The third time he hit the window the sound was different; like the air was being broken up into tiny little shreds, like it was being murdered. And he could feel its sudden pain, like he was being broken up too.
His madness was complete. Up until that moment there had only ever been one world. Only one, Kim was certain of that. But not now, now there were definitely two: an outside world, and an inside world. And they were both calling to him.
He found himself lying stretched out on the ground. It was raining, bitterly cold, and he was wet, and the wetness and the cold soothed him. That was the outside world. But there was another world, on the inside, and all he knew there was a terrible hurt. A terrible, terrible hurt.
He thought he remembered a window breaking, and a hideous scream that surely must have been his own. The window and the scream were part of the inside world, part of the terrible hurt. And he knew he must get out of that inside world, or else . . . or else stay there, forever.
He opened his eyes the best he could.
There was a tree in front of him. And around him wet grass. In among the grass the rain was turning into tiny puddles, a million of them, and all sparkling. Not soft and round and wet puddles, but hard puddles, jagged-edged, glittering and angry. Spilling across his legs and body.
There was broken glass everywhere.
He wanted to move away from it, but knew that if he did the hurt would reclaim him, take him back into the inside world forever.
He lifted his eyes to the tree. There was that cat again! It was a snotty-nosed young tortoiseshell. Name of Bryna. Lived up the street some ways off. She was clinging to the branches at the top of the tree as if her life depended on it. Well, maybe it did.
“What you ruddy well doing up my ruddy tree, cat?” He thought he growled at her. But if he did, it didn’t have the desired effect. Bryna began making her way gingerly down the trunk of the small tree – backside first. Then she crossed the grass between them, came right up to him, did not stop, not even when he growled again.
Kim knew there was a wound in his belly. An open gash. The sweet scent of blood lay heavily upon the air smothering everything else. And his blood mixed with the rain and ran in rivers through his matted fur. It was a hurt as deep as life itself. But he was still alive, still breathing.
“Come to gloat, cat . . .” Kim’s mouth did not seem to want to move with his words. “Come to laugh at my last breath?” He hoped his eyes still glared with contempt, even now, half closed, heavy with the pain. “Never could stand cats . . .”
At last he gave in, his two worlds collided, merged together, and left only the empty darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Run, or Die
Why didn’t Bryna run away from Kim when she first saw him behind the window? Why did she stand over him now, watching as he fell into unconsciousness? He was a dog, wasn’t he? And she was a cat? And dogs and cats hated each other, didn’t they? That was how it was. That was the rule. You could rely on it. And yet, nothing seemed to make sense any more. Maybe that was even part of the answer. Houses without people; sore, empty bellies; and an aching head that came and went at the strangest of times, had come worst of all with Grundle’s ghost. At least an injured animal, even a dying dog, was something real, something she could understand.
Bryna began to lick the deep wound in Kim’s belly, cleaning it of dirt. She carefully used her claws to scrape away the ugly shards of glass. Then, she gently lay down, rested her body up against his, used her small weight as a pressure to help seal his wound, to halt the flow of life from his body. She felt his blood seeping slowly into her fur.
And there Bryna stayed, and at last slept, overtaken by weariness, even after the rain had stopped, and the first hint of morning light broke the darkness.
She would have stayed there longer . . . if she had not been attacked.
“Grrrrr, Rawf! Rawf!”
“Kill the bloody murderess. Rawf!”
Dogs, there were dogs everywhere. Dogs tumbling towards her from all directions. Dogs, unpractised at killing, stumbling in their eagerness. A wild mix of breeds, all sizes, all strengths, their angry teeth bared. Bryna tried to cry out as she came fully awake, but her scream was wasted, drowned out by their furious roar. “Murderess! Rawf! Rawf! Rawf!”
Now she must run, or die. No time to think. No time to protest innocence. Run, or die. Almost together, a huge German Shepherd and a small, scruffy-looking Yorkshire Terrier were the first to land their blows. Run, or die.
