Kitten Catastrophe (11 page)

J
azz asked her mum if she could do her homework at my place; unsurprisingly Mrs Brown seemed only too glad to see the back of her stroppy daughter for a couple of hours. While Jazz gathered up her books, I asked her mum if it would be all right for Jazz to stay for a sleepover too.

‘Thanks, Bertie,’ she said. ‘That would be great. Anything to put a smile on that girl’s face,’ she added. ‘She’s been nothing but hard work ever since starting the new school. You don’t know if anything’s happened, do you?’

What was this? First it was Fiona, checking up on Fergus, and now Jazz’s mum was quizzing me about
her
daughter! Was I the neighbourhood agony aunt or something?

Taking a deep breath, I explained that I hadn’t seen much of Jazz. ‘We don’t have all our classes together, and the days are so manic,’ I said. ‘And she’s pretty busy with street dance and stuff,’ I pointed out.

‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Brown thoughtfully. ‘Well, I just hope you girls don’t drift apart. You’ve been friends for too long,’ she said sadly.

I smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll always be friends, me and Jazz, don’t you worry.’

We had a laugh that afternoon. We holed up in my room with our homework scattered all over the floor, put some music on low (to help us concentrate, you understand) and brought a pile of snacks from the kitchen to sustain us. Jaffa was still shut in my room, to be on the safe side, and she padded to and fro the whole time, chattering away to me and distracting me by walking up and down my back, kneading me through the fabric of my T-shirt with her tiny paws. We waded through the science, maths and geography we’d been given, breaking off every so often to gossip about the people in our classes and about how sad most of the teachers were. It almost felt as though life had got back to normal.

‘That Mr Lloyd!’ Jazz shrieked, flapping her hands and jumping up and down in hysterics. ‘He dresses like my
grandad
! No, he dresses like
my grandad’s
grandad!’

‘Oh boy! And that Miss Stoodge,’ I joined in. ‘What a witch!’

We had given up on the last bit of work and were rolling around on the floor, tickling Jaffa and singing along to the music we had cranked up on my ancient CD player, when Dad knocked on my door. ‘I can see you two girls are working hard!’ he teased. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I’m back. No activity downstairs while I was away?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, but Dad – Fergus thinks he might have come up with a way of catching the culprit!’ I cried.

Dad tried to look doubtful by crossing his arms. ‘So he reckons he can succeed where others have failed, does he?’ he said dramatically. He was smiling though. ‘I have to say it would be nice to have a quiet evening with no mention of intruders for once. Bex is coming round later with some food – do you want to stay and eat with us, Jazz?’ he added. ‘We haven’t seen much of you lately.’

Jazz nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, please!’

‘Can Fergus come round too?’ I asked. I put on a pleading expression, wringing my hands, making myself look as desperate as possible. ‘I really want you to hear his plan –’

Before Dad could answer, there was a ring at the front door. ‘I’ll get that,’ said Dad. Then he fixed me with a mock-stern stare and pointed his finger, saying, ‘And just so we’re clear, I have not said yes to anything yet, Bertie Fletcher!’

I shrugged and tried to look as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth as he turned to go back downstairs.

Jazz and I sped out on to the landing and peered over the banisters to see who it was.

‘Nigel!’ Fiona’s crystal-clear voice carried up the stairs.

‘Ah, hello, Fiona,’ said Dad. ‘And Fergus too! What a surprise,’ he said with an edge of sarcasm, casting his eyes in my direction. ‘Come in, come in.’

‘It the prawn-lady!’ Jaffa mewed excitedly. ‘Me want to say hello!’ I scooped her up into my arms and Jazz and I rattled down to the hall.

Wonders will never cease, as Dad says on the rare occasions that I tidy my room without being asked. But in this case the wonders were in the region of the unbelievably miraculous: Fiona Meerley, the woman whom only months earlier I had been ready to write off as my own worst enemy, had not only agreed to Fergus’s idea, but had also pulled out all the stops and arranged to get the equipment we needed for that very night!

‘You know how much I
adore
the little pusskins,’ she cooed. ‘I’d do anything to stop her being bullied in this beastly way.’ She bent down to stroke my kitten’s soft orangey fur while making the sort of kissy-wissy sounds that frankly turned my stomach.

Fergus, Jazz and I exchanged smirks while Jaffa lapped up the attention, purring noisily. She closed her eyes in a satisfied expression that made it look as if she was smiling. ‘Me
is
pretty adorable,’ she admitted.

