The Last Free Cat (15 page)

“When was the last time?” I asked.

“Not sure,” replied Kris. “I think it was when they took away my pacifier.”

I laughed. “You'll get cancer if you block up your feelings,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” said Kris. “Sure it ain't cat flu?”

“It's true!” I said. Kris didn't bother to argue, which troubled me slightly, because I was only repeating something I'd heard.

“So do you feel better now?” asked Kris.

I craned my neck upwards and looked at him. “What, from crying?” I asked.

Kris nodded. He looked so different now. Open. Curious.

“Actually,” I said, “I feel sick.”

“That's a shame,” said Kris.

I gave him a playful slap. “Yeah,” I said. “'Specially if I'm sick over you.”

Our eyes were locked together, challenging each other—to what, I didn't know. But Kris seemed to. He brought his mouth to mine to kiss me. I didn't respond.

“What's the problem?” he said.

“I'm too tired to get involved in something I don't understand,” I replied.

Kris laughed. “You're funny,” he said.

“I must be,” I said, “to like you.”

“Oh, you
do
like me then,” said Kris.

“Course I do,” I replied.

“Always thought so,” said Kris, grinning.

“Typical egotistical boy,” I replied.

“I don't think you could ever call me typical,” said Kris.

This time I didn't argue. I rested my head right up against his chest, feeling his skinny ribs rise and fall. No matter how forceful his personality, his body was as fragile as Feela's. The thought of those armed men, and the bullets they wanted to put into him, made me both terrified and raging angry. I thought again of the phrase that had come to me as I'd remembered Mum:
let your escape be my memorial.
And I knew that whatever the next day would bring, my resolve would be total, because now I was fighting to save two beings I loved.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I slept lightly, in fits and starts, but even in my dreamworld monsters surrounded us, and Feela was in constant danger of being snatched, or shot, or crushed beneath the pitiless wheels of a Comprot truck. Each time I woke I reached straight out for her, feeling such immense relief as my hand hit on her warm fur—except just after dawn had broken, when I felt nothing but cold rock, then saw to my relief that she'd moved to take advantage of Kris's cozy back.

Kris, miraculously, was sound asleep. I ran my hand over the top of his shorn head, flattening the soft bristles one way, then the other. For once he was helpless. I had total power over him, and I had to admit I liked the feeling. I stayed there, unmoving, for an age, my eyes roving around the stones that littered the area. Most were large, pale pebbles, but here and there one was broken, revealing a dark inner with razor-sharp edges. Dimly I remembered our history lessons at school, and how fascinated I'd been by the Stone Age and the flint tools people once fashioned. If this was flint, I thought, maybe I could make an axe with it, and it would have some mystic power, and …

Yeah, right.

Anyway, nature was calling. I slipped off through the wet, dewy bracken to find a private space to do a wee. To my amazement, Feela came after me, hoping, maybe, I might lead her to a place of greater safety. If only.

As I squatted there, Feela arched herself against my knee, just as she'd always done in the toilet at home: head-flank-tail, head-flank-tail in little circuits of delight. To her it was just another day. Just then, however, a wood pigeon flew up from the tree in an almighty clatter, and Feela dropped instantly into a crouch, ears pricked, eyes scanning manically. Then the fear passed, and she went back on another circuit.

How I envied her. Fear was a momentary thing for her. She couldn't imagine the day ahead or ponder the day before. She couldn't spend weeks on end panicking about an exam, or endlessly reliving the moment she saw her mother dead. She didn't hear the distant noise of a chopper and imagine the compers in full armor, training the sights of their guns on us. Then again, she couldn't plan for the danger ahead, or work out a way—any way—past it.

I returned to Kris and knelt down beside him. As I did, his eyes opened. “I'm cold,” he said.

Instinctively I pulled him towards me, and he put up no more resistance than Feela. I held his head against my chest, reversing roles from the night before. The sun was up now, although it was invisible behind a sheet of milky cloud. But still the morning was beautiful, and the steady cascade of water into the waiting pools illustrated the loveliness of life with an intensity which was almost cruel.

