Cats have the sharpest claws of all mammals, claws that can be withdrawn into a sheath by all species except the cheetah. In this way, the claws are protected and the cat can move silently on its pads. Some of the patterns of behaviour associated with hunting may be observed in the play of kittens.
God created the cat so that man could caress the lion.
Fernand Mery
The ancient Chinese believed that cats have the power to resurrect the dead and that they could create zombies.
Forgotten books of power tell of stories now only whispered by the lowest street peasant who has nothing left to fear, or the highest dignitary, protected by their belief that nothing could harm them.
These books speak of the tenth life of a cat. The phase in which, like those worshiped by the Egyptians, the cat would guide a lost soul into the safety of heaven.
Even the Scots believed that cats could steal the gift of second sight from the dead and inflict blindness on the living.
These cats brought redemption to the soul and could buy a wicked man entry to the glory of everlasting life.
In even these modern times of supernatural scepticism many people still believe these ancient tales, little knowing and little caring about their origins.
These people forget two things.
Cats evolve.
Cats hunt.
Until now Megan didn't believe there could be rivers of blood. Madness reached out and drew her sanity into a pit of mayhem. The knife was in her hand. Devoid of conscious thought, the muscles in her arms contracted and relaxed in time with the imaginary rhythm in her head.
Blood flowed from the people around her. Slowly, body by body, the streams of blood pooled together before becoming a torrent on its long journey towards the grey finality of the pavement. The crunch of every broken bone echoed the shattering of another unfulfilled dream. Red liquid, warm and inviting, seeped from the wounds on her arms yet Megan barely noticed the struggles of her victims as they fought.
Other people, watchers, innocents and the broken hearted, tried to flee the frenzied swing of the blade but the scared and desperate crowd merely forced more and more people into Megan's path. Some were injured, many were maimed beyond recognition, and still more were killed. Later the news crews would try to make some sense of the senseless. They would talk about the horrors of modern of society. Analysts would decry the alienation that many people felt, the inhumanity of human society. Books would be written and memorials held until another horror captured the imagination of the general public. But others would remember the loss, the grief they felt as their wives, husbands, lovers and children were changed forever.
Eventually a police bullet stopped Megan's attack. One more lifeless body.
Somewhere in the background, as the crowd milled about in stunned confusion, a cat cried out in satisfaction.
John Smith was an ordinary man. An ordinary man who had no idea who he was. A quick glance at his reflection on the surface of the darkened monitor of his personal computer revealed the face of an aging man. Strings of white hair knotted themselves in clumps on his skull, exposing a circular patch of flaking skin at the back. Wrinkles creased more than his face and his hands rarely seemed able to type more than five words before arthritic pain forced him to pause. Five years ago the police had found him lying on the side of a road, dressed in an ill-fitting costume, clutching at a piece of paper.
Written in a childish scrawl was his name, the phone number of an exclusive London law firm and a brief message:
'You have seen monsters, John. But you failed to light the torch to blaze away the terrors of the dark. You have seen sights that no normal man should have seen and you have survived where others did not. You were a good man who has been forced to sometimes do terrible things. But the time has come to rest.' There was no name to say who wrote it.
These words, and that restrictions the law firm raised when he tried to do anything that contravened their charter of care for him, were all that remained of his previous life.
He'd long ago given up his search for a past he could not remember. A past he did not know that he wanted to remember. He reached down and abstractly dragged a furrowed hand across the fur of his only companion. Sergeant Tom had been with him ever since he first arrived at St. Jude's Home for the Elderly. Mewling, fussing over his friends, providing echoes of an adventurous spirit in John Smith's sedentary life. The little mixed breed had managed to go through his nine lives with a devil-may-care ease: the Adventure of the Black Ford: the Washing Cycle of Doom: the time he stood up to the rogue rottweiler that was terrifying so many of the other residents. Tom had lived his life to fullest. Somehow the little cat had drawn every drop of experience from his daily routine.
John smiled. Despite his limited memory he had this feeling that it had been a long time since he had been alone. Two aging protagonists settling into a comfortable companionship as the twilight faded on their careers and, indeed, their lives.
The opening strings of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor alerted John that his boot-up had finished and new e-mail had arrived. Hopefully it heralded another couple of hours discussing the merits of a certain book series he enjoyed. At times he thought that these little discussions, these sorties into the world outside of his home, were all that kept him sane. Most of the time he lurked in the background, watching and reading the arguments, laughing at the transatlantic spoilers for novels that had yet to reach England's precious shores. In many ways his only regret in dying would be that he would never know how the latest saga was resolved.
But the message was not anything as safe as fiction. It was an Internet report of a massacre at Yevtushenko. A man had apparently gone mad and attacked a cinema audience with an old axe. John sighed and printed the report. There was a faint hiss as the paper slid out of the printer and onto his desk. Saddened by the accumulated evidence of human inhumanity, he placed it into the manila folder with a collection of similar reports from around the globe. Silently he wondered who was sending the message to him this time and why. Yet again he wondered what force drove him to gather these horrors. Like many of the other messages the latest one held no identification but for three lines from Emily Dickinson's ‘The Chariot'.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me; the carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
'Mr Smith?'
