Tiger Trouble

by Justin D'Ath

  ‘And giving you work,’ I added. ‘As pickpockets.’

  The boy nodded.

  It was all starting to make sense. Mr Gutta had a gang of orphans working for him as professional pickpockets. In exchange for what they stole, he provided them with food and shelter.

  ‘How many of you are there?’ I asked, remembering the other boy who had jumped into the car just before it sped away.

  ‘It is five, sir,’ said the boy. ‘At first we are six, but Pritam got the very bad malaria and he could not anymore do the stealing.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I do not know, sir. One day Mr Gutta is taking him in his car and Pritam he does not come back.’

  I hoped Mr Gutta took the sick boy to a hospital, but something told me he hadn’t. He didn’t sound like a very nice man.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Kasime, sir.’

  ‘I’m Sam Fox,’ I said, tugging his arm. ‘Come with me, Kasime. You and I are going to have a word with Mr Gutta.’

  Kasime pulled the other way, but I was too strong for him.

  ‘You should not go there, Mr Samfox,’ he pleaded as I pulled him along behind me. ‘Mr Gutta is being too angry to you.’

  I thrust out my chin. ‘Well, let’s see who’s more angry – Mr Gutta or me.’

  The answer was Mr Gutta.

  In the short time since I’d left the car, a huge crowd had gathered around it. They must have been people walking home from the cricket. Already they weren’t in a good mood because India had lost the final. When they came upon the wrecked Ambassador, Mr Gutta must have spun them some tale about an Australian cricket fan who’d chased his car off the road and caused it to crash. It made their mood even worse.

  As Kasime and I emerged from the shadowy trees, I heard Mr Gutta yell something in Hindi. About a hundred angry faces looked where he was pointing.

  Straight at me.

  ‘What did he say, Kasime?’ I asked, releasing the boy’s arm.

  The young pickpocket didn’t exactly answer my question. Instead, he gave me some good advice.

  ‘You should run, Mr Samfox.’

  4

  FOX HUNT

  There used to be a sport called fox hunting. About fifty men and women on horseback, and a huge pack of specially trained dogs, would hunt down a single, unfortunate fox.

  That’s how I felt when the angry crowd came after me. Like the fox in a fox hunt. But this Fox had a slight advantage over a four-legged one. My pursuers weren’t on horseback. And they didn’t have dogs. But many of them were fit young men in their teens or early twenties – they were just as fast as me.

  And one was faster.

  I had only gone half a block when I heard quick footsteps slapping along the hard footpath behind me. Gaining on me with every stride. I glanced over my shoulder. My pursuer was the same height as me, but thinner and faster – a human version of a whippet.

  They don’t use whippets to chase foxes.

  I slammed on the anchors, spun around and put up a karate forearm block. Whippet Man wasn’t expecting it. He sidestepped to avoid being hit. It threw him off balance. I stuck my leg out, tripping him up. He went down directly in front of three more fast runners. They couldn’t stop. All three tumbled over Whippet Man and sprawled across the footpath in a heap.

  Four down, ninety-six to go, said the little voice in my head.

  Impossible odds.

  The rest of the crowd came swarming towards me, yelling threats in English and Hindi. Who knew what lies Mr Gutta had told them, but he must have been convincing.

  I turned and went charging off down the shadowy footpath with the angry mob hot on my heels. I couldn’t let them catch me. But I was running out of breath. My legs were turning to jelly. And I was getting a stitch.

  I had to find somewhere to hide.

  The park was behind me now. I was running along next to a high wall decorated with paintings and little statues that looked half animal, half human. There was an arched gateway ahead, with the huge, round dome of a temple looming against the night sky behind it. People were coming through the gateway. Lots of them. They completely blocked the footpath. It was too dark to see them clearly, but they didn’t sound like cricket followers.

  Drums were thumping and bells were tinkling. Someone was blowing a trumpet. Then a line of people spilled out through the gateway carrying flaming firebrands on long sticks. They marched straight onto the road, stopping two lanes of traffic.

  It was the start of a street procession.

