The Last Free Cat (13 page)

It shocked me to hear Kris say this. It was one of Feela's weirdest habits, to wee in the bath when I was on the toilet. But Kris had never seen this—unless he'd been spying on me a lot more closely than I thought.

“How do you know she does that?” I asked.

“Lots of cats do it,” replied Kris.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“For God's sake!” said Kris. “We ain't got time to stand around arguing!”

“You're right,” I replied. “Wait here.”

With that I seized Feela's box, dropped a coin into the slot, and walked into the kiosk. I wasn't sure how shocked Kris was about this as he still had his helmet on, but in any case the door soon closed and Feela and I had at least a few minutes' privacy.

The toilet kiosk was a dismal place, lit by a bright bluish light—just a toilet, a washbasin, and a white plastic floor which curled up to become white plastic walls. I took off my helmet, placed Feela's box on this floor, and opened the lid. She looked up at me with those beautiful black-rimmed eyes, just as cowed as before, even less willing to move.

“Come on, baby,” I said, and lifted her gently from her prison. She didn't resist, but gave a meow of protest from her tense little body and began to scramble for freedom as I lowered her. She spilled over my arms on to the floor and immediately went into crouch position.

I knew Kris would be getting impatient outside, but I also knew Feela wouldn't be doing anything till she'd sounded out her new home. She tested her way around the small space, always nose first, paying particular attention to the toilet, before giving another, lower meow which I took as a sign to lift her into the sink. Immediately I sat myself on the toilet, and though we were in this strange alien pod, miles from home, the situation was familiar to Feela. She checked me out, looked about for potential enemies, and finally, thankfully, squatted herself down with her tail sticking backwards like a tail-gunner.

I don't know how long Feela had been saving this one up, but her personal jetstream seemed to last for at least a minute. The poor thing must have been in agony.

I flushed the toilet just to make Feela feel at home, lifted her out of the sink, and gave that a good flush as well. It certainly needed it.

“Sorry, babe,” I said. “Back to jail.”

Feela settled back into her box with a resignation which made me feel even more guilty.

“Promise you it won't be long now, babe,” I assured her. And as I said it, I was overcome by a huge, unreasoning protective love. There would be no more fear now. There would be nothing but resolve.

Little did I know it, but I would soon be needing that resolve. Just as I exited the toilet, a group of three men were approaching Kris. They were an odd bunch—a tall, gangly youth, a balding older version of him in a garish purple tracksuit, and a squat little man with aggressive features like a pitbull terrier. I heard the balding man mutter “Go on then,” and give the youth a little push in the back. The youth ambled reluctantly forward, glancing back over his shoulder as if for reassurance, only to hear the balding man bark, “Look like you mean business, son! Don't slouch!”

The youth reached us. There was a dull, defeated look on his face and really bad acne. “Can you take off your helmet, please,” he said to Kris.

“Why?” said Kris.

This obviously threw the youth. He looked back again, only to see the balding man—presumably his dad—with arms folded, looking most unhelpful.

“Can you take your helmet off, please?” repeated the youth.

“I'm riding a bike!” sniffed Kris, with mild contempt.

The youth turned to the older men. “He says he's riding a bike!” he yelled.

The older men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Does he look like he's riding a bike?” said the squat man in a high grating voice, followed by a snigger.

“Please,” pleaded the youth. “Take your helmet off.”

By now, Kris was spoiling for a fight. “Who says?” he snapped.

“We're the Neighborhood Watch,” said the youth.

“So?” said Kris.

“We're just making sure everyone follows the law,” mumbled the youth apologetically.

“
Law
?” sneered Kris. “What law says I can't wear a helmet?”

The youth had no answer. “Dad,” he called. “What law says he can't wear a helmet?”

“Local bylaw,” replied the balding man.

“Local bylaw,” repeated the youth.

I was starting to sense danger. I could see the older men were bristling for a fight with Kris. Sure enough, they marched forward, with an impatient huff at the hopeless youth. “Listen, son,” they said to Kris. “We've got a hotline to Comprot. Do you want us to use it?”