‘So, about this plan of yours. Run me through the details?’ Dad said as he poured coffee into mugs and went to the fridge for milk.

Fiona cleared her throat and said, ‘A covert surveillance operation.’

‘Sorry?’ Dad turned to face her, the milk carton in one hand, his face creased in puzzlement.

‘It’s like in those films—’ Fergus began, but Fiona interrupted him.

‘Surveillance,’ she repeated. ‘Mark my words, we will catch this intruder red-handed – or should I say red-pawed! Ha!’ She let out a short sharp bark of a laugh. It was the first time I had ever heard her laugh, or make an attempt at humour, for that matter. As laughs go, it was pretty scary.

Fergus grimaced.

Dad gave a nervous snigger. ‘The thing is, Fiona, the whatever-it-is comes when no one else is around, so surely if we piled into the utility room waiting for it, it would know we were there and stay away.’

‘Aaah, that’s where a bit of creative thinking comes in, Nigel,’ Fiona said in crisp and efficient tones. ‘Thanks to my job, I have considerable experience in catching people unawares – on camera.’ She paused for effect, leaning back against the kitchen worktop and cradling her steaming mug of coffee.

‘Oh. My. Goodness!’ squealed Jazz. ‘You really are going to bring, like, a
totally live camera crew
into this house?’

Fiona arched one eyebrow. ‘Not an entire crew, Jasmeena, no,’ she said condescendingly. ‘It would be a little . . . cramped. One man should do the job.’

‘Wow,’ said Dad doubtfully. ‘So you can rig up something to record any activity in the utility room and—’

‘—catch the culprit on film. Absolutely. Then we’ll know exactly what we are dealing with and we’ll be able to go from there,’ Fiona finished.

Typical Fiona, I thought, stealing the limelight. This had been Fergus’s idea, but she was doing all the talking. I stole a glance at him, but he simply shrugged. Fiona did have a way of getting things to turn out just the way she wanted, I supposed, and if it meant we could put an end to Jaffa being bullied, then I was prepared to let her get away with it.

‘I’ve already taken the liberty of checking I can get everything we need from work,’ Fiona was saying. ‘We have night-vision cameras, microphones, you name it. And I can get one of the technicians to come and set it up. I’m on extremely good terms with a chap who works on the
Naturewatch
series – they’re always doing this kind of thing when they want to film animals in their natural habitat without disturbing them.’

Jazz started bouncing up and down on the spot, looking a whole lot like her younger brother, I thought. ‘A telly guy! Here!’ she kept saying, clapping her hands.

‘Genius,’ said Dad. He seemed at a loss for words.

Fiona nodded curtly. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘So we’ll come round in an hour. Nev said he should be free by then. It just so happens he was already filming in the area.’

‘Nev? In an hour?’ Dad repeated, looking pretty shell-shocked. He blinked and took his glasses off to clean them on the edge of his shirt. Then, finding his voice again, he mumbled, ‘Er, I’m not sure we can do this tonight actually, Fiona. You see, my f-friend is coming round and—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Fiona, waving a dismissive hand.

Dad blew his cheeks out and shrugged, a look of complete surrender on his face.

‘Fine,’ he said eventually. ‘Whatever. See you in an hour. With Nev,’ he added. Then he looked at me as if to say, ‘What on earth am I letting myself in for?’

F
iona and Fergus returned as promised an hour later. Bex had arrived by then as well, and was engaged in a heated debate with Jazz over the takeaway she had brought with her. (According to Jazz, takeaway is not takeaway unless you get to go to the place yourself, see the menu with your own eyes and choose it in person. She was not impressed that Bex had made the selection without consulting her.)

I couldn’t help smiling to myself as Bex tried in vain to explain that she hadn’t known Jazz was eating with us. I knew Jazz was being rude, but there was something reassuring about seeing my friend being her usual confident self.

‘You so cannot have a curry without poppadoms!’ Jazz said, her face contorted in outrage.

‘OK, so next time I’ll get poppadoms,’ said Bex wearily.

‘And you’ve not got that
rank
naan bread with raisins in? Urgh!’ Jazz went on.

I left them battling it out and went to open the door. Fergus and Fiona were in the middle of an animated conversation with a man dressed in baggy combat trousers and an outsized brown jumper with frayed sleeves and holes in the elbows.

‘Hi,’ I said shyly.

