Cat's Paw (6 page)

‘All right. Later. I need to take a nap now or I’ll die.’

‘Ohhh. . . . Okay. I could get working on some passwords and so on?’

‘That sounds lovely.’ Tiffany bolted the door behind him and collapsed onto her mattress.

She managed to snooze and awoke refreshed, ready for Stuart’s barrage of questions. It was surprisingly easy. He devoured every word, including the things she had trouble believing
herself. Tales of treetop training sessions, bus surfing and high-rise acrobatics drew Stuart ever closer to the edge of his chair, until he seemed to float in mid-air supported only by his KAFOs.
Hearing the truth about why she went missing last summer, he shrank away, pale and distressed. Tiffany assured him she was still the same person, still his big sister.

She held back only when he asked about Mrs Powell. That was a tale Tiffany wasn’t ready to tell. She wondered if she ever would be. How she had seen her teacher gunned down, and how she
had grieved for her dead friend, only to be left with the bitterest of comforts: Mrs Powell was probably alive, but gone. Tiffany had combed through her old flat but found no note, no letter,
nothing to tell her what she ought to do now. So she had done her best to fill her teacher’s shoes, hardly knowing if she should or not. Oh, she knew so very little.

And now she lay awake again, her clock burning midnight. The rumpled sheets were as comfy as rubble and the horrible feeling was back: a red knot in her stomach, tugging, pulling. It was painful
to lie still.

Oshtis. She’d done pashki long enough to recognise it. The Oshtis catra, the core of instinct, was crimson energy from the belly zone of the Mau body. Why would it flare up without being
summoned?

Rolling off the bed she salvaged her pashki kit from the laundry basket. Secrecy was not needed there – Mum washed it as she washed all sports clothing, with no curiosity, at forty
degrees. Tiffany shook out the creases and pulled it on. For good measure, she inked up her tabby face print and pressed the cat markings onto her forehead and cheekbones. The paint hid her pale
skin from the glow of the street lamps.

She crept next door to Stuart’s room.

‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to go out.’

‘Now?’

‘Sshh. Can’t explain. Thought I’d let you know.’

‘Okay,’ Stuart whispered. ‘Want me to cover for you? If they wake up?’

‘What would you say?’

‘Um. . .’

‘Work on it.’ She mussed up his hair in farewell.

Opening her window she shivered. Even a real cat with fur would want to be indoors tonight. She climbed to the crest of the roof, balanced, then ran full-tilt along the ridge until it
disappeared under her. Slamming both feet into the slates she launched herself out across the night.

In such split seconds, weightless and alone in air, she barely knew who or what she was. Then moss fragments tumbled off the neighbours’ guttering and she was back in the world of hard
tiles and chilly night dew. She stood on the Mansfields’ loft extension and reached up at the moon, arching her back, exulting. She could caterwaul so well that even cats were fooled.

This was the way to unwind. Feeling calmer, less strung-up, she stalked to the end of the terrace of town houses and thought about returning to bed. No, not yet. First down to the ground via a
handy tree, a cut through the playground of her old primary school, then a leg-up from a parked lorry to put her back among the chimneypots. Every stride put her more at ease. But she found it was
not movement, exactly, that relaxed her. It was movement in certain directions. She would skip across this garage or that garden wall, only for the ache inside to tug her back the way she’d
come. And she noticed how certain landmarks, such as the castle-shaped pumping station that was now a rock-climbing centre, drew closer and closer. Soon there was no ignoring it. Step by seemingly
random step she was travelling steadily northwards.

Aglow with neon colours atop a rank of fast-food shops, she peered across the blackness of Finsbury Park. Turning once more – for home this time, she was sure of it – she veered
instead around the climbing centre’s forked turrets. On she roamed, still farther from home, passing the moon-frosted reservoirs and waterworks, before another mystifying tug sent her looping
left again, towards a bridge over a slim black river.

Somewhere along the way she had picked up a splinter of fear. Unnoticed at first, it was sticking in deeper every time she stopped to rest. With it came a ridiculous thought: that for the last
quarter hour someone or something had been following her. Whenever she looked over her shoulder there was no-one there. No-one could have been. Only Ben, of all the Cat Kin, had the skill to walk
this route, and it definitely wasn’t him. As for any normal person, forget it. That could not have been a human silhouette, over there, blotting out a sequence of roof-level stars. It would
have been a regular night-creature, a fox or a cat, or some flibbertigibbet from her own dreamy head. Just to make sure, she bolted through the scaffolding of a new housing development, fast enough
to lose even an imaginary stalker. There she rested, clinging to a ladder.

Large buildings loomed on the far side of the road. Squat barns of glass and steel, afloat on a sea of ground mist. An industrial estate. Red night-lights twinkled in the vapour, beckoning. Then
something happened. One minute she was sliding down the builders’ ladder, the next she was hugging a scaffolding pole that froze her lungs as she panted for breath.

She was exhausted. She had to stop. And turn back now, right now. For heaven’s sake, where was she? She saw the street below as if for the first time. Blank-eyed windows, faceless houses
and that eerily silent business park.

Rung by rung she made her sluggish way down to the pavement. The urge that had been driving her was gone, leaving in its place utter weariness. She could have fallen asleep standing up. At least
her shadowy pursuer had faded away too – if he was ever there. In despair she cast about, knowing she was as good as lost. The one visible street sign read Hermitage Road, which rang no bells
at all. A wild guess placed it somewhere between Finsbury Park and Tottenham. Achingly far from her warm bed.

‘Oh, why didn’t you count sheep?’ she moaned.

