by Andrew Cope
He spent some more time googling Mr Big, his shoulders sagging as he began to uncover the whole truth. Shakespeare had heard the name whispered but he was a bit like Voldemort – so scary that his name was rarely spoken. The cat soaked up information from the professor’s case files. Lara and Mr Big go back a very long way! The cat slapped arch-enemy and hunted to the Post-it wall. Emailing the police is definitely out. He remembered the gun at the professor’s head. Not good. The oily fish began working its magic and he ran through some ideas in his feline brain. Ben, thought Shakespeare. He might know what to do. The spy cat downloaded the dramatic video scenes to a memory stick and bounced out of the cat flap, the beginnings of a plan formulating in his mind.
Ben, Sophie and Ollie just panicked. Shakespeare swiped the iPad on to standby. That’s not doing us any favours, he thought. Time to introduce my plan. The children watched as the cat took a pencil in his mouth and moved to Ben’s desk. It was a struggle but he started drawing.
The children peered in. ‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ said Ollie. ‘What is it, puss? What are you drawing?’
Shakespeare was frustrated. It’s so hard drawing with a pencil in your mouth. I sooo wish I had hands like you guys.
‘He’s so clever,’ cooed Sophie, her tummy doing cartwheels of pride.
‘Is it a burger?’ suggested Ollie.
‘A burger?’ meowed the puss out of the side of his mouth. Why would I be drawing a burger? It’s a plane!
‘Is it a bird?’ guessed Sophie.
A blooming bird? It’s a plane. Vroom vroom, a plane! I suppose a bird is a lot closer than a burger. Shakespeare stretched his front legs out to the side to indicate fixed wings that didn’t flap.
‘Looks like a coat hanger,’ suggested Sophie unhelpfully.
The cat spat out the pencil and shook his head. This is ridiculous. He nosed the tablet back into action and clicked on the internet. He typed in drone, and pictures of spy planes appeared.
‘The professor’s spy plane?’ guessed Ben.
‘Get in!’ yowled the cat, pointing a paw at the boy. Electric fences. Can’t climb up and can’t go over. Can’t go under. So I have to fly. He tore into Sophie’s bedroom and searched through the dressing-up box. Two minutes later the puss returned, wearing a fetching Lycra cat suit. One of the professor’s better inventions, thought the cat. I’ve worn it before. It has webbed arms and legs so I can glide from the sky.
Sophie looked unsure. ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘so if I’ve got this right, you want us to fly you in on the professor’s plane. And then you’re going to swoop down like some sort of superhero cat?’
Shakespeare stood tall and puffed out his chest in pride. The Lycra suit made him feel special. He spread his arms wide, revealing batwings. I love the sound of superhero, he thought. And yes, that’s pretty much the plan. This is now a rescue mission. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Bat Cat!
13. The Hunting Party
Shakespeare couldn’t think what else to do. Whichever way he looked at it he always arrived at the same conclusion. If I alert the police the professor will be shot. But if I get the children involved, I will be breaking rule number one. He decided that getting the children just a little bit involved was the best course of action.
The children were running over the plan one last time. Sophie and Ollie were covering for Ben.
‘I’ll be gone for the whole of tomorrow, all day and maybe even the night,’ he said. ‘So I’ve already acted poorly, moped around, said I’ve got a headache.’
‘And as tomorrow’s Saturday we’ll say you’ve stayed in bed. But we keep going into your room and taking you drinks and I can come in and play imaginary computer games,’ said Ollie, reminding himself of his role in the plot.
‘Yes, because Mum will really worry about me if I’m off computer games. She’ll want to take me to hospital or something. So, I’m bad, but not at death’s door.’
‘And meanwhile,’ added his sister, ‘we’ve raided our piggy banks and scrambled a hundred and two pounds –’
‘And fourteen pence,’ said Ollie, remembering his contribution.
‘And fourteen pence,’ corrected Sophie. ‘Plus Ben has borrowed another sixty-three pounds out of Mum’s purse.’
‘Which is my pocket money, plus some, for the next year. And when Mum finds out that I’m taking part in Shakespeare’s mission, I’ll probably have no more pocket money, ever! But this is a matter of life or death. We cannot tell Mum and Dad otherwise they’ll ring the police and that’s curtains for our pets. And maybe even the prof.’
