The Kitten Hunt

by Anna Wilson

  My mind boggled a bit at the idea of Pinkella being pretty mean with her fists.

  ‘It’s like Mr Smythe,’ she went on, warming to her theme. ‘He has to be a spy . All that acting-like-his-hamsters thing that he does is just a front. He’s probably super-brainy at maths and goes round the world cracking codes and solving mysteries. He looks enough of a geek. And those hamsters are probably trained to carry ultra-teeny computer chips around in their pouches for him. I bet that’s why Houdini is such a brilliant escapologist. And another thing, I don’t even believe that Mr S was at his daughter’s. Did you notice he changed his story when we went round to say “sorry” for taking his money –’ her voice had turned very sour at the memory – ‘and said he’d been to an art exhibition?’

  ‘That’s not changing his story!’ I cried. ‘He could easily have gone to an art exhibition with his daughter. A nyway,’ I said, feeling quite exas-perated, ‘you are not taking my problems seriously. There’s a lot more worrying me than the idea of Ms P as a weird pink super-spy or Mr S as a brainy geekoid-hamster-head. What if my dad has fallen for Pinkella?’

  Jazz shuddered. ‘We will have to do some investigation,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you are wrong. I know your dad is a bit bonkers, but even he could not possibly fancy someone who thinks chiffon is acceptable daywear . . .’

  I stopped Jazz before she could develop her conspiracy theory any further. ‘Listen, I’ll see you in a bit,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to whizz home to grab a few things for our sleepover and get changed.’

  I needed space to think before that night.

  I hadn’t seen Kaboodle to talk to that week. It had made me pretty sad and actually a bit annoyed too. He could have come round if he’d wanted to, even if it was just to curl up on my bed at night. But now that Pinkella was back, he was spending all his time at hers, probably being hand-fed prawns and tuna and snoozing all day on a velvet cushion while Pinkella stroked him and told him how she couldn’t live without him. An unpleasant image exploded into my brain of my dad being hand-fed by Pinkella while he lazed around on a velvet cushion. A wave of disgust rolled over me, and with it came a sudden, worrying thought: what if Pinkella could understand Kaboodle as well as I could? What if Kaboodle had told her all about me and was right now sharing all my deepest darkest secrets? What if they were both laughing at me, while Pinkella hatched a wicked plan to steal my dad away from me with Kaboodle’s help?

  No doubt about it, I was going crazy. I had to talk to Kaboodle before he went undercover that evening as Super Spy Cat.

  I rang Pinkella’s doorbell.

  ‘Oh, hello sweetie! What are you doing here? Is there a problem about tonight?’

  I grimaced and then quickly tried to grin instead. ‘No, no. I was just, er, wondering if I could see Kaboodle?’

  Pinkella clasped her hands together in front of her and cooed, ‘Oooooh, that is sooooo adorable! Do you miss him, darling?’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak in case I said something rude.

  ‘Of course you can see him! The little puss-cat is snoozing in the sitting room on his favourite chair. In you go. I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. I was just about to get ready.’

  I nodded again and muttered, ‘Thank you.’ Get ready? I wondered how long it would take her to choose her outfit. ‘Now let me see, s hall I wear the pink or the, er, pink?’ It would be funny if it wasn’t actually so tragic.

  I went into the sitting room and sure enough, Kaboodle was asleep, folded in on himself in a neat little parcel, his tail wrapped securely around his tiny fluffy body, his eyes shut tight. At first glance he could have been a black velvet scarf or a black jumper, thrown on the chair in a heap. It was only when he opened one amber eye that I could make out where his body ended and his head began.

  ‘Hello!’ he drawled, raising his head very slightly and blinking slowly. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s not my fault,’ I said, sounding crosser than I’d planned.

  Kaboodle stared back at me in silence. I shifted uncomfortably,regretting my outburst. I tried again. ‘What I mean is, I’ve kind of missed you, I guess.’

  Kaboodle let out one of his jet-propelled purrs, and I’m sure he smiled too. ‘Well, that’s funny, because, in a strange way, I suppose I’ve missed you too.’