The sudden interruption caused Sergeant Tom to leap off Smith's lap. It was a pleasant, familiar voice but, for a few moments, he couldn't place it.
'Ah, yes, young Valerie. What is it dear? Surely it isn't time for lunch yet?'
The attendant shook her hair and Smith noticed the sunlight refracting through her blonde locks. Interesting, he mused to himself, it must mean the recent seemingly endless rain had finally stopped.
'Isn't it just glorious? We've decided to have a little party to celebrate the new weather. Some of the other residents are going down to the park for a picnic and, well, we were wondering if you would care to join us.'
Looking at the apprehension on her face, Smith knew the other residents had not asked for his presence. No, one of the supervisors, probably old battleaxe Danner, had decided it would do him good to socialise a bit more with the others and insisted on the invitation. He briefly considered declining but, as a warm sun would ease some of the recent stiffness from his bones, he decided to go along. Besides it had been ages since he had been on a real picnic.
'May I bring Tom along?’ he asked.
Valerie shook her head slowly. ‘You know the problem with taking animals outside of the home. What if something happened? No, Tom will find it much more fun stay here and snooze in the bay window.'
Noticing the disdain in Tom's golden eyes, Smith said, ‘I don't really think he'd like that. Not when there's a picnic going on'.
'It's your choice,’ Valerie shrugged. Mr. Smith was a nice old man but, like most of the people here, he was a bit silly at times. The wa
y he let that cat rule his life for instance. Sure, she knew the board actually encouraged the residents to have pets but Smith took things to extremes. He even acted as if the cat could understand every word he said. Still, she thought sadly, it must be hard for him. He had no visitors, no real friends amongst the other residents, and nothing to hold him to this world except for the cat.
'We're meeting at the gate at 11:30. If you're not there we'll leave without you.'
Ignoring, Valerie's departure, Smith sat down on the single bed and motioned for Sergeant Tom to join him.
Surprisingly he did.
'Well, Tom what do you think I should do? I could do with the fresh air and the sunlight. But I don't want to leave you alone.'
A flick of Tom's tail showed the feline disregard for this comment.
'Oh, I know you can handle yourself but-’ he paused and opened the manila folder with the e-mail print outs in it, ‘—there's something going on out there. I can feel it in my bones.'
Tom turned and stared at Mr. Smith. His golden eyes, speckled with dots of green, seemed to imply a great wisdom. Opening his mouth in a long yawn, Tom stretched out on the bed before curling himself up next to the pillow.
Smith nodded and started to gather his things together, getting ready for the excursion.
Glancing at the large grandfather clock that stood in the corner of his room, Smith saw that he had plenty of time before the bus left. Time to check a couple more newsgroups anyway.
The fluorescent hues of the screen illuminated his face, casting an alien aura over his features. Perhaps, he thought, he should open the curtains. After all, it had looked quite pleasant outside when young Valerie had opened the door. During the past few weeks, the room had become as stuffy as the tomb he sometimes imagined it to be.
No, the sun had risen and it was time to face the world and let a bit of light into the room.
Getting up, he slowly drew back the curtains and, after shrinking away from the burst of light that initially surrounded him, he straightened and looked out at the courtyard.
As the sunlight hit Tom's whiskers, the cat appeared to smile to himself.
'That's better, isn't it, Tom?'
Taking another furtive look at the clock, Smith resumed his seat in front of the computer. There was just time for one more check. Surrounded by stories of death and destruction, John Smith closed his eyes for a moment. Around him the world continued to grow, change and evolve; but, as he closed his eyes, he felt he could recreate that one small corner in which he lived. To hold back time.
Separated from reality, John Smith could see a world. Not a moving, twisting world but one frozen by the photographic snapshot of nostalgia.
It was, perhaps, fitting that Sergeant Tom chose that moment to stretch again. As his lithe body elongated itself, his back arched and the cat opened his mouth in a giant yawn. Catching himself falling asleep, Smith blinked as he tried to force himself to stay awake. Turning to looking at his pet, he shivered as the yawning cat briefly resembled a malevolent vampire, fangs exposed, his bat-like face enhanced by the pointed ears and golden eyes.
Then he settled down and appeared to go to sleep.
Copying Tom, Smith's head also nodded erratically before he lowered it to the desk.
'Mustn't go to sleep,’ he muttered.
Then he did.
Tom's eyes flickered open and the cat cried forth with a low growl of menace.
* * * *
Mark wiped the sweat from his brow. As he worked he made a kind of reverse whistling noise as he sucked the cool air through the narrow gap in his front teeth. He'd lost another day of his long awaited, and much needed, holidays on trivial non-events. Today it was working in his mother's garden. At this rate he would need a holiday to accomplish even half of what he set out to do during these holidays.
Still, if he were honest with himself, there was something relaxing about gardening. It was better then being back in the office at least. There was something about the primitive, manual labour that cheered his soul. No computers, no ties, no suits, no boss except himself. He barely noticed the faint redness that had begun to stain his pale skin.
