You know São Paulo? Big city in Brazil.’

  ‘I know the airport,’ said Millie. ‘It’s where I bought these.’ She produced a crumpled cigarette packet. ‘What are you? A circus?’

  ‘No. Just a big mess is what I am – my name’s Flavio.’

  ‘Flav—?’

  ‘It’s Portuguese.’

  ‘Why are you keeping a panther in your room? Shouldn’t he be in a cage?’

  ‘It’s not a boy, OK? She’s a girl: Violetta. Look at her, man – how can you say she’s a boy? And she was in a cage, she’s always in a cage. I take her to my room because any time now, she’s gonna sling the babes. The truck’s freezing. No one’s sleeping out there, not with the heating like it is – truck’s a whole pile a . . . rubbish, that’s another story. So, yeah, I took a chance. Sometimes you gotta take chances. You gotta cigarette in there? Then we gotta go.’

  She passed one to him. ‘We’ve nearly been killed, haven’t we?’

  ‘No way. There’s a-no way she kills you. She would a-messed you up pretty bad, maybe you don’t do no mor
e walking. They don’t know strength, thass the problem. I mean, the little boy – one bite and he’s in a-two pieces, yeah? She’s so hungry as well.’

  He went into the bathroom and started gathering up his things. ‘We run outta food, is a big problem. We run outta everything. They catch me here . . . they see that . . .’ He nodded at the splintered door. Then he lowered his voice. ‘I got no licences, no insure, nothing.’

  As he said it, there was a knock and the smashed door swung open. The panther growled and there stood an impatient-looking Ruskin.

  ‘Oliver!’ he cried, seeing his brother. ‘Where on earth have you been? You won’t believe the problems you’ve caused . . .’

  He saw the panther. The problems died on his lips.

  ‘Oh boy!’ said Flavio, in despair. ‘How many of you are there? Come in slow! Talk soft, alright?’

  Jacob Ruskin was laden with bags and boxes. He’d managed to gather up the models and was now standing transfixed. ‘That is the most beautiful cat I’ve ever seen!’ he said. ‘Oh my word, look at that! How old is she? Look at her coat!’

  ‘Seven years, but she’s in great condition, yeah? Considering.’

  ‘Jake!’ said Oli. ‘I nearly got eaten – so did Millie!’

  ‘Oh, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?’ He put his boxes down and walked forward carefully. The fire alarms had been turned off and in the distance you could hear the sirens of emergency vehicles. ‘She must be due any time!’ said Ruskin. ‘What a beauty!’

  The panther purred, as a surprisingly fearless Ruskin moved in close and gently stroked her belly. Violetta’s snake-eyes opened, glowing.

  ‘We had a cat like this, didn’t we, Oli? She had six kittens.’