Cats On The Run (Tuck & Ginger Book 1)

by Ged Gillmore

  ‘Phwoar,’ said Rodney, who was not unaffected by the sight before him. ‘Don’t you worry, your royal hotness. I won’t rest until all four of them are back in this house. I’ll not quit until you have whatever you want. You deserve no less. I am a slave to your utter witchiness. I’ll start on it straightaway! Now give me a hand, and help me scrape this little old lady off the corridor walls before anyone sees.’

  And so they scraped and sponged and tidied. Then, while Janice called the door replacement company, Rodney started planning.

  The next night the Burringos’ shiny new apartment door was opened to twenty-two visitors. To anyone who saw these visitors crossing the building’s lobby or riding up in the lift they looked like normal people (except of course there’s no such thing). But once that shiny new door was closed behind them, they shed their disguises and revealed themselves for the abysmal, atrocious, awful animals they were. For they were witches, every last one of them. Tall and short, fat and thin, young and old, all quite extreme, in fact. Not a single mid-height, mid-weight, middle-aged one amongst them. Rodney and Janice felt quite mundane by comparison, but they did not dwell on such trivialities. For Rodney had invoked the rules of his coven and called them all together to ‘protect the honour of a fellow witch against mischievous felines’ (1753 Witching Act, claws 28b).

  Together the twenty-four witches spoke hideous spells in calm and calculated tones and plotted the most evil of plans, that is, they drew up a roster so that every night every part of the city would be observed by them. Not only that, they mapped out the route between the Burringos’ apartment and the stables where Rodney had found Major. They couldn’t fly during the day of course, but as soon as any of the cats appeared in the open at night-time, the alarm would be raised. Then the fury of the Burringos would be unleashed, and the poor posse of pussies would be pests put in the past. Mwah ha. Mwah ha ha. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!

  Let’s just hope the cats don’t step outside at night, eh?

  Now, you’re probably wondering what happened to Tuck. I’m not going to drag this out. I’m not going to divert you with fascinating stories of how huge mountain ranges are constantly forming under the sea and that’s what causes earthquakes. Nor point out that bananas, like oranges, are formed in segments—every banana having exactly three. Don’t believe me? Open a banana, take a bite, then stick your finger into the end of it and see what happens. Fascinating! But irrelevant, I know, so no more of that stuff. Oh coconuts no. This is what happened to Tuck:

  So, you’ve got a six-lane motorway (three lanes in each direction) with an irregular gap in the traffic. You’ve got a new cluster of traffic approaching from a north-easterly direction with, at the front, three large vehicles. These are: a van in the left-hand lane carrying a family of Italian musicians on their way home from a wedding, a tanker lorry in the middle lane with a full load of liquid on its way to deliver to restaurants across the city, a bus in the right-hand lane carrying a party of animal rights activists on their way home from a weekend retreat. And in the blue corner you’ve got a rather fit but essentially less-than-superbly-intelligent black cat who is frozen in the headlights. The average speed of the three above-mentioned vehicles is 112 kilometres per hour. The cat is not moving.

  The bus, the fastest of the three vehicles, was being driven by a man by the name of Dick Pilchard. He was seventy-five and had been driving buses for fifty-five years. He no longer enjoyed his job and found one of the few things that gave it any interest was flattening as many animals as possible into the road. It was possibly for this reason that as his bus came round the bend in the road he started accelerating despite already being above the speed limit. The passengers in the front seat behind and slightly above Dick Pilchard were an animal-loving mother and son by the name of Juliet and Billie Balcony. Billy was twenty-eight years old and still lived at home. Nuff said. It was Juliet Balcony, a middle-aged woman with surprisingly long vision, who first saw Tuck.

  The tanker lorry, the slowest of the vehicles, was driven by a rather large woman by the name of Florence Airport, more commonly known by her nickname of Heavy Flo. Flo was (and indeed still is) a contract driver for Peter Parsons Pickles and Sauces and had recently consumed five cups of coffee from the Speedy Coffee Shop and Service Centre. She was admiring her newest tattoo as she came around the bend and didn’t see Tuck at all.