  ‘Why haven’t you been to see me then?’ I demanded, the stress rising in my voice and catching.

  Kaboodle stood up and arched his back in an exaggerated stretch as though he had been asleep for years. ‘Aaah, that’s better,’ he said. ‘Hmm, what did you say?’ He must have caught a look in my eye that stopped him from procrastinating further and quickly sat down, saying, ‘Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t been round since Ms P came home. You see, it’s rather difficult; she keeps quite a tight rein on me. If I slipped over to your place for any length of time, she would worry terribly.’

  ‘Poor Ms P,’ I said, a flash of steel in my voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kaboodle mildly. ‘So, what was it you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘Well, excuse me, I didn’t realize I needed a reason!’ I huffed. ‘But if you must know, I wanted to talk to you about – her and, well, you know,’ I faltered. I couldn’t even bring myself to say the words out loud.

  Kaboodle jumped down from the chair and came over. ‘Oh, that. Well, don’t get stressy,’ he purred, pressing himself against my legs.

  I sat on the chair he had been sleeping on. The cushion was warm where Kaboodle’s body had left a small indent. I sank back against the pink velvet and he jumped up on to my lap.

  I asked him if he had any further information for me.

  ‘Have you overheard any suspicious phone calls this week?’ I pressed him.

  At first I thought he wasn’t at all interested. He purred as I stroked his soft black coat, his eyes half-closed. I hoped he wouldn’t go back to sleep again.

  Eventually he sat up and gave his chest a quick, efficient lick. Then he said, ‘Actually, I have noticed quite a few strange goings-on since I was last at your place. I’m afraid you’re probably right to be wo rried, Bertie. Your dad is definitely not himself these days.’

  I started. ‘What sort of goings-on?’ I asked. ‘You haven’t even been to our place this week.’

  Kaboodle yawned. ‘You humans miss out on so much important information,’ he said. ‘So busy, rushing here, rushing there. I hadn’t forgotten your request to spy on your father, you know. All it takes is a little subtlety, a little cunning and common sense—’

  ‘OK, OK! So you keep saying. Less of the lecture, thanks,’ I muttered. ‘WHAT important information have you gathered?’

  Kaboodle made a small coughing noise as if he was clearing his throat. ‘Well, for a start he keeps disappearing off into his study and pacing the floor and muttering to himself.’

  I laughed, feeling a bit relieved. ‘That’s nothing new! Dad’s a writer – it’s what writers do!’

  Kaboodle looked rather offended. ‘And what about that disgusting food he’s been cooking? How do you explain that?’

  That was certainly true – and out of character. Dad was usually a fantastic cook, but that week . . .

  ‘He put sugar in the bolognaise sauce last night, I noticed,’ Kaboodle persisted.

  Dad had been halfway through cooking the sauce and he’d reached into the cupboard to get out some seasoning – salt, pepper, herbs and spices and that – and he’d just grabbed the first thing he’d laid his hands on, which in this case had been sugar, and he’d chucked it in without looking.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed glumly. ‘And you know what was even weirder? He ate it all without even noticing how gross it tasted.’

  There had been some other totally weird concoctions that came about in a pretty similar way, such as tomato sauce with sugar and sliced mango, apple crumble with baked beans, and peach and rice soup. I had offered to take over the cooking, but Dad had simply looked bewildered and asked, ‘Why?’

&n
bsp; ‘Listen to me,’ I said decisively. ‘We’ve got a situation on our hands. Dad is either going loopy-loony on me, or he’s falling in love, which in any case amounts to the same thing as far as I’m concerned, and I want you to help me do something about it!’

  Kaboodle stopped purring and looked at me as if he was actually paying attention for the first time.

  ‘The way I see things,’ I continued, taking advantage of the fact that I had his full attention for once, ‘you owe me a few favours. I looked after you and fed you and let you sleep on my bed while Pinkella was away, and you’ve done nothing in return except get in between me and Jazz and then deposit dead mice all over the house—’

  ‘You call that nothing?’ Kaboodle butted in. ‘There are cats not half as good-natured as I who would not even entertain the idea of bringing you such delicious morsels as—’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I said impatiently. ‘Just listen, for goodness sake! I’m really worried about Dad and there is no way I’m ever going to know exactly what goes on tonight as I’ve got to go to Jazz’s for a sleepover. So I’m relying on you. Please, Kaboodle. You said you would go over there and watch them.’

