The Last Free Cat (17 page)

There was no time to make sense of this. All we knew was that this new enemy was vile, brain-dead and thirsting for blood. With Feela depending on us, we had no option but to get out of there as fast as we could. I ran for the cemetery gates, which were on the far right of the graveyard, but there were monsters there too and, to my horror, we were recognized by one of them. A deep, primitive howl went up among the enemy, and six or seven of them headed for us.

Was this all part of Comprot's plan? Was this how they wanted to deal with us, without having to bother about courts and lawyers and jail sentences?

Was this how I was going to die, in this tidy graveyard, under a blue sky, at the hands of idiots brainwashed just as I used to be?

One thing was for sure. I wasn't going without a fight. I hadn't come all this way to meekly surrender to a gang of grunting apes. And no one, but no one, was going to touch Feela. As the first loathsome individual grabbed me and forced his arm around my neck, I sank my nails into the flesh of his wrist and with every ounce of strength in my body brought down my teeth into his forearm. He gave a yell and a curse, and as I pulled out my teeth I cried at the top of my voice:

“Anyone else want it? Anyone else want cat flu?”

The first attacker released me. I found myself addressing a sea of ugly faces and saw very clearly, amongst all that gray-faced hatred, weakness. Fear. The same fear which had driven them to attack me was now preventing them carrying out that attack.

“You've heard of me, haven't you?” I yelled. “You know who I am! Well, come on then! You're not scared of a disease, are you?”

As the standoff continued, Kris came alongside me, picked up Feela's box and began coolly walking away—apart from his shaking hands, that is.

“Get the bitch,” someone said. But no sooner had the words escaped him than he was crowned by a flagpole. Reinforcements had arrived over the cemetery wall. The odds had changed dramatically in our favor, and it was soon clear that the enemy wasn't as big and brave as they'd first made out. Some of them beat a hasty retreat while others were quickly circled by protesters. Someone yelled at me to get out now, and at the sound of approaching sirens, that's what I did. As I emerged from the cemetery gates Kris motioned me urgently across the road. He'd forced the gate of a school and was inside the playground with Feela. I raced after him and the two of us flew helter-skelter across a netball court and into the shadows of the building. Comprot had begun to arrive in force, pouring in endless red and black waves from their vans into the cemetery, just as hyped, no doubt, as everybody else.

It felt so wrong to be leaving our comrades to face that frightening force, them having just defended us from another enemy. But our escape was the aim of all this. If we went back into the open everything so far would have been in vain.

Kris was already focused on the school doors, but there was no way they were opening. We skirted around the side of the school and to our relief saw a window open a crack on the first floor. Without hesitation Kris shimmied up a drainpipe and, with his usual natural ease, clambered on to the window ledge, opened the window farther and snaked his arm inside to pull the catch. The window came open, Kris told me to get back to the doors, then disappeared inside.

Two minutes later, after some hectic searching for keys, I was inside, beside a brightly painted mural saying WELCOME TO ADAMS GREEN SCHOOL—LEARNING TO SHARE, LEARNING TO CARE, beneath which was a visitors' book, which, in a strange moment of madness, I was tempted to sign.

We moved on down a corridor decorated in children's paintings of their favorite characters from books, a smiling photo of the pupils and staff, a commemorative plaque about the school's opening way back in 1954 beside a banner bearing a Viafara logo and the words WE'RE COLLECTING TOKENS FOR AFRICA. We decided to take the first door we came to, a green one labeled ACORNS—MRS. GROVER, since this classroom would give us a good vantage point over what was happening over at the cemetery gates.

It was a beautiful room, decorated with hanging snowflakes and mobiles, with wall friezes about cave art and where food comes from, writing and paintings by the children, a merit sticker board and a life-size papier-mâché-and-wire robot called Calculus. There was a small library of books and discs in one corner, and a random assortment of blue, green, red, and yellow desks around the room, some with stray workbooks and pencils still on them. On the far side, beneath the windows, was a table with a jar of paintbrushes and some pots of powder paint, one of which had been knocked over and spilled bright blue on to the floor, by some overeager hand at going-home time, no doubt.

