On the beat Pete (2)

“The only language they understand is brute force.”

Sergeant Ingold was explaining our tactics for dealing with the looters. Since the shop closures that followed the tiger’s escape from the zoo, a new wave of looting had started: not people stealing flat screen TVs from Comet and Currys, but the looting of corner shops and Tesco Expresses for food. And not the thugs and criminal gangs that had led the last wave, this was people from all classes and all ages, city men in suits, even little old ladies. As Ingold said “Everyone’s a criminal now, which means it’s us against the rest of the world.”

The police had learnt from the first round of rioting that any disturbance must be nipped in the bud. Helicopter surveillance ensured that a rapid response team could be sent to any trouble spot within minutes.

I was volunteered to help. There were about 200 police with riot shield surrounding the store they were looting, a Tesco Express. A malicious hoard of criminals were loading up with their ill-gotten gains.

“Why are we waiting,” I asked Sergeant Ingold. The looters had by now realised we were there and had started to bombard us with stolen tins, as well as the usual stones, bricks and bottles.

“Special orders apparently, we’re to wait for backup.”

“Backup, but there’s two hundred of us, we outnumber them four to one. What backup do we need.”

Ingold shrugged his shoulders aggressively, I could tell he wasn’t happy at hanging around, he was itching for a fight.

A tension boiled the air around as both sides waited. Nothing happened.

The crowds charged into our shields trying to escape, but couldn’t find a way through. The surge ceased and the waiting continued. Nothing happened, normal pay turned into overtime pay, day turned into dusk.

Suddenly a flurry of activity broke out behind me. Six trucks pulled up just behind our line, the was a further surge of activity and then the back of the trucks opened, just behind us.

Out of each of the six trucks came six tigers, six huge, ravenous looking beasts, each of them over twelve foot long, all armed with claws each of which was more deadly than a flick knife. The tigers were kept on leashes by six police handles, who struggled with their charges but managed just about to stop them

The six tigers were led to the front line. One of them was just behind where I stood, I could hear its ominous purr behind me and my spine tingled with fear. I stepped well away from the tiger as he inched forward, and in this way six tiger-sized gaps appeared in the police line, through which the tigers were marched. Then an order was barked out from somewhere, the tigers released the tigers, who charges hungrily and angrily into the mob.

Chaos broke out. The tigers were savage, brutal and deadly. Some of the looters tried to fight, but even those with knives had no chance against tiger claws, a naturally evolved killing machine.

The looters besieged our lines again, this time in a desperate surge, trying to escape the bloodshed. We held firm and shoved the looters back to the fate.

One of the handlers was standing next to me, watching proceedings. “I don’t understand,” I said to him, “I thought the state of emergency was caused by one escaped tiger, but it turns out we have the tigers.”

“These aren’t tigers,” he said grimly, “these are tiger children.”

That made no sense, for the tigers were all fully grown adults, but he made no attempt to explain further. We stood in silence for a long time watching the tiger children, if that’s what they really were, savage their way through the looters.

Eventually it was all over. The looters were defeated, lying in pools of blood, Tesco Express looked like the fields of the Somme, shelves overturned, tins, smashed bottles and jars and packets of cornflakes decorating the dead, injured and dying.

The tiger children were recalled, muzzled and leashed by their handlers. With resistance measuring zero the police went in to arrest the survivors, dragging the handcuffed injured into awaiting ambulances.

I didn’t join in the arrests, I wasn’t needed. I stood and watched as five of the tiger children were bundled back into their trucks, which then proceeded to drive off, back to wheresoever they came.

The handler near me however, couldn’t find his tiger child. I watched him combing through the wreckage, lifting planks, bodies and jars, as if a tiger might be hiding underneath. But there is no sign of his tiger child, nowhere is it to be seen. Somehow in the chaos another tiger has escaped.

It seems as if I am the only one to notice, as the mood amongst the men is jubilant, the first great victory of our campaign.

From the wreckage untouched bottles of beer, wine and whisky are retrieved and handed out amongst the boys and we drank a toast to our victory, as the corpses of our foes lay around us and, somewhere, out there, a tiger child ran free.