The Pain, My Mother, Sir Tiffy, Cyber Boy & Me

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  I didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe it was best not to know. Ignorance is bliss. Isn’t that what they say? We settled down to watch It Came from the Basement.

  The title didn’t lie. That’s exactly what it did. And it was plenty terrifying.

  Almost as terrifying as imagining the horror that might have come from my mouth that night in the Emergency Department.

  And with The Pain there to hear it.

  15

  Sir Tiffy

  On Monday I headed off for another typical fun week at school.

  Another week where I didn’t make any friends. Another week where a partner for the graduation dance (now less than seven weeks away!) failed to drop from the clouds. Another week where the possibility of an overall A in English remained remote. And another week that found me trekking off for yet another depressing visit to Evensong Nursing Home.

  Depressing for me at least. Depressing and terrifying for poor old Bert Duggan.

  Compared to us, everyone else in our little troupe seemed to be going gangbusters! There was a good chance that Alison and Naheer would end up adopting their buddies. Rayna had definitely found a kindred spirit and a friend for life in hers. And Jeremy Tyler-Roy now had his own fan club!

  I wasn’t kidding about Jeremy. By the end of the second session Cyber Boy had a circle of wrinkly residents clustered eagerly around him oo-ing and aa-ing at all the amazing things he could do, and find for them, on his cutting-edge computer.

  And then there was me and Bert Duggan – the dynamic duo with the power to slow down time to the pace of a heavily sedated slug.

  It’s true. We could turn an hour’s visit into a life sentence, no trouble at all. If anything, our second session together didn’t go quite as well as our first one. I know. Almost impossible to believe, isn’t it? At one point I thought it might be better if I just sat back and read one of Bert’s magazines instead of trying to get a meaningful conversation going. It wasn’t really Bert’s fault. He was lovely. Just like Lily had said. He just didn’t talk much. But how could he? From what I’d managed to squeeze out of him, he’d never really been anywhere or done much of anything his whole life. So what was there to discuss?

  Like our first meeting, the second session consisted of me rabbiting on and on about myself and school and anything else that flew into my head. When I finally ran out of ideas, in desperation I read Bert the first few chapters of The Hunger Games. He said it was ‘different’. High praise indeed! I’m not sure which of us was the more relieved when our time was finally up and we had served our sentence.

  But as bad as that was, my typical fun week didn’t really hit rock bottom until Thursday night. And would you be shocked if I told you that the cause of the rock-bottom-hitting incident was The Pain? No. I didn’t think so.

  Let me explain.

  Mum and I had just finished tea and were washing up when a pair of headlights flashed across the kitchen windows and a car pulled into our driveway.

  A prehistoric, bomby yellow car.

  When Mum saw it she threw her tea towel at me and said, ‘Let him in, will you, Mags (!) and hold the fort, while I tidy myself up a bit?’ Then she rushed off to her bedroom. Wonderful. A few seconds later the front doorbell rang. I opened it, and once again came face to face with …

  The Pain.

  A flood of horrific memories came surging back. But the image I was seeing was slightly different the second time around. This time The Pain was carrying a green shopping bag in one hand and some kind of moulded plastic cage with a grille at the front in the other.

  I found two things disturbing about this whole scenario.

  The first disturbing thing was that it was a week night and I had assumed (hoped) that if I had to put up with The Pain, then it would only ever be occasionally and on weekends. Having a Thursday-night encounter was an unsettling development.

  The second disturbing thing was the contents of that cage he was holding on to. It appeared to be filled with some kind of roadkill. The Pain must have read my uncertainty. He lifted it up.

  ‘Cat,’ he said.

  I looked more closely at the ‘alleged’ cat. It had a face so flat I figured that its favourite pastime was running head first into brick walls at very high speeds. I noticed that one of its eyes was weepy and clouded. The other one wasn’t. That one was missing altogether. There was also a long mutant tooth sticking out at a weird angle from its bottom jaw even with its mouth clamped shut, and a ‘coat’ consisting of straggly clumps of grey fur sprouting around large, random patches of shaved skin. (Had Taarsheebah taken up pet grooming now?)

