by Frank Kusy
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ he informed Sparky shortly.
Sparky shot him a worried look.
‘The good news,’ continued Ginger, ‘is that your oomans are going to Barcelona. Yes, my favourite destination. The bad news is that they ain’t taking us with them.’
‘Oh,’ said Sparky sadly. ‘Why’s that, then?’
‘They has to go there in a big flying fing called an aeroplane. And cats is not allowed on it because some oomans hate cats and just won’t sit with them.’
‘So what do we do? Do we stay in the kitchen?’
‘No,’ said Ginger craftily. ‘We is going to Barcelona too. Unless of course you’d rather stay at a horrible cat home with shared litter trays and no garden to play in.’
‘Is that where they’re taking us?’ shivered Sparky. ‘Don’t they love us anymore?’
‘They ain’t got no choice. They needs a holiday, and they can’t leave a baby cat like you alone for two weeks.’
‘Can’t you look after me?’
‘Nah, come off it. They wouldn’t trust me with a goldfish.’
‘So where’s the “good” news, then? It sounds all bad to me.’
‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,’ smirked Ginger confidently. ‘I’ve got a cunning plan...’
Ginger’s plan drew heavily on the British World War Two films he had been forced to watch with Joe on the futon. It was the price he had had to pay for having his feet massaged nightly. Joe was particularly fond of ‘escape’ movies where sad oomans – trapped in prisons just like Katz Castle – dug tunnels, forged passports, learnt something called German, and legged it back home dressed as Norwegian sailors.
He knew he would have to return to Katz Castle – there was no getting around that – but once inside he (and Sparky) would have to escape immediately. Any delay and Barcelona would be off. The key thing, the one essential ingredient of his plan, was that they not get separated. Somehow, he would have to arrange it so that Annie, or whoever now ran the home, put the two of them in the same cage.
It was the 12th of June when the cat-boxes reappeared from the shed. Though this time, curiously, neither Ginger nor Sparky put up a fight. They both stepped into the boxes, waited patiently until the front grids were latched on, and let themselves be carried into Joe’s waiting van without a murmur.
‘That’s very strange,’ said Madge. ‘Did you drug them or something?’
‘I was wondering the same thing,’ said Joe. ‘They seem to want to go!’
It was only half an hour later, as they drew up to the entrance of Katz Castle, that Ginger began to lose the plot.
Ginger hated prison. He had spent half his last lifetime in one – paying his dues in a cramped, stinking 19th century cell – and then he’d had the misfortune to be reborn into yet another: a high-security cat’s home. The very sight of this former prison brought up so many bad memories indeed, that he felt like Charles Bronson – the ‘Tunnel King’ in The Great Escape. Terror and claustrophobia gripped him, and he wanted out right now.
‘Good grief!’ said Joe, screeching to a stop. ‘What’s wrong with Ginger? He’s gone flat as a pancake inside his cage and he’s screaming like a demon!’
‘Let’s get him inside,’ said Madge, grabbing Ginger’s box and running up to reception. ‘They’ll know what to do!’
But they didn’t. Ginger clapped eyes on Annie, his old nemesis, and let out such an unnatural howl – much like the one in The Omen – that she jumped back in fright and suggested he should go straight into quarantine.
‘What are you doing?’’ Sparky called over to Ginger. ‘Please stop crying, or we’ll never see each other again!
But it was to no avail. Ginger’s blood was up and he wasn’t listening.
Sparky then did the bravest thing in his young life. As soon as Joe turned up and let him out of his box, he ran quickly over to Ginger’s and started pawing at it, crying in mock distress.
‘Pretend like you’re my best friend and calm down!’ he hissed softly. ‘It’s our only chance...’
Ginger thought of Charles Bronson, and of how he had conquered his tunnel fears, and took the hint. He took a deep breath, thought of Barcelona, and went suddenly quiet.
‘Oh, that’s the problem!’ said Annie as the two cats affectionately touched noses. ‘They just want to be together – how cute!’
And so, as Joe and Madge signed the admission register and left, Sparky and Ginger found themselves in the same cage.
