by Frank Kusy
Ginger the Gangster Cat
Frank Kusy
Illustrated by Maggie Raynor
Published by Grinning Bandit Books
http://grinningbandit.webnode.com
© Frank Kusy 2013
‘Ginger the Gangster Cat’ is the copyright of Frank Kusy, 2013.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Dedication
For Andi, my missus, and Sparky, my furry muse
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Lost in the Woods
2. The Cats who came in from the Cold
3. Bloomin’ Oomans
4. Your Friendly Neighbourhood Ginger
5. The Loss of Innocence
6. The Great Escape
7. The Road to Barcelona
8. Cats in Catalonia
9. Return of the Gangster Cats
10. Surrey or Bust
About the Author
Prologue
Ginger was having a dream.
Not one of his usual dreams where he was killing things.
Nor the kind where he was maiming them first.
In this dream, he was the scourge of Victorian London.
Cunning and mean, the kingpin of a feline robber band, he was cocking one eye at the authorities and wearing a black silk patch over the other.
But the cat-nappers had finally caught up with him and he was being dragged off to pussy prison – there to rot for the rest of his horribly mis-spent life.
Now what was the name of the little precious who had grassed him up – Rafe? Rolf? Rufus? No matter, he would find that two-faced, turncoat kitten and make him pay.
And where was the rest of his gang – that mangy bunch of cowardly moggies who had fled to Spain? If it took him eight more lives, he would find them and make them pay too.
Chapter 1
Lost in the Woods
One misty, moisty morning, as Ginger was making his usual rounds, he came across a familiar black-and-white shape at the edge of the woods.
‘Ere, I know you, don’t I?’ said big fat Ginger. ‘Your name’s Sparky, ain’t it?’
Sparky sat sad and pathetic under a bush. He hadn’t had a poo in two days and was missing his litter tray.
‘Yes,’ he said timidly. ‘I think I’m lost.’
‘You certainly are! I’ve seen your face on every tree in town. You’re famous, you are!’
‘I don’t feel famous. I want to go home.’
‘Don’t we all?’ sniffed Ginger, coming closer. ‘I’ve been lost for ages, but you don’t hear me complaining. I didn’t get a poster like wot you did. And I certainly didn’t get the celebrity write-up!’
‘Why? What did it say?’
‘Wot, the poster? ‘Ow do I know? I don’t read much ooman. But it filled up a whole page, and the photo was great - you look very nervous and far too soft for this world.’
Sparky hugged the edge of his bush, ready to retreat. He didn’t know what to make of his unexpected orange guest.
‘What is the world?’ he asked shyly. ‘Is it bigger than my kitchen?’
‘My, my,’ snorted Ginger, ‘you are a babe in the woods, ain’t you? And talking of woods, if it’s good enough for a bear to poo in the woods, it’s going to have to be good enough for you too. ‘Ere, you look like you need to go.’
‘No, I’m all right. I haven’t eaten in two days.’
Ginger sized up his innocent prey. Should he put the frighteners on him, or let him in on his big plan? It was a tough call. He had his reputation to keep up, but what was he meant to do with such a pathetic looking creature? Scratching his ear, Ginger tried to think. Not much satisfaction chasing the young 'un down the street, was there? Not with him lost and frightened already. Still, there might be a way he could use it to his advantage...
‘Two days?’ he said at last. ‘No wonder you look so thin. Look, I’ve got an idea. What say we both go to Barcelona? There’s this lorry down the road wot takes me there and back every week. Trouble is, I’m so big and fat, nobody gives me any grub. But one look at you – all lean and feeble – and they’ll be simply throwin’ tapas treats at you. That’s the best thing about Spain. There’s hardly any vegetarians!’
‘What’s a vegetarian?’
‘You don’t wanna know. That’s why I left home. My owners fed me carrots. And sumfink called aubergines. Stoopid salad-crunchers!’
‘So I shouldn’t wait here then?’
