Tooth and Claw

by Stephen Moore

  A heavy wet nose came to within an inch of Bryna’s, and sniffed. “Grrrr . . . well well, what do we have here? . . . I suppose, I suppose I should bite your bloody heads off.” And then the dog laughed. “But these old wounds of mine are slowing me down. And I’m not as young as I was. You were a bit too quick for me.”

  Bryna didn’t understand.

  “Aye, too nimble! You must have got yourselves over that wall there, run off down by the river, maybe got yourselves across that bridge before I could catch you up.”

  Still Bryna didn’t understand. And yet, even through her fear she sensed something familiar about this dog. Its smell, its taste, the way its breath came, the way it moved. If only her eyes weren’t stricken – blinded with terror – she would know him for certain.

  Out on the street other dogs began to bark, and paws came running. “Kim – that you in there? What you got yourself then, what you found?”

  “Of course—” said Bryna.

  “Shut it! And say nowt, cat,” said Kim. “Say nowt, and stay alive.” The old black mongrel turned towards the gates. “That’s us evens,” he whispered. “Your life for my life, and I’ll throw in your friends here for free.” Then he barked loudly in answer to his companions. “There’s nowt much in here. Trail’s gone cold. Must’ve been rats or something.”

  A pair of nosey snouts pushed eagerly through the gates only to be pushed back out again. “Don’t waste your time here, try the other side of the road. Looks like some animal’s been disturbing the fresh snow . . .” Kim’s voice trailed off as he led the dogs away from the cats’ hiding place.

  Treacle stared blankly between Bryna and the petrified Crumpet. He did not understand why they were still alive.

  Bryna opened her mouth to explain, but it was not her voice that spoke then. Being still alive wasn’t the last surprise of that strange night.

  “Right then, you lot, you’d better come along with me. Can’t stay out here in the open. Some cats are just not safe to be let out on their own. Some cats ought to know better, getting themselves mixed up with dogs.” A big, baggy old tom cat had appeared out of nowhere, and was standing close behind them.

  “Lodger, is that really you?”

  Lodger didn’t answer. Instead, he gently took the dead kit from Crumpet’s mouth and quietly laid it out of sight beneath the shadows of the far wall. When he returned and ushered them forwards with a gentle push, when he climbed a pile of broken brickwork to reach the top of the wall, the three cats mindlessly followed.

  “Bah, house-cats,” he muttered, “all the same they are. Want to be kittens all their lives. Want a mother to nursemaid them. People to wash them, people to feed them, fussing about with their coochy-coos . . .”

  He led them at last to the riverside, to an overturned iron drum he called his lodge. In the dark it could have been anywhere. And if Bryna thought anything, she thought how much the old rusted drum, and the baggy old tom cat were alike. Both were aged, both weather-worn, and both – strangest of all – were the same muddy ginger colour. Where the rust had eaten a hole in one end of the drum Lodger had made an entrance. Inside, the sharp, sour smell of the rust hurt their noses until they grew accustomed to it; but at least it was dry, and safe, and with the shreds of newspapers and bits of rag that littered the floor, it was warm enough.

  Here, at last, they gave themselves up to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At Home in the Iron Drum

  For two days and two nights neither Bryna, Treacle nor Crumpet stirred from their beds inside the iron drum. Lodger busied himself with his comings and goings, content for now to leave them to sleep off their misery. He always returned home with his mouth full, bringing them mice or voles or birds, and once, even a scrape of lard clinging to a piece of paper.

  When the three cats were not asleep they sat, or lay about in a brooding, uneasy silence. For Bryna there was nothing left to say. The world had become such a horrible, horrible place.

  On the third day Lodger had had enough, and he pushed them all out into the snow. “Can’t go moping about after the dead forever. Life goes on, you know,” he snapped at them, nipping their heels, driving them out through the hole in the drum. “So get yourselves out there and fetch in your own dinner. I want my home to myself for a change.” He marched himself back into the drum, sat down, and pushed his backside out of the hole, blocking it up. Bryna was so startled by such rough treatment from the old cat she simply picked herself up and went to do as she’d been told: to find her own dinner.

