by Ged Gillmore
But what other options did Ginger now have? That morning, as she ran past the wasteland with Killa Heels, she watched the snow on it melting like her hopes.
‘You alright, Ginge,’ asked Killa. ‘You seem distracted. Listen, I shouldn’t tell you this, but Sue’s asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t do a runner.’
Ginger picked up the pace so Killa had to struggle to keep up.
‘Well, then,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Sue doesn’t know me very well, does she?’
Killa wasn’t the only one who asked Ginger what was wrong that morning. Ivana VeeVee said she looked down in the dumps, and Juliet Balcony asked if she wanted to talk about anything. Even Sue Narmi took her to one side for a pep talk. But all Ginger wanted was to be left alone so she could think things through. Eventually, just before lunchtime, she said she was going for a nap, but instead walked out onto the slushy wasteland.
The thick white blanket that had covered the derelict land for days was melting into ugly brown puddles, and oil barrels and abandoned shopping trolleys were once again showing through. In the distance, Ginger could see the Sourpusses training, the unmistakeable form of Kim DM towering over the other gang members. But they were far enough away for Ginger to believe she was, at last, alone. She tried not to look at the posters which had appeared on warehouse walls and lamp posts overnight. Each of them screamed the same message in garish black-and-ginger letters:
World-famous Ginger Jenkins returns from retirement
to take on the unbeatable Kim DM!
Ginger sighed and rolled her eyes. She stared at the empty blue sky for a few minutes, then closed her eyes to try and think, or to meditate and see what thoughts came to her, but, no sooner had she done so, than she heard a scratching noise beside her.
‘Yer alright there, yer big ginger cat, yer?’ said a voice.
Ginger didn’t even open her eyes. ‘Actually, I just want to be left alone.’
‘Aw, come on nigh, did we not say we’d be having a wee chat today?’
Ginger realised she wasn’t talking to one of the Fur Girls or, for that matter, any other cat. She opened her eyes and looked around until, in the shadow of an old washing machine lying on its side, she spotted two pairs of shiny eyes.
‘This really isn’t a good time,’ she said. ‘Can we reschedule for tomorrow?’
Little brown Bumfluff McGuff stepped into the light.
‘Have yer given up hope of getting yer food back, is that it?’ he squeaked. ‘I wouldn’t have had yer down as a quitter. Not after all yer’ve done.’
‘Really,’ said Ginger. ‘And what exactly have I done?’
‘Well, after that big corporal rat there chased us off, we hid in the undergrowth of the forest and watched yer. We saw yer follow them; then we saw yer on that there skateboard and we swam after yer. We’ve been watching yer for days now, and never was I thinking yer’s a quitter.’
‘Maybe she’s afraid of the Riff Raff rats,’ said Fleabomb McGee, poking no more than his fluffy black nose out of the shadows. ‘Maybe she realises how evil and bad and big and scary they are. Unlike you, Bumfluff McGuff, with your crazy notions of justice.’
‘I do want justice!’ Bumfluff snapped at his friend. ‘And why shouldn’t I? We was supposed to do good honest thieving, and them there Riff Raffs did the dirty on us, so they did. Ten per cent, they told us: ten per cent was for us. We took them to the farm and we showed them the way into the stores and what did we get for it? Nothing, that’s what!’
Ginger laughed drily. ‘Need I remind you that all that food was ours? You stole from me and my friends, you know.’
Bumfluff scratched behind his ear with his back left leg. ‘Ah, yes now, about that. How about we call it quits if I tell yer how to get yer food back? Or rather, how about we stick to the original deal, and yer give us ten per cent, like?’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Ginger. ‘Look, there’s no point in us even talking. I can’t get away from here even if I wanted to, the Fur Girls are keeping too close an eye on me. And I don’t want to; I have to fight or they’ll lose everything. Even if I could get away, I wouldn’t be back in time.’
‘Tell her!’ said Fleabomb, daring to poke his whole furry black head out of the shadows. ‘Go on, cousin Bumfluff, tell the big ginger cat she doesn’t have to go anywhere.’