Kris caught sight of Feela, reached out, and tickled her chin.

“All right, beautiful?” he said.

“Fine thanks,” I replied.

“Good,” said Kris.

There was a short silence.

“It's quiet,” I said. “They must have given up.”

“Actually,” replied Kris, “they came over three times in the night.”

“You were awake?” I asked.

“I always sleep with one eye open,” said Kris.

I smiled to myself, having watched him out cold just five minutes before. How he loved to romanticize himself.

“So what would you normally be doing at home, this time in the morning?” I asked.

“This and that,” replied Kris.

“I'd steer clear of ‘that' if I were you,” I said.

“I'll stick to ‘this' then,” replied Kris.

“Yes,” I said. “You stick to ‘this.'”

Unable to prevent myself, I bent down and gave him a little kiss on the mouth. Instantly an animal urgency came into his eyes, and he grabbed the back of my neck. I pulled away quickly.

“Come on,” I said. “We've got to go.”

Kris gazed at me with level eyes, unimpressed. “You want to get your head sorted out,” he said.

“Whatever,” I said.

“
Whatever
,” he mimicked.

I filled a water bottle from the nearby pool while Kris fed Feela some dried food then put a small bag of it in my jacket pocket for later in the day. Breakfast for us was a few biscuits and a banana, then everything was packed, including Feela, who offered more resistance than she'd done since we left Amelie's. As we set off she was mewing loudly—not that it mattered, because no one was going to hear her.

We navigated by the big hill we'd climbed the night before. We knew if we went around it we'd be heading for Bluehaven, but we had to do this without coming into the open. So we stayed on the fringe of the forest, under cover but still in sight of the hill. We walked on a soft carpet of dry pine needles, saying nothing but what needed to be said, moving purposefully, efficiently, quickly. Feela settled back into silence, and for a long while we heard nothing but birds.

The farther we progressed without coming across any sign of Comprot, the more optimistic I became. It was, after all, a big, big area, and even if there were hundreds of compers, they couldn't cover all of it and Bluehaven as well. At the same time, however, the woods weren't half as wild as they looked. Well-worn paths crisscrossed them at regular intervals, and every minor crossroads meant an anxious, hasty glance in at least three directions.

Finally our luck ran out. A bubble of human voices suddenly competed with the birdsong. They weren't far away and they were getting closer.

Kris and I stood absolutely still, as still as Feela stalking a bird, senses working overtime. If we tried to move away from the voices, their owners might hear our footsteps, and in any case, we were as likely to run into them as to get away.

A twig cracked. The volume of the voices rose sharply. They were right on the path in front of us!

Instantly we dove for cover. Fortunately for us, there was a great mound of dead pine needles close by, at least two meters wide by a meter high. Behind that the ground dipped into a small hollow, so that we were just about obscured from view. I pulled Feela's box tight towards me and concentrated on breathing in silent, shallow drafts.

They were near, desperately near. I pressed in closer to the mound of pine needles, but at that moment made a shocking discovery.

The mound was alive.

Before my horrified eyes, a boiling mass of giant ants with red bellies and black heads was swarming over the pile of pine needles, infesting every centimeter with sinister action. One gang was dragging a helpless beetle to its doom, while others fought, greeted, carried, and rearranged in sudden definite spurts, ruthlessly purposeful.

I gritted my teeth and fought my instinct to cry out. The brutal little creatures were over me, over Kris, over Feela's box. But their monstrous nest was all that protected us from whoever was on the path.

By now, the voices were loud enough to hear:

“How many do you reckon then?” said a female voice.

“According to the media, could be thousands,” replied a male voice.

“That comper weren't saying much,” said the woman.

“Well, he wouldn't, would he?” replied the man.

The couple moved past and their conversation became a distant babble. I leapt up and began furiously brushing ants from my legs. “What are they?” I hissed.

“Formica,” whispered Kris. “Wood ants.”

