The Caged Tiger

A work of fiction

The man called Jackson sat on three mattresses stacked one on top of the other next to a blown-out window covered in black muslin. He read Ian Fleming’s ‘The Living Daylights’ by the light of a portable lantern, which cast a soft amber glow on him, the mattresses, the paperback, and the yawning emptiness of the fourth floor apartment.

His location was well chosen for the job he had to do. The apartment building on the outskirts of the city was held upright by little more than gravity and mold. Most people avoided the area entirely. But one person, Jackson knew, had no choice but to pass within fifty meters of the crumbling concrete structure.

‘Ian Fleming’s short works aren’t as well constructed as his novels,’ he said to no one as he glanced at his black plastic watch. ‘Certainly better written than anything Tom Clancy’s ever shit out, but in general the short works aren’t as Bondsian as the full length novels.’ Jackson liked to speak out loud every once in a while, if only so he could remember how his voice sounded.

He closed the book on his finger, and glanced around the empty apartment. He was using his open rucksack as a pillow. A Pelican rifle case sat open and empty at the foot of the mattresses. The rifle itself was secured to a stout aluminum tripod. A long silencer jutted from the tip of the rifle and a telescopic sight was bolted on top of the barrel. ‘My life is like a Bond novel without any women or intrigue.’ The room didn’t even respond with an echo.

Soon the sun would set, and Jackson would have to turn off the lantern, shove the paperback into the rucksack, and throw the muslin cloth to the side. And then he would go. Maybe later in the week he’d buy another Bond novel, perhaps one printed in Farsi or Cantonese. He was rusty in both languages.

Jackson opened the book again and settled himself more comfortably on the mattresses. Every so often his ear twitched at the sound of some distant gunshot, some other distant explosion. In the story, Bond had some pantywaist bureaucrat with him who was constantly second-guessing his decisions, and threatening to report him to M. But all Bond wanted to do was read his bondage/rape fantasy novel, shoot a Russian, and maybe try to bang the blonde with the cello case. Jackson smiled at a particular description of the pulp novel Bond read while he waited to take his shot. ‘There are no more true pulp novels,’ said Jackson.

An unexpected scraping sound caused him to throw the book down and whip a small pistol out of his rucksack. There was no need to go for the rifle: the sound was coming from within the building, the room in fact. Jackson pressed a button on the side of the pistol, and a thin red dot appeared on the apartment door. He waited. And waited.

Then another scraping sound, followed by the sound of nails scratching against metal. This time it came from the corner of the room, where the plaster had crumbled to reveal rusted pipes and moldy concrete supports. A small gray something burst out of the opening and Jackson would have shot, but a second larger gray something burst out immediately afterwards. He let out a long, slow breath, and put the pistol down. The cat chased the mouse across the room, trapped it in a corner, and with a swipe of a white paw captured its prey.

Jackson listened to the crunch-munch sound of the cat eating the mouse as he checked his watch. There were a few minutes of daylight left. He tried returning to the novel, but was intrigued by the spectacle of the cat having its supper. There had been no pets where he grew up: the discipline was strict, and animals weren’t considered fit for companionship. But as he grew older and no less lonesome, the idea of a cat began to hold particular interest. Something self-reliant, that desired company but could live without it just as easily. Just like this cat – who now that he could see clearly had black and gray stripes, white paws and neck – catching mice in a war zone.

After a few minutes, apparently sated, the cat sat on its haunches and licked itself clean. Jackson smiled, said ‘Such a fastidious little killer, you are.’ At the sound of his voice the cat seemed to realize it wasn’t alone, froze mid-lick and stared at the stack of mattresses.

The company of the little furball appealed to him, and he didn’t want to risk scaring it back into the wall. He sat still and waggled his fingers a little to entice the cat closer. It started to paw its way across the room, and leapt on top of the mattress next to him.

‘Hi tabby,’ said Jackson in what he hoped was a soothing voice. The cat purred loudly. He put his hand tentatively on the cat’s matted fur, expecting it to leap off the mattresses and back into the wall. Instead it purred even louder and Jackson rested his hand on the back of the cat’s head. It closed its eyes and lay down next to his sprawled form.

‘What a fine creature,’ he said. He checked his watch again. There was still time. He scratched behind the ears, under the chin and along its back. Jackson forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. All his attention was focused on the warmth of the fur and the sound coming from deep within the cat. ‘I must’ve been a crazy cat lady in a past life. This feels way too good.’

The cat opened its eyes and stared at him. Jackson thought for a second, then slowly picked the pistol up and clicked the laser sight back on. Immediately the cat’s ears pricked up, and looked ready to attack a new piece of prey. The sight of the cat playing filled the assassin with warmth as he swept the laser across the room. A giddy, childish expression spread across his face as the cat scrambled up and across the floor, along the base of the walls, and finally back to the mattresses. The cat stopped dead when Jackson turned the laser off. It licked one of its paws, hopped back on the mattress, and rested against Jackson again.

The cat purred loudly, but it sounded wrong. It took a moment, and then he realized it was the sound of distant engines approaching quickly. A glance at his watch and he forgot all about the cat. He sprang off the mattresses, extinguished the lantern, and tore the muslin off the window. The sun had set, and the sound Jackson had been waiting for all night was suddenly loud in his ears. He adjusted the rifle mount as the roar became deafening. There it was. There. He pulled the trigger.

After a few seconds, Jackson pulled his eye off the scope and gently began disassembling the mount. A mistake had almost been made and his heart beat loudly. He detected movement in the room, and turned. After a few beats his eyes registered in the darkness, and then he saw it. The cat sat in front of the hole in the wall, looking reproachfully at Jackson.

‘Impossible,’ thought Jackson. ‘It’s just a stupid cat. It can’t reproach.’

But there it was. With a silent jump, the cat disappeared back into the wall.