Cat's Paw (4 page)

‘You kicked my head!’ Olly yelped. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you it’s pretend?’

‘It’s not pretend,’ Daniel corrected. ‘It’s non-contact.’

‘Which means you don’t kick my head.’

‘Sorry.’ Daniel sucked his teeth. ‘But that would have been nifty in a real fight. What’s the move called again?’

‘Jafri zafri,’ said Tiffany. ‘Arabic or something. It’s too difficult, I don’t think even I do it right. It was one of the Ten Hooks attacks I found on the
web.’

‘The web? You mean someone else out there knows pashki too?’

‘I suppose.’ The sadness, never far away, pricked her again.

Susie waved, already changed. ‘Same time next week, hopefully!’

‘Money,’ said Tiffany. ‘Remember?’

She had not asked her parents to hire the hall. It was enough that they let her out one evening a week. Daniel and Cecile dropped three pounds apiece into her shortbread tin.

‘Er.’ Olly grinned helplessly. ‘Six pounds next time?’

Susie turned her purse inside-out. ‘I’ll pay you at school, I swear.’

Or
I
will swear
, thought Tiffany. ‘You never forgot the money when Mrs Powell was collecting it.’

‘That was different,’ said Susie.

‘How, pray?’

‘There she goes again,’ said Olly. ‘It’s getting a
leetle
bit spooky.’

Tiffany watched the Cat Kin leave. Had Mrs Powell felt like this at the end of lessons? Suddenly alone and empty? Many times Tiffany had meant to stay after class, to get to know her pashki
teacher better. There was so much they had never talked about. Probably Mrs Powell would have been glad of the company, for she had lived all alone except for Jim, her gorgeous silver cat. The
thought that she might be lonely had never occurred to Tiffany. Not until it was too late.

Tiffany blinked and found she was the only person left. And the Sunday School’s chairs still needed putting back. Huffing and puffing she got them into crooked rows before the car rolled
up outside. Tiffany scrubbed off her face-print with wet wipes, locked the hall and prepared a smile for Dad. He settled her into the back seat and checked her safety belt. Ugh. Would Mum later
tuck her in bed with a mug of warm milk?

At home she found Rufus curled upon her pillow, whiskers still damp from his saucer of milk. He gave his greeting-call and she crumpled his ginger ears. Slippers dragged on the landing
carpet.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Stuart leaned on the door jamb. ‘Still fooling them, then?’

She stiffened. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

Her little brother smirked and walked stiffly into her room. From his knees to his ankles he wore the outlandish supporting braces that his doctors called KAFOs but which he referred to as his
cyberman legs. His chubby face looked pale today, his dark brown hair unbrushed.

‘How are you feeling?’ Tiffany asked.

Stuart shrugged. The effort seemed to drain him and he flopped onto her mattress, where he lay chuckling weakly. ‘Great. Now I can’t sit up. Help me.’

‘You should be in bed.’ Tiffany propped him upright. ‘And don’t say you are already.’

He gave his withering look. Probably he had been lying down most of the day. Most of his life, come to that. For a kid with muscular dystrophy, visiting his sister’s room counted as an
outing. She pulled her black velvet beanbag alongside.

‘Do you want to play cards for a bit?’

‘No.’ Stuart looked sly. ‘I want to know what’s so special about your exercise class.’

‘Nothing. It’s just that.’

‘You hate exercise!’

‘I hate school sports,’ she corrected. ‘This is more like yoga.’

‘How much like it?’

Her beanbag rustled. ‘It’s something I do.’

‘It’s
all
you do.’ Stuart leaned forward. ‘Ever since. . . I mean, you’ll give up anything else if Mum and Dad tell you to. Except that. Why?
Oww-ow-oo!’

‘Someone needs to mind where he puts
this
, I think,’ Tiffany said before releasing his nose.

‘Only making conversation.’ He sniffed, then brightened. ‘Hey. I’ve got some more heavy lifting for you.’

‘Of course.’ Smiling, she helped him walk back to his room. His bedspread was covered with cut-up scraps of newspaper. ‘All these?’

‘It’s two weeks’ worth. This is the best one.’ He waved one cutting. It was a headline from a local paper: PARTY-GOERS REPORT ALIENS IN DALSTON.

