Cat Flap

by Andrew Osmond

  Chapter Ten: Friday night

  “During the heavy winter snows of 1970 a set of large, cat-like, paw prints were identified and photographed in the snow laying in the back garden of the Fraser family. The Surrey Puma was apparently still at large.”

  Janet had returned yesterday morning. Tal had seen her arrive with her mother. He had been working on top of his own barge at the time, replacing a section of decking that had started to show signs of rot. He had waved, but she had not noticed him. Janet’s father had said something to them both as they had come aboard, something that Tal had not been able to hear, and then they had all disappeared inside. He had not seen a sign of any of them since. The curtains to Janet’s quarters had been kept firmly drawn, even during the daytime. It was dark now and Tal, apparently to be denied his regular evening entertainment, was feeling restless. He didn’t even have any beer left: he had wasted most of the previous day waiting to see if Janet or her family would re-emerge from their longboat, at a time when he would have normally trekked into town and stocked up on the week’s supplies. Today had been just the same.  He had felt compelled to maintain his vigil until he saw Janet again and then the spell would somehow be broken, but in the meantime, the longer he continued to watch, the harder it was to drag himself away. It was like choosing the same numbers each week on the National Lottery: fear that the very week you do not buy a ticket is the one week that ‘your numbers’ come up compels you to continue buying a ticket every week.  So it was with his surveillance - he had invested so much time in this pursuit now, that to chance missing the vital moment was unthinkable.  An activity which would outwardly appear to be inherently boring, it was actually greatly exhilarating: each new second having the potential to herald a change to the status quo.  It was the not knowing just exactly when, that provided the excitement. Perhaps he really should buy himself a T.V.?

  •••

  “It was fantastic.”

  “Oh, do shut up, Graham.”

  Graham was not to be silenced so easily, “We both had guns and you have to blast away before the vampires get you.”

  “I’m not interested in your sad Playstation games. They are so last week.”

  “That should be your catchphrase, loser. Anyway, it’s not on Playstation,” Graham countered, sounding aggrieved, “Not until next month anyway.  No, we played it at an arcade in Soho.”  He said the final word with a self-conscious nonchalance, as if to imply ‘Of course, I go up to Soho all the time.’

  Vince was intrigued despite himself, “Who did you go with?”

  “Mark.”

  “Mark Reed?”

  “No, Mark Brooke.  His brother lives somewhere up there.”

  “I didn’t know that you were friends.”

  Graham did not elucidate instead, in his imagination, he had been transported back and was once again standing in front of the arcade machine.  He held an imaginary pistol out in front of him, his body swerving and weaving, dodging the bullets fired by make-believe blood-sucking adversaries. “Pow, pow.” He glanced nervously at his friend, suddenly aware of his actual surroundings again and conscious that he was probably making a fool of himself. Again. It was about the only thing that he was good at. He wasn’t even any use at Namco’s Vampire Night: Mark Brooke had well and truly trounced him. He wouldn’t admit that to Vince, of course, he knew that his companion usually needed very little invitation to ridicule him. Vince remained silent though, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Graham watched him for some seconds before commenting, “Clear night, isn’t it.”

  Vince nodded noncommittally, before saying, “Is Zoe coming tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see her at school today?”

  “No. Yes. I’m not sure.”

  Graham paused to give the question some consideration, but Vince prompted impatiently, “Aren’t you in the same class for French? Was she in, or wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, yes we are. I just can’t remember.”

  “Idiot. How can you not remember.”

  “She normally sits at the back. I didn’t notice her. I’m sure she’ll be along later though. You know she often has to wait until after her family have finished tea.”

  “Tea?” Vince sounded scornful.

  “Well what do you call it in your house?” Graham’s alterative annelid had momentarily reared its head, “Dinner? Supper?”

  “Tea,” Vince repeated, assuming an air of pomposity to quell the mini-rebellion, “Is a plant, an infusion of the leaves of which in boiling water produce a popular beverage of the same name.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Graham lamely, adding, “Which reminds me. I brought along some cans of beer. We can get lagged if we want.”

  “I don’t drink. I need to remain completely focused. Alcohol only serves to cloud the brain.”

  “You used to,” Graham argued, “That night we...”

  Vince interrupted him, “Things have changed since then.”

  “I thought it might...” Graham giggled, nudging Vince in the darkness, “you know, get Zoe in the mood.”

  Vince felt himself begin to blush and was grateful that in the obscurity of the dark park his companion would not be able to notice his reddening complexion. He rounded on Graham angrily, “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s obvious you fancy her.”

  Vince was about to refute the suggestion when a voice from the darkness called out, “Who are you talking about?” It was Zoe. She stepped into the pale circle of light emanating from the three candles that Vince had lit earlier. “You should blow out those candles,” she carried on, “I could see them shining from miles away. You might get some of the park keepers investigating. Besides it is so much nicer when it is pitch black. You can see so many more stars.”