“They're disgusting!” I hissed.

“They're survivors,” replied Kris. Obviously he felt a kinship with the ants, but I felt the opposite. With their black, glinting, helmeted heads they were like an army of miniature compers. It was the beetle I identified with—the outsider they were programmed to destroy.

The image of that ant nest stayed with me as we pressed on through the forest. I thought of the compers we'd known at home, the friendly neighborhood ones who asked after Mum's health, and I wondered if they'd be amongst that army the passersby had been describing. I fantasized seeing them amongst the marksmen, calling out to them, having them save us. But deep down I knew this was nonsense. No matter how normal and human they'd seemed at our doorstep, they were the enemy now, and their private sympathies would count for nothing.

I began to sense that civilization was near—or what I used to think was civilization. The hill had all but disappeared behind us and the noise of traffic was growing. We came on a big wide path with worn tire tracks on either side—obviously a main thoroughfare through the forest. After a short debate, we agreed to head alongside this path, still under cover of the trees, so we could get a better idea of what was awaiting us at the edge of Bluehaven.

We found out soon enough. The meeting of the path and the road was festooned with compers. Everyone traveling down the road was passing through a checkpoint—some allowed through, some greeted with suspicion and stopped. As we watched from our hidey-hole, a group of young people were ordered out of their minibus and searched. Why, we had no idea. None of them looked like us.

“The roads are out, then,” I whispered.

“We knew that anyway,” replied Kris.

We pondered the alternatives. There was no point in heading back—Comprot would be covering every route out of the forest. There was no way forward—the forest ended at the road ahead. That only left sideways, skirting the trees till we found a weak link in the Comprot lines —if such a thing existed. But it was hard to believe there was a road or path out of here which they wouldn't have covered.

We hadn't moved far when our hopes received another blow. This side of the forest was bordered by a high metal fence, on the other side of which was some kind of park. The fence was a good three meters high and topped by razor wire. Kris gazed upwards and shook his head.

“I've tried to climb one of those before,” he said.

“And?” I said.

He pulled up his trouser leg to show an ugly scar which ran the length of his inside calf.

“Nice,” I said.

“I work out,” quipped Kris.

“The scar, I meant,” I replied. It was funny how we could joke in this situation, but it seemed to come naturally. I think they call it gallows humor.

“We could always cut through it,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” said Kris. “As long as you brought the oxyacetylene torch.”

Kris continued to gaze at the top of the fence, but my eyes had turned to the ground. Some ingenious creature had found its own way past the fence by burrowing beneath it.

“Look,” I said. “That's what we need to be—a rabbit.”

Kris followed my gaze. “Badger,” he corrected.

Suddenly a lightbulb went on. “Why can't we?” I said.

“What with?” said Kris. “That ground's bone hard.”

I looked around. There were a few broken branches, but they were far too soft and bendy for digging. Other than that, just some large round rocks, like the ones at the waterfall.

Of course! Stone Age tools!

I picked up the nearest rock and dashed it with all my strength on to another stone. The rock cleaved neatly into three, each with hard, sharp edges. Before Kris's amazed eyes, I began chipping the pieces against each other, making my own crude version of a Stone Age axe.

“Come on,” I said. “You do the same.”

Without a word Kris picked up a second piece and began hammering it against one of the bigger stones. In a few minutes we had a pair of digging tools—pathetic compared to what ancient man (and woman) made, but good enough to loosen the earth around the badger's hole. Our hands could do the rest.

The job was easier than I expected. Beneath the hard surface the ground was relatively crumbly, and soon Kris's skinny body was testing out the depth of our burrow. After a little more frantic digging and scooping, he'd inched himself under the fence and emerged, filthy and triumphant, the other side. I pushed through Feela's box and the bags, then did my own scrabbling limbo dance through to the rough grass boundary of a gigantic corrugated iron shed, to the right of which was an equally gigantic concrete yard. To the right of that was another fence and beyond that another yard and buildings.