The Last Free Cat (2 page)

“I think we should call her Feela,” said Mum.

“Why?” I asked.

“It's a nice name,” said Mum.

“OK,” I replied.

Mum carried on stroking, saying nothing. Then, out of the blue, she said, “It's wrong, you know.”

“What?” I asked.

“That we can't have things like this,” said Mum.

It half frightened me to hear Mum say these words, but it thrilled me too. By and large, she was a woman who accepted her lot, who avoided argument at any cost, but there was a part of her which still had some fight in it, which sided with the underdog, which never fully accepted the way things were.

“Mum,” I said, “I won't let her out. No one'll see her.”

“You can't be sure of that,” said Mum.

“I can, Mum!” I protested. “I can!”

Mum studied my pleading expression, as if hoping to be convinced.

“Let's keep her, Mum,” I said softly.

Mum looked back at Feela, so beautiful, so composed, so very much at home. She sighed deeply.

“Looks like she's made up our minds for us,” she said.

Chapter Four

For the next three weeks Feela was my life. I studied everything about her and, bit by bit, built a relationship with her. I couldn't believe how much she slept! All day sometimes, with just a break for a meal or to do a toilet in the box of earth we prepared for her. Yet she could come awake in an instant, be totally alert, and five seconds later be on a mad dash about the house. She did one of these mad dashes once every few days, and they really alarmed me. Her ears would go back, she'd skid around corners, then end up wrapped around a table leg with her back legs cycling furiously. There seemed no reason for it, unless it was the memory of some scary experience. Either way, I kept my distance while she was like that. At other times, though, she was as soft as a toy, chinning the edge of my finger till I stroked her, or climbing silently on to my lap. I'd never felt such a peaceful feeling as I did at these times. A rich, warm purr would stir inside her, building higher and higher to a sonorous
preep
. And I would glow with the wonder of having a living animal in our house, sharing our lives.

Just as I was studying Feela, Feela was studying me. She got to know all my habits—when I ate, when I got up, even when I went to the toilet. Soon she became a part of those habits. I'd wake up to a rough tongue licking my face, and eat with two serene eyes staring up expectantly. When I went upstairs, she'd speed ahead of me, check to see I was following, then lead me up the steps into my bedroom. We'd race each other to the bed. She'd flop down beside me so I could get my hand around her and whisk the warm, silky tufts of her belly. It all seemed such an unashamed luxury.

In all this time we kept the blinds in our front window closed. There were no front gardens on Ferry Street and precious little privacy. When we lived on the marina no one used to sit on our front windowsill, and they certainly didn't stare straight into our living room. But people were different here. They sat out on the street, shouted up and down it, had fullblast fights on it, and didn't seem to care what anyone thought, least of all us. We were outsiders and probably always would be. Not because we were stuck up, because we weren't, but because we'd lived somewhere different, somewhere where people didn't shout or ride their bikes through the red lights. And, let's face it, we'd never have moved to Ferry Street if Dad hadn't died and there hadn't been that problem with the life insurance that I never understood.

At least we had some privacy out the back—high fences on all sides and pyracantha bushes with thorns like nails. In fact it took us quite a while to figure out how Feela had got in—a hole in the fence behind the shed, which Mum fixed with a tomato box. There was no danger now of her leaving the garden and getting lost. But since there were about fifty gardens adjoining each other on our block, where she came from remained a mystery.

Then, of course, there was school. It was impossible to keep your privacy there. Someone always wanted to know what was in your lunch box, or where your mum worked, or what you'd been doing with
x
over at
y
on the
n
th of
z
.

By and large, though, I steered clear of serious trouble. I wasn't part of any gang, and even though some people gave me a hard time and called me Marina because of where I used to live, I just wasn't the type that got picked on, not
really
picked on, like the ones that committed suicide. Maybe I just came across as a boring person who had no secrets worth knowing.