Tiffany took the scraps from him one by one, pinning them onto his cork notice board. Stuart lacked the strength to push in a drawing pin. The board was already a patchwork of articles on UFOs,
mingled with snapshots of blurred saucer-shapes.

‘You’re really getting into this stuff.’

‘The truth is out there,’ said Stuart. ‘One day planet Earth will accept that we are not alone.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ She took another cutting from him and ironed it between her palms. Then, all at once, she did feel alone, very alone. That pashki class had been awful.
No-one was taking it seriously anymore. And why couldn’t Ben have come? Then at least they could have said sorry to each other. The thought of him sulking at home made her angry. Angry and
sad. She had thought he was bigger than that.

Ben was woken by his triceps cramping. With his arms held behind his back, fixed to something immovable, he could only writhe like half a worm until the sweat was wrung out of
him. The pain ebbed, leaving traces of memory. Hours hunched in darkness on a numbing floor. Silent shadows, watching. A headache. Then either passing out or falling asleep. A red glow through his
eyelids made him open them.

Anglepoise lamps stood like metal birds, peering light. Among them sat two children, a boy on a plastic chair and a girl on a stool. Both had bloodshot eyes, as if they had stayed awake all
night. Apart from a small cupboard and a half-empty crate of cola cans, there was little else in this poky room to tell what kind of place it might be.

Cramp or no cramp, his arms were killing him. He found they were tied to the leg of a wooden desk which dug into his back. The desk itself was attached to a wall tiled like a bathroom. Wriggling
into a sitting position he saw a door, also made of wood. It had a steel lever-handle and a roll-blind that might have covered a glass pane.

The girl whispered, ‘He’s awake.’

Her skin matched the porcelain tiles, milky pale behind curtains of lank dark hair.

‘Thomas, he’s awake. We should tell.’

‘It’s four in the morning. Kevin would kill us.’

‘But he said to tell. When he. . .’ The girl flapped her hands at Ben.

‘Who–’ Ben’s mouth felt rough. ‘Who are you?’

‘Perhaps you could give him a gentle shake,’ said the boy.

‘No! You got to come with me.’

‘Someone has to stay on guard duty.’

‘I’ll stay,’ said the girl.

‘That would mean leaving you alone with him. He might be dangerous.’

‘Hey,’ said Ben.

‘I’m not waking Kevin up,’ whimpered the girl.

‘He’s quite reasonable sometimes, Hannah.’

‘You said he’d kill us.’

Ben took a deep breath. ‘Excuse me–’

‘He’s known you longest,’ said the boy.

‘But Thomas–’

‘
Oi!
’ yelled Ben. A stunned silence settled on the pair. ‘Talk to me!’

‘Quiet.’ The boy folded his arms. The movement jogged Ben’s memory. He was one of the three bag snatchers. The smaller boy who’d played dead on the rails so his friends
could spring a trap.

‘I tried to help you,’ Ben snapped.

‘Sssshhh!’ The girl pressed fingers to her lips. With a clunk of lock the door flew open. Ben’s guards shrank before a tall, powerfully built boy with a mane of conker-red hair
and freckles on his cheeks. His bare feet, T-shirt and frayed tracksuit trousers looked like clothes that someone might wear to bed.

‘Are you deaf or just stupid, Thomas?’ He seized the boy and girl by their collars as if to crack their heads together, although he didn’t. ‘I told you to come and get
me. What have you said to him?’

‘N– nuffink, Kevin.’

‘He’s literally only just this minute come round,’ Thomas pleaded.

Ben sat up straighter. ‘Leave them alone.’

Kevin turned. Ben, remembering too late that he was helpless, smiled weakly. Kevin ripped a can from the crate of fizzy drinks. Ben was so thirsty that he actually dared to hope, before Kevin
popped the ring and shook the contents all over him. Cola seethed down his neck.

He tried to speak calmly. ‘If you let me go now, you won’t get into trouble.’

Kevin fetched a second can, shaking it.

‘Think!’ said Ben. ‘I didn’t come home last night. My dad’s already called the police.’

