Kitten Catastrophe

by Anna Wilson

  CRASH!

  SQUEAL!

  HOOOOOOWWWL!

  What a racket . . . I opened one eye to see what was going on. But it wasn’t the dog in the film who was making the noise.

  HOOOOOWWWWL!

  ‘Sparky?’ Bex had leaped from the sofa and was dashing towards the kitchen, where it sounded like a herd of elephants had crashed into the house, knocking a few doors down and a few bits of furniture besides.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Dad jumped up as well, knocking over his empty plate and sending his drink flying.

  I followed as Bex shouted, ‘Sparky! Sparky? Are you all right, boy? It’s OK, Mummy’s coming!’

  By the time I got to the utility room, Bex was sitting on the floor, cradling the poor pooch in her arms, her cheeks wet with tears. The room was a total bomb site. Even the events of the past few days hadn’t prepared me for this level of devastation. The ceiling light was swinging to and fro as if something had been hanging from it, cupboard doors were teetering on their hinges, and every available surface was covered in cleaning products, cat food, washing powder and damp laundry.

  But none of this was as bad as what had happened to poor old Sparky. He had blood trickling from a gash on his face and he was whimpering in fright, cowering in Bex’s arms as though he’d just seen a ghost. Or a monster.

  ‘This is worse than we thought,’ Dad said grimly. ‘I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

  Bex shook her head, and said through her tears, ‘No point. It must be a wild animal. A fox or something.’

  ‘Oh, Sparky,’ I said sorrowfully. ‘I’m so sorry, boy.’

  ‘At least we know it’s not Jaffa,’ said Bex, putting on a brave smile.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Dad. ‘From the looks of poor Sparky here I have to say she’s had a narrow escape so far. We’re going to have to block up the cat flap to keep Jaffa safe.’

  Too right, I thought. And she’s going to have to talk to me now, surely. If the intruder was vicious enough to upset Sparky this much, we had to find out who or what it was.

  11

  A Walk in the Park

  The next morning I had a lie-in, relieved it was Saturday at last. When I woke up it took a minute for me to recall what had happened the night before. I lifted my head and was comforted to see Jaffa sleeping soundly, curled into a neat comma at the foot of my bed. I lay back, replaying in my mind the noises Sparky had made, and shuddering at the memory. I knew Dad was probably right about keeping the cat flap locked. But the longer I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the more I felt myself needing to know who or what this intruder was, rather than simply shutting it out. I owed it to my little kitten to get rid of this monster once and for all, if only to make it up to her for not believing her in the first place, when she had insisted she was not to blame.

  I got up and took a shower, the water as hot as I could stand it, the roar of it filling my ears. I fumbled with the slippery shampoo bottle and washed my hair vigorously. So how was I going to catch the culprit and teach it a lesson? The only way I could think of solving this was to stay up all night, camped out in the kitchen.

  Yeah, like Dad was going to let me do that, I thought, wincing as shampoo trickled into my eyes. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to anyway. If Sparky had been scared out of his wits, what’s to say I wouldn’t be too? I pictured the nasty scratch he had received and winced again.

  I towelled my hair dry and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt – ah, the bliss of not having to wear that uniform! My mobile was flashing; I assumed Jazz had sent me a text telling me how the auditions had gone. But it was Fergus.

  Hey! Missed you yesterday. Wanna come round?

  My heart did a funny fluttery skip-and-a-hop into my throat. It would be good to have a chance to spend time with Fergus without Kezia around.

  ‘Da-ad!’ I yelled as I hurtled downstairs.

  Silence.

  He wouldn’t have left the house without waking me, would he? I called again as I made my way down the hall.

  He hadn’t gone out. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other. He looked at me grimly.

  ‘Oh no . . .’ I whispered, shaking my head.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m afraid so,’ Dad said.

  ‘But you locked the cat flap, I saw you,’ I protested.

  ‘Unfortunately it seems our intruder is not put off by the simple addition of a lock,’ he said. He gestured with his head towards the utility room. ‘Take a look.’