  The Italian musicians in the white van, the Aisingacreppis, were a family of four men, three women, two boys and four girls, all on the podgy side of normal. You might have heard one of their later songs, ‘C’è un gatto nero sul autostrada’. The father of the family, Beppe Giuseppe Aisingacreppi, a round-faced and cheerful man, was driving the van. He saw Tuck at the same time as he saw the bus full of animal rights’ activists, two lanes to his right, veer in front of the tanker lorry between them and then in front of him and his family.

  At the inquest which followed the crash it became clear that this happened because Juliet Balcony had seen Dick Pilchard speeding towards Tuck and—as a committed advocate of the rights of animals to a happy and healthy life—had thrown herself onto the steering wheel ‘to save the poor mite’s little life’. Beppe Giuseppe was driving too fast and with too heavy a load (it being pasta season) to brake in time to avoid hitting the bus. Accordingly, he swerved to the right so that all the Aisingacreppis sang-slash-screamed as one (it was never easy to tell the difference with them) as they in turn veered across the trajectory of the tanker lorry. The bus full of animal lovers and the van full of pasta lovers swerved and swam, swung and swang and switched lanes and swapped places on the motorway just before they reached Tuck.

  And what did Tuck do? Well, he just sat there, still frozen with his yellow eyes wide open and watched them cross lanes in front of him and then zoom past on either side. Which left just Flo’s tanker lorry in the middle lane bearing down on him.

  Let’s look what happened to the bus. Well, it didn’t stay in its new position in the left-hand lane. Oh no. As Dick Pilchard fought off Juliet Balcony, it swerved and swayed and wibbled and wobbled until at last, when Dick somewhat belatedly applied the brakes, it screeched to a halt, turned a ninety-degree angle and rolled onto its side. Ouch! Naturally, all those with their seat belts done up were unharmed, but everyone else had to wear one of those hideous white collar things for months.

  Things weren’t much less hairy for the occupants of the van. As you might have worked out by now, they didn’t stop veering across the motorway when they reached the inside lane where the bus had previously been. Despite Beppe Giuseppe Aisingacreppi’s best efforts, they smashed through the crash barrier on that side of the road and into the path of the three lanes of traffic coming up from the city. And what was the first vehicle they encountered there? Yugoddit. It was a throbbing old Purrgeot containing you-know-who.

  And what of Heavy Flo and her tanker? Did she squash Tuck as flat as a bat whacked with a mat? Well, Flo might have been a bit zippy on the coffee, and she might have been a little late in getting her eyes off her still-glistening ink, but Flo was a pro, don’t you know. Later media reports of her as ‘The Girl with the Saggin’ Tattoo’ were unkind. For Flo took an immediate assessment of the situation as first the bus full of activists and then the van full of Italians veered across her path, and she did what you or I would do in the same situation. She screamed her head off with the worst swear word she could think of and jammed both feet on the brake.

  Have you ever seen a full tanker go from 110 kayemperaitch to zero in five seconds? It ain’t pretty. Unless, of course, said tanker is about to run over you and kill you. So Tuck watched with wider and wider eyes as the grille of Flo’s tanker got closer and closer to him until, as if by magic, it was suddenly spun around him as the lorry jack-knifed into the slow lane and then around Tuck into the middle lane, and then on again into the fast lane and, still not stopping, into the nearest lane of traffic coming up from the city. Now, the Aisingacreppis’ van had just come to a stop in this lane, and at t
hat very moment Beppe Giuseppe and his brother, preppy Pepe, were crossing themselves and crying and watching a heavy old Purrgeot zooming straight up towards them, a cursing poodle and strangely Zen-like ginger cat framed in its windscreen.

  ‘Is the end,’ said Beppe. ‘We all gonna die!’

  But just then the back end of Flo’s tanker came swinging around and shoved the Aisingacreppis’ van out of the way and into the far lane, where there were no other cars at all. Still the tanker carried on swinging so that its arc moved out of the way of the braking Purrgeot just in time for them to miss one another. Good job! For by now the French car was being driven by a dog with one front paw over her eyes and the other unscrewing her hip flask.

  On and on Flo’s tanker swung until it ended up facing the way it had started. Then, as its hydraulic brakes exploded in loud bangs and its tyres did the same, the tanker shuddered, fell over, and split along its entire side. The tasty sauce it had been due to deliver to the finest eateries of the city poured out and started spreading back up the motorway. Can you imagine the carnage? Not to mention the busnage, lorrynage, and vannage? Imagine the noises of screeching brakes, exploding tyres, screaming drivers, splitting metal, slopping brown sauce. But in the middle of this sat, very still and wide-eyed, a familiar black cat.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Tuck. ‘That was lucky. I thought I’d stopped too soon.’

