Cat Out of Hell

by Lynne Truss

  To get me started, I thought it would be helpful to establish a few basic things about the outcome; to set the guidelines, as it were. I have answered the multiple choice questions below with absolute honesty, which has not been easy. As you will see, there are some aspects of the story that I can’t yet quite confront – see my answer to question 3, in particular. But question 2 was by far the hardest for me, and I may yet cave in and change my answer from the pathetic “Not really” to “Yes, I feel terrible.” Because, was it all my own fault? Take Watson. It was certainly my fault that this innocent creature – a friend to all the world, and the bravest of souls – accompanied me to Harville. It was my fault, also, that Dr Winterton put himself in the Captain’s way outside the library on that fateful Saturday evening; likewise, Wiggy would hardly have turned up when he did, if I hadn’t absolutely insisted on his getting involved in my investigations. However, as much as I want to take the blame for everything, I do remind myself that, when you boil it down, Beelzebub and all his demonic feline deputies (from the seventeenth century onwards) are much, much more culpable in all this than I could ever be.

  Anyway, here are the questions.

  1. Did things turn out well, generally speaking, Alec?

  Yes, very well No Not really Don’t ask

  2. If NO, was it your own fault? (Think carefully.)

  Yes, I feel terrible No Not entirely Don’t ask

  3. Was anyone hurt?

  Yes No Not really Don’t ask

  4. Has the world been rid of the evil cats?

  Miraculously, yes Worryingly, no Too early to tell

  5. How do you feel about cats now?

  Love them Indifferent Conflicted Hate them

  6. How do you feel, facing the future?

  Happy Relieved Numb Don’t ask

  7. Would you consider a holiday in Dorset in the near future?

  Yes No Not on your life

  So, I went to Harville Manor. I set off shortly after sending my last email to Wiggy – which I find, looking back, was timed at 6:03 a.m. on the Tuesday after Winterton was murdered. In retrospect, I now think I should have waited to make a proper plan. I should also have tried to get some sleep. But I was angry and agitated and I couldn’t go home, and I loathed the smell of that bloody air-freshener, I can’t emphasise enough how disgusting it was, and I also felt compelled to do something. So I strapped Watson into his car-seat harness, de-iced the windscreen as well as I could, turned up the heater and set my sat nav for Dorset. It was a freezing, frosty morning in Cambridge, and heavy snow was predicted for the whole of the south of England before nightfall – but such a cheerless forecast did not deter me; quite the reverse. It made me all the more eager to get started. My sat-nav predicted a journey of under four hours (arrival time 10:02 a.m.), but I sensibly took this information with a pinch of salt. Sat navs are always making precise – but totally irresponsible – prognostications of that sort. The main things were to arrive in daylight and beat the snow. My plan, as I set off, was to stop for breakfast once I was safely southwest of London. And then, having steadied myself with a bit of necessary nutritional ballast (I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since before the library adventure the previous Saturday), I would properly – at last – study the Seeward pamphlet. I had every confidence that, with the priceless information I found there, I would find a way – at last – to put an end to the big black devilcat that, first of all, had terrified my wife at the library by ripping a small inoffensive study room to splinters, and then had come to our house and felled her in the garden with a single Satanic hiss.

  Watson went to sleep on the passenger seat. Looking at him snoozing peacefully beside me, I wondered whether he had remembered to bring his old service revolver. To wake him up just to ask him, however, would be taking the joke too far – even though this was the one and only occasion in our lives when it would be appropriate to say the line. The Today programme held my attention for about ten minutes – but then I had to switch it off. News from the real world, concerning such burning topics as budget deficits and Syria, seemed just bizarre to me in both its scale and its irrelevance. I realised it had been a long time since I’d cared a bean about any other topic than the evil that cats do. Given my previous character, this development was quite remarkable. Who ever would have thought that a chap like me – who took the Guardian daily; who had never missed a Newsnight unless deeply indisposed or out of the country; and who sent funny letters to Private Eye (which they sometimes printed) – could turn so completely metaphysical overnight? But so it was. In fact, it seemed to me that every single item on the news – concerning economic doom and political hypocrisy and social breakdown – was not “news” at all. What I could hear was just a series of utterly transparent ploys to frighten and alarm the listeners – and frighten them, moreover, about the wrong things.

