Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘Alright,’ snapped the Constable. ‘Hold it there.’

  ‘Everything is fine.’ Strand whipped off his shades and stared into his eyes. ‘We’re doctors.’

  ‘Er yeah.’ The policeman blinked. ‘Sorry, doctor, but I’m looking for five men in sunglasses that are heading for the morgue. They assaulted a porter.’

  ‘You don’t want us. The ones you want are in there.’

  ‘Right.’ The Constable brushed by. ‘Thanks.’

  Quist waited until the footsteps passed through the ablutions room before opening the closet. ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s chance it.’

  ‘What was that fee-fi-fo-fum shit?’ stammered Watson. ‘Could they really smell...’

  ‘Move yourself.’ Quist crept out and ran quietly through the office into the hospital corridor. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Those footsteps belonged to a cop,’ hissed Watson, following. ‘He was in the morgue back there.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him,’ said Quist. ‘I’ve also seen this one.’

  ‘Don’t move,’ said the approaching police Sergeant.

  Quist turned swiftly, dropping his voice. ‘Keep your mouth shut. Don’t mention shapeshifters. Tell them absolutely nothing, do you understand?’

  ‘I’m a black youth,’ said Watson. ‘Being questioned by the impartial, non-racist cops isn’t exactly a new experience.’

  Chapter 40

  Rex brought the Ferrari to a halt on Minster Avenue, switched off the York map on his satnav and gazed over his shades at the motorcycles parked outside the suburban house. It was dark and lights shone behind the closed curtains. He wasn’t sure how to go about this and he’d been hoping the private detective would be here. Quist was okay at questioning people and handy to have around if things turned nasty. He swallowed uncomfortably, then switched off the 007 soundtrack and climbed from the car.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he muttered. ‘You know Kung Fu. What are you scared of?’

  Rex had never actually been in a fight, but he had plenty of cash. If things got out of hand here, he could always pay them not to hurt him.

  This was obviously the place, but there was no sign of an all-day party. The front door was half-open, but no sound came from the house. The neighbours appeared to be out too, although if bikers had been partying next door, this went without saying. Sliding the Walther pistol down his waistband and taking a deep breath, Rex walked slowly up the path and reached for the bell. His finger hesitated and, instead of ringing, he pushed the door fully open and slipped inside.

  Apart from party debris, the wide passage was empty. Judging from the silence, so was the house. So where were the owners of the bikes parked outside? Puzzled and apprehensive, Rex picked his way through the litter, his nose wrinkling at the weird metallic stench. He grimaced at the countless cigarette butts, bits of pizza, broken glass, severed hands, empty cans...

  He slowly turned back. It lay in a pile of lager bottles, and no matter how much logic attempted to dissuade him, it certainly looked like a hand. It was hand-shaped, with fingers and ragged tendons, but a human hand on the passage carpet? He stared incredulously. It must have been quite a party for a biker to get this torn off and leave it behind. Nudging the grisly object with his toe, he backed away to the open door of the lounge.

  The owner of the hand wouldn’t have much use for it any more - that was obvious. He wouldn’t need his legs either, which was just as well, for they lay by the fireplace. Apart from an autopsy, he wouldn’t need anything, because like everyone else in the lounge, he was dead. Rex stood very still, his jaw falling. The metallic smell he’d noticed earlier wasn’t garbage, but blood; a dark, sticky lake covered the carpet. He couldn’t determine the number of claw-slashed bodies–limbs, heads and ragged corpses were everywhere. The logical part of his brain told him to simply count the heads. Another more basic part told him to soil himself and run.

  He turned in a trance to the staircase. A disembowelled biker sprawled on the landing, his dripping entrails draped through the spindles like some horrific bead curtain. He shuffled numbly into the kitchen to find another corpse by the door.

  ‘My God!’ whispered a voice behind him.

  Supressing a scream, Rex turned. A beautiful girl stood at the bottom of the stairs with wet blonde hair hanging over quaking shoulders. She clutched a shoulder bag and gaped at the body on the linoleum.

