Paws and Whiskers (18 page)

When you write children’s books and become reasonably well known, journalists sometimes want to interview you for their newspapers or magazines. This is mostly enjoyable, because it’s fun to talk about your own book, but you have to be quite wary. Sometimes a few unscrupulous journalists try to trick you to come out with all kinds of comments and then twist what you say.

I think my most delightful and interesting interview ever was with S. F. Said. He knew so much about children’s books and we found we had all sorts of things in common – we even shared a passion for gothic silver jewellery. He told me that he’d written a children’s book himself and so I asked him to send me a copy when it came out.

I was thrilled when I read
Varjak Paw.
It’s new and contemporary and original, and yet it already reads like a true classic of children’s literature.

VARJAK PAW

Varjak awoke at the foot of the wall. His head was pounding, his paws aching. It wasn’t quite light yet, but the night was almost over. The fall from the tree must have knocked him out. What a dream! He wondered if he’d ever have another like it.

He shivered. It was cold out in the open, and the grass beneath his body was wet. He stood up, shook the moisture from his fur, and looked around.

The view cleared his head instantly. Outside was like nothing he’d seen, or even dreamed of.

The Contessa’s house stood on top of a high hill. Beneath it was a broad, green park. Beyond it, away in the distance, was a city.

Stretched out under the open sky, shining like silver in the pre-dawn light, the city was a huge, mad jumble of shapes and sizes. It had tall towers, gleaming steel and glass – but also squat brick houses, dark with chimney smoke. Wide open gardens jostled with narrow alleys; sharp pointy spires topped soft, curved domes; concrete blocks loomed over bright painted billboards.

They were all in there together, side by side, each one part of the whole. There was so much, he couldn’t take it in. All he could hear from here was the wind rustling through the treetops, but down in the city it looked noisy and bustling, a place that never went to sleep.

His whiskers twitched with a mix of energy, excitement, danger. His heart beat faster, just looking at it. It seemed like a city where anything could happen, and probably did. A place you could do whatever you liked, and no one would stop you. Where you’d be able to find everything you wanted – even a dog.

The terror of the night before, the fight with the Gentleman’s cats: it seemed a long time ago, and very far away. There was sadness in his heart for the Elder Paw, deep sadness, but his grandfather had trusted him with a mission. It was his duty as a Blue to save the family, and Varjak intended to see it through.

He ventured down the hill. It was steeper than it looked, and soon he found himself running, almost rolling down the slope. But it was a joy to stretch out in the open. A splash of sunshine lit the horizon. He’d never seen a sunrise before, and the sky Outside was alive with streaks of amber light.

The sky flashed past his eyes as he sped up, sprinted to the bottom. He bounded over a fence at the foot of the hill and into the park.

Around this time, back in the Contessa’s house, the family would be waking up and licking each other clean. Varjak grinned. He hated washing, and already there was a satisfying build-up of mud between his claws.

Next, the family would obediently munch their food out of china bowls. It would be the Gentleman’s vile-smelling caviare today. But now that he was Outside, he wouldn’t have to eat anything he didn’t like. He could choose what to eat and when to eat.

After eating, the family would go to their litter trays. Ha! Varjak crouched by a tree. No litter tray for him today. It felt good; it felt natural. It felt, he thought, like it ought to feel.

This was how it would be in the future. It was going to be the best time of his life. He’d return from the city with a dog (whatever a dog was) and defeat
the Gentleman and his strange black cats. Then he’d lead his family out of that stuffy old house into this wonderful new world. They’d all say he was a proper Mesopotamian Blue, a true son of Jalal. They’d offer him every kind of honour and reward, but he’d turn them down. ‘I did it for the glory of the family,’ he’d say humbly, and they would cheer him even more.

Varjak wandered further and further in his happy daze. He barely noticed the fiery shades of sunrise burn out, leaving a sky the colour of cold ashes.

A violent sound cut through his thoughts. It was like a shrieking and roaring at the same time, and it scared him. The sound came from a black road that circled the park in the distance. He crept towards it, ears pressed against his skull. And then he saw them.

It was a column of fearsome monsters. They were rolling down the road, roaring at each other and everything around them. Huge monsters made of metal with sharp edges all around. They had yellow eyes at the front and red eyes at the back. They moved on round black wheels which turned so fast it made Varjak dizzy, and they belched a trail of choking smoke behind them on the wind.

Could these be dogs?

What were the Elder Paw’s words? These monsters were big enough to kill a man. Their breath was foul; their sound was deafening. And they filled his heart with fear.

This was it. He was sure they were dogs. He’d found them.

Anne’s the author of many prize-winning books, some very funny, some very serious. Her prose is always immaculate, every single word selected with unerring judgement. Anne once said she wrote all her stories with a pencil in a notebook, rubbing out each sentence until she’d got it exactly right. I don’t know whether she still does, but her prose certainly reads like it.

Her
Killer Cat
books are wickedly funny – rather like Anne herself. She loves to tease. Wait till you read her comments about her own killer cat in the
Pets’ Corner
section!

THE DIARY OF A KILLER CAT