  I was taking all this in when Mum arrived and herded us into the kitchen, where The Pain gave us the whole story.

  The ‘cat’s’ name was Sir Tiffy (!) He belonged to a ninety-one-year-old woman called Mrs Monteith who’d been brought into St Vincent’s Hospital by ambulance a couple of nights previously when The Pain was on duty. Mrs Montieth had been very upset and stressed because there was no one to look after her cat, which was a present from her late husband. To calm her down The Pain promised he would contact her daughter so that the cat could be taken care of.

  Mum asked the question I was thinking.

  ‘So why have you got the cat? What happened to the daughter?’

  ‘She lives a long way away, and it turns out she’s not a huge Sir Tiffy fan.’

  I looked at the Franken-cat in the carry cage. Gosh, I wonder why not?

  ‘Anyway, when I spoke to her on the phone, she said her mother should have got rid of him ages ago because she couldn’t take care of him properly any more.’

  The Pain shook his head.

  ‘Then she told me she’d probably just have him put down.’

  I did another quick check on Sir Tiffy when I heard that.

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Maggie!’ (My mother of course.)

  ‘Look at him, Mum. Unless there’s a trophy for Freaky Halloween Cat of the Year, he’s not going to win any prizes at the cat show, is he?’

  ‘Maggie!’ (Yep, Mum again.)

  The Pain poked a finger into the cage and scratched Sir Tiffy under the chin. There was little response.

  ‘He’s actually a pure-bred Persian with a long pedigree and official papers to prove it,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what the daughter told me.’

  ‘You’re joking. Did they get the name of the driver of the ride-on mower, then?’

  ‘Maggie!’ (Strike three! For some reason my mother was feeling the need to shout my name out at regular intervals.)

  The Pain raised his hand as if he was turning himself in.

  ‘The haircut’s my doing, I’m afraid.’

  What? I knew he was a Crazy Singing and Insulting Person but now, apparently, I could add Cat Torturer to his impressive résumé.

  ‘The daughter was right about Mrs M not being able to take care of him. She’d obviously become a bit vague and forgetful plus she’d had really bad arthritis in her hands for years. Couldn’t groom him as she used to. Poor little bugger was covered in massive, matted fur balls. They were impossible to comb out, so I had to cut them off the best I could. He’s much more comfortable now, but Maggie’s right, his Best Cat in Show days are probably behind him.’

  The Pain shot a sneaky smile my way.

  ‘Although, they do say that the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is two weeks. Maybe a bit longer in hideously extreme cases.’

  I was about as responsive as Sir Tiffy. Instead I asked the question I’d wanted to ask ever since The Pain had finished telling us the whole Mrs Monteith/Sir Tiffy/Horrible Daughter saga.

  ‘So, how come you brought him here?’

  ‘Maggie!’ (She’s baaaaaaaaaaaack!)

  The Pain drummed his fingers on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Well, I promised Mrs M her cat would be looked after and it was obvious her daughter wasn’t going to volunteer, so that just left me. I arranged to meet the daughter at Mrs Monteith’s p
lace and she was more than happy for me to pick up Sir Tiffy plus all his gear – food, litter trays, scratching pole, the works.’

  The Pain took a deep breath before continuing.

  ‘I was keeping him at my flat until today when my landlord found out. He’s a dictator-in-waiting with a strict no pets policy. Bailed me up tonight as soon as I got home. Threatened to cancel my lease. The flat’s nothing flash, but I can’t afford to lose it. Took me ages to find something that cheap and close to work. Had to get Sir Tiffy out of there fast. Didn’t know what else to do. So I came here. Sorry. Probably should have phoned first to warn you.’

  Yes. That way we might have had time to pull up the drawbridge and bring the oil to the boil!

  The Pain then looked at Mum like he was a little kid begging her for ice-cream or something. ‘Do you think you’d be able to babysit him here? Just for a bit, I promise. Just till I can work something else out.’

  My mother smiled back at him like he was a little kid begging her for ice-cream or something. ‘Of course. How could I refuse that face?’

  One really excellent way would be by just opening your mouth and screaming the words ‘NO WAY!’ at it as loudly as possible.

