Above His Station by Darren Craske Page B

popped off to fetch him some milk.
    ‘Blimey,’ said the rat. ‘He’s big…isn’t he?’
    ‘Very,’ I agreed, with a gulp.
    ‘Are lions supposed to grow that big?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been this close to one before.’
    ‘So how do you want to play this?’
    ‘Carefully,’ I responded.
    ‘Okay…great tactic. Carefully, yeah. That ought to do it. So…you’ve got this right?’
    ‘Everything is in hand, if that’s what you mean, yes,’ I lied.
    ‘Good. Well…if you need me at any point I’ll be hiding in my usual spot.’
    ‘That fills me full of such confidence, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for saying that you were brave earlier.’
    ‘Apology accepted,’ said the rat. ‘Just remember you’ve got about twenty-six minutes in which to do your level best not to fuck this up.’
    I was about to open my mouth and tell the rat that I had no intention of doing such a thing, when I was approached by an ocelot. It patrolled around my perimeter and then stopped directly in front of me, preventing me from getting any closer to the King.
    ‘You shouldn’t be in here, human,’ it snarled. ‘Unless someone ordered a take-out and didn’t tell me. Get out before I call security.’
    Here we go again, I thought. ‘Look, there’s no need for that. I just want a quick word with the King, if it’s all the same to you. It won’t take more than five minutes.’
    ‘His Majesty is busy right now,’ said the obstinate ocelot, thumbing (or whatever the ocelot equivalent of a thumb is) over its shoulder. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
    ‘I can’t do that,’ I said, firmly. ‘It’s imperative that I speak with him now .’
    ‘What’s imperative is for you to walk on out of here before I order the royal guards to throw you out.’ The ocelot thumbed over its other shoulder and four burly black panthers stepped into view from the shadows either side of the throne. They were wearing what appeared to be home-made armour fashioned from abstract pieces of metal covering their chests, legs and skulls. There was a whole pile of scrap stacked up against the wall, obtained from the vacant vehicles in the car park, I assumed. Hub caps, wing-mirrors; dented boots and bonnets and such-like. Generally, there tends to be only one reason why someone suits themselves up in armour, and specifically, that tends to be so they can inflict lots of pain on someone else whilst remaining protected themselves - which, all things considered, was bad news for me.
    ‘Don’t wimp out on me now, Gramps,’ said my conscience, in this case happening to take the form of a small, grey and cowardly rat tucked underneath my collar. ‘This is only the monkey; we need to speak to the organ grinder, remember?’
    ‘It’s not a monkey, in case it’s slipped your notice,’ I whispered.
    ‘Are you still here?’ asked the ocelot, shooing me away with its front paws.
    I half-turned, feeling a crack in my resolve, but then I remembered why I was there, why I had travelled so far – both figuratively and literally. I couldn’t give up, I couldn’t give in. Even if I was to die in this place, then at least I’d know that I’d given it my all. I had held my own and made Molly proud. I had died a good man doing what was right. But one thing was for certain; if I really was going to die (which was not on my agenda, strictly speaking, although it was looking increasingly likely) then it wasn’t going to be at the hands of a bunch of medieval panthers, not when the king of the jungle was only a whisker away.
    I commenced a forceful stride and the ocelot had two choices: try to stop me or get out of my way. Not even the rapid approach of the armoured panthers could put me off.
    ‘ No! ’ I heard myself command. ‘I must speak with the King!’
    The entire enclosure went suddenly silent. The panthers froze. The dancing leopards and assorted cats ceased their cavorting. The big cat band’s drums stopped as the