by Mike Ripley
She rankled a bit at that.
‘So aspirins can be fatal, but you don’t mind pouring bandy down his throat?’
‘Who said anything about his throat?’
Springsteen wasn’t going to come out so I had to push the bed away from over him. His growling dropped a half-tone to a sort of sinister hiss and his eyes burned into me like a chestnut vendor’s coals whilst his tail did that slow-time flick from side to side that tells you the clock’s ticking. It was nice to be recognised.
‘It’s not a fox,’ I said over my shoulder.
‘Well it looked like one,’ said Fenella from the kitchen. ‘Is this it? It says something ending in Romana. Is that brandy?’
‘It’ll do.’
Springsteen did indeed have something long and brown hanging from his jaw. Something long and limp, like a pelt – until you got close, that is. In my case, I was still a good six feet away from where he lay on his side, which was quite close enough, even though I could see that his right front leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
The brown pelt was soaked with drool near his mouth and trailed off like a flattened snakeskin to his side, about four inches wide and some 15 inches long. I guessed it had stuck over his teeth and without the use of his right paw he couldn’t dislodge it.
I felt a gentle tap on my right temple. It was Fenella, knocking a bottle against my skull. I relieved her of it, took a swig and handed it back. Although Springsteen, concentrating his stare on me, wasn’t moving or looking likely to move suddenly, she had positioned herself strategically behind me. She was learning.
‘That’s gross,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is. Whatever it was. What is it?’
‘Well, from this distance, without forensic examination, I’d say Mist or maybe American Tan or possibly Chiffon and probably about 60 denier.’
She leaned forward to get a better look.
‘You mean that’s a nylon stocking?’ she said as she focused, oblivious to Springsteen’s malevolent stare swinging full-beam on to her.
‘Or one half of a pair of tights,’ I said reasonably.
Fenella straightened up as if she had a spring in her.
‘You mean he’s eaten a whole girl?’
‘That’s my boy,’ I said. It seemed to soothe him, as he stopped growling at me.
I put my head back so I could whisper into Fenella’s ear.
‘Go and get me a couple of towels out of the airing cupboard.’
‘You haven’t got an airing cupboard,’ she hissed back.
‘Your airing cupboard. Big fluffy ones. They don’t have to be new ones. In fact old ones that you wouldn’t mind not seeing again might be an idea. When you come back, hang them over your shoulder, like you were going to have a shower. You know, casual. Give them to me quick when I say.’
‘Right.’
She made to go, then leaned in so she could whisper in my ear.
‘Why my towels?’
‘Because Doogie and Miranda are at work and I can’t ask Mr Goodson, can I?’ I argued, putting some urgency into my whispering. Gibberish though it was, it was enough.
‘Oh, I see. Sure, fine. On my way.’
As she backed out of the room, I moved carefully closer to Springsteen, crouching down until I was on my knees an arm’s length away from him. The growls were coming in short bursts now as if his heart (if he had one) wasn’t quite in it. The tail lashing became more pronounced and I could feel the thump as each beat hit the floorboards. It sounded to be in 9/8 time. Dave Brubeck can play in that too. At least his ears weren’t flexed back. If you ever see that happen head-on, you’re too close to the cat, and with a cat like Springsteen, it could just be the last thing you ever see.
‘You been in the wars, old son?’ I said soothingly, tipping the bottle of Italian brandy so that the liquid soaked the finger tips of my left hand. Then I took a swig for myself before putting the bottle down on the floor.
I held my fingers out towards his nose and got them close enough so that his nose went into full wrinkle and his head went on one side and his mouth drooped open.
‘You really should pick on someone your own size, you know. I mean, it’s not that you’re getting too old for a bit of playful homicide, but you’ve got to learn to pace yourself a bit more. Ripping women’s tights off with your teeth is a young man’s game; take my word for it.’
The brandy and the inane chat distracted him enough for me to get my right hand on the length of material hanging from his mouth. Keeping well away from his right side and the injured leg, I worked the nylon up and over his back teeth until I felt it go slack and could gently pull it out, trying to be as delicate as a surgeon operating on a private patient.
‘That’s Chiffon,’ said Fenella behind me, making me flinch.
Springsteen, who hadn’t indicated in any way that she was padding up behind me – pretending to be befuddled by the brandy fumes – took the opportunity, now I was distracted, to lash out with his left paw and rake me across the back of my hand. It wasn’t a severe clawing; he couldn’t get the angle right from the way he was lying to protect his right leg. There were only two tracks of blood.
‘Oooh, did that hurt?’
I looked up at her and bit my tongue.
‘I’m going to hang a bell on you if you insist on wearing those slippers,’ I growled.
‘I was only saying you were right,’ she said, all innocence. ‘That shade of tights is called Chiffon. Lisabeth has some airing in the bathroom.’
Now there was an image I didn’t want to dwell upon.
With my back to Springsteen I zipped up my leather jacket to the collar then said: ‘Just throw me the towels.’
At least she’d remembered them and had at least three large fluffy beach-size ones draped around her neck. One was the official Star Wars – The Phantom Menace souvenir beach towel. I didn’t ask; life’s too short.