  Sadly that didn’t happen, and before I knew it The Pain was reaching in and dragging Sir Tiffy out of his cage and depositing him on the kitchen floor. At last we could view him in all his glory. Although when we copped an eyeful of him, ‘in all his gory’ seemed more appropriate.

  Remember when I said that Sir Tiffy looked like roadkill?

  I’d now like to formally apologise to any roadkill I might have unintentionally offended.

  16

  The Pain’s daemon

  Sir Tiffy sat on the kitchen floor, hunched over and peering around dozily with his one ‘good’ milky eye. He looked to be on his last legs – and pretty wobbly legs at that. Then he made a noise more like a death rattle than a ‘meow’.

  ‘Mwaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrggggghhh!’

  ‘Why, hello to you too, Sir Tiffy,’ Mum said. ‘You are very welcome to stay at our house.’

  Not by me!

  ‘Sir Tiffy? What kind of a stupid, poser name is that, anyway?’

  ‘Maggie!’ (Here we go again.)

  ‘Yeah, I wondered about that too,’ The Pain said. ‘I asked Mrs Monteith but she wasn’t making much sense. Kept saying something about it being “on the form”, so I figured Sir Tiffy must be his official pedigree name from the registration papers or something. As weak as she was, Mrs Monteith seemed to find the whole name thing funny for some reason. Kept calling it her “little joke”. No idea really what she was on about. Even her daughter couldn’t help explain it.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What a great story.’

  Then I quickly held up a hand like a traffic cop before my mother could fire another ‘Maggie!’ at me. Thankfully it worked. Down on the kitchen floor, Sir Tiffy took a few shaky steps before flopping over on his side and staying there.

  ‘He’s a little weak at the moment,’ The Pain pointed out helpfully. ‘But I’ve had the vet check him out and she said there was nothing seriously wrong with him. Just a bit undernourished and neglected, a few infections here and there and some temporary swelling in the joints.’

  ‘Apart from that, he’s a picture of health and could live for days!’

  Mum narrowed her eyes at me but thankfully resisted the name-calling.

  The Pain continued.

  ‘Hopefully a lot longer now. He’s had some shots already and I’ve got a stack of vitamins and tablets to give him and some drops for his ears and eyes. Well, eye. I’ve actually noticed an improvement, just in the time I’ve had him.’

  ‘Improvement? You mean he was worse than this?’

  Mum went to open her mouth but she was drowned out by something else.

  ‘Mwaaaar! Mwaaaar! MwaaaaAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR RGGGGGGGGHHH!’

  I thought of asking The Pain if he’d been giving Sir Tiffy singing lessons, but since that definitely would have resulted in another ‘Maggie!’, I kept it to myself. As Sista Lista said, some thoughts might be better left safely locked away in your head.

  ‘Sounds like the poor thing’s starving,’ Mum said.

  ‘Or dying,’ I mumbled.

  The Pain reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a couple of tins of cat food. Mum fake-smiled at me.

  ‘Well then, Maggie, why don’t you make yourself useful and put some milk in a saucer and empty one of those tins into a bowl while Danny and I bring the rest of Sir Tiffy’s things in from the car?’

  I wanted to shout ‘WHY ME?’ but Mum was already on her way out of the kitchen. Before he joined her, The Pain had some more delightful information to give me.

  ‘His vision’s obviously not that great – although the drops are starting to help – and he’s a bit blocked up, which means the old sense of smell doesn’t seem to be the best either at the moment, so with the feeding, I found it helps if you pick him up and put him right near the food.’

  ‘Pick him up? Couldn’t I just tap the bowl or call him over or something?’

  ‘Aaaaaaaah,’ The Pain said, holding up a finger, ‘slight problem there.’ Then he bent down and began clicking his fingers above Sir Tiffy’s head.

  Zero reaction.

  ‘Ear infections.’

  ‘Awesome. Is there anything about him that actually still works?’ I asked without much hope.

  ‘Absolutely!’ The Pain said cheerfully. ‘Due to another temporary infection, his bladder works a treat. Usually when you least expect it. And from my short personal close encounters with Sir Tiffy, I can inform you that this is not always a good thing.’