‘What for? I waited for my owners to claim me - after I decided carrots was better than nuffink – and then I got adopted by some mad old lady who kept talkin’ at me all the time. Gawd, she could talk. I didn’t get a minute’s peace. Blah, blah, blah, she never shut up. And she made me watch soaps on TV every night, clamped to her lap, until I wanted to scream.’
‘So I should go with you then?’
‘Yeah, why not? You want to eat, don’t you? And you’re a young cat, with nine lives ahead of you. The world’s your lobster!’
‘Okay then,’ sighed Sparky. ‘Lead me to your lorry...’
*
At that moment, there was a high-pitched whistle, followed by an urgent cry of ‘Sparky! Sparky!’
‘That’s my human, Joe!’ gasped Sparky excitedly. ‘He’s finally found me!’
‘So Barcelona’s off, then?’ shrugged Ginger. And with a grunt of displeasure, he quietly slunk away.
Joe gasped with relief when he saw Sparky emerge, small and miserable, from the undergrowth.
‘There you are, baby cat!’ he rejoiced. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. And here you are, lost in the woods. Did you jump over the end of our garden? Couldn’t you get back? Have you been sitting here all this time? Golly, you must be hungry!’
And with that he whisked Sparky home in his van, put him back in his kitchen, and watched contentedly as his long-lost cat leapt into his litter tray and did the biggest poo of his young life.
*
Two whole days passed before Sparky left the kitchen again. And two more before he felt safe enough to venture back out into the garden.
There, to his surprise, he found Ginger waiting for him.
‘I thought you were going to Barcelona?’ he asked curiously.
‘Yeah, I just got back,’ said his friend. ‘Why do you fink I’m wearing this sombrero? I had to nick it to keep off the sun.’
‘And you’re still wearing it? There’s not much sun in Surrey.’
Ginger flipped the hat off with one paw, and pointed inside it with the other.
‘You can fit a lot of food in a sombrero,’ he announced proudly. ‘Look ‘ere – two dead seafood paellas and a chorizo sausage. You wanna try some?’
‘Mmmm, smells good!’’ purred Sparky. ‘But why are you being so nice to me?’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Ginger with a mysterious grin. ‘One of them being I have no friends. I’m just one big ugly meanie – always have been – and all the other cats round here take one look at me and leg it. They don’t appreciate my more sensitive side.’
‘I’m sensitive,’ confessed Sparky. ‘In fact, I’m so sensitive, I just can’t kill anything. I think my owners are disappointed.’
‘Disappointed? ‘Ow come?’
‘Well, I hear them talking, you know, and they think I’m a coward. I’m not sure what a coward is, but I don’t think it’s good.’
Ginger screwed up his nose in a sympathetic leer.
‘That’s the trubble with oomans,’ he said. ‘They expect y
ou to bring ‘em “presents” – usually small, rubbishy, ratty stuff and weeny birds – and then when you do bring ‘em one, they go all horrified on you and make yer feel guilty. They want it both ways.’
‘Have you killed anything?’ asked Sparky timidly.
‘Oh yerse,’ said Ginger, reclining on the lawn. ‘The very first fing I did for my oomans – the vegetarian ones – was catch a big fat rat in their shed and bite it in two right in front of them. Were they pleased? Were they heck! The first taste of real meat since I was born and they snatched it away and told me I was a murderer!’
‘So I shouldn’t kill anything then?’
‘Nah, I didn’t say that. You’ve got to show willing. And the word do get around. If other cats in the neighbourhood have you down as a coward – a namby-pamby pussy with no...ahem...nuggets – they’ll be in and out of your cat-flap, nickin’ your food every day. You can’t have that!’
‘Well, I brought them a feather,’ said Sparky feebly.
‘A feather?’ snorted Ginger. ‘A bloomin’ feather?’
‘Three feathers, actually. I found them here in the garden.’
‘And ‘ow did that go down?’
‘Not very well, actually. Ol’ Joe said, and I quote, “First a dead leaf, then a dead worm, then an almost-dead ladybird, and now three dead feathers. Is he trying to prove something?” And Madge, my missus, said, “Four feathers is a sign of cowardice, isn’t it, and Sparky can’t even manage that!’