  ‘Oh . . . !’ My skin prickled horribly as I stared at what had once been a fully functioning cat flap. The plastic door was hanging loosely by a thread, and the red lock had popped off and was lying pathetically on the floor.

  Dad had followed me in. ‘Thank goodness Jaffa was sleeping on your bed last night,’ he said. ‘I dread to think what the . . . whatever-it-is would have done if it had got hold of her after bashing its way in here. All I can say is, it must be really desperate, because there’s blood on the flap, look!’

  I took a step nearer and saw that Dad was right: red streaks stained the edge of the plastic door. The creature had hurt itself, and I’m ashamed to say that I was almost pleased. Served it right if it was going to come crashing into our home, terrorizing my kitten, stealing her food and even attacking poor Sparky.

  ‘What are we going to do, Bertie?’ he asked, running his hand through his already ruffled hair. ‘At least the whatever-it-is hasn’t been able to get upstairs. I don’t much fancy our chances against it either!’

  I shuddered. ‘We need help, that’s for sure,’ I said. ‘I was just going to go over to Fergus’s after breakfast. I’ll ask him if he’s got any ideas. Remember they used to have a cat, so maybe they’ve gone through this kind of thing too.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Dad doubtfully. ‘Worth a try, I suppose. Where’s Jaffa now, by the way?’

  ‘Still shut in my room.’

  ‘Best place for her for now,’ Dad said. ‘Right, well, I’d better get on. I’m taking Bex out shopping,’ he said, suddenly looking sheepish. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  I grinned. ‘No, Dad. I don’t mind.’ I gave him a hug. ‘I like Bex, you know that. She’s nice. And she’s been brilliant with Jaffsie.’ I guiltily recalled her mercy dash to school earlier in the week – for my benefit she had even kept that from Dad. ‘I’ll either be at Fergus’s or round at Jazz’s place. See you later.’

  After munching my way through a piece of toast, I quickly texted Fergus to say I was on my way. Then I hunted out a pair of trainers and pulled them on.

  Another good thing about Dad spending time with Bex, I thought as I crossed the road to number 15, was that he was too wrapped up in his own life to tease me about Fergus any more. When I first met Fergus, Dad was always flashing me a cheeky grin and raising his eyebrows knowingly whenever I mentioned his name. I had worked out quite a while ago that the best way of dealing with this kind of behaviour was to shoot Dad a particularly withering look and then turn my back on him, but now I didn’t even need to bother.

  I rang the doorbell, quickly running my hands through my hair, squaring my shoulders and holding my head high. Not for Fergus’s benefit, by the way. It was Fiona, his mum, who made me feel like a total scruff-bag. She and I got on well enough these days, but she had this way of sizing me up, looking me up and down with a slightly sniffy air to check out what I was wearing. This irritated me as well as making me feel uncomfortable, as until I’d met her I’d never been bothered about being scruffy: it was just the way I was. But she was always so immaculate. I was convinced she looked perfect even when she woke up first thing in the morning. Maybe she slept on her back with her hands by her sides, like Sleeping Beauty, and didn’t move a muscle all night . . .

  I was biting back a smirk at this image when the door opened. It was Fergus’s dad.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ I said, knocked off balance. I hadn’t expected Gavin to be at home. He was away so much with his work that I
hadn’t seen him for ages. He was in the music business, a fact Jazz had been ultra-speedy in wheedling out of Fergus when they had first met. He had always seemed lovely – friendly and cheery, and quiet too. (Not much like his wife!) I had long ago decided that Fergus might look a lot like Fiona, but he had definitely got his personality from his dad.

  ‘Hello, Bertie,’ he said, his face lighting up with a warm smile. ‘Lovely to see you! I’ll call Fergus. He’s listening to music in his room – probably got his headphones on with the volume turned up so loud he won’t have heard the door!’