  The kitten licked his lips and then set to work on his front paws. I started tapping my foot impatiently. This ‘washing before you think’ business was all very well, but it was getting on my nerves .

  ‘All right,’ said Kaboodle suddenly

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, relief flooding my voice. ‘And will you come and report back to me exactly what was said?’

  Kaboodle flattened his ears. ‘I’m not coming to Jazz’s house!’ he protested. ‘That girl will pick me up and fling me around and then that odious brother of hers – what’s his name? Little Tike?’

  ‘Tyson.’

  ‘Yes. Tyson will probably decide to use me as a slingshot or something equally insane Anyway, we can’t talk in front of anyone, remember?’ he added – a bit sarcastically, I thought.

  ‘Can’t you come in through a window once we’re asleep?’ I asked. ‘You could wake me up quietly like you’ve done before. Jazz sleeps so deeply, she won’t hear you. She could sleep through a hurricane, that girl.’

  Kaboodle agreed reluctantly. I got off the sofa with him in my arms and placed him carefully back on the cushion. He looked up at me, and with a final purr and a rub of his head against my hand, he miaowed, ‘See you later,’ and settled back to sleep.

  Thank goodness for Kaboodle, I thought as I called out a goodbye to Pinkella and dashed home to get changed. With him on my side, I’d soon have Dad back for myself and away from that woman. Everything was going to be all right. Wasn’t it?

  16

  Midnight Prowler

  Jazz and I always had a laugh at our sleepovers – especially when they were round at hers. Her mum was so cool – she let us watch loads of DVDs and have midnight feasts. Sometimes if Aleisha was in she’d paint our nails for us and do our hair in funky styles. She’s the only person who’s ever been able to make my hair look cool.

  This time, however, I was not too keen on doing any of that stuff or staying up late as I was worried that it would mean Jazz would still be awake when Kaboodle arrived. So when we’d finished watching Jazz’s favourite DVD, Summer School Dance Camp sung all the songs, done all the dance routines and eaten our way through four packets of popcorn, two packets of marshmallows and one tube of prawn cocktail Zingles crisps, I stretched and yawned in an overenthusiastic kind of way and said, ‘Oh boy, you know, I’m soooooo tired. Shall we go to bed now?’

  ‘What?’ cried Jazz. ‘But we haven’t watched the extra scenes yet or seen the interview with Zeb Acorn.’

  Zeb is the lead actor in Summer School Dance Camp and Jazz’s all-time hugest lurve-crush and she’s going to marry him, once she’s figured out how to actually get to meet him.

  ‘I know, but we’ve watched this film fifty zillion times before, and I’m really, really tired,’ I yawned again. ‘I’ve had a big week.’

  Jazz pursed her lips. ‘So sorry you’re finding everything so bor-ing,’ she huffed. ‘I thought you’d want to do stuff to take your mind off your dad and Ms P and . . .’ She caught sight of me staring at her in disbelief. ‘Sorry . I didn’t mean to talk about that. You’re probably right. I’m tired too. It is eleven already.’

  I smiled. ‘Thanks, Jazz.’ Part of me felt a bit guilty that Jazz was trying to be nice, when the real reason for getting to bed earlier than usual was that I wanted her out of the way.

  We called out goodnight to Jazz’s mum and dad who were downstairs watching telly, and then got comfy on the bunk beds. As a treat, Jazz let me sleep on the top. ‘You need cheering up,’ she said.

  The top bunk was definitely the best, probably because it felt like my bed at home. A lso there were these wicked fairy lights that Jazz had wound around the top of the bunk and down the sides, so even when all the house lights were off, her room was still lit up with a warm glow. It was comforting and cosy. Sometimes we snuggled up together on the top bunk until we started drifting off and talking nonsense and then I would climb out and go to sleep on the bottom bunk. But tonight, we got into our own beds and Jazz talked up to me through the bluish-purply glow.