  “I read that it is possible to see Jupiter and Saturn at the moment too,” said Graham.

  “And Mars,” agreed Zoe. “I don’t suppose anyone brought along a telescope? What was that?” She suddenly sounded startled. “Did anyone hear something?”

  “No,” said Graham.

  “Like what?” asked Vince.

  “Shush.” Zoe had her finger held to her lip, “Listen.”

  The three teenagers remained silent and motionless but the only sounds were the faint crackle and flare from the smoking candles, the creaking branches of the neighbouring trees, and the distant background noises of human existence: a motor engine receding far away, a siren wailing unanswered, and a domestic dog barking. “What did you hear?” asked Graham, breaking the silence, sounding nervous.

  “I don’t know. My imagination probably,” said Zoe. “I just thought that there was someone there. Hello,” she called out loud, “Anyone there?” There was no reply. “I’m sorry, it was nothing.” Zoe sat down on the grass beside one of the candles, the flickering flame illuminating her pale face and long hair. She seemed to have dismissed the incident quicker than the two young men, who remained standing, silent and watchful. “What were you talking about?” Zoe asked.

  Vince, not wishing the subject to be steered back towards his amorous feelings for the young woman, returned to an earlier topic of conversation, “Graham was telling me about a game he had been playing.”

  “What?” Graham sounded confused, having forgotten this earlier thread.

  “The vampire game,” Vince prompted.

  “Oh yes. It was great. You’re in this Middle Ages sort of town and there is a castle, and the vampires just keeping on coming from everywhere. You have to shoot them before they slash you, and then there are villagers to rescue before they turn into vampires too. They have disgusting growths on their bodies. What are they called? Sar... Sarcophagus, something like that. And you have to shoot these sarcophaguses before they erupt and the people turn into proper vampires. It was...”

  Vince interrupted Graham before he could expostulate how great the game was
again, “I think you mean sarcomas, you catachrestic imbecile.” He had not forgotten how Graham had made him feel embarrassed earlier and was looking for an opportunity to humiliate his friend, particularly now that he had Zoe as an audience to appreciate his vocal sparring.

  Zoe was not so easily impressed though, and sprung to the defence of the downtrodden Graham, “Carry on Graham, I’m interested.”

  “That was it, really,” finished Graham, lamely. “Do you want a beer?” he added more cheerfully, at the same time fishing around to find where he had discarded his rucksack on the ground, and pulling out from the bag a pack of four cans.

  “Yes, okay,” agreed Zoe, “Does anyone have any mints?” she added, mindful of her return to the family home.

  “Yes,” said Graham, “Here, catch.” He threw one of the cans across to Zoe, who taken by surprise dropped it, knocking over and extinguishing one of the candles at the same time.

  Vince was growing impatient. The evening was not turning out exactly how he had pictured it. It was always the way: you can create an imaginary scenario, stage it perfectly, bring along all the right props, but if your principal actors have not learnt their correct lines it is all for nothing. There was a crack and then a fizz followed by a high-pitched laugh of excitement, as Graham pulled back the ring tab on his can of ale which promptly proceeded to bubble up and overflow, running onto Graham’s hand and wetting his coat. He switched the can from one hand to the other and licked the frothy liquid from his open palm. Vince watched the exuberant antics with ill-concealed annoyance. One actor in particular was going to have to be dealt with.

  “Are you both quite ready?” Vince finally asked. He bent down from where he was still standing and taking Zoe’s hand tugged to indicate that he wished her to rise to her feet. “Assume your positions.”

  Wordlessly, almost mechanically like automatons, the three teenagers joined hands and formed a circle around the two remaining candles.

  •••

  > Anyone online at the moment?

  >

  > Anyone?

  >

  > Shall I just talk to myself then?

  >> Only sensible conversation you will get.

  > Good to know you are still alive, Gareth.

  >> Me? What about you, Art? Where have you been hiding?

  > Nowhere special. I’ve just been busy. Any interesting threads on any of the bulletin boards?

  >> Nothing much. It’s all been a bit dominated by the Americans. You know, Sasquatch, Lake Champlain monster, that sort of stuff.

  > Any A.B.C. sightings?

  >> Nothing recent that I can think of. Maybe one somewhere in Scotland? I can’t remember. No, it’s been a flat month. You’ve not missed much.

  > Nothing in Hertfordshire then?

  >> What is this, Art?

  > What?

  >>> You don’t actually believe in the Cassiobury Cougar, do you?

  > How long have you been eavesdropping, Jeb?

  >> Cassiobury Cougar?

  >>> I saw it mentioned on one of the boards.

  > News travels fast.

  >>> News? The only things that fly faster are rumours and crap.

  > And which do you think this is?

  >>> Reading between the lines, whoever put it up on the bulletin board must have thought that it was a false alarm. I knew that it would have you interested though.

  > Do you remember who it was?