  Then he smiled and left. Which didn’t upset me in the least. The ‘him leaving’ bit, I mean. The ‘smiling’ bit was, as always, majorly irritating.

  As soon as we were alone, Sir Tiffy started up ‘mwaaar-ing’ at full volume again. To shut him up I poured some milk into a saucer like Mum said, then opened one of the tins and slurped a big blob of retch-inducing cat food into a bowl. I placed them both in the corner of the room well out of the way. Then I took a deep breath and picked up Sir Tiffy. It was like lifting an old sack of loose sticks.

  When I placed him beside the food, he just stood there wobbling and shaking. So I dipped my finger into the milk and smeared it on his lips while trying to avoid that weird sticky-out vampire tooth. (Yuk!) He licked it off. I repeated the procedure with the cat food. (Mega YUK!) He licked that off too. And off my finger. His tongue was pink and rough. It tickled. (Not quite as yuk as I thought.) When there was nothing left, Sir Tiffy lowered his head, found the bowl and saucer, and started to eat without my help.

  Success! I might have smiled.

  Until a voice came from behind me.

  ‘Well done you.’

  It was The Pain. He and Mum were back in the kitchen loaded down with cat gear.

  ‘I mean it. That’s pretty impressive. He’s not used to anyone else but Mrs Monteith feeding him. I had a hell of a time getting anything into him at all. And he never touched the stuff if I was watching. He must really like you, Maggie.’

  Great. How wonderful! I can’t keep any actual human friends, my life is a completely boy-free zone, and I doubt if I could even bribe someone to go to the graduation dance with me, and yet the Cat of the Walking Dead thinks I’m adorable!

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to rush off,’ The Pain said. ‘Another early shift tomorrow, I’m afraid. Thanks so much for doing this. You guys rock. Hopefully it won’t be for long. Just till I can find someone to take care of him permanently.’

  ‘Permanently?’ Mum asked.

  The Pain lost his sneaky smile.

  ‘Mrs Montieth won’t be going home. She’s not expected to last the week.’

  Mum watched Sir Tiffy eating and her face crumpled up at bit.

  ‘Oh dear. The poor thing. I bet he’ll miss her terribly.’

  ‘I think he already does. But loo
k, while he’s here, I can help you take care of him. You might be surprised to learn that I am known far and wide for my litter-tray-emptying skills! Anyway, I’ll pop in on Saturday with more cat food and to see if there’s anything else you need. Oh, and I’ll go through his medication and drops with you. If you have any problems with anything at any time, I’m only a phone call away.’

  And that’s when the awful truth of what was going on here hit me. Not only was I going to be forced to have the joy of sharing my house with Sir Tiffy the Mutant Half-Vampire Cat, but now The Pain had sneakily created a ready-made excuse for him to drop in on us whenever he felt like it. He’d organised an advance party to establish a foothold in Castle Butt and we’d fallen for it!

  After The Pain left, Mum took Sir Tiffy’s gear and set it up in our rumpus room and I went to the bathroom to wash the pukey cat food smell from my hands. When I wandered back to the kitchen Sir Tiffy was where I’d left him, chewing slowly away on the last of his meal. Except now his one good eye was closed as well and his soggy backside was plonked on the edge of the tipped up saucer.

  A fat, white line of milk was snaking its way across the kitchen floor. Following Sister Evangelista’s helpful advice, I summed up my feelings concisely and to the point with no loss of focus or unnecessary tangents.

  ‘SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!’

  Sir Tiffy opened one eye and stared sleepily up at me like a drug addict.

  ‘Mwaaaaaaaaaaaaar,’ he said.

  And then started piddling.

  Here’s a question for you. Have you ever seen that movie Northern Lights? The one with Nicole Kidman in it? Well, apart from the fact that my absent biological father has a teeny minor part in it, the other interesting thing about it is that each of the characters in the story has their own ‘daemon’ – that’s a strange spirit creature which is unique to them and represents their true animal nature.

  As I watched Sir Tiffy’s piddle mixing with the spilt milk on our kitchen floor, the stomach-churning realisation hit me that The Pain’s daemon had just set up home inside Castle Butt!