The Last Free Cat (18 page)

But this time there was to be no escape for Feela. Dr. Stott gave the needle a little squirt, brought it carefully down, found his mark, and emptied it. Then silence from the box, and all meaning drained from my universe. Winded and wounded, Kris cursed again, and took another beating.

The officer seemed to be enjoying my suffering. He let me sob for two, maybe three minutes, before advising me to shut up. “It's only sedated,” he said.

“What?” I croaked.

“We haven't given it the lethal injection,” said the officer.

“You haven't put her down?” I gasped.

“Not yet,” replied the officer.

“What are you playing at?” I yelled.

“You have to understand we mean business,” replied the officer.

“I don't understand
anything
!” I cried.

“The cat
will
die,” said the officer, “unless you play ball.”

“Play ball with
what
?” I yelled.

This officer was obviously a full-on drama queen. He gazed impassively at my frantic face, building the suspense, before speaking again in that measured monotone.

“You've been given an option,” he said. “A very generous option.”

The officer paused again, maybe waiting for me to look grateful.

“James Viafara has personally intervened,” continued the officer.

This, needless to say, came from out of the blue. James Viafara was a well-known figure, even to people like me who couldn't name more than three businessmen. Most people simply knew him as the Cat King, since his company owned all the cats now that they'd taken over Chen, their only rivals. The Cat King was famous for his TV charity marathons and appearances on the popular reality show
Boom or Bust.
I couldn't say I'd ever had an opinion on him, though most people seemed to think he was OK—except Kris, of course. To Kris he was the devil made flesh.

“Mr. Viafara,” continued the officer, “has offered to have your cat registered and for you to purchase it.”

“Purchase it?” I repeated. “How much for?”

“Forty thousand euros,” replied the officer.

“Forty thousand euros?” I repeated, aghast. “I haven't got
forty
euros!”

The officer sighed. “If you hadn't gone on this stupid adventure,” he pronounced, “you would know that you actually have a very tidy sum of money coming to you.”

“What?” I replied. “How?”

“Your father's life insurance,” answered the officer. “It paid out on the death of your mother.”

Now I really was dumbfounded. I'd known, of course, about that insurance policy, but how or why it would ever pay out had been pushed to the back of my mind entirely.

“How do you know about my dad's insurance?” I asked.

“Terrorism and Aliens Act,” replied the officer. “We have access to all your personal information.”

The memory of Mum flashed into my mind—her need for privacy and dignity, and how horrified she would be at such intrusion. Not that I felt any different.

“It really is a very generous offer by Mr. Viafara,” added the officer.

“PR,” grunted Kris, but I kept my eyes away from him. I could see, of course, how they wanted to use me. I'd become a cause for the Free Cats movement, a figurehead, and Comprot wanted the world to see me toe the line. But the price of refusing was Feela's life.

“Will I still be arrested?” I asked.

“If the cat becomes legal,” replied the officer, “we will write off the whole affair.”

“What about Kris?” I asked.

“Kris will have to answer a few questions at the station,” replied the officer. “After that he will be free to go.”

This didn't seem to square with the beating they'd been giving him, but I reasoned that if I did the deal with Viafara, they wouldn't dare do Kris any more harm.

“Well?” asked the officer.

My eyes fell on the bottle they called pentobarbitone. At the thought of that needle going into Feela again, reason didn't come into it.

“OK,” I said quietly.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

This was the day I had expected to end in Ireland, a police cell, or a morgue. Instead I found myself in the entrance lobby of the six-star Imperial Hotel, gazing in awe at the wonderland of marble, glass, fully grown trees, and people who seemed to have walked straight off a Paris fashion runway. Apart from Special Operations leader Harry Sewell, that is, who still wore the active service uniform and scruffy mop of blond hair I'd first seen at the school. It was Harry's job to supervise me but also ensure I got everything I wanted.