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
She bent her head and flipped the towels off her neck. I caught them and in one fluid movement, because I knew I wouldn’t get a second chance, turned and flung them over Springsteen, rolling him into them as if I was trying to smother a fire. I grabbed the bundle, hugged it to my chest and got to my feet.
‘Now what?’ Fenella asked, a look of absolute horror at what I had just done on her face, which had gone a whiter shade of grey.
‘Run!’
It was all that needed saying.
We thundered out of the flat and down the stairs, making so much noise I could hardly hear the Satanic growling coming from inside the bundle of towels I clutched to my chest.
‘Get the door!’ I panted, allowing Fenella to overtake me and jump the last few steps, her Panda slippers skidding on the fake wooden flooring.
Somewhat ungainly, she righted herself in time to whip the door open so I could barrel my way by her, yelling ‘Car keys!’ as I did.
‘Where are they?’
‘Trouser pocket,’ I said, halting at Armstrong’s side.
Her hand plunged into my trouser pocket and groped for the keys. There wasn’t time for this. My bundle of towels was shape-shifting alarmingly, the growling was definitely getting louder and I distinctly heard the ripping of material.
‘No Fenella,’ I said reluctantly. ‘They’re in the other pocket.’
I let Springsteen have the whole of the back of the cab to himself. It wouldn’t have been fair to let Fenella ride locked in there with him, so I told her to get the bus round to Homerton High Street and meet me at the vet’s surgery. I also suggested she might put some clothes on.
Getting him out of Armstrong actually went smoother than I could have hoped. I parked on double yellow lines outside the surgery’s front door and for a second considered writing a ‘Vet On Call’ note to stick in the windscreen – which never fails wi
th policemen and parking wardens. Then I remembered I had a black London cab and thought, to hell with it, I can park anywhere.
In Armstrong’s boot I found an old pair of oil-stained black leather gloves and pulled them on. I could have done with the gauntlets they use to handle nuclear fuel rods, but these would have to do. Then I made a point of appearing in the offside passenger window before sinking down out of sight and crab-walking like a demented Cossack round the back of the cab to get to the nearside door as quietly as I could. At least a dozen good citizens of Hackney passed me on the pavement. Not one said anything or even gave me a second glance. That’s why I love the place.
Then it was take a deep breath, whip the door open and play the roll-the-cat-in the towel game again – although one of the towels I noticed was now in two pieces – keeping low and turning my face away just in case.
A rising howl of primeval pain split the air, but nobody came to my aid.
I think it was the howl that made Springsteen relax for a second, thinking he had scored a vital hit. That was all the time I needed to mummify him in towelling, for I was past caring about the blood. I was just grateful he’d missed my left eyeball.
Then I was kicking the door shut and running towards the surgery with my bundle clutched to my leather jacket, yelling: ‘Coming through! Gangway! Emergency! Clear a path! Trauma case!’
An elderly lady with an ancient Jack Russell was just leaving the surgery as I charged up to the door. Both of them looked as if they could have done with hip replacements, but both were nimble enough to get out of my way and she even held the door open for me, a startled expression on her face.
I shouted ‘Thanks’ over my shoulder and burst into the waiting room, where all eyes turned towards me. For a moment I thought they were going to dare me to jump the queue, but nobody said anything. There must have been 20 people in there and at least the same number of animals, which made about 39 eyes, allowing for the caged parrot with one eye bandaged up. The parrot looked pretty depressed, probably sick of pirate jokes from other parrots, but if he had any sense he would keep his beak shut, as I simply wasn’t in the mood.
I had to walk between two rows of chairs, knees and animals to get to the reception desk, where a buxom young blonde was making notes, a phone clamped to her right ear. She looked up and stared at me as well, disturbed by the fact that the surgery had gone totally silent. Well, silent apart from a constant one-bass-note growling that was coming from my chest area. I think that, plus the fact that I could feel blood running down the side of my face, gave the impression that perhaps I did deserve to jump the queue after all.
A middle-aged woman with long curly red hair, wearing a Barbour and green wellies (in Hackney?) gave me a limp smile and reigned in a long-haired Golden Labrador so I could squeeze by. A couple of cats in plastic carrying boxes with wire grilles for doors scuttered as far back into them as they could get. A ten-year-old girl with two small, gerbil-sized boxes with air holes and the words ‘Sparky’ and ‘Millie’ crayoned on them, bunched up her knees and covered them protectively with her arms. A shaven-headed man with tattoos on his neck and knuckles tightened his grip on the lead of a pit bull as the dog shrank backwards under his chair. ‘Steady, Laydee, steady,’ he said, a look of doubt on his face.
I reached the reception desk and rested my towel bundle, still keeping a firm grip.
‘I need a vet,’ I said, deadly serious.
The young blonde put down the phone and gave me a killer smile. The name tag on her starched white medical smock said ‘Amber’ and I didn’t need contact lenses to read it. I was close enough to feel the static.
‘I bet you do,’ she said with an Australian twang. ‘But animals come first here.’
Before I could come up with the obvious reply, which would probably have earned me a fist in the face, Springsteen took matters into his own paws. One of his back ones actually, which burst out of his towelling shroud and lashed at Amber, missing her arm but sending the white plastic phone crashing on to the floor.