  The snow started to fall just after I’d skirted London; the added urgency made me decide – rather stupidly – not to stop for breakfast after all. It was a day, I must confess, in which I made countless errors of judgment. Deciding not to eat anything, when I was already phenomenally light-headed, was arguably at the root of many of my subsequent mistakes. Of necessity, I did make a stop for fuel (and the lavatory) at a bright Esso petrol station, where I gave Watson a quick chance to stretch his legs and sniff some filthy roadside grass, but otherwise I considered it wise to keep going. Drive now, eat later – this was my over-confident scheme. The snow fell more heavily as I crossed the county border into Dorset – on either side of the road, fields and roofs and driveways were turning to a solid white, but the roads remained passable while it was daylight and I drove on steadily, with my old-fashioned windscreen wipers noisily knocking the snow to the edges of the glass, and the view ahead (in the headlights) made vertiginous by streams of atoms all apparently rushing to collide with the car. Formerly, on such mentally exhausting drives as this, Mary and I would have taken turns at the wheel. But now I was alone, and travelling at 15 miles per hour, and I kept myself amused just by checking the way the sat nav airily adjusted my predicted time of arrival (10:53 a.m.! 11:27 a.m.! 1:32 p.m.! 2:07 p.m.!) – with never an apology or acknowledgment, of course, for having been so absurdly optimistic up to now.

  A hundred yards short of the gateway to Harville Manor (“In one hundred yards you will reach your destination”), I stopped the car in a lay-by under a street lamp next to an ancient wall, switched off both the engine and the windscreen wipers, and allowed the snow to settle, slowly and silently, on the glass. I needed to think. Something Wiggy had written to me had nagged me while I drove – that he was now aghast to realise that having been so caught up in Roger’s story, he had neglected to look for Jo. Had I let something similar happen to me? Had I forgotten to grieve for Mary? Of course, both Wiggy and I could argue that the cat story concerned us personally – but I had to face facts. When Tony Whatsit from next door had told me about Winterton looking for me (when I first returned from the coast), it had made me happy. I had felt excited; I had been thrilled that I was going to learn more; I was so agog to “fill in the gaps.” And at that point, I had no idea that Mary’s death had any connection to Roger, or the Captain, or even to Winterton himself. It was all right to argue that my eager and obsessive pursuit of this story had been about avenging Mary: there was some truth in that. But at the same time I needed to admit that pursuing these evil cats had also been a very effective way of putting her dreadful loss right out of my mind.

  Sitting here now, inside this rapidly cooling vehicle that Mary and I had purchased together eight years before, I felt desolate, stupid, tired, a bit cold and (above all) weak with hunger. With a sort of morose satisfaction, I watched as the falling snow silently and inexorably coated the windscreen, effectively sealing Watson and me from the view beyond. When there was no view left at all – when a weird yellow darkness filled the car – I allowed myself first to close my eyes; and then I allowed myself to cry.

  Naturally, Watson bore the brunt ag
ain. “Watson, I’m sorry,” I said. What had I done? Why were we here? I had driven halfway across the country, in a heavy snowfall, possibly putting myself and the dog at unnecessary risk – and all because of a story that needed an ending. As if stories ever did end anyway.

  I undid Watson’s harness and pulled him onto my lap – and he licked the tears from my face, the ways dogs always do, because they like the taste. I thanked him and smiled, and started to pull myself together. “Watson,” I said, with a sigh. “If this isn’t all classic displacement activity, I’d like to know what is.”

  And then we both heard and felt it together – something softly landing on the roof of the car. Watson barked, and I told him to shoosh. If I had been sensible, I’d have started the engine and used the windscreen wipers – and driven off smartly, as well. But it wasn’t as simple as that; for one thing, I couldn’t bear to disturb our feeble, snowy cocoon. Also, it wasn’t just that I didn’t want to see what was out there: I absolutely didn’t want it to see me.