‘Phew, you were right,’ complained Sparky, his nose wrinkling with disgust. ‘Just one litter tray, and it stinks of other cats!’
‘No time for that,’ said Ginger with renewed composure. ‘We’ve only got seconds to get out of here, so just stick to the plan and don’t fluff it.’
And with that he let out another Omen-like ‘Whoooraow!’ – and sank his teeth into Sparky’s neck. A chill ran down Annie’s neck and she left her desk running. She dashed back into the main holding cell and viewed the scene there with alarm. The big orange one was apparently tearing the little black and white one to pieces! Without thinking, she tore open the cage door to attempt a rescue but was then bowled over by both cats bursting out at once and scampering to freedom. She never saw, but along the way Ginger darted into her office and sprayed generously on her mains plug. He hadn’t wanted her using the phone.
Down at the driveway, Ginger was relieved to see Joe’s van still there and the doors wide open. The two oomans were holding a map and were arguing over the best route to the airport.
‘Quick!’’ he gestured to Sparky. ‘Get in the back of the van and hide. And don’t even squeak – they mustn’t know we are here!’
Sparky was petrified, but he did as he was told. And as the van roared away from Faversham – a distraught Annie running vainly after it – four beings were on their way to Barcelona.
Chapter 7
The Road to Barcelona
A long hour later, Joe’s battered old Transit rolled into Heathrow and came to rest in one of its labyrinthine multi-storey car parks.
As he reached forward to switch off the ignition, the last part of Ginger’s cunning plan came into play and he spat a large fur-ball – one he had carefully prepared earlier – down Joe’s neck. The sound of it being regurgitated was conveniently obscured by the last few revs of the dying engine.
‘Uurrrr!’ cried Joe, leaping out of the van and tearing off his shirt. ‘What the heck was that?’
And in the confusion that followed, both cats made their getaway without being noticed.
‘Well, that was the hard part,’ said a satisfied Ginger. ‘The next bit’s easy-peasy!’
‘Really?’ said Sparky, gazing at the maze of twisting car-park concrete surrounding him. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re in Terminal One – I clocked it on the way in – and Terminal One is where my mate Lee stops before he goes off to Spain.’
‘You’ve got a mate?’ said Sparky, quietly impressed. ‘And he’s going to be here?’
‘Well, he’s not really a mate – just an ooman wot talks a lot and gives me a free ride because I don’t talk back. And I know he’s gonna be here because it’s a Sunday, and he always comes on a Sunday. He “knows” someone, he says, and he picks up a few bottles of duty-free rum for his old dad in Portsmouth. His dad is very partial to the rum!’
Sparky’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. They hadn’t got to Barcelona yet and Ginger was already speaking in foreign tongues.
‘Duty free? Rum? Portsmouth? You’re frightening me. I want my humans back!’
‘You’ll see them soon enough,’ said Ginger consolingly. ‘But we got a deal, you and me, and I’d hate to see you break your word. Look, you’re a good little pussy, you are, and I need you bad for this trip. I’m not just bringin’ back a sombrero of grub this time. I’m going for the Full Monty – a whole truck-load of the stuff!’’
> ‘What is it with you and Spanish food?’ sighed Sparky despairingly. ‘You can get it right here in Surrey.’
‘I is a gour-met cat,’ said Ginger with a stubborn pout. ‘And I don’t want no imported rubbish. I want the real fing and I want it fresh off the table!’
‘If you say so. But what are all these strange words you’re using? What’s “rum”, for instance – and why do humans like it so much?’
Ginger gave a hollow laugh.
‘Rum is like catnip to oomans. Well, some of them anyways. My old lady, the one wot adopted me, liked her rum. She drank it like water, and then she started singin’ to herself and dancing around the carpet. After that, she just fell over. Sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the floor, but she never made it to her bed. Poor ol’ fing. Rum was her only friend.’
Sparky’s mind fled nervously to his kitchen back home. Was there any rum there? No, but he had seen ol’ Joe pass out on the futon a lot lately. Was he drinking rum too? Or was it just his bad leg?