  Then he smelled something. Can you guess what it was? It was not the stinky stench of hydraulic liquid boiled to gas. Nor the acrid acidity of animal activists’ recently soiled underwear. Nor was it the burning of old Purrgeot brake discs. No, no, no. It was the smell of a wave of mushroom sauce coming out of Flo’s torn and twisted tanker.

  ‘Ginger!’ Tuck yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Ginger, look! We’re at the mushroom-sauce seaside, and the tide’s coming in!’ And without a second thought (because let’s face it, the first one wasn’t particularly great) he ran to the tasty taupe for which he’d always hoped. Once there he lapped and lapped and lapped whilst the sauce grew knee deep around him (asterisk re cats’ knees, but not now, OK?).

  Can you imagine a scene more conducive to purring? First of all, there’s Tuck purring so hard he was gargling half the sauce he swallowed back up again. Then there was Ginger, who had of course watched the entire scene in horror from the pine tree. She came running down and met Tuck in the lake of mushroom sauce, so relieved to see him still alive that she forgot herself and sniffed his bum. The old Purrgeot on the other side of the road was now empty, and its occupants had come over to see what all the fuss was about. As Major crossed the central reservation he first saw a large, athletic black cat who seemed to have taken it upon himself to clear up the spilt goods from the tarmac. Beside this cat was a redhead who looked a lot like … Oh my cod.

  ‘Ginger,’ said Major. But his voice was so full of emotion he could barely speak her name. ‘Ginger.’

  Ginger looked up, not at the sound of her name but at something her sixth sense told her was of vital importance. She squinted into the distance to see humans getting out of vehicles, inspecting broken violins, ‘It’s Just Not Fur’ placards and smudgy biceps. But then she looked closer and a little to the right, and she saw a cat that looked like … O.M.C. Well, I admit it. There was not much purring as she and Major approached each other with undeniable tears on their faces.

  ‘Major,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Ginger,’ said Major.

  ‘I didn’t leave you,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ said Major. ‘I came to get you. I was in that apartment. I escaped and that’s why I’m here.’

  And they broke down in a caterwaul which both of them would later deny ever happened. All they could think was that all the trials and tribulations and travelling and trauma had been worth it for this one moment. They were together again and need never part. They held each other in a tight embrace, unable to speak beyond a muted purr that said more than words ever could.

  ‘’Ere!’ said Minnie, who’d walked up beside them. ‘’Oo’s he then?’

  Ginger looked up to see her pointing over at Tuck, his muscly silhouette set off by the hazy rage of beige around him.

  ‘That’s Tuck,’ said Major.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ginger, amazed. ‘How did you know? That’s Tuck.’

  ‘Phwoar,’ said Minnie. ‘’E’s a bit of all right, inny! Somebody better pass me a hot tin roof!’

  And then it happened.

  What do you mean, ‘What happened?’ Are you choking or something? It happened. Oh, come on. You’re making me feel like Juan Carlos must have felt when Tuck didn’t get it about the signal from the tree. Come on, folks: Where is this scene taking place? What time of day is it? Who has got a roster watching over anything unusual happening between the city and Major’s stables?

  Oh no?

  Oh yes.

  THE BIT AFTER THAT BIT ON THE MOTORWAY

  Tra la la la la la. I’m going to talk about lots of irrelevant stuff from a completely different part of the plot so that you’re kept in a greater state of suspension than bungee jumping in stockings in Alaska (‘great state’, get it? As in ‘Alaska’s a state which is really big’, which is another word for ‘great’? Yes? No? Oh, why do I bother?). Let’s look at what happened to Juan Carlos next. Or what about Cyd—would you like to hear how she ended up with a post-traumatic stress counsellor as an owner? I’m sure you’d love to hear all about the legal wrangling that took place during the inquest that followed the crash. And about Heavy Flo’s tattoo, which needed complete redrawing after such a severe smudging. Or what about the Aisingacreppis and their international one-hit wonder, the only-ever Italian-language song to get to number one in Italy? There are so many places I could take this plot now, but you know what? Inquest, ink mess, sing quest, BYAH! Let’s get back to the action. (Asterisk: cats do have knees.)

