The Last Free Cat (8 page)

“Maybe we should just camp out,” I suggested.

“I'll be dead if I don't get some decent sleep,” said Kris.

A spot of rain fell. Then a few more.

“What are they going to think?” I asked.

“They can think what they like,” said Kris. “We're paying, that's all they care about.”

“But what's it going to look like?” I continued. “Two kids, just one bag between them, and a pet carrier.”

“I'll hide the carrier,” said Kris.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked.

“Leave it under the bush here,” said Kris. “Then, once we've got the room, nip out and fetch it.”

“The room?” I replied. “Don't you mean ‘rooms'?”

“We can't afford singles,” said Kris.

“It's my money!” I replied.

“
You
can't afford singles then,” said Kris.

A slight panic took hold of me. “I'm not sharing a bed,” I said.

“What makes you think I want to share a bed with you?” said Kris.

“I'm just saying,” I replied.

“Well now just go and ring the bell,” said Kris.

I did so. There was a long wait, then a shadow appeared behind the patterned glass of the door. The door opened and there stood a woman, about fifty, wearing a formal gray dress, with an old-fashioned bob hairstyle which seemed glued to her head. She had a suspicious look in her eye and nervously stroked the palms of her hands together, like a bluebottle fly.

“Yes?” she said in a clipped, cold tone.

“Have you got a double room, please?” I asked.

Mrs. Bluebottle's eyes darted from me to Kris and back again. “Double or twin?” she asked.

“What's a twin?” I asked.

“Two beds,” she replied.

“Yes—that, please,” I said.

“I've got a room on the second floor,” she said.

Mrs. Bluebottle held open the door for us to enter. I could tell she didn't like the look of Kris one bit, but there was nothing unusual in that. We walked through the hall, where I was dismayed to see a copy of the
Daily Mail.
No paper printed more cat scare stories than the
Mail.

Mrs. Bluebottle, who told us her name was Hurst, led us up the stairs and showed us the room. It was small and old-fashioned, with pine furniture, yellow walls, and blue curtains. There was a cramped shower and toilet unit off to one side, and a window with a view over next door's roof. But it was clean and it would serve our purposes for the night.

“We'll take it,” I said. Mrs. Hurst insisted on payment up front. She handed me a key, gave Kris another onceover, wiped her hands together, and left.

“Cozy,” said Kris, in a sarcastic voice.

“Better than most,” I replied.

“I wouldn't know,” said Kris.

I sat on the bed and, without thinking, took out my phone. The first thing I did, whenever I arrived somewhere, was to ring Mum. Once again that utter loss hit me in the guts, and I burst out crying.

Kris stood there above me, silent and unmoving. He could have put an arm around me, or said a few kind words, but he did neither. After a while, when it was obvious my sobbing was not going to stop, he told me he was going to get some fish and chips and would bring Feela in when he came back.

I was starting to really hate that boy.

Chapter Fourteen

Feela must have come back to life sometime in the night. I'd nodded off for a while, then had a bad dream, then awoke to the real-life nightmare. As I lay quietly sobbing, I saw the tips of her two ears above the edge of the bed. As always, there was a few seconds' pause, then she leaped silently up beside me and stretched her face towards mine. She was responding to my distress, I knew it. Not understanding my emotions maybe, not feeling compassion, but responding all the same, just as she would to the cries of a kitten. When I didn't move, she advanced a tentative paw, and touched me gently on the cheek. That was the sign for me to stroke her, which I did, smoothing her warm head with my hand as she angled herself to get my fingers under her chin.

My sobs subsided. An ounce of calm had returned to my life. Beyond Feela I could see Kris sleeping, curled up like a baby. Kris looked a lot better asleep—neither hard nor arrogant, but young and uncertain, with long soft lashes and a mouth that twitched with his dream-thoughts, like little winces. I almost felt like protecting him; as if he'd ever let me do that. There was a reason he was as he was, and I had to give some allowance for that. Mum had liked him—that was what mattered most.

“It'll be all right, Feela,” I said, more to me than to her. With that I must have drifted off again, because the next thing I knew, someone was hammering at the door.