‘You say you don’t know much “ooman”’, he accused Ginger. ‘But you seem to have picked up an awful lot without telling me. You’re just like ol’ Joe with his missus – you can understand it when it suits you!’
‘Oh, you noticed, did yer?’ chuckled Ginger, ‘Well, I do have my moments. Most of the time though, I just can’t be bovvered. Oomans don’t generally interest me.’
Sparky rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Okay then, what’s this “Portsmouth” place?’
‘Oh, we has to go there to get the ferry,’ smirked the orange cat. ‘And before you say “wot’s a ferry, then?” – because I know you just want to – it’s a big metal fing, like ol’ Joe’s rubbish van, which takes us across the sea to Spain.’
‘What’s the sea?’
‘Gawd, it’s like talkin’ to a baby. You don’t know nuffink, do you? The “sea” is a bit like the pond at the end of your garden, but much, much bigger. And before you ask, there ain’t no toads in it, so don’t go looking – you won’t find none.’
Sparky opened his mouth to ask yet another question, but Ginger was already on the move. He was sloping off down the car park in search of Lee’s van. And because Lee was a creature of habit and always parked in the same spot, he found it at once.
‘There you go!’ he told Sparky with a satisfied grin. ‘Regular as clockwork, is ol’ Lee. We just gotta wait a bit, till he’s done his bit of business, and then we’re off to tapas land.’
‘How do you know he’ll like me?’ asked Sparky timidly. ‘He might leave me behind...’
‘Wot? Lee? Corse he’ll like you! The more fings he gets to talk to – with all that borin’ driving – the happier he is! All you gotta do is what you do best – look cute and down-trodden. And don’t say nuffink. He likes to do all the talking.’
At that moment, a large man with ruddy cheeks and bright twinkly eyes appeared. It was Lee, and he recognised Ginger at once.
‘Allo mate!’ he greeted him cheerily. ‘What are you doing here? I was only thinking the other day: “where’s that big fat ginger got to? He ain’t been around for a while. Perhaps he’s gone to meet his Maker!” And here you are, larger than life and just as ugly! Oh, and who’s your little chum? He don’t look too happy, do he, but he does have manners, sitting there all neat and polite like that. What’s he doing with an old fart like you?’
Sparky rolled over in his very cutest pose and gave Lee an irresistible prrrrrp!
‘See, he’s a good un, I knew it. He’s far too good for you, mate, he really is. Well, hop on board, the two of you, and let me tell you about my new carpet business...’
Lee was bored out of his skull with his present job. He had done it for four years now – trundling his huge Tesco’s van full of English produce to supermarkets in Barcelona – and he badly wanted to give it up. He had never admitted this to his employers, but he had a severe case of claustrophobia and being cooped up in vans and ferries for four days each week (two on the way out, two more on the way back) made him want to hit things. As soon as he got out of his cramped little cab, he would punch walls, tables, even empty wheelchairs with old people only just out of them. That’s why he liked cats so much. They calmed him down.
The other thing that Lee had a severe case of was verbal diarrhoea. He just couldn’t stop talking. He even talked in his sleep, which was probably why he had never got married.
‘Carpets,’ he informed the two cats confidentially. ‘I just can’t get enough of carpets. The cleaner they get, the better I feel. Yeah, I know it’s crazy, but I just can’t help myself. I went round this house the other day – not far from where you hang out Ginger, actually – and there was this couple what had the most horrible carpets you ever did see. I turned up on their doorstep at 7am, which I know was a bit early but I was keen to start, and they wouldn’t let me in – just threw three ratty rugs and a doormat at me and told me to “come back later.” Well, those rugs didn’t last long; I did them in about ten minutes, so I filled in the time by ringing up this Irish biddy in Chiswick what keeps popping out babies. Gawd, she’s got seven of them now and she’s forever on the phone. “Lee, I’ve got this stain”, she says, “the baby’s knocked something over!” I’ve got to the stage now, that I just spill stuff myself! If I’m short of a few quid, I just go over there, pour a cup of coffee on the carpet and blame it on the baby. She never notices, just glares at the kid and says “clumsy little clod!” Well, he can’t talk back, can he? Mind you, he’ll probably grow up to be a wrestler or a cage-fighter and do my head in. He’ll definitely catch up with me one day!’