  I raced towards it with the angry mob behind me. Just before I got there, a gap opened in the line of marchers coming through the gate. Perfect timing! Without breaking my stride, I went charging into the gap.

  But there was a reason for the break in the procession. Next in line was something very big.

  I didn’t see it until it was too late.

  WHAM!

  What happened next was a little unclear. I found myself on the ground with an elephant looming over me. It was the strangest elephant I had ever seen, painted all over with pink, yellow and green flowers. There was a huge garland of real flowers around its neck.

  I must have been a bit dazed because I didn’t feel scared. I should have been scared – it was a four-tonne elephant and I was lying between its front legs. A mahout was dragging on one of its ears, trying to make it walk backwards. A bare-chested man with his hair tied in a top-knot was pushing against its trunk. Whippet Man was there too, arguing with two men holding drums and a woman in a red sari with flowers around her neck. Everyone was shouting and talking at once. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of me. I started wriggling along the ground away from the elephant.

  A hand touched my shoulder. ‘Mr Samfox, are you being hurted very bad?’

  ‘Kasime!’ I gasped in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have followed these angry mens,’ he whispered, helping me to my feet. ‘Come quickly, before they are seeing you.’

  Too late. There was a shout behind me. Kasime grabbed my hand and pulled me into the procession. It had spread out and become disorganised since I’d collided with the elephant, but most of the marchers were still moving. It was quite dark. The flaming firebrands were twenty or thirty metres ahead. I kept my head down and nobody tried to stop us as we threaded our way deeper into the slow-moving river of people and animals. All around us were people dressed in robes or swishing saris. Some of the men were bald and the tops of their heads were covered with pale smears of what looked like dried custard. A woman wearing hundreds of silver bangles carried a tray of smoking incense. The drums and bells and other musical instruments were very loud.

  ‘I think it is safe,’ Kasime said after about five minutes.

  He led me out of the crowd and we walked quickly away from it down the edge of a busy road. There was no footpath. I had no idea where we were. We had only gone fifty metres when I heard angry shouts. I looked back and saw Whippet Man and about four others come barging out of the procession.

  Instead of running away from them, Kasime dragged me out into the traffic. A single headlight came wobbling towards us. Kasime stepped boldly in front of it, shouting and waving his hand. The headlight swerved and came to a halt. It was an auto-rickshaw, a small three-wheeled taxi with a motorbike engine. Kasime jumped in and yelled at me to climb in after him. He had to yell because about fifty drivers were honking their horns. The auto-rickshaw had stopped in the middle of the road, blocking two lanes of traffic. Kasime yelled something to the driver, who twisted the throttle grip on the strange little vehicle’s motorbike handlebars, and away we went.

  But the tooting didn’t stop. I turned and saw why. Whippet Man and his mates were just behind us, running flat out. Gaining on us with every stride.

  Kasime leaned forward and spoke urgently to our driver. He spoke Hindi, so I didn’t understand him, but in the middle of it I heard: ‘Three hundred rupees.’

  The driver
nodded, then grinned at me over his shoulder.

  ‘Please be holding on tight, sir,’ he said.

  And gunned the throttle.

  Auto-rickshaws aren’t fast, but they’re faster than angry Indian cricket fans. Just. Whippet Man nearly caught up. Then a huge tooting truck sent him scurrying back to the side of the road.

  But the tooting didn’t stop. Our driver kept tooting, too. It took me a few seconds to understand why. We were speeding along the right-hand side of the road – the wrong side! – swerving crazily through a slalom of oncoming headlights.

  ‘What’s he trying to do?’ I gasped.

  ‘It is to get away from those men who are chasing you,’ explained Kasime.

  I gritted my teeth as we nearly collided head-on with a bus. ‘But he’s going to kill us in the process!’

  ‘Do not be worrying, Mr Samfox,’ Kasime said calmly. ‘Indian auto-rickshaw wallah is number one good driver.’

  I hoped so. Fourteen years old was way too young to die. ‘Where’s he taking us?’ I asked.

  Kasime grinned. ‘You are having to tell him which one is your hotel, Mr Samfox.’