  At that moment, Fiona came clip-clopping down the hall on her dainty heels, saying, ‘What is it, Gavin darling? I’ve got to shoot out in a sec to see that– oh, it’s you, Bertie darling,’ she said, catching sight of me just in time to plaster on one of her children’s-TV-presenter smiles. ‘Come in, come in.’ She stiffly held out one arm in as welcoming a gesture as I was ever likely to get from her and looked pointedly at my trainers. I took them off and left them neatly by the mat, as was expected of anyone who entered the hallowed shrine of Mrs Fiona Neat-as-a Pin Meerley.

  Gavin rolled his eyes at me from behind his wife’s back and then winked.

  Fiona showed me into her pristine monochrome sitting room. Not for the first time this habit of hers struck me as rather formal – at my house everyone automatically headed for the kitchen. I sat down nervously on the edge of one of the white armchairs, anxious as always to avoid leaving any mark. As I fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt, Fiona arranged herself neatly on a white sofa opposite me, patting the seat next to her for me to come and join her. She was rather like a cat herself, I thought, as I watched her smooth her already perfectly coiffed hair and arrange her skirt. I shyly moved to sit beside her.

  ‘So,’ she said crisply, ‘how would you say Fergie is getting on at school?’

  What? Wow, how to make a girl feel uncomfortable in one quick and easy step . . .

  ‘Erm, OK . . . I guess,’ I mumbled, staring at my knees. ‘I haven’t really seen that much of him, what with us being in different years.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s actually going to do some work this term,’ she said sharply. ‘He seems to be spending all his time playing with this band. Ah, there you are, darling!’ she said, turning to the door.

  Saved! I thought, the panic that had been rising in me easing at the sight of Fergus scuffing his socked feet against the carpet.

  ‘Hey,’ said Fergus quietly.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, willing his mum to go.

  ‘Right.’ Fiona stood up briskly as if reading my thoughts, and brushed down her skirt. ‘I’ll have to leave you two to it; I’m already late.’ She glanced at her watch and bustled out of the room.

  Fergus raised his eyebrows and waited until his mum was out of earshot. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Hope she wasn’t hassling you.’

  ‘No – checking up on you, actually!’

  ‘Oh?’ said Fergus, frowning slightly.

  ‘No, really – I’m just joking,’ I said quickly. Doh! What had I said that for?

  ‘OK, so . . . do you want to go out?’ he said.

  We decided to head to the park, and on the way Fergus told me about the band and how he was really chuffed Kezia had told him about it. ‘Not sure what I think of her though,’ he added awkwardly. ‘She’s a bit . . . bossy!’

  A warm sensation spread in my chest. ‘Yeah?’ I said. I was careful to keep my voice as uninterested as possible.

  ‘Mmm – kind of like Jazz on a really hyper day!’ he said, glancing across at me and grinning.

  ‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘Did you go to those auditions yesterday for the show?’

  Fergus looked at me blankly. ‘What show?’

  ‘You know – the one Kezia and Charlie are organizing for the end of term. They roped Jazz in – not that they had to try very hard, as you can imagine! She was well up for it. She hasn’t stopped going on about it – don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed?’

  Fergus was pulling a face and shaking his head. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘There weren’t any auditions. Anyway, I can’t see Kez organizing a show. Rashid reckons she’s got as much musical talent as a cat playing the violin!’

  His mention of the word cat reminded me why I’d been so keen to talk to him.

  ‘Talking of cats . . .’ I began.

  ‘Oh yeah! How’s Jaffsie? Man, I should’ve come round to yours this morning instead of dragging you over to ours to be interrogated by Mum. It’s ages since I’ve seen that crazy little scruff-ball.’

  ‘Hey! Who are you calling a scruff-ball?’ I said in mock indignation.

  We had arrived at the park. ‘Put it this way – she’s a lot like her owner,’ said Fergus. Then, flashing me an evil grin, he shouted, ‘Race you to the swings!’ and charged off, his long legs giving him an unfair advantage. I chased after him, giggling and shouting at him to stop.

