by Matt Haig
He was relieved to see no sign of Miss Whipmire’s silver car. It was Wednesday evening. The weekly school governors’ meeting. This was good. Hopefully he’d be able to go inside, find Maurice and be out by the time she came back.
Barney went through the passageway between 63 and 65, under the wooden gate.
‘Wait, cat,’ mumbled a kind-hearted woodlouse clinging upside down to the damp wood. ‘It’s dangerous in there.’
‘Thanks,’ said Barney, but ignored the advice. He crossed the back yard, noticing the smell of fish getting stronger as he approached the cat flap in the back door. The cat flap was transparent plastic but it was too clouded to see what was inside. Before he pushed his head through, Barney had a quick look at the garden. It was considerably overgrown, the lawn didn’t look like it had been mown for years, and the flower beds were full of weeds. By the back wall of the house leaned the real Miss Whipmire’s old bicycle, now unused and covered in rust. Barney realized that the sleek silver car that Miss Whipmire now drove must have been purchased after the head teacher and her cat had swapped places.
Barney pressed his way inside. He was in the kitchen, and at first he could think of nothing but the smell. Fishy smells filled his nostrils and wet his tongue. And he could see why. The kitchen was full of fish. The kitchen table was covered in fresh silver trout. There were open tins of pilchards and tuna on the scruffy units, and a pile of unopened sardine tins. And all around the floor there were fish bones – complete skeletons, sometimes, with the heads still untouched. Barney crossed through as quietly as he could, trying to ignore the dead trout eyes staring blankly up at him.
Then he heard a voice.
‘Excuse me!’ it squeaked. ‘I appear to be a little bit stuck.’
Barney followed the voice and reached a wooden board, on which was fastened a brown mouse trapped beneath a thin rod of metal. A mousetrap.
‘Sorry …’ The mouse could hardly breathe. The metal was digging fast into his neck, only minutes away from slicing his head clean off. ‘I don’t make a habit of asking cats for help, of course. And I wouldn’t mind, really. I mean, my life’s not been much to write home about. But I’ve got little ones who depend on me. I … I smelled the cheese and I couldn’t help it, it’s gorgonzola …’
Barney didn’t know what to do. If he’d still been a human it would have been one thing. But with paws, diminished size and feeble strength it was quite another. Barney noticed a jar of fish oil sitting nearby, knocked it on its side so that it poured over the mouse and the trap, then tried his best to pull back on the metal with one paw while pressing down on the wood with another. With the oil making things slippery, the mouse managed to slide his head out and free as the trap slammed against the wood, taking a few whiskers with it.
‘Most rare,’ he said, confused, as blood leaked from his neck. ‘What kind of cat are you? Saving a humble little mouse like old Moosh here.’
‘Actually, I’m a—’
Moosh the mouse suddenly looked terrified and scuttled back to a tiny hole in the skirting board, dripping neck blood and fish oil as he went.
‘Wait,’ said Barney. ‘Where are you go—?’
‘Run for your life, kind cat!’
Barney heard the cat flap.
It was the cat with bat-sized ears. Lyka.
Barney quickly ran to the hallway, then upstairs. There were dead fish and their bones up there too, along with bowls of creamy milk lining the landing. He heard a noise downstairs. Then another one, from somewhere upstairs. The sound of a yawn. Someone was waking up. Barney didn’t know whether he should be hiding or looking for Maurice. After all, if Lyka was here there were probably other swipers too. In fact, he knew he had to get out. It was too dangerous. But before he could think how to do this he noticed another smell. A delirious, wonderful, soul-tickling scent like none he’d ever known. As soon as he smelled it he felt hypnotized, and could do nothing but follow where it led. Which was past the bathroom, over rugs and fish bones and cat fur, to the last room on the left.
He entered. Saw a room full of identical plants in pots. He recognized the plant from when he used to help his dad with the garden. It was catnip. Known to send cats into a state of delirium. He could do nothing but walk forward into the room to get closer to the plants.