  ‘Bertie?’ she said tentatively .

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Don’t shout at me, but I’ve been wondering, would it really be so bad if your dad and Ms P get together?’ she asked.

  ‘Wha—?!’

  ‘Just listen a minute,’ Jazz interrupted. ‘I know she’s a bit bonkers and everything, but she’s not actually mean or evil, is she? And if she makes your dad smile, that can only be a good thing, can’t it?’

  ‘No. It won’t work,’ I said simply. Jazz stayed quiet, but her silence was full of doubt. ‘It won’t!’ I repeated more loudly. ‘I won’t let it. What if they got really serious about each other? If Dad’s going to find a new partner, I ought to have a say in it – whoever he ends up with will be my MUM, Jazz! He can’t just go and fall in love with whoever he likes. Are you really saying you wouldn’t care who your dad ended up with if your mum died?’

  ‘I’m not sure it works like that,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I think you’re getting it a bit out of proportion. This is only their first date – if that’s what it is,’ she added hastily.

  I thumped back on to my pillow with my hands behind my head and went into major-sulk-mode. Why wasn’t Jazz taking this seriously? How could my best mate not be on my side? I angrily waited for her to apologize. To say something – anything – to make me feel better.

  But all I heard was a light snoring.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep at all. My heart was banging in my throat, and my head was fizzing with worries about what Kaboodle would have to report when he finally turned up. I was trying to dream up a scenario where I could find out something terrible about Pinkella’s past and engineer a way for Dad to stumble across it, and then Pinkella would be so embarrassed she’d have to move away. But then I wouldn’t see Kaboodle again . . . My brain was whirring round and round, with no solution in sight, and I was about to get up and go and fetch a glass of water when there was a scratching at the window and a yowling, mewling noise.

  Kaboodle!

  I scrambled down from the top bunk and managed to bang my knee on the way. The ladder knocked against the side of the bed and made a noise like a hammer against rock in the silence of the sleeping house.

  ‘Don’t make me eat the peas!’ said Jazz, sitting up in bed and staring at me with scarily zombielike open eyes.

  Freaky! She had never talked in her sleep before! I stuffed my hand into my mouth to stop myself from laughing, and then whispered, ‘It’s OK, Jazz. Go back to sleep.’

  Thankfully she did, so I crept over to the window and let a very bedraggled and unhappy kitten into the room. His fur was spiky and matted against his tiny skinny body and his whiskers were drooping. He shook each paw delicately and disgustedly as he crossed the windowsill and I realized that he was dri
pping wet.

  ‘Kaboodle! Are you all right? What’s happened to you?’ I tried to pick him up and comfort him, but of course he didn’t want that. He gave himself a shake and then set about washing his ears slowly, as if to cover up his embarrassment at arriving in such a state.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’ I persisted, fetching my flannel from my overnight bag. I made as if to wipe him down, but he gently backed away from me, opened his mouth and gave a huge yawn, showing off all his needle-sharp teeth and his small pink tongue.

  ‘I had a bit of an accident while doing your dirty work,’ he said, sounding as if the whole thing left him bored to tears. He set about grooming his back so that he didn’t have to catch my eye.

  ‘Oh, come on, Kaboodle!’ I cried. ‘What happened?’

  Kaboodle sat up straight and fixed me with his round yellow eyes. ‘Promise you won’t laugh,’ he said.

  ‘Promise,’ I said. With his permission I picked him up and we climbed to the top bunk and snuggled down together. It wasn’t the greatest of kitty snuggles, what with his fur being wet and everything, but my heart still fluttered happily having that little cat all to myself again.

  Kaboodle’s voice settled into a low purr as he quietly explained what had happened.

  ‘I thought I would get a good view into the room from the tree outside your bedroom window,’ he explained. ‘Unfortunately . . . ’ He stopped purring and gave an embarrassed sort of cough. ‘I – er – aimed rather too high.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  Kaboodle flattened his ears impatiently. ‘I couldn’t see properly when I was at the same level as the kitchen, which is where they were, so I thought I would climb further up and look down on them instead. The trouble is, the best branches we re a little higher than I thought . . . ’