Tiger, Tiger (My Once Upon A Deadline story)

Tiger, Tiger

Final Edit: Tiger, Tiger

I was dead hungry when we got to London. First thing I read was this sign. It said,

‘Something Something 1924 something and something Pan Artist lived here’.

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

‘How would I know?’ I said, imagining meat frying on metal, imagining the spit and drool coming off my mouth.

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

‘Total Bitch Club. We should start that, right, Tiger?’ said Lil. ‘I’d be bitch leader and you’d be my nasty sidekick.’

I couldn’t hear her. I was ravenous. I wanted to lick that paint off the base of that lamppost. We were walking down this street that looked right out of Harry Potter, all fancy and with no litter about.

‘Look at that shop,’ said Lil.

She stood like she was challenging it, legs wide, arms crossed. She was well confident, Lil. She always wore big trainers and a shitload of charisma. I thought Mum should’ve called her Tiger instead of me, cause her hair was more ginger than mine and she was fierce. I could hear words loud, coming out her headphones, ‘As you run through my jungle all you hear is rumbles.’

On queue, my stomach made complaining sounds. ‘I’m hungry,’ I muttered.

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

‘Let’s go in then.’

‘Why? You wanna buy a book?’ I sneered at her, feeling my cheeks go hot.

She flipped me off and darted in. Lil was little and quick and ADHD like that. Not like me.

I hesitated at the door. I could see the books from outside, their spines looking so fresh and crunchy, the pages white and smooth like cream, like forbidden fruit. I licked my lips, imagining the cream running over them. I could tell the shop would taste salty and filling, like a hot bag of chips. I was greedy for that. I wanted to feel it clog my throat.

Inside reminded me of rich people who drink afternoon tea from china cups and don’t think books is just for pussies.

 ‘Are we in Notting Hill?’ I said, thinking about that film.

‘Don’t be thick,’ said Lil.

‘Yeah but are we?’

Lil shrugged. ‘Why don’t you read the fucking road signs?’

She flipped open a book. 

I wanted to smack her for that, but I didn’t. Sometimes I get so frustrated I want to bash Lil’s head in. I stand there and try to think of something witty to say, but I’m not clever enough and I get that hunger again, like I could take that book she’s skimming through, and just to punish her for making it look so easy, like it means nothing to her, I’d munch through the lot of it.

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

We both stared at him suspiciously. I hadn’t expected him to speak. He looked like furniture; all these polite books in their neat jackets in this shop and there’s this polite guy in his neat jacket. He looked full and content and his cheeks were rosy. I felt sallow and shrunken and malnourished. My eyes drifted longingly towards a book with big, black writing on it. I imagined pointing out the tip of my tongue and drawing it gently up that cover, then mashing my lips against the pages til they were wet enough to bite through.