  ‘Who are you?’ he spluttered. ‘What the fuck happened? I’ve heard things can get rowdy with bikers, but...’

  ‘I was upstairs,’ she whimpered. ‘Some men came. I didn’t see anything, but I heard screaming. It was horrible. I looked downstairs and saw Steve. He was lying in the passage and looked like that.’ She jabbed a finger at the biker.

  Rex flinched. Although the kitchen corpse still possessed a head, it had been twisted around to face backwards.

  She screwed her eyes shut, short unsteady sentences tripping over one-another. ‘I ran in a bedroom and the loft trap was open. Gary must have been to his dope stash. I climbed out of sight and waited. After a while it went quiet, but I didn’t move. I... I didn’t dare move. I waited and...’

  ‘Hey, come on.’ Rex snatched her as the tears rolled. ‘You’re in shock. Who are you?’

  ‘Fran,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Er, are there any more bodies upstairs? Two friends of mine were supposed to be calling. A private eye and a young black...’

  ‘I spoke to them. No they aren’t here; they didn’t stay long. You have to get me away from here, please. I really can’t stand it any longer.’

  ‘Okay, let’s get you into the fresh air.’ Taking Fran’s arm, Rex led her down the passage and opened the door.

  Matthew Strand stood on the step, blocking his path. ‘I believe there’s a party?’ he said. ‘Hope I’m not too late?’

  Rex stiffened, frowning uneasily. ‘Er, actually it’s over and...’ He fell quiet as a quartet of giants burst from a van parked behind the Ferrari.

  Strand twisted angrily. ‘You were ordered to stay in the vehicle,’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s them,’ shouted Fran. ‘They’re back!’

  Rex didn’t need it repeating. He slammed the door in Strand’s face and pulled her down the passage towards the kitchen. The front door crashed from its hinges, and realising there was no time to move the corpse from the rear exit, he yanked Fran into the abattoir that had been a lounge.

  ‘What a mess,’ tutted Strand, the four bodyguards looming behind him. ‘Parties, eh? Carpets are never the same afterwards.’

  ‘Okay...’ Eyes darting between the dismembered carcasses and the five killers in the doorway, Rex pushed the girl behind him and whipped out the Walther. ‘Okay, freeze,’ he shouted.

  Fran gaped at the trembling pistol. Strand merely raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ stammered Rex. ‘Just get out of our way, okay? I don’t want to use this, but I’m SAS and I will if...’

  ‘That won’t do any good,’ said Fisher, brushing past Strand.

  He thinks it’s a replica, thought Rex, his mind racing. Aiming left, he fired at the wall to demonstrate the authenticity. A zing followed the loud crack as the ricocheting bullet tore through Fisher’s throat.

  ‘Fuck!’ Rex watched in horror as the man stumbled back into the passage, a crimson carnation blossoming on his throat. ‘Fuck! I didn’t mean to...’ He turned to Strand. ‘You saw what happened. I fired to scare him...’

  Fisher reappeared, wiping red dust from his vanishing wound, his leer revealing feline fangs.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ moaned Rex, his spine turning to Vaseline.

  ‘Hardly.’ Strand stepped forward and the pistol exploded again with no effect. ‘My people and Christ have as much in common as Herod and babysitting.’

  Rex whimpered. The fact that someone was still
alive after a bullet through the neck had yet to register fully. Logic had virtually departed, but what little remained said this second character wore a Kevlar vest. This was until the shirt puncture and hole in the door behind told a different story. He turned the pistol on Hinds and fired again. A bottle disintegrated on a shelf to his rear.

  ‘I’ve no idea how much ammunition costs,’ said Strand. ‘But I’d say you were wasting money.’

  Rex had to agree. The realisation finally sank in that the bullets were passing through these people. ‘What are you?’ he whispered. ‘What the fuck are you?’