For a moment I ached still to be sat at one of those colorful desks, in a safe, fair world—or at least a world that you could believe was safe and fair. But Kris was gesturing furiously for me to get to the window.

Out on the road a steady stream of protesters was being frogmarched out of the cemetery and lined up against the wall. Strangely enough, the people who'd started the fight with us were nowhere to be seen. Everyone else, however, was being treated like criminals: beaten if they showed any resistance, frisked, bags searched, belongings confiscated, then hauled off to the waiting prison vans.

Suddenly my eye was caught by something familiar. My jacket. They'd arrested the girl who'd swapped it with me and were frisking her. To my horror, they drew something out of her pocket and examined it with interest.

“Kris,” I said. “That's the cat food you put in my pocket.”

“Did I?” replied Kris.

“This morning,” I said. “Don't you remember?”

Kris did remember. “Cool it,” he said. “It's OK.”

But it wasn't OK. The comper who'd found the cat food summoned his superior, they talked, then the superior got on his mobile. A minute or so later another van appeared, and out of this van came two dogs.

The girl was asked to take off my jacket, and the dogs were given the scent of it. Vaguely I remembered some statistic I'd once learned: A dog's sense of smell is a hundred times more powerful than ours. Those dogs would certainly smell me on that jacket, and probably Feela as well.

My worst fears were confirmed as the two dogs led their owners across the road directly to the playground gates, which the compers would soon see had been forced open.

There was no time to get out of the school now. Suddenly our sanctuary had become our trap. We grabbed Feela and hurried from the room, down the corridor, and up the nearest stairs. Kris had an idea we could maybe get on to the roof, while my mind was playing with some crazy idea that I could find a sink and wash off my scent.

There was no sign of a way on to the roof or into an attic. What we did see, however, was a school library, on the far side of which was a fire escape. With the sound of boots thundering across the playground, we had to make decisions quickly, and it seemed the best option. Luckily we found a key on the inside of the door and locked it. The mobile book cabinets at least gave us some cover, and the fire escape a way out. We crouched down behind the Action Books for Boys section, face to face with
Boy Comper, Terrorist Hunter
and
Axel Fortune: Rock and Roll Spy.

Down below there was a crash. They'd forced the door.

Kris's eyes, however, were looking upwards. “That's a suspended ceiling,” he said. “We can get up there.”

In fear of my life, I accepted Kris's word. “Come on then,” I said.

Kris leaped out of our hiding place and up onto a table. The ceiling was made up of acoustic tiles supported by a metal frame. Kris pushed at one of the tiles, and miraculously it moved. He flipped it upwards, leaving a square hole just large enough for us to squeeze through.

“You first,” he said.

Kris offered me his two knitted hands. I placed Feela's box on the table and climbed up after it. With the aid of Kris's leg-up, I got my hands inside the metal frame of the ceiling, and with strength I never knew I had, hauled myself into the narrow dark space above it.

Kris pushed Feela's box into the hole, and I made it secure. Then he leapt like a salmon, got both hands into the entrance, and with me pulling for all I was worth, scrambled up. We replaced the tile and recovered our breath.

At first I could see nothing. I opened the lid of Feela's box and stroked her head, to reassure her and, more importantly, myself. If we failed now it might be the last time I touched that warm fur.

Gradually, however, my eyes were adjusting. There was a tiny amount of light filtering through a small crack in one of the tiles. This also gave us a vague glimpse of what was happening below, which so far, thankfully, was nothing.

Kris adjusted his position and very nearly kicked me in the face. As my eyes adjusted a little more, I saw the sole of his shoe right before my eyes—and on that shoe a patch of luminous blue.

“Kris!” I whispered. “You walked in the paint!”

“What paint?” murmured Kris.

“There was paint spilled in the classroom!” I hissed. “Didn't you see it?”