Just as the wonderful scent had taken over every part of his brain, Barney heard a faint and high-pitched voice behind him.
‘Meee-ow,’ it said.
It was obviously an order to attack as the next thing Barney knew, something was covering him. Something soft, but pressing down hard on his back. Whatever it was blocked the smell of catnip and was bringing him to his senses again.
‘Get off me,’ he cried. ‘Please, let me go.’
But he was now being pushed – or dragged – in what he realized was a cat blanket. ‘Please, get off me!’
It was no good.
He was still being dragged out of the room, across the landing, his claws struggling to cling to the small woollen loops. But whoever was dragging him must have been strong because he kept being pulled with the same steady force. ‘Look, this is a mistake. If you let me go I’ll just leave. Honestly. No questions asked. Please, it’s all a mistake. Let me go.’
Still no good.
His attacker seemed to be turning him round another corner into a different room. Pressing his face against the blanket he could see through it, but even with cat’s eyes it was only shapes and shadows that didn’t make much sense.
Then, eventually, he stopped moving and the pressure of the blanket lightened.
‘All right, kittens,’ came a voice he recognized. ‘Release him.’
Kittens?
He had been assaulted by kittens?
It was true. The blanket peeled back and Barney was in a room full of bright light. He looked behind him, blinking, to see seven small kittens with giant ears, each biting the edge of the blanket. All seven of them like miniature Lykas. Through Barney’s human eyes they would have looked cute, but now they looked like nasty little bullies. Barney turned, just in time to see Lyka and a couple of other swipers closing the door. Then she turned to her kittens. ‘Well done, my babies.’
Barney looked back towards the voice he had heard, and saw Pumpkin sitting on top of an old, switched-off TV that must have once belonged to the real Polly Whipmire. Beside the TV was one of her old books. The book was called How To Be A Thoroughly Nice Person To Pretty Much Everyone by Tiffany Thoroughgood. And next to that were bones. And this time they didn’t belong to a fish. They were more solid. Cat-sized, but missing a head.
Then Pumpkin spoke. ‘Right, swipers, let him have it.’ And a large cat came up to Barney. He was a large, old tortoiseshell with a bit of a limp. There were other bits of him that looked like they were wounded – patches where his fur seemed thinner or not there at all. It gave him the look of someone who had been roughly put together like a rag doll. But he could certainly swipe, and fast and hard too. Barney hardly knew where he was as the cat’s paws and claws sliced at him.
Then other swipers joined in. Lyka, the kittens, Pumpkin, the bronze and black tabby, all of them. And Barney was just a blur of pain and fear.
But then the door opened. The cats stopped and waited, as Barney looked desperately around for an escape. The door to the room was open but it was well-guarded on every side. And there she was, Miss Whipmire, with Maurice standing there behind her in the body he’d stolen from Barney.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Miss Whipmire. ‘It looks like you swipers have managed to do something right for once.’
‘Mum, what are you going to do to him?’ asked Maurice, looking worried.
Miss Whipmire turned to her son. She would have liked to kill Barney there and then but doubted her child had the stomach for the wails. So she picked up Barney, who was dazed and throbbing with pain.
‘Nothing, darling. Now, don’t you worry about it. I’m going to take him for a little drive. You go and enjoy some catnip
.’
‘But Mum—’
‘No more buts, darling,’ snapped Miss Whipmire. ‘We’ve talked about this.’
As Miss Whipmire started carrying him downstairs, Barney heard Pumpkin.
‘Before you be goin’, what about our sardines? Will you open some tins for us?’
Miss Whipmire turned, furious. ‘No, you are getting too slow and fat. I think I need to keep you swipers a little bit hungrier.’
And the swipers stood out on the landing, mumbling their unhappiness as Miss Whipmire crunched her way over fish bones and out of the house, squeezing Barney breathlessly close.
‘So, you thought you could come here and speak to my Maurice without me, did you? You really are a sly thing, aren’t you? Oh, well, it looks like that’s another subject you’re bad at, doesn’t it? Staying alive.’