Bryna’s open claws raked the muzzle of the bigger dog as she pulled herself free of Kim’s limp body, felt the dry blood that bound them together tear apart. She twisted, and scrambled her way up and over the backs of the dog pack. The cat who flew, the dogs called her, and perhaps she did fly. Jaws snapped shut, teeth bit hard. Fur and skin tore beneath her as she struggled free. In her panic, if it was her own, she felt no sting. And then, at last, her legs touched solid ground again, and her paws found a grip that was enough to run with.
And she did run. On and on, never stopping, not even to see where it was she went. Not until the yowls of the dogs, and the frantic scraping of their claws against the pavement as they gave chase, were nothing more than a memory on the new morning’s wind.
Beneath some bush somewhere, she stood still a moment to find her breath, before running on aimlessly. At some roadside puddle, heavy with engine oil, she took a drink. Among fallen leaves and windborne papers gathered against some old stone wall she fell, exhausted. Beyond fear, or care. And there she slept again. The fretful nightmarish sleep of the hunted.
When she woke up, she was sick with hunger. Her eyes would not open, and she could not lift her head. It stayed stubbornly on the ground, too heavy, thick and fuddled to be moved. The hunger pain in her belly was matched by a second pain in her shoulder where the terrier’s teeth had bitten deeply. Already the wound was a poisoned sore. She battled with her head again, and eventually managed to pull it up off the ground. She licked and bit blindly at her wound until it bled cleanly.
Slowly, she became used to the empty sickness in her belly, and her head cleared enough for her to find her balance, and stand up. But when she finally opened her eyes the sight that confronted her almost knocked her down again. She was standing on high ground, and could see just how far her blind run from the dogs had brought her. There, spread out below her, was her whole world: the great grey body of the town, caught asleep beneath a cold winter sun. There was no colour to it: the shining yellow streetlamps had finally gone out. It was as if the town had somehow lost its last great struggle for life and now lay dead. An empty shell, a carcass waiting to be picked over by scavengers. And at its very heart ran a dull grey river, snaking lazily, cutting the dead town in half; with only a bridge defiantly holding the two sides together.
Bryna began to move downhill, some weak instinct demanding that she retraced her steps. It was a long, long walk, and the pain in her wounded shoulder bit deep with every stride. Later, she remembered nothing of the way she took, of the streets or the roads. The sounds and pictures of the previous two days would not stop filling her head. It came as a total surprise when she found herself limping along The Lonnen.
There was not a dog or a cat to be seen anywhere. Where Kim had lain in front of the broken window there was a crusted pool of blood, like a frozen crimson lake. But there was no body. No scattered remains either. He was not dead then. Walked away or carried away? How? The puzzle was too great for her, and now her muddled head was filling up with food again, or rather, with a woozy sickness for the lack of it.
Somewhere a small brown bird called out to her. “Isn’t this what you’re looking for?” she thought it said.
And then there was another voice. A real voice. “Bryna, where have you been? Bryna, are you hurt? What’s the matter with you? Oh, just look what I’ve got – See, it’s a bird, a bird to eat. Dexter’s been teaching us how to catch them properly. Dexter says all the people really have deserted us, jus
t like we thought. They’ve gone from everywhere and there’s not one left. Not one, not in the whole town. Bryna? Dexter says the dogs have packed together, and we’ve got to watch out for them. Dexter says they’re killers. And oh – Dexter says there’s to be a Council and we’ve all got to be there. Bryna, Dexter says—”
“Treacle, don’t you ever stop for breath?”
“Oh, but Bryna, every cat’s going. I-I can’t stop, I’ve got to find Lodger, got to tell him the news. Dexter says meet at the allotments. Tonight. Oh, and you can have this—”
Treacle pawed his dead sparrow towards her, and bounded off down the street.
Bryna swallowed the small bird head first, and in one go, was promptly sick, and ate it again more carefully. The second time it stayed down.
CHAPTER SIX
The Glint of Murder
Was he dead? Kim wondered. He felt very sore, very weak and painfully thirsty. He didn’t feel dead. Then again, he didn’t really know what dead felt like.