“Are you awake?” asked a familiar female voice.

“Yeah?” I grunted.

“Ten to nine!” called Mrs. Hurst, who sounded oddly friendly. “Don't miss breakfast!”

There was no chance of that. Bleary and weary, we took our places in the dining room, having taken care to lock the door and switch on the soundgarden to cover any cries from Feela. It was Mr. Hurst who served us, a cheery, red-faced man in a striped apron. But there was something false about his mateyness, especially when he pulled up a chair and joined us for a cup of tea.

“So, do your mums know you're here?” he asked brightly.

I welled up.

“Her mum's just died,” explained Kris.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mr. Hurst.

“We're on our way back from the funeral,” added Kris.

“Ah,” said Mr. Hurst. “On your way back from the funeral, is it?” He gave an anxious glance at the door—why, I had no idea.

“Shall we be off?” said Kris to me.

“I'll have to get you to sign the book first,” said Mr. Hurst.

It seemed puzzling to me that we were signing the visitors' book now, rather than the night before, but I let it go. Mr. Hurst brought the book to us, handed me a pen, and watched closely as I invented a name and address. Kris did the same, carving it out slowly, as he wasn't much of a writer.

“We better go now,” I said.

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Hurst. “I don't believe you've had a receipt.”

This was getting very tedious. We waited another few minutes while Mr. Hurst fetched us said receipt, drew us into a conversation about the weather, and had just started another one about the price of bread, when Mrs. Hurst appeared at the dining-room door. The two of them exchanged glances. Kris had really had enough by now, and made a quick good-bye. I followed shortly after, and found him on our landing in an aggravated state.

“Door won't open!” he hissed.

“What d'you mean?” I replied.

“I mean, the door won't open!” he repeated, demonstrating the point by pressing the smartkey repeatedly against the lock.

“There's another lock,” I said, pointing to the old-fashioned key-lock lower down the door.

Kris let out a snort, then turned on his heels and thundered down to the first floor, where Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were waiting.

“Let us in our bloody room!” he bellowed, just as I arrived on the scene.

“I knew you two were up to something,” replied Mrs. Hurst.

“You don't just go into people's rooms!” I barked.

“I do if I suspect a crime's being committed,” replied Mrs. Hurst.

“That's
our
things in there!” yelled Kris.

Mrs. Hurst folded her arms and adopted a smug expression. “I don't think everything in there belongs to you, do you?” she said.

“That cat is mine!” I cried.

“We'll see if the authorities agree,” replied Mrs. Hurst.

“They're on their way,” chimed in Mr. Hurst.

We were in a desperate situation. A few days before, I'd have panicked. Now my mind was focused. I stretched out my hand to show the scratches. “Do you see those?” I asked.

“Scratched you, has it?” said Mrs. Hurst.

I smiled. “She's got the flu,” I said.

An anxious frown came over Mrs. Hurst's face.

“And now,” I continued, “so have I.”

I moved towards Mrs. Hurst. She stepped back.

“Open that door,” I commanded, “or I'll cough in your face.”

“You've not got the flu,” said Mrs. Hurst weakly.

“Don't you read the papers?” I asked. “It's everywhere! Illegal cats! Dying people! People like me, with nothing to lose!”

“Comprot will be here soon,” said Mr. Hurst.

“Yes, but that'll be too late for you!” I replied.

I moved another step closer.

“Want to risk it?” I said.

I stared, unafraid, into Mrs. Hurst's face, and saw the fear in her eyes.

“Give them the key, Brett,” she said.

Chapter Fifteen

Kris's head appeared from the window of the narrowboat. “Come on,” he said. “We're in.”

I pushed Feela's carrier on to the roof of the boat and clambered on board.

“I wouldn't leave that up there,” said Kris, indicating the carrier. “Roof's rotten.”

I took the carrier down. “Are you sure this thing is seaworthy?” I asked.

“Probably not,” said Kris. “Lucky we're not going on the sea.”