Amber kept on smiling, not a tooth out of place, not an eyelid batted.
‘The vet will see you straight away. And the name is?’
‘Springsteen,’ I said, leaning on him in a vain attempt to muffle his growls.
‘Like the old rock star?’
‘I prefer legendary.’
‘My mum really liked him,’ she smiled.
‘Er … the vet. Can we see him?’
‘Oh sure. It’s a cat, right?’
‘Right.’
Just to prove it, Springsteen produced the sort of smell only nervous cats can. The towels were no substitute for a gas mask and personal oxygen supply.
‘Any idea of the problem?’ Amber said, her nose wrinkling but the smile still cemented in place.
‘A totally meat diet plus a metabolism designed in the seventh circle of Hell, if you mean the smell,’ I said helpfully. ‘In more general terms, a psychotic personality that has not mellowed with age. Specifically, a broken leg, which, if it’s not treated soon, will bring that metabolism and that personality into play full whack, in which case I would fear for everything you hold dear and every living thing in this room.’
In the waiting room behind me, you could have heard a pin drop. Then I heard the big bald guy whispering to his pit bull: ‘Come on, Laydee, we’ll come back later.’
Amber still held me in her gaze and I couldn’t help but stare at her smile. Under fluorescent lighting, I would have needed sunglasses.
‘Will you be paying cash, Mr Springsteen?’ she said.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then let’s go through, shall we?’
When we finally emerged, the waiting room was empty apart from Fenella, sitting there good as gold, changed out of her pyjamas, knees together, reading a copy of Hello! magazine.
I wasn’t surprised she was alone. Once Amber had led me into the surgery, the vet’s shout of ‘Oh fuck, not that cat!’ must have disconcerted some of the waiting patients.
The following cries of ‘Amber, lock the door!’ and ‘Just bloody believe me, this one can do door handles, it’s happened before!’ and particularly ‘For the love of God, don’t let go’ were also probably upsetting if you heard them in isolation coming from somebody, obviously hysterical, to whom you were about to entrust the health and well-being of your pet.
Of course I kept calm throughout – I think blood loss does that to you – and I warned him that trying to inject the anaesthetic through the towels was at best a hit and miss affair. But he had it his way and it wasn’t my fault that Springsteen only pretended to be knocked out until the vet was in range.
Fortunately, I hadn’t totally let go of him, so we managed to isolate part of his rump and the vet got a needle into him. He did get off one parting shot before he went under, though, which meant that Amber refused to speak to me ever again. She would also need a new white smock and probably six or seven showers before she got her squeaky clean confidence back.
The vet, who seemed to have aged rapidly over half an hour, took my credit card and swiped it himself – probably twice, to pay for the cleaning bill. Then he gave me my instructions and, for the unconscious Springsteen, a cardboard carrying basket, which I lined with the few strips of unstained shredded towel I could find. Reluctantly, the vet agreed that I would have to come back to have the plaster cast removed.
‘Try an evening surgery,’ he said. ‘Tuesdays or Thursdays are nice and quiet.’
‘Your nights off?’ I suggested, and he blushed deeply.
Fenella wanted to know why I had asked her to come and meet us.
‘To sit with him in the back of Armstrong to reassure him if he comes round,’ I told her as we walked out of the surgery.
I didn’t like to point out that the carrying basket was made of cardboard and that wouldn’t hold him for ten seconds if he d
id wake up with a headache and a leg in plaster in the back of a cab. At least Fenella might buffer some of the initial impact.
As it was, he was still out when we got back to Stuart Street. Not even Fenella’s constant coo-ing and ‘poor boy’ lullaby woke him up, which was just as well.
I didn’t say much on the journey. I was too busy thinking about what the vet had said about the x-rays and how somebody had probably kicked him first and then stamped down on his leg.
I was going to find them, and find them I would. There couldn’t be that many women who wore heavy, probably steel-capped, boots and Chiffon coloured tights. Even in Hackney.
From what Springsteen had kept as a trophy, I could narrow it down even further to a woman wearing only half a pair of tights.
Who had a limp.
Chapter Three
‘So what woke you the first time?’ I asked.
‘What? Who? Why? Please, Angel, I’m trying to cook.’
We had set up our observation post in the doorway of Fenella’s flat, having decided that it was better to let Springsteen come round in his own good time and when he did, not have the distraction of human targets. I had opened the folding lid of the cat transporter and turned it on its side so he could simply roll out. There was food and fresh water for him and I had put anything breakable out of harm’s way, so he had Flat 3 all to himself.
I had borrowed one of Fenella’s chairs and parked myself in her doorway so I had an unrestricted view of the landing and the cat flap in my door. After five minutes I searched her flat for something to read that wouldn’t improve my spiritual being or teach me to be a better vegan and settled on the latest Harry Potter. Then I borrowed a large scallop shell from the kitchen (and how was I to know it wasn’t an ashtray?) while Fenella nipped round to Mrs Patel’s off-licence for a couple of bottles of Cahors, having ascertained that she had nothing in her flat worth drinking that didn’t contain elderflower.