When he had opened his eyes, there had been dogs standing silently over him. Watching him? Guarding him? They were still there, only now there seemed to be an argument going on. Or, or was some dog making a speech?
“You see, you see,” a German Shepherd roared, “see what the cats have done to this poor dog. Look at his wound, brothers! If we had not attacked when we did that murdering queen would have killed him for sure.” As if to make his point, he pawed the fresh wound on his own muzzle, making it bleed.
“Aye, Khan, you’re right there! Bloody cats! They’re all murderers, thieving murderers at that,” yapped a Yorkshire Terrier in agreement. “Just wait and see, brothers. They’ll be stealing the food right out of our puppies’ mouths next.” The other dogs began to grumble uneasily.
Kim lifted his head, wanted to tell them all not to be so stupid, but a heavy paw pushed it back to the ground. Khan ranted on. “It’s up to us dogs – now that our masters are called away – it’s our duty to protect the town against their scourge. What do you say, Yip-yap?”
“Aye, aye, rid the town of the cats! Rid the town of the cats!” the Yorkshire Terrier chorused, nipping dogs close by him until they joined in with his chant.
“Rid the town of the cats!” The cry went up, and the air filled with hysterical yowls and barks. Kim tried to move again, but found himself still pinned to the ground by the massive paws of a Great Dane. “Daft beggars,” he whined. “That cat saved my life. She saved my life.” No dog was listening. “Oh well, please yourselves, stupid fools . . .” The hurt of his wound began pulling at him again, and he felt himself falling back into the safety of unconsciousness.
He did not see the dogs gathering wildly for the hunt. He did not see them start off. Khan and Yip-yap leading the way, the glint of murder shining in their eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Council of Cats
The night came bitterly cold, and the darkening sky was further blackened with big heavy clouds that would surely bring snow. Bryna was not the first to arrive at the allotments. There were several cats already gathered there. The strong mix of fresh odours, and the slight movements of the night air against her whiskers told her that much. To one side of her, beyond a patch of carefully turned grey earth, she sensed a young queen sitting among a stretch of tall weeds and grasses. She was brindle-marked and had been named Brindle after her colouring (a common practice among lazy men). Directly in front of Brindle, at the end of a short cinder path, a home-made greenhouse – a chaos of old house doors and window frames – was being guarded by a pair of large black toms. Bryna limped slowly along the cinder path and sat down to wait beneath a rusting wheelbarrow that stood to the side of the greenhouse. She made no sound, and stared blankly out into the night, careful to ignore the other cats. Who they were she would know soon enough; it was not polite to ask questions, even of a stranger, before a Council.
Soon there were nearer fifteen or twenty cats on the allotments; all sitting discreetly apart, politely ignoring their neighbours. Among them was Treacle, as anxious and agitated as ever. He was sitting under the broken wooden boundary fence, strumming his claws through a discarded plastic carrier bag for comfort. There too was Lodger, skulking behind an empty, overturned dustbin.
The old tabby had always liked to pretend he lived alone and independent; wild as the feral cats rumoured to prowl the Town Moor on the opposite banks of the river. In reality he’d spent the best part of his days asleep on the rug next to the oven, in the back kitchen of a house in Cedar Drive. It had been a house full of ever-changing students who had always kept up the rule of leaving a window open for him so that he could come and go as he pleased. Well, not any more. And Lodger was no longer pretending.
Dexter arrived silently, and on his own. He walked slowly and leisurely through the mixed assortment of cats waiting there. The large black toms guarding the greenhouse watched him intently, moved silently aside as he approached. They were his bodyguard. With a careless ease, and without breaking his step, Dexter jumped up onto the wheelbarrow and up again onto the roof of the greenhouse. There, he sat down and did some waiting of his own. He was a very beautiful cat, large, but fine-boned with short grey hair. His eyes were bright and inquisitive, and stared expectantly, back along the way he had come. Eventually, plodding along in his footsteps there followed a second cat. She wheezed and puffed heavily with every step, and in between she hissed and spat, moaned and grumbled, enough to wake the dead.