Ben knew he didn’t have any choice. This was one of those situations where he realized he had to grow up very fast.
Shakespeare was listening intently, collar flashing, taking it all in. We’ve all seen the video. This is very serious indeed. The only solution is for me to get inside that electric fence and see what’s going on. He looked again at the wall where he’d scribbled Rule #1. No danger for the kids. He drummed his claws on the table. Ben is part of the plot to get near to Huntingdon Hall, but he will never actually be in proper danger. Shakespeare wasn’t entirely sure he was doing the right thing, but there just didn’t seem to be any alternative.
Ben looked around gravely. ‘I’ve booked a taxi for myself and the puss. A hundred and fifty pounds, one way, to the Scottish border. We’re taking the professor’s spy plane.’
‘And my precious puss is risking his life to get inside the baddies’ hideout,’ said Sophie, cuddling her cat so hard it made his eyes bulge. ‘Ben will operate the remote control and my ginger superhero will swoop from on high.’
Shakespeare was purring. He loved being cuddled and he was making the most of it. But if cats were meant to fly, we’d have feathers! He was a positive puss, But you never know, he thought. As a cat, I’m supposed to have nine lives. Let’s hope this isn’t my last one …
Meanwhile, the dogs had been muzzled. The professor had his gorilla head rammed back on and Gus had superglued it so it was almost impossible to remove.
‘This is intolerable!’ protested a muffled voice as Gus was doing the gluing. ‘It’s very hot in here. I find your behaviour most unacceptable.’
Gus just grunted. ‘And I find your whingeing most unacceptable. Just doing as I’m told, monkey man.’ He kicked out at Lara, who was growling menacingly.
If I ever get this muzzle off – which I will – my teeth will sink so far into your bottom that you’ll not be able to sit down for a month.
The professor and dogs were crowded into a cage and Archie turned the key. ‘Quiet!’ he ordered. ‘Our special guests are due any minute.’
Spud looked around. Their cage was in the corner of a huge drawing room. At the other end was a roaring log fire. There were leather sofas and chairs, thick carpets and a huge window showcasing a magnificent view over the estate. Pictures of animals adorned the walls. Spud noticed that most of the pictures were of hunting scenes.
Men on horseback chasing wild boar. Men with flat caps shooting grouse. A man holding three dead rabbits. Always men and always guns! The puppy saw stuffed animals everywhere. Birds in jars. A fox. A hare. Even a terrier dog, presumably a much-loved pet from back in the day? To complete the gruesome message a stag’s head dominated one of the walls – check out those Rudolph-like antlers – its glassy eyes watching from above. It seems the owners love animals, especially shooting and stuffing them! There was a tray of drinks on the table and, Spud sniffed, some nibbles. Everything was olde worlde except the thoroughly modern curved TV. The dogs watched the screen as a luxury people carrier with tinted windows pulled up at the front door. Three men and a woman got out and the captives watched as Mr Big shook them warmly by the hand. Sixty seconds later the new arrivals entered the drawing room.
Lara and the pups had no idea what was happening but, as the professor had pointed out, in muffled tones, ‘If they’re associated with Mr Big, one thing’s for sure. They are baddies.’ The three dogs growle
d as fiercely as their muzzles allowed. The gorilla-clad professor struggled to his feet and rattled the bars. He was so hot and bothered that he couldn’t speak. He just growled.
‘Calm down, you rabble,’ smirked Mr Big, evidently enjoying himself.
The visitors made for the champagne and nibbles. There was clinking of glasses as they set about the task of draining the drinks. The lady wandered over to the caged animals, a huge grin lighting up her face. Her eyes lingered a moment upon Lara. The dogs strained at the bars and the professor jumped up and down with rage.
‘Well, hello, fellas,’ said the lady in a very posh accent. The dogs were muzzled but their eyes said it all. ‘Ooooh. So wild!’ The woman kept her distance. ‘Lord Large,’ she shouted, ‘are these some of the ones we’ll be hunting?’