  “Wait, Bryna! Wait for us,” Treacle and crumpet cried after her. “We’re coming with you . . .”

  And so, once more, the short days and long nights of winter passed by, one upon the next. The streets were never clear of snow. Snowstorms came and went, and then came again heaviest just when the cats thought they’d seen the last of it. “Longest, cruellest winter I’ve ever seen,” Lodger said.

  But there was, at least, one joy for Bryna; their lodge, the iron drum. It sat almost on the edge of the riverbank, and was well protected from prying eyes by a kind of big hill that grew up behind it. Lodger said the hill was what men called a rubbish tip, and it was piled high with the strangest things. There were bits of everything and everything was in bits. Broken chairs, threadbare pieces of carpet, beds, china, plastic bags – thousands of plastic bags – clothes, plastic washing-up bowls, dead plants, hedge cuttings, marmalade jars, tin cans, rotting potatoes and more: and all dumped at the edge of the river. Bryna would never understand people.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, the winter sun would shine, and the cats would raid the hill for a convenient scrap of cardboard or piece of carpet maybe, and laze happily at the water’s edge. When they wanted solitude, to think, or simply to be alone, there were endless nooks and crannies, holes and shallow caves to explore. Temporary homes were even found there, when silly arguments sent huffy cats storming out of the drum. They served too as hidey-holes into which they could easily escape when inquisitive bands of dogs ventured too close to the riverside for comfort. (The rubbish tip’s pungent, stale odours masked their own, and the dogs would pass by none the wiser.)

  There was never a safe time to hunt; cats would steal out on to the riverside streets only when their bellies got the better of them. And Lodger made them promise to prowl alone. “Alone is best,” he said, “only yourself to look after. Only yourself to get caught by dogs.” And there were always dogs.

  When out prowling Bryna would always investigate the slightest signs of other cats – just in case – sniffing out a day-old scent that still clung to the air, or chasing the wind for a tuck of cat’s fur freshly pulled out upon the wire of a garden fence; but it never came to anything.

  Sometimes, through the still of a windless night, they would hear the sound of cats crying. Or worse, the dreadful noise of a cat and a dog in a street fight, their voices carrying far out across the town.

  “Listen to that, just listen,” Treacle said, huddling closer to Bryna.

  “Shh. Shh— you’ll only wake Crumpet.” Bryna watched the young mother as she lay fretting in an uneasy sleep. Crumpet began to mew, as if in answer to the noises of the night; calling to her dead kits, as she turned and twisted ceaselessly. From somewhere, a lone cat shrieked above the rest only to be suddenly silenced. Crumpet started awake, her eyes glaring wide open. She began to search frantically, as if she did not see Bryna or Treacle there. And then she closed her eyes again.

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” Treacle said. “It’s just not a natural way to live. When are the people coming back, Bryna? Do you think it’s soon?”

  Before Bryna could answer, Lodger’s head appeared in the entrance of their lodge. He pushed his way inside and dropped the warm body of a sparrow onto the floor. “Not moanin’ again, are we? Some cats don’t know when they’re well off.” He pawed the bird towards them. “Well, get it down you, won’t keep forever. I’m not that hungry myself.” With that he turned and went out ag
ain, his raggy old tail flicking a quick goodbye behind him.

  Crumpet stirred herself again at the smell of food and so, as best they could, they shared the bird between them. It was a brief comfort. The tug at the belly, the sharp sourness that filled the mouth, the joyous burn in the nose was all too much for such a miserably small dinner. First Treacle and then Crumpet followed Lodger out into the darkness.

  Only Bryna did not hunt that night. She stayed inside the iron drum and slept, and while she slept she had a dream. A bad dream.

  A nightmare . . .

  A dark shadow crept out of the wild, and came down into the town. What it was, who it was, there was no telling. Shapeless and nameless, old beyond age, it stalked the streets. And where it stalked, it killed. It killed cats. It killed dogs. And when its killing was done the shadow was gone, and the nightmare went with it.