  “Perhaps it will go away,” I whispered to Watson.

  But from the roof of the car, it jumped down and landed on the bonnet – the car bouncing a little, but not enough (thank goodness) to shift the snow on the windscreen. Paralysed, with one hand on the ignition key, and the other across Watson’s shoulders, I could make out the merest dark shape beyond the layers of glass and snow – moving from side to side, as if sniffing at the snow, less than fifteen inches from my face. Watson growled, and I couldn’t blame him. I felt like growling myself. Ten seconds must have passed like this, and then another ten. And then, just as I was withdrawing my hand from Watson, to take the steering wheel, and whispering, “It’ll be all right,” a huge cat’s paw struck violently at the windscreen, and we both jumped in the air. The first strike was followed by a rapid volley of blows – Bam! Bam! Bam, bam, bam! – that shattered the caked snow and sent it flying in shards – and revealed the terrifying sight of the Captain on the Volvo’s bonnet, huge and black and yowling, and at extremely close range.

  “Get off my car!” I shouted (I wish I could say I thought of something better than that, but I didn’t).

  “Wuff, wuff, wuff! Wuff, wuff, wuff, wuff!” said Watson.

  “Get off, get off!” I repeated.

  “Wuff, wuff, wuff!” repeated Watson.

  I started the engine and the windscreen wipers. Undeterred, the cat continued to beat at the glass, his claws making bright white dents and pits. What were those claws made of, for goodness’ sake? And what could I do? I couldn’t help remembering the mess he’d made of that carrel in the library. What if the next thing he tore to pieces and left a claw stuck in (by way of gory calling-card) was me? My only option was to put the car in gear and gingerly move off. Surely the Captain would jump clear once we were in motion? But he didn’t. In fact, he seemed to think nothing of balancing on the snowy, slippery bonnet of a slow-moving Volvo driven without much conviction by a recently retired periodicals librarian who hadn’t had a proper meal for days.

  “Get off my car!” I yelled again.

  But he clung on easily, and kept chopping and bashing at the windscreen, which was – oh God! – beginning to crack and fracture. Again, I blame my foolish decision to pass up the chance of a quick sausage sandwich at a Little Chef; it might have made all the difference. Because, contrary to my normal Hamlet-y disposition, I failed to think things through. Rightly it occurred to me that braking to throw the Captain off was out of the question because Watson was unharnessed and might be hurt. But beyond that, I just couldn’t think, so I did a ridiculous thing: I accelerated. On the slippery road, I revved the engine and drove fast towards the gateway to Harville Manor, all the while shouting at the cat (absurdly) to get off the car; and then made an abrupt turn, hoping the Captain would be thrown clear simply by the sudden change in direction. But I lost control of the turn. And when the car slid to the right (as it was bound to), it hit the right-hand gate post broadside with considerable momentum. “Watson!” I said. The bang as we hit the post was terrific. The Captain shot off and hit a brick wall. The back door on my side caved in, and poor Watson was thrown sideways against the passenger door (and I have to admit, he screamed).

  The good thing was, when the dust settled, the Captain had disappeared from view. The bad thing was, I had probably now written off the car, and the snow was falling more heavily than ever.

  But the engine was miraculously still running, so I risked attempting to drive off. With a scrunch and rasp of metal, I edged the Volvo forward, unable to make out anything much about the way ahead – what with the snow and the damaged wipers and the buggered glass. Where was the Captain? There was no sign. Had he run away? Was he lying in front of the car? Was he possibly … dead? Well, I will never forget the strange satisfaction of feeling the car mount a tell-tale bump on the road, and drop down again. “Oops,” I said aloud. I couldn’t be sure it was him, because I couldn’t see. But if that was the Captain being run over by my battered car – well, hooray. Halfway up the drive, I stopped and gave Watson a reassuring hug – but it was more for my own reassurance than for his. Had the dear dog been hurt? He had hit the door with force, but he appeared to be all in one piece – and, for the first time since we had set out that day, I saw his tail wag a little, as if he were enjoying himself. One never knows how much of a situation a dog is taking in. I mean, I couldn’t swear to it, because I was a bit traumatised at the time – but I think, when we ran over the Captain (or possibly it was when I quickly reversed and drove over the bump for a second time, just to be sure), I heard a Daniel Craig voice beside me make the laconic remark, “Nice one.”