‘Take a seat, Gloria,’ oozed Lara’s arch-enemy. ‘Let me explain what’s going to happen. Tonight we celebrate this gathering of some of the wealthiest and best hunters from across the planet. Tomorrow, we test our wits against the best that nature has to offer. It will be the ultimate battle to see who will prevail – man or beast.’ Gloria raised an eyebrow. ‘Or woman,’ Mr Big added hastily. ‘Whoever shoots the animals with the highest score will be crowned this year’s crack shot …’
Crackpot, more like, muttered Lara.
‘… And will, of course, be invited back again next year to defend their title.’
So they get the chance to spend even more money on next year’s entry fee, clicked Lara. Mr Big was out to make a killing in more ways than one. He was going to be super-rich if he could find enough animals to hunt every year.
The evil baddie wandered among his guests, handing out the colour-coded darts like a big kid in a poisonous sweet shop.
Making his way over to Gloria he handed over the darts, drooling, ‘For you, my dear. My favourite colour – red for dead.’
The assembled group looked around eagerly. Right on cue, the door opened and Gus and Archie wheeled in a trolley laden with weapons. Lara’s eyes went from wild with anger to wide with fear.
‘As you know, I have assembled the world’s finest collection of special animals. We have five hundred acres of rolling hills out there. I’ve taken great care to collect the rarest of breeds. Pandas, for instance.’
One of the men could hardly contain his excitement. ‘That, Sir Large, is total genius. I don’t think any of us has ever bagged a panda.’
Mr Big nodded, savouring his own evil genius.
‘I am keen to give you a new kind of thrill. If you’re spending a million pounds to enter, you’ll be wanting something special. We have everything: a snow leopard, lion, Grand National and Crufts winners. Special snakes, spiders, a cheetah. Several primates. A white rhino. We even have one of the Queen’s corgis.’ He paused while a ‘Wow!’ swept through his customers. ‘I have royal blood,’ he lied, ‘and therefore some special connections.’
Lara’s throat emitted a low growl. You don’t have royal blood. You have evil blood! Her ears were pricked, listening and learning, desperately trying to figure a way out.
‘Here is the score sheet,’ explained Mr Big, Archie darting between the hunters with a handout. ‘Each animal has a value. I’ve graded the animals according to their level of difficulty. If you look at the bottom of the list, you’ll see the pandas are worth ten thousand points apiece.’
‘And points make prizes …’ purred one of the men.
‘But pandas are easy,’ suggested Mr Big. ‘Sluggish. Rare, yes, but certainly not the ultimate hunting challenge. You will see that our one and only cheetah is a hundred thousand points. It will take a professional shot to get that little beauty.’
A large American man cracked his knuckles and strode over to the weapon trolleys. ‘Looks like I’m going to be baggin’ myself a li’l ol’ fast cat,’ he said, picking a rifle and looking through the sights.
One of the other men looked confused. He jabbed the top four names on the list. ‘Gorilla, two hundred thousand points. Puppies, three hundred thousand points and “Spy Dog”, a million points? What makes these creatures so special?’
Mr Big had been looking forward to this question. He rose from his chair and wandered towards the cage where, predictably, Lara, the pups and the professor jumped to their feet and started to vent their anger. The animals threw themselves at the bars. ‘These,’ he shouted above the growling, ‘are my most prized targets. Some, like the dogs, have sentimental value. The black and white dog is especially tricky. I acquired it from MI5. It’s the world’s first ever spy dog. Trained to kill! And these yapping puppies are not just full of noise. They are a menace to society.’
‘You’re the menace!’ woofed Spud, his muzzle pushing through the bars.
‘And the monkey?’ asked the lady, seeming particularly interested.
‘For a start, Gloria, it’s not any old monkey. The gorilla is very talented. One of a kind, hence the big bonus points. Nicknamed the Picasso Primate, he can talk and paint. You might have seen him on the TV. I’ve tamed him, you see. He was completely wild when I captured him.’
The professor had never been so angry. He rattled the bars of his cage and his muffled voice rang out. ‘Wild? I was livid! Grrrr. Let me out of here right now …’
The lady looked startled. ‘He really does talk! And he sounds very angry indeed.’
