Cat Kin (24 page)

‘
Congratulations
. You have lost me.
’

‘
A felimorph, like my dear departed mother. If you thought Panthacea was an exciting discovery, wait till I’ve studied this little specimen.
’

‘
Bu
t she’s a schoolgirl, for heaven’s sake
…’

‘
T
o you, John, she could be worth millions. Ah, there we are
.’

The rushing noise was coming back.

‘
Cobb
. She cannot stay here
.’

What kind of dream was this?

It had taken Ben over an hour searching in Hamish’s Car Dump to find both pieces of his broken phone, and it took Dad even longer to coax the thing back to life with a
soldering iron and much cursing. Tiffany’s number at last flickered weakly on the screen and Ben, playing safe, wrote it down before dialling it on the land line.

It went straight into voicemail. She must have her phone turned off. He left some clumsy message about being sorry, said that he hoped they could speak sometime soon, and hung up. She’d
probably never ring back.

A background burble of television reminded him it was almost time for
Eastenders
. He was pleased to find Mum and Dad sitting side by side on the sofa. Taking the easy chair he browsed
through the TV guide while the local news burbled in the background.

‘There’s a James Bond double-bill on later,’ he hinted.

‘Huh. In cases like this it’s nearly always the father whodunnit,’ Dad remarked, frowning at the sombre-faced newsreader on the screen.

‘That’s a mean thing to say.’ Mum shifted in her seat.

‘Well, it is. Guy goes on TV acting all anxious, while all the time he knows the body’s at the bottom of a canal somewhere. Mind you,’ Dad added hastily, ‘it is usually
the step-fathers. Not the real ones.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ben scanned the satellite listings.

Mum shushed him and turned up the volume on the news.

‘…her parents believe that a family argument may have caused her to walk out,’ a reporter was saying to the camera. ‘The chief hope is that she will get in touch either
by calling home or by ringing the confidential helpline at the foot of your screens.’

A freephone number flashed up.

‘Earlier today Peter Maine made an emotional appeal for her safe return.’

A tall man came on screen, wearing an ill-matching open-neck shirt and trousers, as if he had dressed without noticing. Beside him stood a woman whose face might have been beautiful had it not
been lined with lost sleep. The man spoke into a microphone.

‘Truffle, we’re not angry at you, sweetheart.’ His voice was steady, as if he were concentrating on keeping it that way. ‘We just want to know you’re
okay.’

Ben put down the TV guide.

‘If you’re out there and listening to this, please call. You don’t have to speak to us, ring the other number if you want. Just say you’re safe. We both love you,
Tiffany. Please come home.’

Ben’s fingers sank into the arms of his chair. He couldn’t move. The television filled with a photograph. Tiffany, a year or two younger, smiling in school uniform.

‘Police are appealing for witnesses who may have seen Tiffany on Sunday afternoon.’

‘S’cuse me.’ Ben stumbled over Dad’s feet on his way out of the lounge and dived into his new bedroom, slamming the door shut. A crippling weakness overtook him and he
sank to his knees at the foot of the bed, shaking as if from a fever.

At first there was nothingness, blacker than sleep. Then she was a bubble rising sluggishly through syrup. Shapes above her bulbed and stretched like freshly blown glass and
the drowsy syrup smothered her, she was trapped, a fly in amber—

Tiffany retched and coughed herself conscious. She gulped foul-smelling air. Her throat felt as if she had been eating thistles. It was thirst, she realised, a thirst so fierce she hardly knew
it as such. She groaned and heard a dry rattle.

Where was she? Her memory was smashed. Out of the wreckage came one terrible thought: she was in hospital. She’d had an accident, or she’d been struck down by some disease even worse
than Stuart’s. She wished hospital beds weren’t so hard. Her back was cobbled with bruises and her hip was a knifing pain. The grey haze around her sharpened into bars. She lay in a
cage, the size of a coffin, at the edge of an office made of cardboard boxes.

The truth landed on her like lead. Only her thirst, the most terrible thing of all, kept it from crushing her.

‘…so much for your theory that no-one cares.’

‘Have you conclusive proof that it’s the same girl?’

‘Come
on
, Cobb. A kid shows up here, you stick her in a cage, and thirty-six hours later parents are appealing on the lunchtime news about their missing daughter. Is that
scientific
enough for you?’

Cold clutched at Tiffany’s heart. Parents. Oh God. Mum and Dad. How long had she been missing? Thirty-six hours…? They’d been on the news? What would they…? Water. She
had to have water.

‘As you wish. Your theory stands for now.’ Cobb, restlessly circling his desk, passed into Tiffany’s line of sight. ‘Even so, I wager you her parents know nothing about
her. They don’t know what she can do. And they can’t link her with us.’

‘The police will try to find her.’

‘The police couldn’t find their own gluteus maximus with both hands.’ Chuckling, Cobb glanced at the cage. ‘Hush now. She’s waking up.’

He came nearer, peering in at Tiffany as if she were a rare, possibly hazardous insect.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘W…’ Tiffany tried to speak. Her mouth was like rubber. ‘Ter.’

‘I’m sorry?’

She tried again, with all her strength. ‘
Water
.’

‘Pardon? Ah, of course. John, fetch me that bottle, will you?’ Cobb took it, ignoring the other man’s muttering, and poked it through the bars. Tiffany drank in a frenzy,
choking and coughing, until she was swallowing only air. The dreadful dryness had hardly shifted, but at least she could now move her tongue.

‘You’ll feel poorly at first,’ said Cobb. ‘You’ve been sedated.’

Tiffany tried to get up and bumped her head on the cage. A wave of dizziness forced her down again.