‘Oomans!’ grunted Ginger, wriggling on his back. ‘I told you there was no pleasing ‘em. It looks like you’re gonna have to kill sumfink soon, or you’ll be out on your ear.’
Sparky shivered miserably. He didn’t want to go back under that bush. And he certainly didn’t want other cats branding him a puff-ball and invading his cat flap.
‘You may be right,’ he confessed. ‘Only yesterday, I heard ol’ Joe tell his missus he was going to find an elderly pigeon somewhere, tie it to a post, and wheel it out to the garden for me to lick to death. What can I do?’
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ said Ginger, struggling to his feet. ‘I said I was gonna help you, and I will. Though in return, you’re going to have to help me. ‘Ere, have a piece of this paella and I’ll tell you my plan.’
As Sparky stuck his head into the upturned sombrero and savoured the delights of illegally imported Spanish cuisine, Ginger sloped off to the bottom of the garden and returned with something in his mouth.
‘What’s that?’ enquired Sparky, the remains of a spicy sausage slowly dripping off his whiskers. ‘A furry kind of leaf?’
‘Are you serious?’ snorted Ginger, dropping it to the ground. ‘It’s sumfink I killed earlier. It’s a mouse.’
Sparky backed off nervously.
‘That’s a mouse? Why doesn’t smell nice like the mouse in my kitchen?’
‘That’s because it’s a real mouse, stoopid. Not some kind of catnip lookalike.’
‘Won’t it bite me or something?’
‘No, I told you. It’s dead, dead, dead. I should know. I played with it long enough. Then I buried it back there for a late-night snack.’
Sparky eyed Ginger warily. He was obviously mad.
‘And you dug it up for what?’
‘I dug it up for you, you pampered pussy. You’re goin’ to pick up that mouse in that dainty little mouth of yours and take it in the house and pretend you killed it yourself.’
‘Oh,’ said Sparky innocently. ‘Thank you...I think.’
‘I know what’s goin’ on in that pretty little head,’ smirked Ginger craftily. ‘You’re wondering what I get out of it. Well, like I told you before, I do have my reasons...’
*
‘So did it work then?’ asked Ginger the next day.
He was sitting high up on a fence, eager for news from his young protégé.
‘Oh yes, indeed!’ said a pleased Sparky. ‘I dragged the mouse through the cat flap and sat next to it until my humans woke up. Joe was most impressed. He called me “good boy” and “brave little hunter” and made such a fuss of me that I felt like going out and killing my own mouse!’
‘What about the uvver one, your missus?’
‘Oh, she was more suspicious. I’d got bored of the mouse by the time she turned up and was licking my bum. She was even more suspicious when she put some cat food down and I tucked into that instead.’
“I bet that mouse was dead already!” she shouted up to Joe. “He’s showing no interest in it at all!” So then I had to pretend that I hated processed cat food and began attacking the mouse.’
‘And?’
‘And that finally convinced her. “Urrrr!” she went. “I don’t want mouse blood and guts all over my kitchen floor!” And then she put it in a plastic bag and chucked it in the bin. Good thing too, because it tasted awful.’’
‘Nice one!’ chortled Ginger happily. ‘Now, about Barcelona...’
Chapter 2
The Cats who came in from the Cold
Sparky was a naive little cat, but he was not stupid. He knew he owed Ginger a favour, a big favour, but he had only just rediscovered his litter tray and he didn’t want to leave it again for a very long time.
So he did what worked best with ol’ Joe and his missus. He rolled over on his back – heedless of the cold patio stones - and went all cute and kittenish. Then he looked up at Ginger and asked, very politely, ‘Are you hungry now?’
‘‘Corse I’m hungry!’ grumbled Ginger, clambering down from the fence. ‘I gave you my last mouse yesterday, and I can’t find anuvver one.’
‘Well, what say you come in my cat flap and share what’s in my bowl? It’s always full, you know...’