And Barney left the foul, filthy hallway and was carried out into the cold, uncaring wind.
‘Now, Mr No-hoper, let’s grade your chance of survival,’ Miss Whipmire hissed evilly, seconds before hurling him hard into the boot of her small yellow car. ‘Let’s give you an F. For Fatally Failing Feline.’
Then the blackness came, with the sound of the boot closing, along with all possible hope.
Miss Whipmire’s Idea of Fun
THE CAR SPED along. There was only darkness and noise. The engine, the wind outside, full of warnings even a cat’s ears can’t understand. It was then that Barney began to feel truly desperate. The combination of panic, cat lungs, what felt like a thousand scratches and being trapped in the boot of a car was making it very difficult to breathe, and it was also very hard to stay standing upright. By the time the car stopped he must have lost his balance a hundred times. At least.
And once the car did stop there was a confusing and ominous silence. The boot didn’t open. Nothing happened, and kept on not happening. It felt like hours.
Then, at long last, footsteps outside.
The boot opened.
It was dark, but felt almost like daylight compared to the impenetrable blackness of the boot.
Wind blew wildly all around, louder than Barney had ever heard, creating a temporary wild mane out of Miss Whipmire’s hair.
Then a noise which filled Barney with horror. Water.
Miss Whipmire pulled him out of the car. But by now he was realizing what was about to happen.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked as Miss Whipmire began to walk.
‘For fun, mainly. But there’s also a practical reason. You see, Barney, if you stay alive and somehow manage to turn into a human again, you might say things which could get me into trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t. I promise.’
‘It doesn’t even matter if you mean that. You see, I can now tell you the real reason.’
Barney remembered what the Doberman had told him, and the name Miss Whipmire had mentioned as she carried him from the house. ‘Maurice?’
Miss Whipmire nodded, unsurprised. ‘I want to make sure my son stays human too.’
Barney realized something. ‘So, if I die, he’s human for ever?’
‘Well, I just like to make doubly sure. After all, my son and I are human now. We have a long life ahead of us and I want to protect that life. He was the only one of my litter who survived. He was my miracle …’ Barney was surprised to hear real love in her voice.
‘Though, of course, we were forced to separate a long, long time ago. Anyway, I am a mother. And a good one, and I want what is best for my little kitten. And in this day and age that means being human. Or being you. So, once you’re dead, I will know the back door is closed. The back door meaning you. And closed meaning dead. So my little darling will stay human for the rest of his life – and we can always be together.’
Barney stared beyond Miss Whipmire, past the river bank. There were buildings in the distance, and even though they didn’t have their lights on he could see them. It was a clear night with a bright moon and stars, enabling him to make out sheds and warehouses.
He knew where they were.
They were on the outskirts of town. By the river. Two miles from home.
She held him tight inside her furry jacket, and kept walking with slow, careful steps until they reached the bridge. It was a bridge Barney knew well. In fact it was the location of his very first memory: playing Pooh Sticks with his mum and dad.
Miss Whipmire let out a kind of cold laugh.
The sound scraped Barney’s nerves like a blunt knife.
Then Barney was taken out of her coat, which was patched with cat-skin that had once been her own, and held out at arm’s length over the side of the bridge.
She stared at him for a moment, the way you stare at an expensive meal before you eat it, her eyes wide with a mad glee.
Her phone rang. She answered. Barney heard a muffled voice. His own.
‘Mum …’ said Maurice. ‘Mum, don’t.’
‘I’m doing this for you, darling.’
‘He wasn’t the one who blew off your tail.’
‘No, I know that …’ Miss Whipmire’s voice contained a grain of sadness now. Though only a grain. ‘But we are going to get our revenge on the Freemans when we get to Thailand, don’t worry. Right now we need to know there is no one who can separate us again, darling. If he stays alive we will always be worried.
