Cat Kin (23 page)

‘…no-one goes in, is that clear?’ Stanford was saying. ‘Not even you.’

Toby nodded, unquestioning as a guard dog. Why oh why did Stanford have to bring even more security men with him? Maybe he didn’t trust Doctor Cobb himself. It was guards guarding guards
guarding…Tiffany retreated amongst the cages. How to get past that brute…Without knowing precisely what she was trying to achieve, she took out Mrs Powell’s whistle and blew
four blasts.

Eeeeeeeep Eeeeeeeep Eeeeeeeep Eeeeeeeep

Bars rattled as the smaller cats reacted. Their immediate neighbours began to growl. A wave of alarm swept through the cages, until every cat that still had the strength was snarling and
spitting, convinced there was some threat they couldn’t see.

‘Doctor Cobb!’ A security officer spoke into his walkie-talkie. ‘Something’s up with the animals.’

The noise rose to a rumble. It was as if the factory’s ancient machinery was grinding into life. John Stanford edged along the wall.

‘Cobb?’ he called. ‘What’s happening? Why are they doing that?’

He scurried back to the metal door.

‘Change of plan, Toby,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me. We’ll wait in the other hall until our professor sorts out his livestock.’

Tiffany clenched her fist in triumph. The meat locker was unguarded. As soon as Stanford and Toby were gone she ran to the door and tugged at the bolt, too frantic to heed the sudden, blood-red
throbbing of Oshtis in her stomach: she still wasn’t alone.

A hand clamped her left arm. She stared into the bearded face of Cobb’s chief of security.

‘You! How did you gain access?’

Panic gripped her. She struggled but he held her fast.

‘Doctor Cobb! We’ve found our intruder. That’s what set them off.’

That name yelled in her ear drove her wild. She writhed and kicked. The security man twisted her arm behind her back. Crying in pain, she cursed her stupidity. Rufus would never let himself be
manhandled like this. Rufus would—

‘
Arrgh!
’

The man yelped as she jabbed Mau claws into his leg. He let go of her arm and she spun, sweeping it across his chest. He gaped at the rip that split his green jacket open in flaps, holding his
thigh like a child who has just discovered bees. Tiffany was already running. A radio crackled and the security man yelled blue murder.

‘Prowler! Prowler in the cat pound. Secure the exits. She’s got a knife!’

Tiffany wove between the cages, driven by a force beyond fear. It cried only
Get out, get away, survive
. She burst through the curtain to find two green-suited guards standing in that
very spot. If these men were surprised that the intruder was a schoolgirl in fancy dress, they didn’t show it—they grabbed. They were too close to sidestep. Like a gymnast Tiffany bent
double at the waist and cartwheeled out of reach. She righted herself in time to see one of Stanford’s terrifying thugs bearing down on her. There was only time to curl into a ball and roll
at his running feet. It felt like being hit by a truck, but the roar as the man went flying told her that she had come off best.

Bouncing back up, bruised but in one piece, she ran through a labyrinth of yellow crates. Her courage wilted as yells and running feet converged on her. The ankle she had twisted was beginning
to ache.

I’m not going to escape
, she thought. Almost immediately another voice retorted, clipped and businesslike.
No, you will escape. Because you have to.

And then she knew how. Somewhere nearby was the electric cable that Mrs Powell had slid down. She could climb it in seconds. By the time anyone could follow her to the upper levels, she’d
be long gone. She raced between the crates, left, right, straight on. Her cat senses pinpointed her pursuers, almost as if she had a radar screen in her head. Not that way. Turn left. Go up here.
Wait for him to pass.

Then a broad alley turned into a blind one. Crates hemmed her in on three sides. She doubled back to find Philip Cobb standing there, holding a rifle.

‘I’m guessing you’re a friend of my mother’s,’ he said dryly. ‘What a very stupid decision.’

Steadying the barrel with his shrunken left arm, Cobb hoisted the gun to his shoulder. Tiffany screamed. And leaped. Twice her own height straight up, back-flipping onto the top of the crates.
The pile shifted and she fell off it backwards, flipping again in mid-air to land on her feet, a tottering yellow wall now between her and Cobb. It was all over before the echo of her own cry had
faded. Then she was sprinting across the open floor, wringing from her Mau body every last atom of speed, and only a cheetah could have caught her now.

The cable drooped from the lighting array. One of Stanford’s brutes was barreling towards her but he was too slow. She grabbed hold of the wire, closing her eyes against the blazing
lights, and had a ridiculous flashback: trying to climb ropes in Miss Fuller’s PE class. But that was a whole life away. Swinging like a sailor in a storm she powered up hand over hand.

Then she heard a bang. And felt as if someone had kicked her in the side. Her hands slipped on the cable and she looked down. Her hip was a burning lump of pain. Had she been shot? Had he
actually
shot
her?

All at once she was deadly tired. A mist darkened the pillars that leered over her. Before her vision clouded completely, she glimpsed a dart with red nylon feathers dangling from her side. A
tranquilliser.

The cable slithered through her fingers and she fell to the concrete.

‘Ben tapped the right-hand button. The flipper juggled the ball on its snout like a dolphin. One lightning-fast stab and the dolphin became a tennis pro, volleying the
ball up the multiplier chute into the Rats’ Nest. Red trails of light poured down the board and his score went rocketing up.

‘Not fair!’ Raymond Gallagher cried. ‘You can’t beat me on my own machine.’

‘Watch me,’ grinned Ben. He seized the corner of the table and lifted, tilting the board to stop the ball on the very lip of the dropoff.