  >>> No. Not a name I recognised. It was just numbers and letters. I can’t remember. I can look it up again, if you are interested.

  > Just let me know which site it was on. I can look it up myself. Wonder how they got to hear about it?

  >>> Like I say, rumours and crap...

  >> And you think there might be something in it, Art?

  > I don’t know. It’s worth investigating. There has definitely been a mysterious attack on a dog which is not easy to account for.

  >>> Art, that bulletin board is on the Crypto Fanatics website. Do you have their address?

  > Yes, thanks Jeb.

  >>> Happy hunting.

  It was true that Art had not checked into the Cryptozoology Chatroom for several weeks. Once, he would have been on the internet almost every evening for at least an hour or two after he had put Luke to bed, either searching for increasingly obscure crypto-related sites, downloading some of the free reprints of classic bestiaries from the Middle Ages right through to those compiled by the nineteenth century explorers, and other works of ancient cryptozoology that were out of copyright and which some kindly individuals had taken the time to scan and make available in an electronic format, or logging into the numerous bulletin boards and chatrooms which specialized in debates and discussions of all matters fortean. More recently though, Art had found himself feeling increasingly dispirited with the discussion forums and the internet as a whole. The messages on the bulletin boards were - as Gareth had mentioned - largely dominated by American phenomena, most of which held little interest for Art, either that or they were side-tracked by petty arguments and off-topic digressions, or sometimes just simply hijacked by internet hooligans, who would rampage inarticulately through a chatroom with a barrage of misspelt obscenity and abuse. Art got enough of that from John, he didn’t need to go specifically looking for insults. The U.K. branch of the Cryptozoology Chatroom, which had been established originally on a Hotmail Messenger link, had always held a special affection for him though. He could not claim to actually having started the Chatroom - or CCUK, as it was most commonly known by its users - but he had discovered it lying effectively dormant, a lost and forgotten back alleyway in the Web, and he liked to think that he had resurrected its fortunes and manage to divert a bit of traffic back in its direction. Both Gareth and Jeb had been long-standing correspondents, both were also similar to Art in that they classed themselves as enthusiastic amateurs, inhibited in becoming anything more by life circumstances rather than by any scepticism about their subject. Dreamers, all of them. Jeb was the more pessimistic of the two; Gareth was a preternaturally cheerful fellow - Art had even met up with him once, on the occasion of him venturing away from his Lincolnshire village to spend a weekend in the Big Smoke. It had been reassuring to discover that the internet did occasionally come with a human face. The person that Art was currently trying to trace was proving to be far more anonymous.

  Art had bookmarked the Crypto Fanatics bulletin board a long time ago but had scarcely ever been back in to it since: he had never found the topics discussed quite to his liking and more often than not the forum was over-ridden with postings from conspiracy theorists, U.F.O. buffs and assorted occultists. Attempting to return to the site now, and curious to discover the identity of the person that Jeb had mentioned who appeared to have an interest in his mystery big cat, Art found that the U.R.L. of the original site had changed and he was redirected to a different web address. It was not long, though, before a familar-looking home page was displayed on his computer screen, and no time before Art was scrolling down the list of topics for discussion to see if there was anything on the subject of Alien Big Cats. He soon had his man. Or woman?

  A posting dated from the previous day was entitled Cassiobury Cougar Hoax and had actually been the opening gambit of someone presumably hoping to establish a new discussion thread. In this the sender had been unsuccessful because no one else had subsequently been tempted to join in the debate, although upon reading the message Art considered that the writer had left very little opportunity for discourse. He read the brief paragraph once again: “An article published in a Hertfordshire newspaper, which puts forward the proposition that a large carnivorous cat is at liberty in the woods around Watford, contains so many factual inaccuracies that it casts considerable doubt on the initial hypothesis. Although the bite marks on the victim - a large dog - could be consistent with it having been attacked by a big cat the tracks on the ground surrounding the dead animal would suggest something alt
ogether more mysterious.” That was all. Art was left pondering what could be ‘more mysterious’ than a possible puma in sleepy suburbia. He looked at the top of the message to see if the author had revealed their identity - most bulletin boards publish the name of the poster, sometimes even an email address. Next to yesterday’s date, were the words “Posted by HPL200890”: apparently his rival - as Art had come to consider the nameless informant - liked to be cloaked in anonymity. How annoying. There was something else about the posting that was bugging Art too.

  He had started a file of all the information that he had collected in his current investigation - a large black box-file, which currently seemed optimistically commodious as Art now opened the folder to reveal a solitary sheet of paper. It was Trevor’s newspaper article. Art read through the report again. He had thought so: there had been no mention of tracks around the slaughtered Alsatian, he was sure he would have remembered if Trevor had said anything of the kind to him. There had been no sign of any tracks either, when Art himself had been back to investigate the scene that morning. It would appear that HPL200890 was privy to insider information.