  Bryna woke up with a start. It was early morning. Treacle was curled up comfortably asleep at her side. But Lodger was sitting upright and alert, just beyond the entrance of their lodge.

  “What is it?” Bryna asked.

  Lodger’s ears twitched awkwardly, as if he had been listening very hard for something and she had broken his concentration. “The young mother, Crumpet, she has not returned from her prowl. It is not like her to stay away so long.”

  Lodger waited there in silence all that day. At nightfall, he went in search of her, only to return again hours later, on his own.

  Crumpet did not come back that second night.

  Crumpet did not come back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Drowning

  “It’s raining, Bryna. Hurry, wake up! It’s raining.” Treacle’s mew was desperate. “Wake up, will you?” He nipped and tugged at Bryna’s fur with his teeth.

  “Ow! What rain?” Bryna opened one eye and thrust it accusingly at the kit. She had been in the middle of another dream. Only this time it had been a dream of home and Mrs Ida Tupps. There had been warm firesides, soft sofas and long cat-naps. And there had been food – there had been lots and lots of food – any time she mewed for it. “You’ve woken me up to tell me about rain!” Her claws scratched at the rusted iron of the oil drum, making it vibrate. The whole lodge seemed to shake with her annoyance. “Why won’t you ever let me sleep?” She wanted to spit curses at him, to cuff him about the ears. But she didn’t. Treacle’s eyes were wide open with terror.

  “There’s too much of it,” he said, his voice thin and scared.

  “Too much? What do you mean?” She began to sit up. “If it’s really raining, then it will wash away all this rotten snow, and there’ll be no more winter.”

  “N-no. You don’t understand. It’s raining too much. There’s been too much snow, and now there’s too much rain with too much water. It’s already taken Lodger.”

  “Taken Lodger? But—”

  “Yes. Yes. He wasn’t quick enough! It picked him right up off his paws and ran away with him. Oh, come and see. Come and see.” He tugged at her fur again, let go, and darted outside.

  “Oh, all right. I’m coming. But if this is another silly game . . .” Bryna stretched, stood up slowly and sulkily, and followed him outside.

  The rain was falling hard and cold, and very fast. Great twisting black sheets of water curled menacingly across the late afternoon sky. It caught in her fur, instantly making tats of it, leaving her looking as if some animal had chewed her up in its mouth. On the ground the deep snowdrifts were dissolving around her almost as she watched.

  “See! See!” Treacle cried, running to the very edge of the riverbank. “There’s too much water, too much—” The hiss and roar of rain and river carried his voice away.

  And then, as Bryna tried to make sense of it all, there was water coming up as well as coming down. The river came scrambling over its banks, rushing greedily towards the rubbish tip, and Treacle was screaming and flailing about upon his back. An instant later, Bryna wasn’t standing up any more. Instead she was spinning, around and around, and the rain-swept air was suddenly very thick and heavy. It gurgled and rippled and bulged with dirt-grey muscles that turned her over, and over again, in its massive arms. It paralysed her – like a kit picked up in its mother’s mouth – tossed her, dragged her, pushed her mercilessly wherever it liked. And worse, it smothered her, filled her nose and mouth, and stole away her breath. Wrapped her up tight in its solid deathly coldness.

  The water suddenly threw her upwards, and for one brief moment she was floating on its surface. There in front of her was Treacle, or at least something that looked like it had once been Treacle . . . but then it wasn’t Treacle, only their iron drum – their lodge – bobbing madly about. It turned over, belching out great mouthfuls of air as if it was breathing its last breath, and then it sank.

  Bryna was pulled down again, deep into the water, thrown forwards, turned over, thrown forwards again. She felt her body catapulted against some hard object. Felt the stabs of pain as it struck out, like the claws of some terrible unseen enemy, cutting her, tearing her, breaking her. Then she was pushed forward again, and – inseparable now – her enemy moved with her.

