Supping With Panthers by Tom Holland Page A

that the danger must have passed. He had a good laugh about it and I joined in, and I’m afraid we both ended up rather merry that night. We staggered out at quite a latish hour, and since Pumper’s digs were nearer to the Club than mine, he offered to rustle me up a bed for the night. I agreed; Pumper’s house was more pleasant than my quarters anyway, having as it did the family touch, and I was quite content to be staying there. The tonga raided up the drive and stopped outside Pumper’s bungalow; we both clambered out and paid the driver off. All seemed quiet within, so we paused on the verandah and gazed out at the stars. Suddenly, from inside the house we heard a scream, and then a shot rang out.
    We hurried inside, of course, as fast as our legs would carry us. We were met by a terrible sight: Mrs Paxton standing there with a smoking gun and lying on the floor, quite dead, the brahmin. I bent down over the corpse. The bullet, by some miracle, had gone clean through the heart, and as I rolled the body over I looked up with a smile. ‘He’s gone,’ I said.
    But Mrs Paxton was shaking uncontrollably now. ‘No, no,’ she sobbed, ‘you don’t understand.’ She dropped the gun, then turned and pointed to an open door. ‘It’s Timothy. He’s …’ She swallowed. ‘He’s … ’ She burst into tears. ‘He’s dead!
    We hurried into Timothy’s room. The boy was laid out on his bed. His throat had been torn away, and the mosquito net was spattered with blood. ‘No,’ Pumper gasped. ‘No!’ He knelt down beside Timothy’s bed; he reached out to stroke his boy’s hair, then he bent his head forward in the most terrible grief. It quite tore at my heart to see this brave man weep like a babe, and I knew there was nothing I could possibly say. Mrs Paxton had joined him now, and he rose to hold her in his arms. Suddenly, though, I saw her freeze.
    ‘I saw him move,’ she cried out. ‘I tell you, I saw him move!’
    Both Pumper and I stared at Timothy’s face. He wore a smile now, which he had certainly not done before. ‘Well, I’ll be …’ Pumper whispered to himself. Then suddenly Timothy opened his eyes.
    ‘Oh, my dear God,’ laughed Mrs Paxton, ‘he’s alive, he’s alive!’
    ‘Get Eliot,’ I said.
    ‘But why?’ asked Mrs Paxton. ‘You can see he’s all right.’
    ‘Is he?’ I asked. We all turned to look at Timothy. He had half-risen up, and the wound to his throat was still bubbling blood. But it was the look of hunger in his eyes which was most terrible, and the way that it seemed to pinch his white face. ‘Get Eliot,’ I repeated. Mrs Paxton sobbed and turned, and ran out of the room. Pumper and I followed her, bolting the door after us.
    Eliot turned up twenty minutes later. I went into Timothy’s room with him, and I saw the immediate look of despair on his face. ‘Leave me,’ he said. I did as he requested and then, a few minutes later, Professor Jyoti arrived as well.
    ‘I was informed,’ he said and then, without any further explanation, he followed Eliot into Timothy’s room. We heard muffled voices; the two of them seemed to be arguing. Then the door opened again; Eliot came out and spoke to Mrs Paxton. He requested permission to operate; she gave it wordlessly, and Eliot nodded. He looked quite terrible, and I could tell that he didn’t hold out much hope. He closed the door behind him and I heard the key being turned in the lock.
    An hour later he came out again, his shirt covered with blood and failure writ large across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and by George, he looked it. He walked across to Mrs Paxton, took her by the hands and pressed them. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
    He asked the Paxtons not to go into the room, but Pumper insisted. ‘He is … was … my boy,’ he said. I accompanied him in. The room was absolutely spattered with blood. Timothy lay spreadeagled on his bed; he had the look of an anatomist’s specimen, for his chest