“I still don't see why I've got to take off my helmet,” replied Kris.

The squat man moved in. “We're under instructions to check all strangers in the village,” he croaked.

“Amber alert,” added Baldy.

My sense of danger rose. The only amber alert I knew was a terrorist alert. Was it us they were calling terrorists?

“What's that about?” I asked, as coolly as possible.

“Never you mind,” replied Baldy.

“They don't tell us,” added the youth.

Baldy shot him the filthiest look imaginable.

“Well done, Evan,” said the squat man sarcastically.

“Well they don't,” mumbled the youth.

Baldy turned his attention back to Kris. “Ten seconds,” he said. He took out his mobile.

“Go on, Kris,” I said. This was no time for bloodymindedness or stupid principles. They didn't seem to know who I was, so why should they recognized him?

Kris let the ten seconds tick away. But as Baldy made to tap his mobile, Kris slowly removed his helmet. Baldy gave a little smile of self-satisfaction, then concentrated his eyes. “Where'd you get those bruises?” he asked.

“I hit him,” I replied.

The squat man gave a little snort of laughter. “Had a fight?” he asked.

“Caught him snogging another girl,” I replied.

“Ha!” said the squat man. “Been a naughty boy, has he?”

Kris glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then nodded.

“So what you doing here then, kids?” asked Baldy.

“Just passing through,” said Kris.

“Stopped for the toilet,” I added.

Baldy's attention turned to me. His eyes strayed down towards the box containing Feela. Without a second thought I grabbed at Kris's collar. “Is that lipstick?” I roared.

“Get off! No!” replied Kris, pulling away.

“It better not be, Kris, ‘cause I don't wear lipstick!” I yelled.

“You're paranoid!” said Kris.

“Yeah, and you're a lying—”

“OK, OK, OK!” said Baldy. He moved in to keep the peace, forgetting all about Feela's box. “Get on your way now, kids.”

“Better give them a pass, Osh,” said the squat man.

“Oh yeah,” replied Baldy. “They'll need one of them. Evan—got the passes?”

Evan, as usual, looked clueless. “Thought you'd got them, Dad,” he said.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” said Baldy. “Can't you get
anything
right?”

Evan smiled weakly. Just for a second, he caught my eye. It was the briefest of glances, yet, strangely, it made a bond. We both thought the same of Evan's dad, that was clear.

“We'll just get on,” I suggested.

“Oh no, no, no,” replied Baldy. “If you don't get a pass from us, you'll get stopped by every watch in the county.”

“There's some in the yacht club, Osh,” said the squat man.

“Follow us, please,” ordered Baldy.

We had little choice but to follow the three local heroes up the street, then through to the lake, where stood a typical modern yacht club, typical to me anyway, but totally strange to Kris. He parked up the skoot, which I'd quietly fitted with Feela's box, and we cautiously entered the building.

All my instincts were for safety. I quickly checked out the area we'd walked into: toilets to the left, club office to the right, bar ahead. Front door the only available exit. The center smelled of stale beer and air freshener, and there were raucous shouts from the bar where a small crowd were watching a soccer match on a big screen.

Baldy ushered us into the office, but I made sure I stayed by the door. Evan hung around in the entrance area, between us and the exit, but he didn't pose much of a threat. We exchanged another quick glance, and I gave him half a smile.

Baldy was one of those people who liked to do everything slowly and properly, as slowly and properly as humanly possible. The passes weren't in their proper places, so he had to reorder them first. Then he had to find the right inkpad for his stamp and the right pen for his signature. Meanwhile it had gone strangely quiet in the bar. I assumed it must have been half-time in the match, till a bottle-blond woman marched in with a look of concern.

“You better come and have a look at this, Osh,” she said.

Osh laid down his pen and followed her. We followed also, worried by the suspicious glances the woman had given us. There was dead silence in the bar, everyone focused on the screen. The soccer was gone and in its place was someone I recognized from the government. He was followed by shots of patients in a hospital somewhere in Asia.