‘Maurice, hang on …’ Miss Whipmire didn’t switch the phone off but placed it in her pocket for a moment. ‘Now, I really did want another pen pot, but I think this method’s going to be a bit quicker and cleaner … You’ll just be another drowned cat in a river.’
Barney heard the water, relentless, below.
‘Goodbye, Barney Willow,’ said Miss Whipmire.
And then she let go.
She looked over the edge. It was a shame she couldn’t let Maurice join her. Still, it was a sight she could enjoy by herself. A cat, turning into a little black dot, and then a little white splash.
And then nothing at all.
‘Now,’ said Miss Whipmire, picking up the phone again. ‘It’s over. Do not worry about how it happened. All we’ve got to do is stick with the plan. You leave the house and go back to Mrs Willow, act as normal as you can so she doesn’t get twitchy. Then I’ll go home and sort everything out. And in the morning I’ll wait for you on the street, and you’ll have to lose that Rissa girl. Just tell her at the bus stop that you’ve left something at home. Then we can get a clear head start. A full day without suspicion. We’ll be on the other side of the world before anyone knows …’
The Water
BARNEY FELL FAST through the air, staring at the stars, distant diamonds resting on a black satin sky, the last beautiful thing he thought he’d ever see. Then his body twisted and righted itself so his paws were facing the water.
Down and down and—
Splash.
He hit the water hard with his paws. He’d fallen so fast it felt harder than water. And then he was in it, in the freezing, dirty, mammoth river, being pulled along by the current.
‘Help!’ he miaowed, trying to keep his head up. ‘Somebody!’
But it was no good.
He glanced at the river bank.
The large empty buildings were sliding by at the speed of the water. He looked to the other bank, on his right side. It was even further, and not a house or building or person in sight. Just a jagged fringe of wild grass, too far away to offer any hope.
Barney kicked desperately with all his legs, and it took every single piece of energy simply to keep his head out of the water.
‘Swim,’ he told himself. ‘Come on … swim.’
He tried to head towards the left bank because it was slightly closer. But the current was getting faster. It was like being a piece of dust shooting up a vacuum cleaner. He had never felt so small and useless and weak.
Then he realized why the water was speeding up. He was heading towards the weir. Even if he managed to keep his head above the river for another ten minutes it would be no good –
he’d reach the weir and drown for sure.
Think … think … think …
But the voice in his head quickly changed.
Sink … sink … sink …
He was going to die, under a thousand shining stars.
Stars!
He knew Rissa’s barge was two-minutes’ walk from the weir, moored on the left bank. In fact, he realized he could just about see it ahead, its strip of low windows softly lighting the water.
And he was sure he could see Rissa out on deck, staring up at the stars with her telescope.
But the barge was still miles away. Cat miles, anyway. And although the current might have been carrying him in the right direction, he was being sent in a straight line, not a diagonal one. So he tried to angle himself, using every last grain of strength to paddle his tired, cold, stiff legs towards the barge.
Slowly he made some progress, but slowly wasn’t good enough. There was no way he would be able to reach the barge. He’d seen enough triangles in maths lessons to know the angle wasn’t sharp enough.
And even if it was, it would be impossible to climb on board.
Yet he kept going. He remembered being in a swimming pool wearing his pyjamas for a life-saving badge, and having to give up because his legs were too tired. His freezing legs were ten times as tired now, but being a cat had somehow helped him find a courage and determination he never knew were there.
He thought of nothing but the barge, and the Fairweathers’ warm home inside as he tried to block out how cold and heavy the water was starting to feel.
Help! he miaowed when he could swim no more. Rissa! Help! Help!
Her silhouette stayed watching the star-strewn sky.
His head slipped under water, then back up into air again.
Rissa! Someone! Anyone!
She moved.
He was sure she moved.
She stood up, looked out at the water.
‘Rissa!’
To his horror she sat down again. But then she lowered the telescope and looked out across the water. As she did so Barney kicked all four of his legs in frantic desperation to keep his head as high and visible as possible.