‘Full of wot?’ jeered Ginger.
‘Cat food. You know, what cats eat? Eight varieties. They’re all good. Well, except “beef” of course. Ol’ Joe tosses that one in the bin. He says cats don’t eat cows.”
‘Well, he’s not wrong there. But cat food, really? Jellified pieces of fish and meat with loads of chemicals in them? You call that cat food?’
‘I’ve been watching TV,’ said Sparky defensively. ‘And one survey says that nine out of ten cats prefer it...’
‘Yeah well, they would, wouldn’t they? They’re all addicts. They’ve been fed that muck since they was born. They don’t know they’ve got a problem, they think they can handle it, but they can’t. And I should know. They put weird gunk in those plastic packs wot keeps you coming back for more. That crazy ol’ biddy wot adopted me kept feedin’ me that rubbish until I doubled in size. And then I left her and went through a whole week of missin’ it – crying like a baby I was and tearin’ out clumps of my fur – until I caught a vole and got my taste for real meat back again!’
‘Well,’ said Sparky quietly, ‘we’ve just eaten everything from Barcelona. And you – sorry, we – can’t go back there for another week. So, unless you want to freeze to death on this cold and windy back lawn, you’ve got a choice. Cat food or nothing.’
Ginger eyed him warily. This little innocent might be young and raw, but he did have nerve. Either that or he was far too dumb for his own good. Whatever, he had just faced down the meanest, baddest, most ill-tempered cat in the neighbourhood (himself) – and had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
‘Okay, cowboy,’ he said with a sniff of respect. ‘Let’s check out the bowl situation...’
*
Joe was in the kitchen when he heard the cat-flap flick open.
‘Hey, Sparky!’ he called happily, ‘have you brought another mouse?’
Well no, he noticed, Sparky had brought something else entirely. Something so large in fact, it couldn’t get through the flap.
‘Well, who’s this?’’ said Joe. ‘Have you brought a friend? My, he’s a fat one, isn’t he, and he doesn’t look too comfortable!’
Ginger was mortified. He hoped no other cats were around, because he would lose his
street cred forever. His head and the front half of his body had made it into the kitchen, but his swollen orange tummy – still heaving from recent Spanish repasts – had become solidly wedged in the open flap. He shot ol’ Joe a look of pure hatred and wished himself dead.
Sparky grabbed hold of one of Ginger’s ears – the one that was not half torn off – and tried to pull him in by it, but was met by pained squawks.
‘No, don’t do that, Sparky!’ said Joe urgently. ‘You’ll just tear off the other ear. Let’s push him back outside and I’ll let him in through the back door.’
Ginger closed his eyes and suffered the ensuing indignities in silence. Oomans. Whenever he got close to one, he always regretted it.
‘I think I’ve got an extra bowl,’ said Joe, ferreting around in the cluttered kitchen. ‘Now, I’ve got you rabbit, Sparky, I know you like that. But what about your friend? He looks like a fish man!’
Ginger clocked the word ‘crab’ on the packet dangled in front of him, and recoiled in horror.
‘I bloomin’ hate fish!’ he informed Sparky. Except prawns, of course. No yukky bones, and they don’t fight back. Unlike that lousy lobster in the Barcelona fish market. I said it was gonna die, lyin’ there in that bucket of ice, but it didn’t believe me and chopped half my ear off!’
Sparky didn’t care. He was just grateful Joe hadn’t kicked Ginger out. ‘Look,’ he said generously. ‘You have the rabbit, and I’ll have the fish, okay?’
It wasn’t entirely okay with Ginger, but he was hungry. He ate with one eye on the bowl and the other on the long, gangling ooman who was – he felt certain – going to try and pick him up and fondle him some time real soon. Any ooman who had bent heaven and earth to find his precious little Sparky was obviously one of those touchy-feely cat-loving oomans who thought a tin of tuna automatically bought him a furry friend.
And Ginger was not wrong. The moment his bowl was empty, a pair of enormous hands came down and whisked him into the air.