The drink spurted, soaking his clothes. Something splashed in a foamy puddle. His phone. On the screen, a text message:
Hi Dad. Staying tonight at Yusuf’s house. Hope it’s OK.
Ben
. When had he sent that? Then he twigged: he hadn’t. Someone had ransacked the address book, finding his name and a likely friend. With one lucky guess they’d robbed him of a
whole night.

Still he rallied. ‘My dad won’t believe that. I’d never stay at Yusuf’s, he lives in. . . Scotland.’

‘Stoke Newington.’ Kevin sniffed. ‘Your dad already rang. I can’t play you the message as there’s no signal down–’ He broke off. ‘But he’s
cool about it. What great parents you have.’

Ben strained furiously at his bound wrists. What was this place? What had he stumbled upon? Fizzy liquid stung his eyes.

‘Kevin.’ The boy called Thomas yawned. ‘When’s the next guard shift? Only Hannah’s really sleepy.’

‘Then slap her. You’ve got three hours till dawn. If you want to eat tomorrow, you’ll stay awake.’ Kevin trod on Ben. ‘Back for you later. Don’t get
comfortable.’

The door locked behind him. Ben sat in his wet clothes. The damp became a sticky, itchy varnish. He imagined ants on his skin.

‘Tell me what is going on,’ he sighed.

His young guards blanked him. Ben searched for a less uncomfortable way to slump. His legs went to sleep so often that it became a way of marking time: ten minutes between the pins and needles.
Twice he shut his eyes and tried marshalling his catras. If he could summon up Mau claws, those brief ghostly blades might cut his bonds. It was no good. His fingers had no feeling. He flexed his
legs for the seventeenth time.

The girl slipped off her stool and began pacing the floor. After a few laps she picked up a packet of tissues, scurried over to Ben and began to wipe his face and neck. The cola had evaporated
long ago, but Ben almost choked with surprise and gratitude.

‘I’m really thirsty,’ he murmured.

She hesitated, then brought him a can. Oh well, if there was nothing else. Hannah did her best to tip it into his mouth, mopping up the rest with more tissues.

‘You know,’ said Ben, ‘sooner or later my parents
will
wonder where I am.’

That got no reaction. He tried again. ‘Do your folks know you’re here?’

Hannah said, ‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hannah shrugged. ‘I lost them.’

‘We can’t talk,’ said Thomas.

‘Your mum and dad died?’ said Ben.

‘No. I don’t know. Maybe they–’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Thomas gave her a warning glare.

‘Mm.’ Hannah nodded. ‘I got a new family here. This is our family now. And yours.’

‘Not mine.’

‘Don’t antagonise Kevin, and you might get breakfast,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s smashing at the weekend, there’s usually eggs.’

Who
was
this kid? His accent stood out like a salad in a chip shop. Thomas talked like someone from an expensive school, even posher than the one Tiffany went to. What was he doing here?
What were any of them doing here? Where was
here
?

‘How about your parents, Thomas? Are they lost?’

‘No. I see my daddy.’

And who said
daddy
these days?

‘Several times a week,’ said Thomas, then shut his mouth.

Ben had no patience for riddles. ‘Just untie me.’

The silence stretched. They weren’t going to answer. He lolled against the desk, cooling his brow on the white tiles. He had seen these white tiles before, he was sure. Only not in a
bathroom, not in a house or a shop or a school. Somewhere else, somewhere that had rows and rows of tiles, white and blue and green, curving round corners, soaring in arches, dry winds billowing
through them. . . A kick in the calf jerked him awake.

‘I said don’t get comfortable.’ It was Kevin, dressed now in clothes that resembled combat fatigues, dyed in the shades of concrete and asphalt. A pen-knife glinted in his hand
and Ben felt it cut in jerks through his bonds. In one smooth movement Kevin helped him to stand while putting him in a half-nelson. ‘Move.’

Grey gloom waited on the other side of the doorway. Ben shuffled towards it, one arm tingling back to life, the other twisted in a new and painful way. He caught a whiff of stale air, fresh
enough after the suffocating room. Feeling a wider space around him, he had what his mum would have called a rush of blood to the head. He couldn’t let a teenage thug push him around. He did
pashki, for heaven’s sake.