On legs too tired to lift her above the grimy streets, she trudged home. Though it took less than an hour it felt like crossing the Antarctic. Staring up at her open bedroom window, she admitted
defeat and used the emergency key Dad had hidden inside an air brick.

Well, she’d succeeded. She was dead beat. Sleep was rushing towards her. Sinking into the bedclothes she closed her eyes. Only one speck of thought floated between her and blissful
nothingness. Like an irritating tune that gets stuck in the ear, the name of a street swirled around in her head as her consciousness drained away. Herm. Hermit. Hermitage Road.

After hearing that terrible cry, Ben was almost relieved to be back in his cell. By bracing himself against the wooden desk while Kevin tied him up, he had managed to steal a
little more room to move, though not quite enough to wriggle free. Kevin sent for someone called Jeep. Ben recognised him at once. His bruised neck still ached from when those tattooed arms had
choked him unconscious. A second boy, with fair hair matted into dreadlocks, yawned and sat on the stool. Kevin went out. So these were his new wardens. Now what?

Now, apparently, nothing. Ben had stewed in traffic jams, he’d endured a six-hour delay in a Spanish airport, but none of it prepared him for this. Boredom crushed all else, even hunger.
His guards spoke little. By the time he could put a name to the rope-haired boy – Gary – it was lunchtime. For them, anyway. Ben could only stare at their stack of peanut butter
sandwiches. Later Gary played with a pocket games console while Jeep read to himself, a magazine called
Guns and Ammo
.

‘Good magazine?’ He had almost given up trying to talk to them. ‘You into military stuff, then? Is that why they call you Jeep?’

Gary turned off his game. ‘It’s not a nickname. It’s his name.’

Ben had no idea why he sniggered. Maybe his brain had turned to mush. Jeep closed his magazine. Reaching into a deep jacket pocket he drew out a spindly object. Its hinges unfolded ominously.
What was it, a catapult?

‘That is funny, isn’t it,’ he said softly. ‘Really funny.’

The object clicked into shape and Jeep produced a slender rod, feathered at one end. Oh no. That was no catapult. It was a miniature crossbow. Jeep nodded to Gary. Gary took a can of coke and
placed it on top of Ben’s head. Ben freaked out.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘The trouble with laughing. . .’ Jeep placed the feathered bolt on the crossbow’s slender stock and slotted three more bolts between his fingers. ‘The trouble with
laughing is,’ he pulled back the string and aimed at the can on Ben’s head. ‘Laughing makes you shake.’

‘Don’t,’ said Ben.

Thwuck
. The bolt missed the can and glanced off the desk behind his head, scarring the wood.

‘I had a large family,’ said Jeep. ‘Do you know what my brothers were called?’

‘Please.’ Ben tried not to flinch as Jeep took aim.

‘Their names were Dodge–’

Thwuck
. The bolt hit the white tiles by Ben’s ear.

‘Chrysler–’

Thwuck
. To the right of his eye.

‘– and Chevrolet.’

Thwunnk
. The last bolt skewered the can on his head and fizzy liquid drenched him yet again. Ben swallowed his pride, and some of the cola. His mouth was that dry.

After that he didn’t speak. Jeep read his magazines. Gary played on his console. At long last their guard shift ended. Ben wilted with relief to see Antonia, already in a new cap and
jacket. She gave him a cereal bar and a can of lemonade, though her companion Dean drank half of it first. Later, after he begged, they took him to a small toilet tucked between the platforms. A
sign on the door said STAFF ONLY.

The tedium blunted his mind. He had almost stopped wondering why he was here. If he didn’t think of an escape plan soon, he might lose the power to think. He scanned every inch of the
room, then turned his attention beyond the door. His Mau body crept out of hiding, lending him powers of hearing and smell. The rumble of trains mixed with voices and a faint electrical hum. Scents
jostled for attention: food both fresh and rotting, mice, dirty bedclothes, unwashed bodies, the toilet, more mice. At least one adult male. And something else. A hot, animal odour. Musty.

‘Hello again,’ said someone. Ben looked up. Thomas stood there with Hannah.

Dean scowled. ‘Cut that out. This isn’t Butlins.’

He and Antonia left, locking the door. Ben tried to stretch.

‘What time is it?’

‘Sorry,’ said Thomas. ‘You heard him. Talking to you is expressly forbidden.’

‘Five past eight,’ said Hannah.

‘In the evening?’

‘I suppose. It’s morning for us.’

A draught went down his neck. Dad would have missed him by now. Voicemail messages would be piling up. It was a good thing his parents lived apart, really – Mum wouldn’t find out
yet. She and Dad didn’t talk to each other, they just sent messages through him.

Had it been like this for Tiffany? He wondered if he now had an inkling of what she’d gone through. If only he could tell her.

This train of thought raised his spirits. Tiffany, of course. When she tried to get in touch she might realise he was missing. Then she’d come to the rescue, as he had done for her. He saw
where the train of thought was taking him, and derailed it. No. Hopes like that were dangerous. If he sat here waiting for help he might never get out. He had to assume he was on his own.

Hannah saw him shiver. She draped a blanket over him. Thomas took out a slab of fruit’n’nut chocolate and broke it into thirds. The taste brought tears to Ben’s eyes and worked
a peculiar magic on his guards. They started talking to him. Hannah wanted to become an air stewardess one day, she said. Thomas’s favourite crisps were beef and mustard. His great ambition
was to learn the bass guitar. Hannah said her socks were full of holes and did Ben have a nail clipper? Ben didn’t.