The American had swapped his weapon. He pointed a pistol at the gorilla and did an imaginary shot. ‘BANG!’ he said. ‘I’m excited, Your Lordship. You’ve got my juices flowing. Spy dogs and talking gorillas. A million of your British pounds is a bargain. Tomorrow, I’m having your critters at the top of my list.’
The shooting party trailed out of the room, eagerly anticipating the following day’s sport. Gloria paused for a moment in the doorway and looked over towards the dogs. Lara sensed she wasn’t quite as eager as the others.
Mr Big smiled to himself as he led the guests to the drawing room. His plan was working perfectly. What the guests didn’t know was that the darts they were using were tranquillizers; the animals would appear to be dead but would wake up in a week’s time. By then the hunters would be long gone, and the creatures would be thrown in a cage until next year. No one would ever guess – one elephant looks like any other, after all. It’s recycling, really, he chuckled, shooting the animals again and again.
14. Fight or Flight?
Ben met the taxi at the end of his road. The driver loaded his suitcase and his sister’s old doll’s pram into the boot and the boy jumped into the back, with his rucksack.
‘Just you?’ asked the driver, looking at Ben in the rear-view mirror.
‘Just me,’ he grinned, trying not to show too many nerves and casting a glance backwards, half expecting Mum to be rushing down the road shaking her fist. ‘Meeting my family up north,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘My mum said to give you this,’ he added, wafting £150 in the driver’s face. That seemed to do the trick.
The car started and they were away. The boy was in the back seat, the spy plane was in the boot and the cat in the bag.
Mum was looking hassled. ‘But why can’t I come in?’ she asked, attempting to peer past Sophie into Ben’s room.
‘Because he’s just said he doesn’t want any visitors,’ lied Sophie. ‘He’s got a sore throat and a funny tummy and guess what, Ollie’s been playing computer games and worn him out.’
‘So he’s sleeping,’ shouted Ollie from inside the room. ‘He says he doesn’t want any tea either.’
‘If he’s off his food, maybe he needs to go to the doctor’s?’ Mum shouted. ‘Benjamin, are you all right?’
Ollie did his best low-pitched grunt, trying to sound like a twelve-year-old. Luckily for the children the phone rang and Mum was caught in two minds. ‘Well, tell him I’ll be coming to see him after he’s had a snooze,’ she said, running down the stairs. ‘With a thermometer.’ Mum wasn’t at all convinced, but thought she’d play along for the time being.
‘Phew, that was close
,’ said Sophie. ‘I hate lying to Mum.’
‘It’s not really lying,’ explained Ollie. ‘This is a mission. Sometimes agents have to do what’s right. Not what their mums think is right. I mean, you never hear James Bond’s mum saying, “No, James, you can’t go and save the world because you need an early night.” ’
That settled it. They drew the curtains in Ben’s room and plumped up the pillows so they looked, as far as possible, like a sleeping boy. Sophie was worried. ‘I hope our real brother is making some headway.’
It was 10 a.m. Ben, his suitcase, pram and rucksack had been dropped off in a small village that his iPhone said was three miles from Huntingdon Hall. The taxi driver had left after demanding a ‘tip’, and the boy immediately felt isolated. He had no money and no food. He pulled his hoody tight and zipped it up. Scotland was chilly. He unzipped his rucksack and felt a little better as Shakespeare peeped out, his eyes blinking in the daylight, his translating collar blinking in anticipation. There was no time to lose. Shakespeare led the way, Ben struggling with the luggage until they were on a straight bit of road away from prying eyes.
The spy cat struggled into his Lycra suit while Ben set about assembling the miniature plane. ‘I hope there are no cars,’ he said as he placed the plane in the middle of the road. ‘That’s west,’ he continued, looking at his Google Maps app once more. ‘So Huntingdon Hall is two miles as the crow flies.’
Except it won’t be a crow, thought the cat, holding his front paws aloft and checking his underarm flaps were in place.
Ben positioned the old doll’s pram behind the plane and tied the two with a piece of rope. ‘I’ve tied it to the handle of the pram,’ explained the boy. ‘But when you lift off, the pram will hang downwards. You’ll be dangling,’ he said, holding up the pram at the handle end to demonstrate. ‘And swinging. You need to be holding on very tight.’