“Oh Dexter, Dexter, wait for me, will you? Wait for me. Urgh! This ground’s too wet. Look at my poor fur – we won’t be staying out here all night, will we? And what’s this sticking to my paws—?” This was Fat Blossom. Dexter’s companion. At last she reached the wheelbarrow. She stanced down low, as if she was about to jump, but only her eyes followed Dexter to the roof of the greenhouse. Instead of jumping up, she sat down heavily, and clumsily; as if even that was far more than enough exercise for one evening.
Somewhere, out among the ranks of gathered cats, kits began to snigger. Fat Blossom’s eyes shone with fury. It was always told afterwards how that look of hers cut through the dark and landed a blow on the heads of the young revellers as heavy as any tom’s closed paw. Whatever the truth, the ranks fell silent. Bryna’s head began to ache as she watched, ached in that strange, indescribable way that she knew now as a sign of . . . well, as a sign of something not quite normal. There was, perhaps, more to this strange Fat Blossom than met the eye.
Unnoticed, Dexter had stood up. He opened his throat and called out the formal greeting, “Welcome stranger*.” At once, from all around the allotment, the gentle throb of contented purring lifted into the night air.
“Welcome stranger,” cats began to answer him in turn. “Welcome stranger.”
But already there were cats who were worried beyond politeness.
“Never mind the welcome stranger,” some cat called out. “I want to know what the heck’s goin’ on?” Instantly, the purring stopped. All eyes turned upon Dexter. And then every cat was yelling out at the same time.
“Yes, tell us that, if you can? What’s going on, Dexter . . .?”
*Welcome stranger, though not always used, is the formal and proper address between one cat and another, whether the cats know each other or not. Cats never, ever, use the plural! It is every cat’s conceit that it is the most important animal in the whole world, and to be thus generalised would be beyond sufferance.
“Where’s our food?”
“And where have all the people gone to?”
“And what are you going to do about the dogs?”
“Aye, aye, dogs is everywhere.”
“Bloody killers too! I seen ’em at it. Only a kitten it was.”
The black toms guarding the greenhouse raised themselves to their full height, and stanced for attack. Fat Blossom began pacing backwards and forwards in front of Bryna’s wheelbarrow, angrily grumbling and muttering to herself.
Then a thin, shrill voice cried out, “Look wha
t they’ve done to my leg. Look! Nearly torn off it is.” There was more worried commotion, tails flicked and cats began to mew, as a small tiger-marked kit hobbled forwards, dragging his useless hind leg along the ground behind him. As he moved, a tiny bell fixed to his collar tinkled, and seemed to call out his name . . . Maxwell . . . Maxwell . . .
Bryna heard Fat Blossom’s sharp intake of breath; it was almost as if she knew what was to follow. Within three paces of the greenhouse the injured kit stumbled and fell. Maxwell lay there, stricken, his breathing heavy and laboured, unable to move further.
All around cats were standing up, agitated tails stretched up into the air. The heavy scent of fear burned Bryna’s nostrils.
“Well, Dexter, just look at that,” mewed a large brown tabby, who seemed to have cats gathering at his side. “You called the Council! So what are you goin’ to do about it?”
Dexter threw back his head and caterwauled for silence.
“My friends, listen to me. Hear me out! . . . We must stay calm. We must look at the facts.” He looked down at Fat Blossom for support. She turned upon the squabbling cats, tried to stare them into silence. But not even her worst look could shut them up this time.
“The facts are we’ll soon be starving to death!” came a sharp reply.
“Yes! We’re not filthy strays. Can’t go eatin’ any old rubbish.”
“And we’re not all uncivilised hunters!” cried the tabby.
“We are all hungry,” Dexter hissed. “But we must face the truth, and we must do it together. Mankind has abandoned us. They have gone from the town, and left us to our fate. Their houses are closed against us. Their windows are locked, their doors are bolted.”
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