  I leaned closer to our driver and shouted the name of the hotel where my family and I were staying. He nodded and said it wasn’t far.

  We came to a huge traffic jam. Everyone else stopped, but our auto-rickshaw zigzagged slowly through the stationary vehicles until there was a clear stretch of road ahead. As we sped up, I looked out the tiny rear window and saw no sign of Whippet Man or the others. We’d escaped.

  ‘Thanks for saving my bacon, Kasime.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘I am not knowing this word – bacon?’

  ‘I meant thanks for helping me. Why did you do it?’

  ‘It is a bad thing I have done for stealing your bag, Mr Samfox. I am most humbly sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ I said.

  Kasime’s teeth flashed in a smile. ‘Are we now being friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ I said, and gave him a high five.

  5

  SURROUNDED

  Our driver took us through a maze of winding streets. Some were so narrow it was a squeeze for the little auto-rickshaw to get through. Brightly-painted balconies overhung the footpaths, and lines of washing pegged on ropes criss-crossed the night sky like flags. It was a slow journey. There were people everywhere. Delhi is really crowded. Its population is nearly two thirds that of the whole of Australia. That’s a lot of people for one city. There are lots of animals, too – long-horned cows and bulls that wander freely through the streets as if they own the place. Packs of stray dogs and semi-wild pigs that forage for scraps of food or stuff that’s fallen off carts. And the donkeys, horses, buffaloes, camels and the occasional elephant that pull the carts. And rats – you see them in every street, running across walls, peeping out of drains, darting about under benches, competing with the dogs and pigs for scraps. I even spotted two monkeys perched on the sagging roof of a street-side stall.

  Finally I saw the big neon sign displaying the name of our hotel. Our driver avoided a pile of smoking embers, where someone had burned their rubbish on the side of the street, and threaded the auto-rickshaw into a tiny gap between two parked taxis. He waited for us to climb out, then held out his hand. I leaned over and shook it.

  ‘Thanks heaps for the ride.’

  But after I let go, the drivers hand remained outstretched.

  Kasime tapped my elbow. ‘You are to be paying him now, Mr Samfox. It is three hundred rupees.’

  Three hundred rupees isn’t much – about ten dollars. But it was more than I could pay. ‘I don’t have any money, Kasime!’ I whispered, feeling really embarrassed.

  Kasime laughed. He must have thought I was joking. ‘All tourists have monies,’ he said.

  ‘My wallet was in my backpack – the one you stole.’

  Now it was Kasime’s turn to be embarrassed. But he recovered quickly. ‘Are you having more monies in your hotel?’

  The answer was yes. Nearly two thousand rupees, hidden in the lining of my suitcase. Dad said it would be safer there than it would be at the cricket. And it turned out he was right.

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ I said, turning to run in to my hotel.

  But my way was blocked.

  Looming over me was a big, sweaty-faced man wearing a souvenir Prakash Shahid T-shirt. And behind him, filling the footpath from one side to the other, were about twenty more men. All sweating, all dressed like cricket supporters.

  ‘It is him!’ cried one of them.

  6

  NERVOUS

  ‘You are Nathan Fox, isn’t it?’ said the Shahid fan.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m just wearing his shirt.’

  Now I knew how they’d found me. The bright yellow-and-green Australian colours really stood out in the crowd. It was like wearing a big sign saying ‘Here I am! Come and get me!’

  ‘You are very much looking like Nathan Fox, another man said suspiciously.

  I wasn’t sure what was going on. Were they after me because of what Mr Gutta had told them, or because they thought I was my famous brother? I guessed Nathan wasn’t very popular in India right now.

  ‘I’m not him,’ I said. ‘I am from Australia, but I’m only fourteen years old. I’m useless at cricket.’

  ‘His name is Mr Samfox,’ Kasime said, trying to be helpful.

  The Shahid fan examined me closely. ‘You are the cousin of Nathan Fox, isn’t it?’

  I shook my head. Why not tell the truth? ‘I’m his brother.’