  Sangster’s face sprouted black fur, his eyes glowed green and his fanged mouth was extending. Fisher had dropped onto all fours, his face no longer human. The head of a huge panther now stretched the collar of his shirt.

  Strand laughed, watching as Rex’s face changed too, from shock to absolute terror.

  There were only two ways out of here: through the window, or through these hissing cat creatures. It wasn’t much of a contest. Rex snatched a chair, launched it through the curtains in the wide bay and grabbed Fran’s arm. ‘Run!’ he yelled above the crash.

  The pair leapt onto the couch and ducked through the hole, the drapes protecting them from the jagged glass. Browning and Sangster turned down the passage, but Strand barred the way. ‘Let them go.’

  ‘Let them go?’ blurted Fisher, standing upright. ‘But, Sir...’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ yelled Sangster. ‘He’s seen what we are...’

  ‘You don’t need to understand,’ snapped Strand. ‘You just have to obey orders.’

  ***

  ‘Who the hell were they?’ shouted Rex. Screeching tyres spewed smoke, rubber bit into tarmac and the Ferrari rocketed up the street. ‘What were they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ whimpered Fran. ‘I think they were the same men who came before and killed...’

  ‘Men?’ Laughing crazily, Rex skidded onto the main road. ‘Are we talking about the same bunch? Did you see them change? Their teeth? Their faces?’

  ‘I saw them. Oh God!’

  ‘They were turning into cats...’ stammered Rex.

  ‘I saw it. I don’t believe it, but I saw it.’

  ‘Did you see how the bullets went through them? Oh, Christ!’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we were lucky to get out of there alive. Why didn’t they chase us?’

  Fran sobbed and shook her head.

  Rex realised his voice was too high and his hands were trembling - not very macho, and it wouldn’t inspire confidence in his terrified passenger.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here, light two of those.’ Passing Fran his cigarettes, he rammed in the dashboard lighter and pulled out his mobile. ‘Calling the police is pointless. They’ll already be on their way after that shooting, and those bodies will be found without any help from us. Besides, we couldn’t possibly tell them what we just saw; that they were...’

  ‘That they were changing into cats?’ Fran passed him a shaky cigarette. ‘I honestly can’t believe what I saw.’

  ‘Me neither. If they were the killers from earlier, why return?’ Rex sucked hard on the tobacco and thumbed a number into the phone. ‘Why murder a bunch of bikers and then come back?’

  Fran wiped her eyes. ‘Who are you ringing?’

  ‘The private eye you met. I’ll have to tell him about this, although he won’t believe it. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘He mentioned Lamberley at the party. I think he’s investigating the murder of that birdwatcher. Do you suppose what happened back there has anything to do with that?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Rex tried another number. ‘And he’s actually helping me investigate.’

  ‘I thought you said you were SAS?’

  ‘This is a favour to my brother, Lisa’s fiancé, and... damn!’ He threw down the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to reach Bernard Quist all day. There’s still no reply from his home or office. Where is he?’

  ‘Is that true? You’re SAS?’

  ‘What? Of course I am. Who the hell would think about lying at a time like this?’ Rex wondered whether to book a few psychiatric sessions. ‘Jesus, what on earth just happened back there?’

  ‘You can ease off.’ Still trembling, the girl glanced behind. ‘Whatever they were, they don’t seem to be following.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He brought the speed down. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Francesca... Fran.’

  ‘Rex.’ He smiled timidly, his head still spinning. ‘Rex Grant. Okay, Fran, we seem to be clear. So what now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She began to weep. ‘I’ve been living back there since I found the courage to leave my husband. I don’t really have anywhere to go.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You can stay at my uncle’s place with me and we’ll sort everything out in the morning. It’ll be better than a hotel.’

  ‘Will I be safe there?’ sobbed Fran.

  ‘From husbands, yes.’ The crying made her small breasts jiggle and Rex couldn’t believe he’d noticed after what had just taken place. ‘I’m not so sure about giant cats.’