There was one person, however, who found me endlessly fascinating. Kris Delaney. Kris was the bane of my life. It was the entire aim of his existence to test me. I don't know why I interested him so much. It certainly bugged him that I wasn't born in the neighborhood and had lived in a greenhome and, OK, we'd had a boat, if only a small one. But Kris was different, too. You'd see him with the other lads, kicking a ball about, but you'd see him on his own just as much. There was always a distance between him and his mates. Some people said his parents were gypsies, and I believed it. There was something about that bony face, that mop of corkscrews and, most of all, those soulful brown eyes. He might have been beautiful if he didn't have that big loose mouth with its tombstone teeth. Seeing him looking out over the docklands, you might think he was composing poetry or something. But as far as I knew, he never did. Most of the time he just swore and made snarky remarks, like all the other boys.

I might have kept my secret forever if it weren't for Kris.

* * *

It started as an ordinary enough day, except that I tried to pick up Feela just before I left for school. I didn't often do this because it was one thing she wouldn't tolerate, but I lived in hope that one day she'd get used to it and let me hold her like a baby. No such luck this time. She hissed into my face (her breath always smelled of haddock, no matter what we'd fed her), struggled, and jumped free.

Ah well, I said to myself. Better luck next time. I thought no more of it, till Kris sought me out in the playground.

It started as the usual type of conversation. Kris told me how beautiful I was looking, which he always said, without giving any clue whether he meant it, was joking, or just looking for a reaction. I tried to ignore him as usual, but his gaze had become strangely fixed on my right shoulder. I turned away, but he came with me, peering closer and closer, till suddenly he snatched forward and plucked something from my sweater.

“Don't do that!” I barked.

Kris examined what looked like a piece of fine orange fluff. “That's cat hair,” he said.

I died. “No it isn't!” I snapped.

Kris nodded. “Yes it is,” he said. He peered again at my shoulder. “There's even flea eggs,” he added.

“There is not!” I barked, covering the shoulder with my hand.

“Unless it's dandruff,” said Kris.

“I do not have dandruff!” I cried.

“Just as I thought then,” said Kris. “Flea eggs.”

I made no reply. Was he bluffing me? I hadn't seen any sign of fleas on Feela—but then, I didn't know what the signs were.

“How long have you had a cat?” asked Kris, his eyes burning with need-to-know.

“I haven't got a cat!” I snapped. “I don't even know anyone who's got a cat!”

“Ah,” said Kris. “So you didn't get that hair off one of your rich friends' cats.”

I cursed myself. Why hadn't I used that excuse? Kris didn't know I'd lost touch with everyone on the marina.

“You might as well tell me,” said Kris, “'cause I'll find out in the end.”

This wasn't an empty threat. Kris was dogged, and he was also smart. Not the kind of smart that passes exams, because he was useless at reading and writing, but the kind of smart that knows what's what, that works things out, that seizes opportunities and holds on to them like a dog with a stick.

I considered the options. One was simply to tell the truth. If it had been anyone but Kris, I wouldn't have dreamed of doing this. But I knew that Kris was the last person to tell the authorities. Kris hated Comprot (as Community Protection are generally known) and they hated him. They tagged him for two years after he sprayed CHILD BEATER on the front door of Kelis Hunt's dad's house. He got the tag off, ended up in a ruck with the compers, and after that it was any excuse to pick him up. One time they threatened to have a Ychip put in his head, and only a lastminute appeal from the Social Team stopped it.

Another thing about Kris, he never wore logos. He'd rather be seen dead than have a Nike swoosh on his cap, or a Viafara cat on his boots. No one owned him, he said, and he wasn't anybody's advertising space. I figured if he hated those companies, it was a good bet he was against the cat market.

Besides, what a relief it would be if I could tell someone else about Feela! I had so much I wanted to talk about, and it was obvious Kris knew stuff about cats. I might need that advice one day.

To hell with it—he'd find out anyway.

“OK,” I said, checking that no one else was listening. “I'll tell you. But you must swear not to breathe a word of it to anybody.”