Ginger looked for Sparky, to tell him that Lee was always like this – a hyped-up force of nature, constantly running at the mouth – but Sparky was hiding under the passenger seat, frozen with fear. Which suited Ginger just fine, since he could spread the entire bulk of his huge orange body right across the cosily padded double-seat.
Lee’s next remarks had Sparky suddenly attentive.
‘Yeah anyway, I returns to this first house – the one that turned me away earlier – and the same woman what chucked the rugs at me shouts back to her husband: “Joe, it’s that Lee again, and he’s brought enough hoses and cleaning fluid to sanitise Wembley Stadium!” And this Joe bloke totters up in his dressing gown and pyjamas, looking like some grumpy old hippy, and says “What are you doing here? I said noon, and here you are – back again – at ten am! Tell him, Madge, tell him what noon means!”
Joe? Madge? Sparky couldn’t believe his ears. He stuck his head out from under the seat and, ignoring the roar of the lorry’s loud engine, moved closer to hear more.
’..But I weren’t being put off a second time,’ continued Lee in his wide-boy Cockney accent. ‘I told them – it’s now or never, because I’m a busy man. And just look at those carpets. If I don’t attend to them right away, they’re going to just get up and walk! So I barge my way in, and the first thing this Joe geezer says is, ‘I’ve just lost my cat. I’m going upstairs to chant for him!’ Well, for some reason this tickles me. I’m a bit of a footie fan, I am, so I calls up to him, ‘I thought you were getting ready for the Chelsea-Preston match, mate. Don’t forget to chant for Chelsea!’’
It was too much of a coincidence. Sparky looked up at Ginger, and Ginger looked down and smirked, ‘Yeah, it’s you he’s talking about, you stoopid lost cat! And you was lucky you weren’t in when Lee came calling. Because – take it from me – you can hear his bloomin’ carpet machine a mile off. With your nerves, you’d have legged it a lot further than the bottom of your garden. You’d have been lost forever!’
‘You two having a conversation?’ said Lee, slightly irritated. ‘Don’t mind me. You miaow away all you like, I don’t care. I just like the company. Now, where was I? Oh yes, when this Joe comes down again, I tell him: “Look at this, mate! I’ve done just one room, and there was so much gunk in it, I’ve had to use an extra bucket!” Well, I thought that would impress him, but it didn�
�t. So then I really went to town and I didn’t finish until the place was spotless. “You could make a quilt out of this, mate!” I said, pulling the last lumps of dead carpet out of my machine, and do you know what he said? He said “You missed a bit by the kitchen door.” Ungrateful git!’
Two hours of inconsequential (but entertaining) chatter later, they finally rolled into Portsmouth and Lee leapt out of the cab. He casually swiped an innocent dustbin, just to blow off some steam, and then he punched his own van - just to let it know how much he hated it.
‘I’m going in to see my dad,’ he informed the two cats. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
And with that, putting some water down for them and leaving both doors ajar, he sloped off down the road.
‘Okay,’ yawned Ginger. ‘Time for a poo! He knows I likes a poo in Portsmouth, does Lee. That’s why he didn’t lock us in.’
Sparky was horrified.
‘You mean you’re going to poo outside? He doesn’t have a litter tray in here?’
‘Oh, you are a one, ain’t you?’ chortled Ginger, having a good stretch. ‘You ain’t gonna see no litter tray for a long time to come, let alone poo in one. Either you follow me outside, or you can hold it all in until we gets to Barcelona!’
But Sparky wasn’t going anywhere. He watched as Ginger leisurely left the vehicle and headed for some nearby woods. Peering through the window, he could just see Ginger’s tail – way off in the distance – shivering with exertion, and it was then, quite suddenly, that he felt the same urge too.
With an instinct born of desperation, he climbed over the passenger seat and pushed his way – through another unlocked door – into the back of the well-stocked truck. And there he saw what he wanted immediately. A nice big bag of ‘odour-free’ cat litter.