Bloody Brian had hurt him far more when he had shafted him out of the local rep position. They made it sound like a promotion. And, if you counted things like money it was. But it was not what he wanted. And wasn't the point. The rep position was his job. For all the talk of promotions and bettering his career and everything, Mark had made the position and he hadn't wanted to be moved. The truth was he was happy being a minor cog in their corporate machine.
How dare they move him against his will? Who gave them the right to determine what was good for him? Oh, they said it was bad for morale, him wasting his talents in the rep job. He wasn't repaying the company's investment in him.
Truth was Brian wanted a yes-man in the position and Mark wasn't it.
'Are you OK, dear?'
Mark realised he'd let his eyes close while he'd enjoyed his bit of work-related venting.
'Fine, Mum,’ he shouted, reassuringly. Smiling to himself he could see his mother standing on the porch, a glass of cold water in one hand and a plate with some chocolate biscuits in the other.
'You spoil me,’ he laughed.
'Always have,’ she replied. ‘Been the biggest mistake of my life. Never could say no to you.'
Thinking back on his childhood, Mark thought this is was a bit of an exaggeration. He could certainly remember the word being issued strongly from his mother's lips on a number of occasions.
'You've worked up a quite a sweat. You should sit down and take a break. We don't want you suffering from a touch of the sun.'
Drawing a wet towel across his forehead, Mark let his body sag, feeling the tension rise up like a geyser from his stomach. For a brief moment he thought he was going to be physical ill but the wave of nausea passed as suddenly as it began.
'Listen, I'll go for a walk down in the park. That way you can watch your soppy video without worrying about me slaving away out here. I might sit under the trees near the lake for a bit and just the let world pass me by.'
It was only later, after Mark left, that his mother realised he had taken the garden shears with him.
If anyone had called Sergeant Tom an ordinary cat John Smith would have disagreed strongly. Like all felines, Tom did not appear to be bound by the ordinary conventions of civilised behaviour. Unaffected by guilt or recrimination, Tom lived from nap to nap without the hindrance of regret. Stretching out a graceful paw, Tom trapped a helpless bug as it dared to traverse his pillow. Distracted from his rest, he looked over towards Smith. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he raised his body and leapt onto the desk. Gently, he nuzzled Smith's prone body. The human's faint breath almost failed to register on Tom's mottled fur. When Smith refused to stir, even when Tom ran his whiskers over his face, the cat sat down, sphinx-like, and examined him. The sunlight gleaming through the window surrounded Tom with a majestic halo.
His eyelids narrowed until they formed black slits protecting his irises.
This was the man who forced him to have worm tablets. This was the man whose love for Tom caused him to book vet appointments and use flea combs. And who tried to drown him in the kitchenette sink under the guise of cleaning him. Oh, Smith always felt bad about causing Tom pain and discomfort. But, sometimes, love must be cruel to be kind.
A swish of Tom's tail knocked a porcelain Buddha from the desk, shattering it as it hit the floor.
It was time.
* * * *
John Smith felt the terror before he became aware of the rush of people. Feeling the sun's warmth tickling the bald patches on his head, he realised he wasn't wearing his hat. Out of the corner of his eyes thought he saw a young boy watching the melee in delight. When he turned to get a better view, the boy disappeared. A phantom echo from his unremembered past, Smith thought the child's ratty, dark hair and elfin features were vaguely familiar. Something about the child's innocent
grin as he watched the confusion around them stirred the faintest embers of memory in Smith's befuddled mind.
'You have seen monsters, John. But you failed to light the torch to blaze away the terrors of the dark.'
Strangely John realised he had been living with horror for so long that he wasn't afraid. His mind was filled with a dozen stories from the manila folder on his desk back at the home. It was, he told himself, like that time one of the nurses had organised for the residents to go to the movies to see some horror film that was supposed to be the scariest one ever. Despite the hype, John had been bored. Real terror was not a monster bursting from someone's stomach or a ghost hunting victims in a haunted house. The real monsters were people. Ordinary people.
Convinced that he must have dozed off, he looked around and tried to determine where his whereabouts.
'Must be at the park,’ he decided, wondering why the others had disappeared.
Swimming against the sea of fleeing people, Smith moved towards the centre of the crowd with a look of perverse satisfaction on his face. It was a challenge, a mystery, like the ones he had chased in a previous life. Moving grimly through the crown, he was determined to discover what was happening.
As he walked the park began to resemble a war zone.
The stench of death assaulted his senses as he approached the epicentre of violence. Trapped, like a cockroach to roach bait, Smith moved inexplicably closer to where Mark was terrorising the people who could not escape. Mark was using the garden shears more like a sword than attempting to open and close the jaws of death. Somewhere in the background, Sergeant Tom's plaintive cry speared a jolt of recognition through his consciousness.
'What are you doing here, Tom?'
In reply the cat dispassionately glared at the man, his face reflected in the black irises captured by a sea of gold.
Abruptly the scene appeared to change, as if Smith had blacked out and the world had switched channels while his eyes were closed. Trees were replaced by shattered buildings. Concrete pylons with twisted branches. The grass beneath his feet appeared to harden and crack, mutating into broken cement.
Journeys of the Mind Page 5