That was true. The plan was to get as far up the canal as it was navigable, which Kris reckoned was about eighty kilometers. It was slow, but it was safer than hitching another ride or trying to smuggle Feela on to the rail. And it was a lot less tiring than walking, which we'd been doing for the past two hours.

“Stinks,” I said as Kris let me into the long, narrow cabin, which was in a sorry state.

“No one's been on here in a while,” replied Kris.

I examined the filthy seating and a few cupboards containing nothing but a broken kettle.

“How d'you think it got here?” I asked.

“Dumped, probably,” said Kris.

“Why would anyone do that?” I asked.

“Probably abandoned,” said Kris. “Owners thought not worth fixing it up, too expensive to moor, too expensive to scrap, dump it.”

“People have no responsibility,” I said.

“Yes, miss,” said Kris, smiling.

“Well they haven't,” I replied.

There was a long, low mew from the carrier. “She needs the toilet,” I said.

“Don't let her do it in the box, for God's sake,” said Kris.

I opened the carrier. Feela's head came out but she made no further move. She was taking stock of her surroundings.

“Aren't we going to start?” I asked.

“Not till I find the engine,” said Kris.

“
What
?” I said.

“Don't panic,” said Kris. “The main motor's gone, but these things always have a back-up.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“How do I know everything?” replied Kris smugly.

“I don't know,” I replied.

“I don't waste my time reading books,” said Kris.

Kris got back to work in the engine room. I hated the way he made me feel useless, except, I
was
useless most of the time. But it was thanks to me that we'd escaped the guest house, and Kris had admitted then I'd been street smart, as he put it. When he'd said that it had made me glow, like when Dad used to praise me. I didn't
want
to glow, and I didn't show it, but I couldn't deny how I'd felt and the fact I wanted to feel like that again.

For now my job was to take care of Feela, encourage her out of the carrier, and make her a litter box to go in. I succeeded at all of these things, with the help of an old tomato box and some booklets scattered around. Feela began tentatively exploring the space inside the boat, poking her nose into all the corners, testing and sniffing. At every little noise her head would jolt, and you could tell by her low stance and slow creep how nervous she was. I wished so much I could explain what we were doing, but that wasn't an option. Hopefully, when this was all over, we'd be able to give her some security again.

Meanwhile Kris was getting very frustrated. I joined him at the controls as he rummaged beneath the steering gear.

“I can't find the spare motor!” he said.

“That's because it's a battery,” I replied.

“Never,” he said.

“You'll find it here,” I said, opening the cabinet above our heads.

Kris stared at the large oblong box I'd uncovered. “How did you know that?” he asked.

I held up the instruction booklet I'd found when I was making Feela's litter. “Read it in a book,” I said.

Kris looked as hurt as if I'd stolen his favorite toy. “How do we connect it then?” he asked.

I checked the booklet. “The red and blue wires,” I explained, “to the red and blue terminals.”

Kris followed these instructions and the rest of the orders I gave for starting the boat, and was surprisingly gracious about it.

“I'll go home, shall I?” he said. “You don't need me anymore.”

“You still have your uses,” I replied. “Now get on and steer the boat.”

“Yes, miss,” said Kris. “Please, miss?”

“Yes, Kris?” I replied.

“Aren't you going to cast off the rope first, miss?” said Kris.

“I was just going to do that,” I replied.

Kris's honor was satisfied. Despite all our trials, we'd somehow got ourselves into a good mood, and as we set off in the morning sun, it felt for just a moment like a holiday, like the way the world should be. On battery power, the narrowboat cruised almost silently down the ancient canal, Kris at the tiller, me whisking Feela's warm belly, birds twittering, no hassle, no pain.

After a while Kris started to feel tired and suggested I take over at the tiller. That was a vote of confidence, I thought. After a few instructions I took charge, which was a lot easier than I expected, except you had to think ahead, because it was a big, long boat which took time to respond. I even took the boat through a tunnel while Kris snoozed happily, ignorant of the danger he was in. When he finally emerged, bleary-eyed, he couldn't believe how far we'd traveled without crashes, sinkings, or even a bump against the canalside.