Harry was keen to check in and move farther into the hotel as soon as possible. Outside, compers were thick on the ground and workmen were erecting a temporary fence around the building. The Imperial looked out over the seafront at Bluehaven and would be a certain target for protesters once they knew I was inside, scheduled to meet their arch-enemy as soon as his helicopter touched down on the roof.

I wanted so badly to communicate with those protesters. I wanted them to know how much I valued what they'd done for me, and that I still totally agreed that cats should wander the earth freely and be owned by whoever wanted them. But I'd started on this journey to save Feela's life, and my priority hadn't changed. All that had changed was that I had a six-figure sum in my bank account and an offer I couldn't refuse.

The arrangements at reception were completed. I was given a room key, a pet permit, and a welcome pack outlining all the pleasures I could experience at Bluehaven's premier hotel.

“Lunch?” asked Harry Sewell, leading me into the ground-floor restaurant.

“I'll just have a roll,” I replied, feeling ill at ease in the plush surroundings, especially with everyone's eyes anxiously focused on me and the box I carried.

Sewell picked up a menu and offered it to me. “Don't be a martyr, love,” he said. “You can have anything you want.”

“I just want a roll,” I replied.

“Vegetarian, are you?” asked Sewell, opening the menu himself.

“Fishetarian,” I replied.

Sewell made no comment. His calculating, world-weary eyes scanned the menu. “Wild mushroom risotto,” he said. “How about that?”

I couldn't deny that the smells around the restaurant were making me salivate. The truth was, I was starving. Was it really such an important principle not to eat the best food when it was offered me?

“What about Feela?” I asked.

“What, you want her to have something off the menu?” asked Sewell.

This had not occurred to me, but the moment the big man said it, the idea appealed a lot. Yes, it would be fine to have wild mushroom risotto if Feela had the salmon—so that's exactly what I requested.

“OK,” said Sewell, not batting an eyelid.

“And I want a meal sent to Kris,” I added.

Sewell wasn't so keen on this proposal. But after a long pause he agreed, ordered all the meals and one for himself, and sent for some junior officer to take Kris's meal to the station. I had no idea who this officer was, but it did occur to me he could have been the man firing bullets at us the night before. He didn't look much more than twenty and gave me a nice smile.

The hotel wasn't going to let Feela eat in the restaurant, that was clear, so the meals were ordered to be served in my room, which we then went to. The room was on the fourth floor (not so easy to escape from if I had a sudden change of mind) and was the most beautiful space I had ever seen, all done out in peach marble, with huge windows overlooking the sea, an old-fashioned wrought-iron bed, ornamental desk, couch, chairs, coffee table, a personal bar, and a screen the size of a wall. Alongside the main room was a mirrored, ensuite bathroom with toilet, sink, bidet, shower, and giant jacuzzi, fittings of gold, and towels as thick as doormats.

Sewell checked out the window locks and removed their keys and the remote for the screen. He did this in his usual matter-of-fact way, without explaining and, frankly, I was too tired to question it. All I wanted now was to eat, sleep, and then to sign the contract with Viafara as quickly, quietly, and invisibly as possible.

The meals duly arrived, except Sewell obviously hadn't told them the salmon was for the cat, as it came with side salad, potato wedges, and a little pot of tartar sauce. I'd checked Feela every two minutes since they'd released me in the school library, and could see she was slowly getting less groggy and was probably ready to eat. Nevertheless, she was a cowed and disturbed animal. I had to lift her out of her box, stroke and reassure her for a long time before she would sniff the food. Eventually, thankfully, she took a nibble, then slowly began to make her way through the rest of the meal—minus the side salad, potato wedges, and little pot of tartar sauce.

Sewell sat at the desk and ate his lunch while I perched on the edge of the bed above Feela. If this had been a movie we'd have begrudgingly started to like each other or something stupid like that. In reality I felt nothing but embarrassment in his company, watching him chewing his chicken leg in the same dour, mechanical way he did everything. It was all simple to Sewell, you could see that. People who broke the law were villains and it was his job to bring them in. Except in my case, that is. Obviously people in power could ignore the law when it suited them and when that happened, Sewell would ignore it too.