“I'm not stupid,” said Kris.

I took a breath. “We found it in the garden,” I said.

Kris's eyes narrowed. “When was this?” he asked.

“About a month ago,” I replied.

Kris raised his eyebrows. “You naughty girl,” he said.

“We were going to tell the authorities,” I protested. “We just got kind of … attached.”

“I bet you did,” said Kris. “Male or female?”

“Female,” I replied.

“What color?” asked Kris.

“Ginger, black, and white,” I replied.

“Calico,” said Kris.

“Is that what they're called?” I asked.

Kris nodded.

“How come you know so much about cats?” I asked.

“Research,” replied Kris.

“Research?” I repeated.

“Haven't you heard of research?” asked Kris.

“Course I have,” I replied. “What kind of research?”

“Never mind,” said Kris.

There was no point in trying to get the whole truth out of Kris. But no matter. He was a partnerincrime, and I needed that partner badly. I started to pour out stories of how I'd trained her, what her habits were, how we'd hid from the Pets Inspector. Kris listened impassively, and after a while, impatiently.

“Can I see it?” he asked, interrupting me.

This, needless to say, was another matter.

“I'd have to ask Mum,” I replied.

“Oh, must ask
Mummy
,” sneered Kris.

“That's right,” I replied. “I must.”

“Got to ask permission foreverything, have you?” asked Kris.

“It's not like that!” I said. “She considers me, too!”

“Ahh,” said Kris. He was starting to annoy me now. There was no reason to diss me being close to Mum, just because he was cut off from his family, and lived in a slum, and wasn't close to anybody.

“Go away now,” I said. “I'll text you.”

Chapter Five

Mum hit the roof when she found out I'd told Kris about Feela. The trouble was, she'd never met Kris, so it meant nothing to her when I said he'd never rat us out. I had no choice but to grant Kris's wish and invite him over, in the hope they'd get along.

As it happened, Mum was out when Kris stopped by, breezing in just as Feela was cleaning herself.

Feela's cleaning routine never ceased to amaze me. She could get her tongue everywhere on her body except the top of her head, and to clean that she licked her wrist and ran it over her ears. The whole thing gave her such pleasure that she never even noticed the two of us by the door. I glowed with pride, glancing from Feela to Kris, Kris to Feela. At first he just watched, closely, but with no expression. Then just the hint of a smile came on to his face.

“Where d'you say you found her?” he asked.

“In the back garden,” I replied.

Kris nodded.

“Watch this,” I said. I whistled. Feela looked up, took us in, then got back to business.

“So?” said Kris.

I was so frustrated. Feela
always
came to me when I whistled. To make matters worse, she offered up her chin as Kris sat on the sofa beside her. He began softly stroking her throat, bringing her slowly under his spell. She seemed to be so quickly at ease with him that I felt a pang of jealousy.

“She's like that because of me,” I said.

“Really,” said Kris.

“She really loves me,” I added.

“Uh-huh,” said Kris.

“Cats are just the most miraculous things,” I said.

“If you love them that much,” said Kris, “why didn't you just buy one?”

I seethed. “We can't afford a cat!” I snapped. “I don't know why you think we've got so much money, because we haven't! If we had money, would we be …”

I stopped, but Kris had already guessed what I was going to say.

“It's all right, Jade,” he said. “I know you wouldn't live around here unless you had to.”

I blushed. “There you go then,” I said. “We certainly can't afford a cat.”

Kris, typically, wasn't going to leave it at that. “Your old man must have been worth a lot,” he said. “Didn't he have life insurance?”

“What's that to do with you?” I asked.

“I'm curious,” he said. “Like a cat.”

“There was something wrong with his life insurance,” I explained. “Something in the small print.”

Kris laughed out loud. “Something in the small print!” he repeated. “Better read it next time, hadn't you?”

I was getting really irked. “Yeah, well at least I
can
read,” I snarled.