‘How about food?’ Cobb enquired.

As her thirst ebbed, the hunger pangs came. She had read about these but had never thought they would really be
pains
. Being this hungry was like bleeding inside. She managed a nod.

‘Good-good.’

Something smacked wetly on the floor of her cage. Tiffany stared at it. It was a lump of meat. Raw meat. Nausea overcame her and she shut her eyes.

‘It’s fresh,’ she heard him say.

‘You imbecile.’ That was Stanford. ‘Stop playing games.’

‘In a spirit of experimentation…’

‘I don’t care what you call it. You’ll make her puke everywhere and then someone will have to clean it up, and I tell you in advance that it won’t be me.’

Cobb smiled thinly. ‘You know best, John, I’m sure. Give her whatever food you feel is appropriate.’

‘Me?’ Stanford boggled. Cobb was already walking back to his desk. Stanford scowled at Tiffany as if she were a dent in his new car. She gazed up at him.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Help me.’

‘Shut up.’

‘He’s mad,’ she pleaded. ‘You know he’s mad. You’ve got to help me get out of here.’

Stanford turned away. ‘Toby?’

‘Mr S?’

‘Nip to the loading bay for me, will you? Get a pack of those sandwiches from the security men’s van.’

‘Right-o.’ Toby seemed miffed at the task. ‘What d’you want in ’em?’

‘Anything. I don’t care. Use your imagination!’

Toby mooched off.

‘And a carton of juice or something!’ Stanford called after him.

‘Yes sir. Three bags full.’

Tiffany waited, fighting with faintness, until a triangular plastic pack was crushed through the bars. She ripped it open and crammed the limp white bread with fish paste and watery lettuce into
her mouth. Twenty seconds later, when she had finished, she sucked at the carton of Ribena until it crumpled. Only then, in disgust, did she flick the lump of meat out of her cage.

She looked around for John Stanford. It was absurd, but she almost longed for his return. Anyone was better than Philip Cobb.

Could she shout for help? There were many others in the factory, security men, technicians, mysterious operatives. Surely they weren’t all heartless beasts. Then she thought of the cats in
their cages. No-one working here could be unaware of them. Yet their suffering went on. Maybe they
were
all as evil as Cobb. At any rate, they did nothing to stop him, and wasn’t
that the same thing?

Cobb was paying more attention to his computer than to her. She had to escape. Oh, but how? She felt so weak. Hungry, thirsty, bruised and dizzy, and on top of all that she was dying for the
loo…

‘Hey,’ she called. ‘Hey! Doctor Cobb! I need to go.’

‘I can’t let you go,’ Cobb murmured.

‘To the toilet,’ she insisted. ‘Please.’

‘You should have gone before you left.’

‘I’ve been here two days, you said!’

Cobb stopped clicking the mouse.

‘You there, Terry, no, Toby. Take her to the lavatory. And stand guard.’

‘What am I today?’ Toby groused, as Cobb unlocked the cage and pulled Tiffany out. ‘Sandwiches, toilets. Why don’t you hire a bleedin’—’

‘—person with their tongue cut out?’ Cobb spat, so violently that Toby stepped back in alarm. ‘Listen to me, you lobotomised Yeti. If you ever question again one syllable
of what I say, I will let Shiva feed on your face.
Have I made myself clear?
’

‘Yes sir. Sorry sir,’ mumbled Toby, swallowing. He gripped Tiffany’s upper arm, the huge fingers and thumb meeting. His shaven head had gone shiny with sweat.
He
couldn’t be so afraid of Cobb, could he?

A blue Portaloo occupied one of the wings that branched off the main hall. The moment she was shoved inside, the door slamming behind her, Tiffany broke down in tears. She had never felt so
wretched, so poisoned with fear. But she used the loo and dried her eyes. She had bought herself one chance. Now to use it.

Clever plans were a waste of time. Speed was her weapon. First bracing against the plastic sink for leverage, she hurtled out of the door and ducked Toby’s flailing arms. Swerving sharply
left then right, she ran. Her Mau body roused itself reluctantly.
I’m a cat
, it seemed to complain,
you’ve got to let me sleep.
She focused on Parda, the golden catra
and the source of strength. Energy flooded her weary limbs. Toby’s shouts echoed like thunderclaps.

She skidded round a corner into a wall of snapping jaws. Two black-and-brown demons reared over her, baying and snarling. Crying out, she shielded her face, tried to roll away and hit bricks.
There was no escape. Curled in a ball she waited to be shredded.

‘Fred! Ginger! Stand down.’

A tall shape stood over her, eclipsing the upper windows. Stanford whistled and the two huge Doberman dogs sat on their haunches, grinning like gin-traps. Limp with fright, Tiffany was dragged
to her feet.

‘Come on, you,’ growled Toby. ‘Just dare try that again.’

Avoiding Stanford’s icy stare he carried her back to her cage.

‘Next time, you use a bucket,’ Toby sneered. ‘I coulda lost my job.’

Tiffany lay motionless inside the bars, dimly aware of the argument that had broken out amongst the men, Cobb saying things about Toby and Stanford making counter-accusations. Crushed with
despair she ignored them. She’d wasted her only opportunity. She was too tired, too weak. And now her ankle was throbbing. Even if she got out again, she wouldn’t be able to run.

An hour passed, perhaps two. Eventually she lost the will to weep. She heaved a sigh and felt a rumble in her throat. With it came a glimmer of warmth. That was Pur, of course—the
cat’s calming meditation. Often just a sound of contentment, cats could use it deliberately to handle pain and distress. Some people believed it could even speed up healing.