  Chapter 41

  Tariq Aslam studied Quist across the police interview table, a recorder humming between them. ‘A body has vanished,’ he said.

  ‘So you’ve mentioned.’ Quist patted his pockets. ‘I don’t have it. For the last time, I don’t know anything about this.’

  ‘You were seen leaving the mortuary,’ pointed out the Sergeant.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s approaching seven o’clock. Why are you holding me? Surely not body snatching?’

  ‘Suspicion of burglary.’

  ‘This is ludicrous.’

  ‘So what were you doing in the mortuary?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Quist rubbed his eyes. ‘We went in by mistake. We were looking for the A&E ward.’

  ‘It says Mortuary on the door. The locked door.’

  ‘I didn’t notice and it wasn’t locked.’

  ‘Yes, we found it forced. We’ve fingerprinted, but you had gloves, didn’t you? Why were you looking for A&E?’

  ‘For the fifteenth time, my assistant hurt his arm.’

  ‘On Wednesday you were seen with one of the employees of Ebor Pharmaceuticals where Lisa Mirren worked. Oh, that’s our missing body in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Amy Clarkson. Yes, she’s a friend of mine.’

  She was a friend in a huge amount of danger. Quist needed to get out of this police station and, difficult as it would doubtless be, somehow convince her of what he’d discovered. If he told the police the truth about the morgue or mentioned corpses transforming into panthers, he’d be locked up indefinitely.

  ‘A gentleman named Rex Grant was also there. Is he a friend too?’

  ‘He’s the brother of Lisa’s fiancé, which I’m sure you know. He wanted to talk to Amy about her. We went for a drink and...’

  The door opened and an attractive middle-aged woman dumped a bag on the table before sitting next to Aslam.

  The Sergeant turned to the microphone. ‘Eighteen-forty. Detective Inspector Katie Bradstreet has entered the interview.’

  ‘What can you tell us about this?’ Katie opened the bag and stood a flashing gnome on the table. This was unexpected, to say the least. ‘It was in your car, Mister Quist. The police psychologist has suggested it may be a fertility idol worshipped by pagans.’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Quist. ‘Actually my assistant’s mother makes them.’

  Aslam peered at the gnome as though it were something an incontinent dog had left in his kitchen.

  ‘Really?’ Katie held up a glass tube. ‘Do you
know anything about these sweepings from the morgue? Forensics have begun their analysis and believe this red powder is organic. What do you think to that?’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Quist.

  ‘Doesn’t it? You’re fairly intriguing yourself, aren’t you? I believe you knew someone named Kevin Selden?’

  ‘I knew of him. He worked as a debt collector from my office building and I’ve seen him occasionally. I heard on the news that he was killed last night.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Katie. ‘He worked next door to you; I’ve just discovered that. I’ve also discovered that Brightshield Glazing have a sales office in your building too. Carl Dreyer, our missing sales manager from Leeds was there on Monday evening.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Aslam grinned. ‘People around Mister Quist keep dying. As he might say, it’s intriguing.’

  ***

  Watson sat in the neighbouring interview room and handed Gregson a sheet of paper.

  The Constable inspected the shakily-drawn cross. ‘I see.’ He massaged his weary eyes. ‘You’re saying that you can’t read or write, huh?’

  The teenager nodded. The moment the writing materials had arrived, he’d used two pencils and a rubber band to fashion a crucifix and seemed loathe to let it go. The policeman had decided this was probably some black gang thing.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gregson. ‘We’ve established that you’re mute, and now we’ve found that you can’t read or write?’

  Watson shrugged apologetically.

  Gregson motioned to a man in the corner. ‘Raines, our signer, was a waste of time too, wasn’t he? You don’t understand sign language either, do you?’

  He shook his head glumly.

  ‘So any suggestions on how we could interview you?’

  Watson sadly lifted his palms. Keep your mouth shut, Quist had told him.

  ‘According to the statement given by your employer next door, you were trying to find A&E. It seems you hurt your arm?’

  Watson nodded.