Tiger, Tiger (My Once Upon A Deadline story)

Finally got internet back...

Little bit of an interlude. I couldn’t repost, because I’ve been without 3G. Also been editing so there wasn’t much to show. The police station didn’t have a crime report for me and the officers were out or busy, so I made some notes and came to have something to eat! It’s possible the schedule could be a little ameliorated by having a lunch break, because if there’s one thing that’s true about writing it’s that you can’t do it on an empty stomach. So I’ve come back to Book and Kitchen to write/edit. And another thing has changed – Tiger is now a girl. But more may totally change because I like to edit down a LOT.

The first thing I read when I come to London was this sign. It said,

‘Russell Henderson 1924 something and something Pan Artist’.

‘What the fuck is a pan artist?’ Tiger said.

‘I dunno,’ I said, imagining something with frying pans and meat in it, like really good bacon.

The second thing I read was in paint on a lamppost, it said, Total Bitch Club, with a sign over it like on twitter, like #

‘Total Bitch Club. We should start that, right? I’d be bitch leader and you’d be my totally cunty sidekick.’

We walked down this street that looked like it was out of Harry Potter.

‘Look at that shop,’ said Tiger.

She stood in front of it like she was challenging it, her legs apart, her hair short and ginger. I’ve looked before on a sleepover, but I couldn’t find her stripes.

Above the shop window it said ‘Book and something’.

‘I bet that’s well posh. Let’s go in.’

‘No, Tiger!’ I reached out for her but she’d already hopped off. She was like that. Darty and wild. Bouncy and unpredictable. Most of the time, it was fun and that was why we were friends. Tiger took me out of my shell. I’ve always been a bit nervous. But when Tiger was sad, she just started yelling and slapping things, like kitchen cupboards and people and stuff.

Inside looked like where someone rich would live, like an old lady who always sat up straight and drank tea next to her thin glass window with the white lines across it. It looked like the kind of place you sometimes see in those films set in Notting Hill.

‘Are we in Notting Hill?’

‘Don’t be thick,’ said Tiger.

‘Yeah but are we?’

Tiger shrugged, grinning. We were in that bubble again, just the two of us, with all the camaraderie and the greatness and the knowing what each other is thinking and thinking the same thing at the same time. I wanted to reach out and sink my fingers into her skin. I wanted to be part of her; her torso or even just a limb. I could be Tiger’s lily-white arm with her freckles on, wiry and muscular and close to her breast. I wanted to brush her hair back off her face and press into her pillow at night. I wanted to brush her skinny chest and flip people off for her. We stood there looking at each other, with our eyes all crinkled up at the corners.

‘May I help you?’ said the man at the desk.

We both looked at him liked he was rude, interrupting.

‘Can’t you fucking see we’re in love?’ said Tiger.

I hadn’t really noticed him. He was a piece of furniture that belonged to this world we weren’t a part of, like there’s all these polite books in their neat jackets and there’s this polite guy in his neat jacket. Tiger looked so out of place.