  The witch on patrol over the motorway at the time of the pile-up was Claire Blair. Yes, that Claire Blair, the founder of Claire Blair’s Fair Hair Care, the shampoo that makes blondes look even blonder. Didn’t you know that was a magic potion? Well, you do now. Claire Blair stole the recipe from a stern old hairdresser in the twenties known as Severe Bob and then, as we all know, made millions from a savvy use of marketing and distribution rights. Now, making a lot of money is a funny old thing (and must never, never, NEVER! be confused with ‘success’, remember that).

  You see, whilst many people would like to make a lot of money themselves, they often hate to see other people doing it. I say ‘many people’, but I should also say ‘all witches’. Witches are the most money-grabbing, avaricious, gold-digging, materialistic meanies you’ve ever heard of. They always confuse making a lot of money with success no matter how miserable they become in the process. Well, you can imagine how popular Claire Blair was with all the other witches! That’s right—not very. In fact, they hated her guts and were forever complaining that Claire should share her Fair Hair Care ware. They called her a ‘sell-out’, which is a word that means ‘You made more money than I did’. And of course it didn’t help that Claire was absolutely beautiful and had the most perfect body of any witch on earth. Can you imagine the green that the other witches turned with their foul and smelly envy? Poor Claire, if she wasn’t such a witch, you’d feel sorry for her. All the money in the world, the perfect figure, a cute little nose, and nobody loved her.

  If that happened to you or me, we’d realise we needed to change friends, but Claire had a poorly developed sense of self and so was always trying to impress the other witches in the hope that their admiration would make her life complete. Sad, isn’t it? Even if not entirely relevant. Bendyways, there Claire was, cruising at a height of I-don’t-know-how-many metres above the high/free/motorway, looking at the strip of red lights moving away from the city and the strip of white lights moving towards it, when suddenly there was the most enormous crash, bang, slop-slop below her.

  ‘Goodness,’ thought Claire. ‘I wonder what that was?’

/>   And she swooped down for a look, the wind blowing her beautiful hair out behind her. The smell of mushroom sauce was just tickling her petite and perfectly formed nose when what did she spot in the middle of all the spilled sauce and carnage? That’s right. Not one, not two, not three, but all four cats hugging and weeping and phwoaring and lapping in the middle of the road.

  ‘Oh my!’ said Claire to herself. ‘Oh me, oh my, oh ma, I’m going to be a star!’

  And without a further thought she took out her extremely expensive finely-crafted-from-Norwegian-wood wand and pointed it at the cats. But Claire had acted too soon. Like many of us, she had forgotten to think in the heat of the moment. She had completely forgotten that her wand was still in Create Shampoo mode.

  ‘Eugh!’ said Tuck down on the ground. ‘This mushroom sauce suddenly tastes really soapy.’

  And he spat his last mouthful of liquid out and tried licking the soapy taste of it off his tongue. Then he blinked and blinked again because he couldn’t believe his eyes. All the mushroom sauce around him had turned to soapy suds of shampoo.

  ‘Ginger!’ he yelled soapily. ‘Where’s my sauce gone?’

  Ginger and Major and Minnie all looked over at him strangely, and then their eyes grew wide as they too saw the sauce turning to suds. ‘’Ere, that’s a bit weird, innit?’ said Minnie. ‘It’s like a magic spell or something.’

  ‘A magic spell?!’ said Ginger.

  ‘Run!’ said Major, and then, as Ginger joined in, ‘Run, run, run!’

  But it was too late. For Claire had realised her mistake and changed her wand to the Freeze Cats setting, and within the blink of an eye Tuck and Ginger, Minnie and Major found themselves frozen to the spot. Cyd, who’d watched the whole thing happen from the car, came running over, barking wildly. Juan Carlos, who’d hopped back to see what had happened, started croaking at the top of his voice. But neither of them could attract the attention of the stupid humans, who were more interested in their cars than saving the lives of four fearsome felines. They just thought a barking dog and a croaking frog were a normal part of a multi-vehicle pile-up—and I suppose you can’t blame them. I mean, how were they to know otherwise? So it was without any form of human intervention that Claire landed with a dainty swoosh in the middle of the foaming suds and started picking up the frozen cats one by one and shoving them into a catsack-backpack which she’d brought along just in case.