  The Shahid fan said something in Hindi, and the circle of Indians closed in. I tensed, expecting the worst.

  Instead, everyone wanted to shake my hand.

  ‘Namaste, brother-of-Nathan Fox.’

  ‘I am too happy to meet you, brother-of-Nathan Fox!’

  ‘How do you do, brother-of-Nathan Fox?’

  It wasn’t the mob who’d been lied to by Mr Gutta. These were genuine cricket fans. They just wanted to meet the brother of a famous cricketer.

  A stooped old man touched my cricket top with admiring fingers. ‘Is this one the real shirt of Nathan Fox?’ he asked.

  It gave me an idea. ‘Do you want it?’ I said. ‘We can swap shirts, if you like.’

  He was rapt. In the middle of the crowded footpath outside my hotel, the old man and I switched shirts. His was a plain white shirt with buttons. It was a bit big. But when I put it on, I looked a lot more like everyone else in the street. And less like Nathan Fox. Most important of all, I didn’t resemble the Australian cricket supporter who Whippet Man and the others might still be looking for.

  After another round of handshakes and good wishes, the crowd dispersed. Kasime and I were free to go up to my hotel room to get the auto-rickshaw fare.

  But the door was locked. My parents and little brothers weren’t back from the cricket yet.

  And I didn’t have a key.

  ‘They will be having a spare key in the office,’ Kasime said.

  I went down to the service desk and explained the situation. The night manager listened gravely, then shook his head. He said I needed to show my passport before he could give me a key to our room.

  ‘Dad’s got my passport,’ I said.

  ‘Then you must wait until your father comes back,’ the manager said.

  I didn’t really blame him. He hadn’t seen me before, and I must have looked a bit shabby in the second-hand white shirt. Without my passport or wallet, there was no way to prove who I was.

  I didn’t know what to do. My parents might not be back for ages. First they’d look for me at the cricket stadium, then they’d probably go to a police station. It might be hours before they got back. I pointed at the phone next to the manager’s elbow.

  ‘Can I make a call, please?’ I asked. ‘I need to tell my parents where I am.’

  The manager kept giving Kasime suspicious looks. I guess they didn’t often get street kids in the hotel. And I must have looked a bit l
ike a street kid, too.

  ‘My parents will be worried sick.’

  No reaction.

  ‘I’m Sam Fox, brother of Nathan Fox – the famous Australian cricketer, I said as a last resort. ‘Look our name up in the register.’

  At last there was a spark of interest in the manager’s eyes. He consulted the register. ‘Very well, Mr Fox,’ he said, finally. ‘You can make one call only. What number is it, please?’

  He dialled the number I gave him, listened for a moment, then passed the phone to me.

  It was Dad’s voicemail. He or Mum must have been using his phone. They were probably calling the police. I left a long message explaining to my parents what had happened and asking them to come back to the hotel as fast as they could.

  But would that be soon enough? The auto-rickshaw driver was still waiting to be paid.

  ‘Can you lend me three hundred rupees?’ I asked the manager.

  He clucked his tongue. ‘This is a hotel, sir. We are not a bank.’

  Kasime must have seen how worried I was. He led me away from the desk. ‘I am knowing where to get the monies,’ he whispered. ‘Come with me.’

  Kasime spoke to the auto-rickshaw driver. He gave him another address. There was a lot of haggling and head shaking. Finally they agreed on a new price – four hundred rupees. The driver told us to get in.

  ‘Where are we going, Kasime?’ I asked as we drove back out into the mad-house traffic.

  ‘To the home of Mr Gutta,’ he said.

  ‘You’re kidding! Mr Gutta isn’t going to lend me any money. Last time I saw him, he looked like he wanted to murder me.’

  ‘Mr Gutta is not there,’ said Kasime. ‘His car is being broken.’

  Good point, I thought. ‘What about Mrs Gutta?’

  ‘Mrs Gutta is the very kind lady to us boys.’

  Only then did I remember that Kasime and the other pickpockets lived at Mr Gutta’s place. It was Kasime’s place, too. So it was all right to go there.