‘Mu-u-um!’ Dad’s voice became like a small child’s. ‘He’s cheating! Tell him he can’t do that!’

Lucy Gallagher turned the television up another notch.

‘Of course you can, it’s in the rules,’ Ben replied. He hammered away at the flipper switches until his fingers were sore. His final score went straight to the number-one
slot.

‘All right,
sonny
.’ Dad cracked his knuckles and barged him aside. ‘If that’s the way you want it. This is war.’

‘Yeah, bring it on!’

‘I will. Go to your room!’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Ben. Go to your room. Ha! That means I win automatically.’

‘No way!’ Ben laughed, digging his fingers into Dad’s ribcage and tickling. ‘You can’t use Dad powers! Dad powers aren’t allowed.’

‘Show me where it says that in the rules of Rat-catcher. I wrote them, and I can rewrite them, so there. Now go to your room.’

‘No!’

‘Go to your room times a million and no returns!’

The game deteriorated into all-in wrestling. Ben was picked up and dumped on the sofa next to Mum. She made a big show of moving to the arm chair.

‘Boys with their toys.’ Yet there was a smile she couldn’t quite hide. Ben saw Dad’s twinkling glance and his heart gave a sudden, unexpected kick.

‘I don’t know what you delinquents are expecting for your dinner,’ Mum said. ‘Unless you want me to hack ice out of the freezer. Which is all you seem to keep in there,
Ray.’

Dad consulted his watch.

‘Ray? Did you hear?’

The entry phone buzzed and Dad hurried to answer the door. A minute later he re-appeared with a large, fragrant carrier bag.

‘Chicken tikka massala for you, Ben? Dhansak, yes…and a rogan josh with lemon rice. Your favourite, Lucy?’

‘Ray!’ Mum protested. ‘Takeaways? Can I remind you we’re on the bread line?’

‘Bread, yep, couple of nan, we got them. What’s the problem?’

‘But we can’t afford to…I mean, I can’t afford… You shouldn’t expect me to…’ Mum shook her head more and more weakly as the paper bag scented
the room. ‘Ah, forget it. Let’s have curry.’

It was months since Ben had enjoyed a meal this much. He used popadoms as shovels, guzzled lime pickle until his eyes streamed, stopped eating only when he could no longer sit up straight. But
the food wasn’t the reason he enjoyed it. It was because Mum and Dad were talking. Their chat was nothing special (an old friend who’d moved to New Zealand, tonight’s TV) yet it
felt like the most important thing he’d ever heard.

Afterwards Mum fetched her purse to pay her share of the meal. Dad waved it away. So Mum insisted on doing the washing-up. And Ben, to his own amazement and everyone else’s, offered to
help.

‘You’d better change that dishtowel,’ said Mum after a while. ‘I’m not sure Dad ever has.’

Ben got a clean one from the sink cupboard.

‘Thanks for this.’ Mum smiled, tentatively.

Ben realised he’d been wiping one spoon for over a minute.

‘Mum, I’m—’ ‘Ben, you know I—’ they began together. He decided to plunge ahead.

‘I’m sorry for…for the other night.’

Mum relaxed so much her elbows sank into the soap suds.

‘I know you are. You didn’t mean it. And neither did I. Oh, Ben…’ She hugged him, dripping dishwater down his back. ‘No-one should have to suffer what you have. I
said such horrible things. However bad it’s been for me…’

‘I know, but,’ Ben swallowed. ‘I am sorry. I am. That wasn’t me. And I won’t…ever again…’

He hugged her back. It was going to be all right. They’d come out of this together. And if Mum could forgive him, she could forgive Dad. She was probably about to say that now. That she
forgave Dad. And everything would be back to normal. The normal of four years ago. He held on and waited. He found himself listening to the buzz of the refrigerator.

‘Ben,’ she said.

She knew what he was waiting for. And she wasn’t going to say it. Not tonight, anyway. They disentangled their arms.

‘I promised a friend I’d call,’ said Ben, edging away. ‘Mind if I—?’

‘No. Go ahead.’

He left her to wipe down the draining board. Sitting on the sofa he stared at the phone. The notepad was covered with crossings-out. All day he’d been trying to remember Tiffany’s
number. He’d only ever programmed it into his mobile—much more convenient, unless you were stupid enough to throw your phone into a junkyard and lose it. It began 07939…

He had let her down, and it galled him. Maybe there really was no way for them to help those poor cats, but they could at least have talked about it. Tiffany had needed someone and he had shut
her out. Even if he did remember her number, he wouldn’t blame her if she never picked up.

On the other hand, she might have tried to call on his lost mobile, or gone to look for him at the home that was no longer there. It was a shock to realise that she had no way of contacting him.
He
had
to remember that number. It went 07939…583…no, 538. Then a four…

‘Hey, Ben. Shift. I need the sofa.’

Dad held an armful of blankets and a pillow.

If she was dreaming, it was a dream without pictures or light. Voices swam through the black depths.

‘…
no
t getting it into your head. This finishes us. We are sunk
.’

‘
I don’t know, John. Others might see it differently.
’

‘
Mayb
e you’re right about the old woman. That no-one will miss her. But this girl…People will be looking for her!
’

‘
I’v
e been checking the news all day. There’s nothing about any lost child
.’

‘
Yet
. It’s only been twenty-four hours.
’

The voices dissolved into a noise like pounding waves. With each wave came throbs of pain. The roar ebbed.

‘…
nee
d another shot soon, I think
.’

‘
Thi
s is kidnapping. We’re in over our heads
.’

‘
No
t over mine. It’s an opportunity, John. What we have here is nothing less than a human cat
.’