‘I’m not sure she’s interested in knowing,’ said Bumfluff, examining his claws nonchalantly. ‘I think she’s given up, so. Even though her food is right here under her very nose, I don’t think she cares about getting it back. Seems to me she cares more about her new friends than her old ones.’
Ginger stared at Bumfluff until, at last, he looked up from his claws.
‘Or am I wrong?’ he said.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Ginger. ‘What do you mean right under my nose?’
‘Right under ye paws!’ squeaked Fleabomb.
A shout came across the wasteland and Ginger looked up to see, in the distance, two of the Sourpusses had started scrapping with each other while Kim DM looked impatiently on. When she looked back at the ground beside her again, Bumfluff McGuff and Fleabomb McGee had dis-appeared. Instinctively Ginger jumped into the shadows beneath the washing machine, hoping to catch either of them, but, even once her eyes had adjusted, there was no sign of either rat. She backed out into the daylight again, and ran around to the other side of the washing machine, but there was nothing to see there either. She looked around the nearby wasteland to check where else the two rats might be hiding, but there were only the rusting skeletons of dead bicycles, their wheels sticking out of the melting snow.
‘That’s strange,’ thought Ginger. ‘They can’t have just disappeared.’
Rolling her eyes, she crawled under the washing machine again—all the way this time—a squeeze she couldn’t have managed a few weeks earlier when she still had six bellies. She closed her eyes to let them fully adjust to the dark, but when she opened them again, there was still no sign of either rat. What there was, though, was the entrance to a tunnel.
WHAT A DEN!
Tuck too was in the city that day. But not on its northern edge, where the wide and dirty river skirts the wasteland between the territories of the Gertrude Street Fur Girls and the Citrus Street Sourpusses. Oh massive metropolises, no! Tuck was on the far-eastern outskirts, where the last trees of the Great Dark Forest (or the first, depending on which way you’re travelling) give way to a collection of poorly-tended fields, one of which looked like it was full of wrecked and rusting cars. And why did it look like that? Well, durrh, because it was a field full of wrecked and rusting cars—do you think corn or wheat or barley ever looks like that?
Tuck was talking as he and Bunk arrived in the field.
‘You see, not all flies taste the same. If you chew on them slowly enough, the blue ones are different from the green ones, especially if they’ve been sitting on cheese or a sweaty horse’s back. I once knew a fly who—’
Bunk held up a paw.
‘We will soon arrive at our destination.’ It was the first words he’d spoken in hours. ‘Let’s proceed with caution. Do not try and hide.’
‘From what?’ said Tuck, who until that moment hadn’t considered hiding. ‘What is there to hide from? Ooh, Bunk, I’m scared. Let’s hide.’
Bunk shot him a stern glance and repeated in his calm American voice, ‘Do not try and hide. They will already be watching us. Just stick close to me.’
Tuck took him at his word, and once again they looked like one black cat with eight legs, two heads and two tails. They were right amongst the rusty old cars now, burnt out wrecks and tyreless, windowless vehicles on all sides. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed out from one of the cars ahead, a burned-out VW diesel.
‘You guys lost?’ said the voice.
‘Agh!’ squealed Tuck. ‘A talking car! And no verb!’
And he would have run back to the forest if Bunk hadn’t held him firm with a not-as-surpris
ingly-strong-as-it-used-to-be paw on his tail.
‘Easy to get lost in such a place,’ said Bunk mechanically, struggling to keep Tuck still.
‘Looking for a car?’ said the voice.
‘Thought I might get a bargain,’ said Bunk in the same monotone voice. ‘Got anything in that category?’
‘Password accepted,’ said the voice from the car and the lid of the VW’s boot popped open. Well, that calmed Tuck down, if only because he was too flabbergasted to do anything but stand and stare. For behind the opened lid was not an empty old car boot at all, but a brightly-lit corridor leading down into the ground.
‘Ooh,’ he said. ‘It’s just like Kitten Impossible!’
‘Stick close,’ said Bunk, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘And try not to break anything.’