Fiona looked up. ‘Ah, Bertie. This is Nev Greenshield. From the
Naturewatch
team.’

‘Hi,’ said Nev. He was so tall I was worried I might get a stiff neck from looking up at him. He was really skinny too: all arms and legs like a daddy-long-legs. Maybe he wore such baggy clothes to hide how thin he was. He smiled warmly. I was going to like Nev, I decided. He seemed like a real gentle giant.

‘Come in,’ I said, stepping aside. ‘I’ll get Dad.’

Nev had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the door frame. Fiona followed him and I stood there, waiting.

Fiona looked puzzled. ‘You can shut the door now, Bertie. It’s just us.’

‘Oh, I, er . . . I thought you might want to bring all the equipment in,’ I said, glancing out to see if they’d left any bags on the path.

Nev held up a black bag a bit like a bulky laptop case. ‘All in here,’ he said.

Jazz had joined us, still muttering about Bex having ‘no idea’ how to order a takeaway. She took one look at Nev and his little black bag and said, ‘Is that it?’

I had to admit, it didn’t look very impressive.

Fiona let out a tinkling laugh. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, dear. Nev knows what he’s doing, I can assure you.’

Jazz curled her lip in disgust. ‘Sure,’ she said, hands on hips.

Fergus rolled his eyes. ‘Jazz, she’s right. Nev
does
know what he’s doing.’

‘This is all I normally use in the field,’ Nev explained, thankfully unfazed by Jazz. ‘I’ll unpack and talk you through it, shall I?’

Dad finally emerged. ‘Ah! You must be Nev – pleasure to meet you. I’m Nigel.’ He beamed and held out his hand. Nev took it and pumped it up and down energetically. ‘Come through into the kitchen. We’re just sorting out some supper. There’s plenty for everyone.’

We followed Dad into the kitchen, where Bex was laying out foil dishes of steaming food. She looked rather alarmed at the number of people who were crowding into the room, but did a quick headcount and went to get plates. Fergus and I busied ourselves sorting out drinks while Jazz pestered Nev with questions about life as a cameraman. Fiona finished off most of Nev’s sentences for him. Poor guy, I thought, looking over at him. Working with Fiona must be even worse than working with that bonkers bird-watching guy on the telly, the one with the beard as big as a golden eagle’s nest and the temper like a wasps’ nest.

Dad stepped in and offered some food round, prising Jazz away from Nev.

‘I’ll have something in a minute if that’s OK,’ Nev said. ‘Let’s get the gear sorted first.’

I was quite happy to leave the mayhem in the kitchen and go with Nev into the utility room.

‘That’s the cat flap – what’s left of it!’ I showed him the plastic door hanging limply from its frame.

‘OK,’ said Nev, checking out the room. ‘I reckon if I fix the camera to the top of that cupboard and angle it at the cat flap . . .’ He started fiddling around, moving things out of the way, stepping back to look through the lens, making adjustments, pressing buttons, and so on.

‘Are you all right in here for a bit?’ I asked. Nev nodded, not looking up from his gadgets.

I went to my room to find my kitten. I needed to tell her what was going on.

‘Jaffsie!’

I scanned the room.

‘Jaffa? Where are you?’ Oh no, she hadn’t gone and done one of her famous escapology routines, had she?

But then I heard a squeaking noise from across the landing. I tracked it down to Dad’s study.

‘Jaffa?’

My cheeky little cat was curled up on Dad’s desk on top of a pile of papers: a cute, furry paperweight.

‘What are you doing in here?’ I admonished. ‘I shut you into my room to keep you safe.’

‘Borin’ in Bertie’s room all the time!’ she mewed pitifully. ‘Bertie’s door was open a teeny-tiny bit, so me did get one little paw in the gap, and me did puuuush and puuuush and use all of me’s strength and muscles and me did get out,’ she explained proudly.

I sighed and shook my head.

She gave an exaggerated yawn in response, showing every one of her brilliant white teeth. Then she stretched back on to her hind legs, extending her front paws and flexing her little claws, rumpling a couple of the sheets of paper as she did so. As always, her gorgeousness made me tingle all over with love for her and I quickly pushed aside any feelings of irritation. I took a step towards her to pick her up for a snuggle, and she purred.

‘Who is those noisy people downstairs? Me was havin’ a lovely dream until they came,’ she said, rubbing her head against my outstretched hand. ‘Me was in a soft green place and there was mousies runnin’ everywhere and me was chasin’ them and bein’ very brave.’