There was a knock at the door. Sewell checked the peephole, then opened it. In walked Dr. Stott, the vet, carrying the same black briefcase he had brought into the library.

“What's going on?” I asked, immediately putting down my plate.

“You have been told there'll be a blood test?” replied Dr. Stott.

“No!” I said, anxiously glancing down at Feela, innocently taking her final mouthfuls.

“Obviously we have to check the cat for HN51,” replied Dr. Stott.

“She hasn't got it,” I blurted.

“We have to test her for it,” insisted Dr. Stott.

There was no point in arguing. At least the test would prove what rubbish the media had been talking—although the thought did cross my mind that they could rig the result. I trusted no one in authority now.

“OK,” I said unenthusiastically.

Dr. Stott went about his business. Just as Feela had regained some confidence, here she was giving that awful passive yowl again as his professional hand grabbed her scruff firmly and took his blood sample. Hopefully that would be the last time he went near her.

“The mobile lab's arriving shortly,” he said. “We'll have the result in a couple of hours.”

I nodded, he left, and Sewell wiped his mouth. “I should get some sleep now, if I were you,” he said.

“Not with you sitting there,” I replied.

“You know the conditions,” he said.

Sewell was referring to the agreement we'd reached in the library: I could hold on to Feela before the meeting with Viafara, but was never to be left alone with her.

“I'm not going anywhere, am I?” I pointed out.

Sewell stood up, rechecked the window, and had a look in the bathroom for good measure, just in case there were any secret exits in there.

“I'll be right outside the door,” he said.

That was good enough for me. As the door closed behind Sewell I dropped on to the bed and loosed a sigh of relief, followed by a smile of familiar amusement as the tips of Feela's huge ears appeared over the edge of the mattress. For a moment I was back at home again, part of that everyday ritual which was unique to Feela. First the ear tips, then the pause of about five seconds, then the silent, weightless spring on to the bed. Sure enough, up she came, and to complete the ritual I pretended to be asleep. First she pushed her head against my hand then, when I didn't respond, she took her paw and tapped me gently twice, on the forearm this time. That, of course, was my signal to tickle her chin, which she duly stretched out to complete the pleasure.

Forget what had happened. Forget the traumas, the conflicts, and the pain. Feela was alive. I had kept my word to Mum—because if we hadn't tried to escape, we would never have become headline news, and James Viafara would never have made that offer.

I sat up and drew my finger down the back of Feela's head, where the black and ginger halves met in a perfect straight line, on down between her little shoulder blades and along the spine to her tail, giving her a gentle shiver. I remembered the time when Kris first showed his mastery over Feela by rubbing the base of that spine. Though I was about to sign the contract of ownership, I didn't want to deny that Feela was Kris's cat too. I wondered idly if we might live together—not like a couple, just friends …

… Yes, it was better to be friends. Friends liked each other, couples fought …

… On the other hand …

“What do
you
think, Feela?” I asked.

But Feela didn't think, I knew that. Feela was drawn to pleasure and repelled by pain. But what if something, or someone, gave you both?

I'd never been like the other girls in my class. If they fancied someone, really fancied them, they just lost all sense of perspective. I had too much of my mum's sensible streak for that.

On the other hand, Mum had always felt OK about Kris. She could see beyond his act, beyond his insecurities. If I went by her judgement …

Yes, that was it. I'd go by Mum's judgement. Then I could do what I wanted to do anyway.

I sank back on to the pillows, reliving those intimate moments at the waterfall, imagining some frightening but exciting moments to come. I wondered how long they'd keep him at the station, and whether he'd be here by the time I'd finished with James Viafara. If not, we'd arranged that Comprot would take me to the station to meet him, but I really didn't want that.

With my hand buried in Feela's warm fur, and memories and dreams of Kris merging into one, I drifted into a deep, peaceful, desperately welcome sleep.