Well, the next half hour passed by in a blur for Tuck. He saw things he’d never seen before and which later he’d struggle to describe. (Lucky for you, I’m an extremely persistent interviewer!) The brightly lit corridor he’d seen from outside led down to a small room where Bunk had to put his face against a hole for a retinal eye scan. That opened a sliding metal door to another brightly-lit corridor, this one running down into the ground more steeply than the first. At the end of that, Bunk had to put his bum against a hole so a machine could sniff it and confirm it was him. That led to another door being opened to—you guessed it—a third brightly-lit corridor, except this one had CAT scans every metre, so that Bunk and Tuck were x-rayed, y-razed and even z-rayed before they got to the other end.
‘Oogy,’ said Tuck ‘Are we nearly there? I’m so excited I need a wee-wee.’
Then, as the end of the corridor came into sight, a panel turned in the wall, so that before Tuck knew it, a very pretty Siamese cat was sitting behind a desk in front of them.
‘Visitor?’ she said.
‘Hiya!’ said Tuck.
‘Neutered citizen with no political allegiances,’ said Bunk.
‘We detected remarkably little brain activity in him,’ said the Siamese. ‘Have you administered a sedative?’
Bunk sighed. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
The Siamese looked down at the papers in front of her.
‘And why have you deactivated the hearing in your left ear?’
‘Operational necessity,’ said Bunk.
‘My name’s Tuck,’ said Tuck. ‘We’re having a dangerous adventure in a covered operation. Are you in the FBI too?’
The Siamese cat looked at Tuck, said nothing, then looked back at Bunk who shrugged and gave her an underbitten smile she completely ignored.
‘The Board is ready to see you,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Bunk. ‘The whole Board?’
As if in reply, another panel in the corridor wall slid open, the space beyond completely dark.
‘Can I come?’ said Tuck. ‘If they’re all bored, they’ll want lots of visitors.’
Bunk looked at the Siamese and raised his eyebrows, as if asking her permission.
‘You better had,’ she said. ‘I doubt they’d believe you otherwise.’
After the brightness of the corridors, the dark space beyond the sliding panel was a shock. In fact, once the panel had slid closed again behind them, neither Bunk nor Tuck could see a thing.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ Tuck heard Bunk say in the dark, ‘except fear itself.’
‘And the dark,’ Tuck replied, trying to blink his eyes used to the lack of light. ‘And ghosts and other scary things. Oogy, it’s so black in here.’
No matter how many times he opened and closed his eyes all he could see was a big white blob.
‘It’s like someone’s shining a light in my eyes,’ he said quietly.
‘Someone is shining a light in your eyes,’ said Bunk. And then, in a louder voice he said, ‘Agent BunkTech 2000, reporting for debrief on Project Ping the Pongs.’
Tuck heard what sounded like papers shuffling on the other side of the light.
‘I can’t see you!’ he said. ‘Could you adjust the light?’
But then he felt Bunk poke him in the ribs and thought maybe he shouldn’t talk any more.
‘We expected you months ago,’ said the voice behind the lamp. ‘What happened?’
‘I had to, er … work my way deep undercover, sir,’ said Bunk. ‘It took longer than I expected. However, I have now confirmed the Pongs are experimenting with tasty toxins with which to poison our num-nums. They are now based out of Dingleberry Bottom farm, but I suspect their plan is to kill every cat in the country. I recommend a full and immediate intervention.’
There was more shuffling of papers and Tuck wondered how on earth any cat could read in such darkness. He began feeling his way along the walls. If only he could find a light switch.
‘You must return to the farm,’ said the voice behind the light. ‘There, you must await our instructions. Before you leave, we will give you a new tracking device and a full software upgrade.’
‘There is a certain level of danger involved in returning.’ Bunk’s voice sounded a little nervous to Tuck as he carried on feeling along the walls. ‘There appears to also be a plan to create a large black-cat-skin coat. I may need reinforcements.’
‘That is not possible in the current economic environment,’ said the voice. ‘That’s why we sent in a catbot. If anything goes wrong, we won’t have lost a real live agent, whereas you are expendable. Now what about your visitor? Can he be trusted not to breach confidentiality?’