  Lifted and dashed. Pulled. Pushed. Turned over. Turned over again. And never a breath. Never, never, never a breath.

  Drowning. Drowning…

  It was still raining. Bryna could sense the drops of water pat-a-patting upon the ground around her. It was a lighter rain now, almost soothing, and not cold exactly. She was too numb to feel cold. Inside her ears, inside her eyes, inside her nose and mouth there was the river – its taste, its smell, and its terror. They all lingered, and reminded.

  She tried to make some sense out of what had happened, but could find no sense in it. Bryna knew nothing of man-made flood barriers. Barriers that were supposed to be closed in times of heavy rain to protect the town and its bridge from flood water. Barriers that stood gaping wide open.

  She felt the urge to run away from the river. But no. No. Why should she run? She did not want to run. Not ever again. Did not want to move. Did not want to know at all . . .

  When she woke the second time it had stopped raining. She was still blinded, and deafened, but she felt the coldness now, and it hurt. She hurt. And the coldness and the hurt were everything. If she did not move now . . . If she did not move now, she would never move again.

  She tried to open her eyes, but was stopped by a pain that drove sharpened claws deep into her head. Instead, she pushed out her tongue and brushed her face and whiskers against the ground, and against the stiff coldness that was her body. Somehow she had become twisted up, was the wrong way around. Back to front. And she was stuck. Trapped, like there was something else there with her keeping a tight hold. There was a body, and there were legs. But surely they couldn’t all be her legs. She began to panic. Was she still bound up with that strange water enemy, even as it lay dead? She tried to move one of the legs, to touch it. There were no claws, no teeth to bite with. No body at all. Just a piece of wood, the branches of a tree, just an ancient piece of storm-bound driftwood.

  Move Bryna. Move now.

  Inch by inch she worked herself free. Paw over paw. Pulling herself forwards, just to slip backwards again when her weakened body would not support her. Blindly scratching for a hold among coarse sands, then gravel, then clattering pebbles.

  Then there was a steep barrier, where heavy, wet, pungent grass mingled with the sodden soil, and fell in upon itself as her claws reached out among it.

  Another inch. Another paw. Pulling herself across the muddy ground. Never knowing where she was, or where she was going.

  She fell in among another tangle, felt the pull of something tightening around her, something that reminded her strangely of Mrs Ida Tupps’ woolly cardigans and wet newspaper. But there was a warmth there too, and she knew she had done with struggling.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Beacon and a Tricky Knot

  “Well, well, what have we got here? A pussy-cat. With a collar and a name-tag and everything. Now th
en, is it a Tiddles or a Dribbles, a Fluffy-kins or a Kitty-witty?” Bryna was asleep and the voice seemed to drift about comfortably inside her head. “And I thought I’d maybe found myself breakfast.” The voice laughed with a deep tak-ak, tak-ak.

  Bryna started awake, blinked her eyes until they cried with the pain. “Treacle–-?” There was a large blurred face staring down at her. “Treacle, is that you?” She blinked again through the pain, but the face stayed blurred. She tried to sit up instead, but her movement brought only more pain and was met by a crackle and a clack. She was caught fast in another trap.

  “You’ve got yourself into a proper pickle, lass,” the voice said. “I think papers is for reading, and balls of wool is maybe’s for knitting or tying up parcels, but neither’s for pussy-cats.” The voice tak-aked with laughter.

  “Paper? Wool?” Bryna began to remember. “The-the water was rising . . . the river was flooding . . . Where’s Treacle and Lodger? I’ve got to find them.” She tried to sit up again.

  “Hold still, lass. There’s no point in you struggling. You’re just one big tangle of pussy-cat. If you’re wanting out, I’ll have to do it.” A broad flat paw, with claws drawn out, sliced through the strands of wool in a series of short, easy strokes. The paper fell away with it and Bryna plopped free like a pea bursting out of its pod. Released from the stranglehold, her legs simply ignored her command to stand up and she collapsed in a heap on the ground. And with her release came the rest of the pain. A sudden, brutal pain, shooting everywhere all at once.