  I need hardly say that running over the Captain had not been part of my plan. But let’s face it, I had no plan. So if the Captain was dead, did it matter that it wasn’t a big dramatic end – involving crucifixes and exposure to daylight and a stake through the heart? As I carried on driving at a snail’s pace towards the house – the car hardly gripping at all on the snowy driveway – I was reminded of a something Mary’s father used to say about playing golf, when he’d shot a quite poor round technically but had nevertheless emerged with a decent score. “There are no pictures on the scorecard, Alec!” Well, I suddenly saw the truth of this peculiar statement of the obvious – because, narratively satisfying or not, the score at present was:

  Alec 1 Cats 0

  – and that was surely good enough, even if the Great Cat of Cat Evil had just been vanquished, sort-of unintentionally, under the wheels of a classic Swedish saloon car of legendarily robust construction.

  But I soon forgot the Captain in any case, because, arriving at the house, I had my first sight of Roger. Yes, Roger was here! And when I first spotted him – sitting high up on one of those curly-wurly Elizabethan chimneys, solemnly swinging his grey tabby tail, and watching us proceed up the drive – I’m ashamed to say my heart leapt. Despite his proven wickedness, there was something in Roger that simply captivated me. How unlike the Captain he was in every regard! Of course, I shouldn’t forget that the two cats had a lot in common. Both Roger and the Captain were Nine Lifers – with all the concomitant Nietzschean overtones. They had both travelled romantically through the remains of ancient civilisations, often by moonlight, reading and reciting poetry; they had hob-nobbed with the Durrells; most impressive of all, they had mastered the complexity of Greek ferry timetables. According to the photograph in the “Roger” file, they had also both lazed happily in the grass beneath the swinging corpse of a man who had been their nominal Master in this world. But now they were poles apart. Whereas the Captain now seemed to represent only the worst things in cats (murderous instinct, territorial violence, shattering toughened windscreens with bare claws), Roger stood for all that was best – elegance, beauty, fine whiskers, and supreme intellectual poise.

  I got out of the car and sank an inch or two into the thick snow.

  “Roger?” I called. With three or four neat bounding motions, Roger descended to the ground to
meet me. It was like a dream.

  “Alec,” he said.

  He knew me. How on earth did he know me? I didn’t care. He held out a paw; I bent down and shook it. His eyes were so green. No one had mentioned before the sheer beauty of Roger’s piercing green eyes.

  “Welcome to hell,” he said, and laughed. I laughed too. Good grief, I couldn’t believe it. It was the Vincent Price voice – in person!

  “We ought to get inside. We don’t have long to get organised. Did you bring the dog?”

  I said yes, I had brought him. Again, how did he know about the dog? What was it that needed to get organised? From inside the car, Watson barked.

  “Ah, Watson,” said Roger. “Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.”

  Five minutes later, we were inside the manor, which was no improvement, temperature-wise; it was considerably colder, in fact. Stamping my feet, I stood at a leaded window overlooking the darkening orchards while Roger sat on the wooden sill and indicated features of interest near to the house. Watson I had tied up in a far corner, and he had finally stopped barking – which was a relief, because everything echoed spookily in this shell of a house. To whom did Harville Manor now belong, I wondered. To Prideaux? Was this where he had always been when his cardigan was so artfully hung on the back of that chair in Special Collections, and the rest of us had covered for him? If so, he certainly hadn’t bothered to make it comfortable for himself here. No power was switched on; a few old office chairs had been herded into a dark corner; a few stubs of candles had been left around on the naked oak floorboards. Any vague and far-fetched hopes I might have entertained concerning a nice welcome-to-Dorset afternoon tea in front of a big manorial log fire were now in ruins. To someone who had insanely passed up his every chance for an infusion of sausage sandwich on the road, this was very hard.