‘Totally,’ said Bunk. ‘Nobody ever believes anything he says.’
‘Gosh,’ thought Tuck, ‘that’s so true!’ As he thought it, he felt his nose press against a protuberance from the wall.
‘It’s OK, everyone,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve found it!’
And then, without waiting for a response, Tuck pressed hard on the big button he’d found.
WHAT A FLIGHT!
Now, where was Minnie last time we left her? Had she got to The Scratching Post yet? Was she still cleaning? Had she started performing? Did she know about Dora and the terrible contract Mr Soffalot had tricked her into? Oh yes! Famished, fatigued, fanfare of fame, flabbergasted, fleeced and fled, all done. Oh, not the ‘fled’ bit yet? OK, let’s do that then:
Faced with the shameless thievery of Lancelot Soffalot, the ocelot, and the equally shameless treachery of her assistant Dora, Minnie fled.
Hooray! There’s that that bit done too! There’s not really much else to say about it, really. Minnie merely ran to her room to fetch her money (she had, of course, been pilfering from the cash register since the day she’d arrived), gathered together what few possessions she still owned, crammed everything into her teeny-tiny suitcase and flounced out, slamming the door behind her. As she did so, the draft dislodged a calendar which Lancelot Soffalot had hung in the corridor so he could admire its photographs of catresses. Minnie gave it a heavy kick as she passed, but then she noticed the dates it showed.
‘My audition!’ she cried. ‘I can still make my audition! If I can get to the city by this afternoon I’m still in with a chance of the fame and fortune I so deserve.’
This reminded her of the chance which had just been snatched away from her and she felt tears welling up behind her eyes. But would she allow herself to break down in tears about it? Well, yes, actually.
‘Oh boohoo,’ she whimpered as she ran down the driveway from The Scratching Post. ‘Oh, everyone hates me because I’m beautiful! Oh boo-hoody-hoo, boody-hoo, boo-boo.’
Reaching the main road, Minnie realised she had a decision to make. Turn right towards the city and a final shot at fame, or left, back to safety and security of the farm? Stop crying, or carry on crying for a few pages?
‘Right,’ she miaowed aloud. ‘Definitely right!’
The audition was still a few hours away; maybe through some miracle she could still make it. And definitely ‘carry on crying’, she had plenty more of that left to do. And so it was with tears in her eyes and woeful noises c
oming out of her mouth that she flounced along the road toward the city.
It was a beautiful winter’s day. The sky was blue, there was a breeze in the air and the air was warmer than it had been for weeks. But Minnie’s cat senses told her it was going to get colder again, and then much colder than that, before the springtime came.
‘At least I’ve got my beautiful coat,’ she said to herself. ‘No one can take that away from me.’
And she fluffed it all up and pretended she was a movie star on her way to a rehearsal.
‘Oi, Mr Whatsit,’ she said, ‘I’m ready for my close-up, innit.’
As if in response, she heard the sound of an engine coming along the road behind her.
‘It’s a sign!’ she thought, clearly having forgotten what signs really are, and, equally as clearly, not having seen the sign on top of the tall metal pole beside her.
She put down her teeny-tiny suitcase, sat in her daintiest possible manner and let the breeze fluff up her fur. Then, to avoid any potential lack of understanding, she put out a thumb. No doubt it would be Mr Soffalot. He’d probably realised the error of his ways and was motoring after her to beg her to return. Well, she’d make him pay for that!
But the vehicle that came around the corner a minute later was not Mr Soffalot’s fancy Purrgeot at all. It was a huge great bus. The driver seemed not to have been expecting a fitter-than-she-used-to-be furry cat sitting at the bus stop and only at the very last minute did he slam on the brakes.
‘Hello, puddy-wuddy cat,’ he said in that strange way humans have of talking to cats. ‘Where you going, puddy-wuddy-dumpkins?’
‘Go away, you dreadful man!’ said Minnie. ‘Do I honestly look like I take public transport?’
The bus driver, who of course only heard ‘Miaow, miaow, miaow’ shrugged and started up the bus again, leaving Minnie all alone once more on the empty road.