I'd seen footage like this before. They were people with the human form of cat flu.

A news reporter came on. He was talking about a terrorist alert. A red alert.

Suddenly, dreadfully, I saw the motionless body of the comper we'd left at the picnic site. As he was lifted into an ambulance, a senior officer came on screen with a grave face.

I glanced at the exit doors. Evan was still guarding them.

The senior officer spoke direct to camera. “There is a high probability that the callous attack on officer Matthews was carried out by bioterrorists,” he said. “We are seeking to interview two young people believed to be in possession of an illegal and probably diseased cat.”

My blood froze. And then, to complete my horror, the next picture that appeared on the screen was of me.

Amazingly, no one connected the picture up onscreen with the girl standing at the door. Amelie had done a good job. But the moment Kris's picture came up, and it was clear they were after a teenage couple, there was a single cry of “It's them!” followed by the most unearthly howl from the crowd. We bolted for the door, only to hear a cry of “Lock it, Evan!” from Evan's dad.

Everything that happened at this point seemed to occur in slow motion. Evan stood in front of us, one hand on the door. Our eyes met again, and I could see the fear in his. In that split second he had to make a decision, and it was a decision which, miraculously, went our way. He stepped aside, let us past and then, for good measure, closed the door. He must have locked it as well, because as we jumped on to the skoot there was a huge commotion inside the yacht club, and no one came out of it till I'd opened the throttle that sent the skoot leaping off down the road. A few tried to give chase but they had no hope of catching us, not on foot, anyway.

Once they got into their four by fours, however, it would be a different matter.

Chapter Twenty-Three

We'd hardly made a mile when the first one came up behind us. The lights reared up in my mirrors like pitiless eyes, blinding, full beam. I was already at top speed, riding for my life, and there was no way I could outrun it. Desperately I looked for an exit road, or even a way out over rough ground that a car couldn't follow. There was nothing. Then a shot rang out.

I looked around in terror. Kris was still hanging on, unhurt. But the four by four was skidding crazily across the road with a tire blown out.

Then I saw the gun in Kris's hand.

There was no time for questions. Kris must have taken the gun from that comper without me noticing, because if I had noticed, I'd have screamed bloody murder. Now, however, I was just grateful he'd saved us—till the next one came.

We made another mile or so without incident. Then a sound cut through the air like the howl of a devil—a Comprot siren. It was followed seconds later by a full-scale light-show in my mirrors—at least two sets of headlights and blue flashers to boot.

I glanced behind to see Kris reaching for the gun and furiously waved my hand for him to stop. If he tried to shoot out their tires we would get a lot worse in return. My frantic waving sent the skoot swerving over the road, and it took all my strength to pull it back in line. In any case Kris ignored me, only to find the gun had jammed. As he flung it pointlessly at our pursuers, I spotted a sign ahead and a turnoff. I had no idea where it went but I took it. As luck would have it, the road led into a forest of firs and ended in a row of barriers. On the other side of the barriers was a rough track.

The skoot was narrow enough to get between the barriers—just barely. We set off up the track as the sound-and-light show turned into the road behind us. I watched in my mirrors as the cars screched to a halt and compers piled out—armed to the teeth. Without a second thought I turned off the main track on to a cross track, crashing through a ditch and up into the woods. Next second I was weaving a crazy pattern through the trees, as gun-lasers flickered behind and a volley of shots rang out. But there was no way they could see us now, and no way they could catch us either. I broke out of the trees on to another wide track, turned the throttle to max, and just kept riding till we could hear nothing of the compers nor see the tiniest flicker of their lasers.

Whatever we'd ridden into was a big place. Though it was clear we'd lost the compers, we were just as lost ourselves. It was almost as if we'd entered into some kind of Middle Earth, a place inhabited only by the things of nature, whose cries and scents filled our ears. I pulled up the skoot, climbed off, took off my helmet, and sank down on to my haunches, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Moments later, Kris was beside me, also on his haunches and breathing heavily.