The reply was a splintering crash below us, followed immediately by an acrid smell of smoke. The view of the library through the cracked tile vanished, then flickers of laser-light lit the room. Men were down there now—it sounded like dozens of them. Footsteps rampaged around the room with the occasional loud shout, then, finally, the movement stopped. If we'd left a trail, obviously they hadn't seen it. Either the paint had worn out or the smoke had made them unable to see it.

The smoke was having another effect, however. From inside Feela's box came a small, pitiable cry. After all she'd been through, poor thing, now Feela's eyes were smarting and, possibly, her lungs. In a desperate attempt to keep her quiet, I reached into her box to comfort her. In my blindness, however, my hand caught her on the lower half of her belly, something she would not tolerate at any time, let alone when she was in distress. She mewled loudly and lashed out at me. Somehow I stifled a cry of pain, but our fate was already sealed, courtesy of a loud barking dog below.

A few seconds of agonizing suspense passed. Then, suddenly, a ceiling tile centimeters away from me burst away to reveal the handle of an automatic weapon. Then next time that handle pounded into the ceiling, it was right beneath my arm. This time I could not hold back the cry.

Laser-lights shot through the ceiling tiles. If those lights were followed by bullets, we would be blown to pieces.

“Get down now!” came a gruff yell. “One move and you're dead!”

The comper didn't exactly make sense, but we got his meaning. I lowered myself through the missing ceiling tile, was seized before my feet hit the desk, yanked brutally to the floor, and presented with a gun barrel to the head.

Kris followed, without Feela at first, only to be told, furiously, not to play games. Without protest, he lifted down Feela's box, which was immediately confiscated by the comper giving all the orders. As Kris reached the ground he was kicked full force in the stomach by another comper.

“That's for Joe,” grunted the comper, as Kris sank to his knees.

The comper in charge said nothing, merely removed his helmet and instructed the others to do the same. He was a big man with blond hair and a worldweary expression.

“It's in here, is it?” he grunted, turning his attention to Feela's box.

“
She
,” I replied.

The big man ignored me. He got down on his haunches, eye-level with the box, then slowly pried the lid open just a fraction, watching with extreme care, as if unlocking a safe. Once satisfied, he got on his mobile.

“We got 'em, sir,” he said. “Yeah, both alive. And the cat.”

The big man closed his phone and we all waited.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was three men who eventually walked into the room. One had the cap and insignia of a Comprot commanding officer. The other two wore white chemical suits, minus the headgear. One carried a briefcase. The other carried a plain white plastic box.

The officer stopped in front of Kris and looked him sharply up and down, like a robot programming itself with essential information. Then he did the same to me.

“You've caused a lot of trouble, young lady,” he said, in a monotonous nasal voice.

“The cat's here, sir,” said the big comper, with a hand on Feela's box as if it was his own personal prize.

The officer walked slowly over to the box, then looked around his men with a sarcastic half smile. “I'd call that animal cruelty, wouldn't you?” he said.

There was an obedient laugh.

“Thought they were animal lovers!” added the officer, clearly enjoying his little performance.

Another laugh.

The officer's manner changed. “OK, Dr. Stott,” he said, in a firm, efficient tone. “Do the business.”

The two white-suited men went to a nearby desk. The taller man placed the white box on the desk, while the other opened the briefcase and took out a number of small items, housed in plastic bags.

“Pentobarbitone?” asked the taller man, and the other indicated a bottle.

The taller man selected a second bottle, not the one indicated, then began assembling a hypodermic needle.

“No!” I screamed, but as I tried to leap towards Feela, at least two compers seized me.

“Bastards!” yelled Kris, but got another kick for his pains.

“Kill me! Kill me instead!” I screamed. Everything had gone unreal, out of time, beyond even nightmares.

Dr. Stott, if that was his name, worked with quiet efficiency, unmoved by my hysterical screams. He opened Feela's box, assessed the contents, and placed his arm decisively inside. That awful sound arose, the sound only made by Feela in submission. Though I could not see her, I knew exactly how she looked at that moment, ears and eyes flattened, dignity stolen, yet still with that impeccable beauty, and still, no doubt, awaiting the glimpse of a chance to make her sudden escape.