The Pytchley Panther

Dusk had settled around the Northamptonshire village pub on a chilly April evening, and the locals were settling in for the night.  The talk was mostly the usual chatter: the quality of the beer; whether it was about time the farmer cleared the sheep off the cricket pitch; whether putting up a sign saying “Under Surveillance” in a lay-by was equivalent to saying “Feel free to fly-tip here”.  Despite the advance of Spring, it was still cold enough for the landlord to have lit the authentic coal-effect gas fire, and the flames gave a cheerful glow to the public bar.
 
The locals heard the outer door open, and then close with the usual bang.  They shook their heads sadly, reflecting – for the thousandth time – that the spring was too strong, and the landlord wanted to get one with a bit less bounce.  A man whom they did not recognise walked in through the inner door into the bar, and requested a double whisky.  When the landlord obliged, the man downed it in one, and immediately asked for another. 
“You want to be careful, drinking at that rate,” remarked the local with the bright-red tie and a nose to match.  “You can't drink like that all night.”

The stranger turned and looked at him.  The red-tied local could see that the pupils in the man’s eyes were wide, and as he held the second glass of whisky his hands were clearly shaking.   Either the man was permanently on the bottle, or he was incredibly scared.  Taking a closer look, Red-tie could see that the man’s shoes and the bottom half of his trousers were covered in thick, reddy-brown mud.  He had clearly been for a hike across country, and hadn't been too careful about where he went. He was sweating freely.
 
“I've been running for my life.”

“What, that desperate for a drink?” asked the accountant.  He was still in his suit, having popped straight in from work three hours ago and not yet left.

“Well, having a drink wasn't really in my mind twenty minutes ago.  I was just going for a walk down the bridleway over there.”  He jerked his head out of the window, indicating the fields opposite.

“Why don't you have a sit down and tell us all about it?” suggested Accountant. 

The stranger gratefully accepted the suggestion, and perched himself on one of the stools at the bar.  The landlord, and the three locals by the bar, drew themselves just perceptibly closer.  The stranger downed his whisky, asked for a pint of beer, just to settle his nerves, and began.
 
“I decided to walk down from Kettering to Wellingborough.  I'd been visiting my sister, who lives up near the Leisure Village, and I took the train up this morning so I could take the walk back.  It’s been a lovely day for a walk.”  The locals nodded in agreement, with the air of people who would have gone for a walk themselves if they could only have found the time and energy.
 
“I was just heading down the bridleway, thinking I'd only got four or so miles to go.  I'd taken a while finding my way over the fields – what with the farmer keeping a bull in one of them.  Then I saw, over by the edge of one of the fields, something moving in the hedgerow.”

“Probably a rabbit,” suggested the motor mechanic with the blue overalls.
“Bigger than a rabbit,” replied the stranger.

“More likely a fox,” chipped-in Red-tie.
 
“Well I thought maybe a fox,” replied the stranger.  “So I wasn't too concerned.  I carried on up the lane, thinking only a few more minutes and I could branch off towards Hardwick.”
 
”Of course, it could have been an alpaca.  They keep those down at Hardwick,” suggested Blue Overalls.  “Or even an ostrich.”

“Believe me, it was neither an alpaca nor an ostrich.  It was about three feet high, and maybe five feet long.
 
“Maybe it was a very short-legged, long-bodied alpaca,” suggested Blue Overalls, unwilling to give up his suggestion.   The stranger took another swig of his pint.  He was seeming to settle down as the alcohol in his system started to take effect.

“Well, I pretty soon saw it a lot more clearly.  As I headed up towards the main road, it was cutting along the hedgerow towards me.  I was starting to think it was tracking me.  So I turned off onto the path across the fields, and headed down in this direction.  I thought, at least I'll know if it really is after me.”

“So what happened?” asked Red-tie. 

“It started to change direction.  The further I came along the footpath, the closer it was getting – not running after me, just – well, just keeping within striking distance.  It was like a very large black cat.  So I quickened my stride a bit, and so did he.  So I got a bit quicker, and so did he.  Eventually – well, to cut a long story short, I panicked.  I ran straight across the field, and dived through the hedge to come out by the road.  He came after me - leapt straight over the hedge – and turned on  me.  I saw his evil yellow eyes, and those big yellow teeth.  But just as I was getting ready to fight, and thinking this is a fine end to the evening, a car came past, and the cat ran off back into the fields.  I belted off this way and into the village as fast as I could, and I thought to myself that what I really needed was a drink.”

“Don’t blame you.  Here – let me get you another,” said Accountant, genuinely impressed with the visitor’s story.

“Well, I never heard of anything like that,” remarked Blue Overalls.
 
“Haven't you?  I have.”  The voice came from the corner of the room, where the Domino Player had been sitting quietly.  Having no-one who wanted to play dominoes that evening, he had been reading the health scares in the Daily Mail. “It’s the Pytchley Panther.”  He said the words as if they would all immediately know what he was talking about.”

“The Pytchley What?” asked Red Tie.

“Panther.  Don't you remember?  Old Bernie saw it down on the Boughton Road, as he was cycling back to Orlingbury.”
 
”Yes,” replied Accountant, “but he said it could just have been a trick of the light.”

“Then there were the chickens at Church Farm.  They lost twelve in one night.”
”But wasn't that a fox?” asked Red Tie, who was a keen supporter of hunting.

“Not with paw-prints like the ones they had round the pen.  They were cat’s paws, but as big as a St Bernard’s.  And then there was the sheep down at Hill Top.  Had its throat ripped out.”

”Dogs?” suggested the Accountant.  the Domino Player shrugged his shoulders, and took a pull from his pint.

“And then there was Dan.  He was down at the Golf Course, just about seven o'clock in the evening last week.  And he said he saw a giant cat, outlined against the sky.  Just seemd to be sniffing the air.  He needed a pint afterwards, as well.  There’s no doubt about it.  Our friend here has had a run-in with the Pytchley Panther.”
 
”So what is anyone doing about it?” asked the stranger.
 
“Well, the farmers have been out looking, with a view to gunning it down, but it’s an elusive little pussy cat.  After all, at that size, it can cover a lot of ground in an hour or so.  I dare say they'll get it in the end, but who knows what damage it might do in the meantime?” The stranger finished his drink, stood up and headed for the door. “You going to finish your walk, then?” asked Red Tie.  The stranger looked at them, shook his head slightly, grinned a nervous grin.  He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
 
“Do you know,” he said, “I think I'll call a taxi.”

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