  I skidded to a halt as Fergus plonked himself down on one of the swings and kicked himself off the ground. I dodged his legs and grabbed the swing next to him. Soon we were arcing through the air in tandem and shouting a conversation across to each other. Fergus howled with laughter when I told him that Jaffa had managed to hitch a ride to school with me – ‘So that’s why you were acting so weird!’ – and then looked grim as I gave him all the details about Sparky, finishing with the monster-through-the-cat-flap episode. He had stopped kicking and leaning back by this point and was letting the swing slowly come to a standstill.

  When I’d finished he let out a long, low whistle and said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before? You know I would’ve been, like, happy to help.’

  I shrugged, feeling my face grow hot. ‘You’ve been kind of busy.’

  Fergus looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I . . . I didn’t even think you’d want to hang out with me that much at school, to be honest. I thought you’d have tons of friends in your own year from your last school. And, well, I guess I’ve been trying to make friends in my own year too. And then there’s the band—’

  ‘It’s OK!’ I said. ‘I don’t expect you to look after me.’

  Fergus looked stung. ‘Right.’

  I immediately felt bad and started babbling. ‘So, any ideas how to get rid of the mystery marauder? Dad’s freaking out and threatening to keep Jaffa under permanent house arrest. Either that, or I reckon he might even make me get rid of her.’

  My voice caught in my throat as I said those last words.

  Fergus at once reached out and laid a hand on my arm. ‘No! He won’t do that. I won’t let him!’ he said rashly. He was silent for a moment. Then his expression began subtly to change from ultra-anxious via thoughtful through to I’ve-just-had-a-brainwave. His dark blue eyes flashed excitedly and he gasped.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just come up with the perfect solution.’

  ‘Yes?’ I asked. I felt a surge of hope wash over my gloomy thoughts.

  ‘Cameras!’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cameras!’ he repeated. He leaped off the swing, sending it rattling chaotically to and fro, and stood in front of me, waving his hands about like a loon. ‘The way to catch the monster is to rig up a camera in your utility room! Mum works in telly, right? So she’s got access to some pretty funky technology. Leave it with me. I’m sure she’ll want to help. You know how much she loves Jaffa,’ he said mischievously.

  I rolled my eyes, but I was grinning my head off. I had to admit, it was a pretty cool plan. I just hoped Fergus was right about his mum wanting to help.

  12

  Something’s Up

  Once we’d said our goodbyes, I thought about calling in on Jazz to tell her about Fergus’s genius idea. Even though Jazz had never cared that much about my pet, or anyone else’s for that matter (and that included her little brother’s guinea pig, Huckleberry), I knew that she would prick up her ears at the mention of the words ‘film
ing’ and ‘camera’.

  As I rang the bell, I realized Jazz hadn’t replied to any of my texts. I’d texted her a few times since Friday . . . Weird, I thought. She couldn’t have lost her phone again, surely? Still, phone or no phone, she had been so hyper about the auditions it wouldn’t be altogether surprising if she had forgotten I existed. Then I remembered what Fergus had said about there not being any auditions. There was an uneasy niggling sensation at the back of my mind, as though a voice was trying to warn me about something.

  I heard footsteps pattering down the hall. It was Jazz’s little brother, Tyson, who had come to greet me. As soon as he flung the door open with his characteristic energy I was hit by a wall of sound. The usual Brown Family Rumpus was going on inside: jazz’s mum was yelling at someone, someone was yelling back, horrendous music was thumping through the ceiling and a strange smell accompanied by rather a lot of smoke was coming out of the kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ said Tyson calmly.

  ‘Like the T-shirt,’ I said, raising an eyebrow at his orange and green top; it had the words ‘Weapon of Mass Destruction’ written across the front.

  ‘Cool, innit?’ Ty squeaked, jumping up and down suddenly for no apparent reason. ‘Sam sent it from New York.’

  Sam was the oldest Brown child – though he wasn’t a child any more. He had just left uni and was spending a year in the States doing something ‘totally boring’ according to Jazz. Jazz had an older sister too – Aleisha. She still lived at home, but wasn’t around much.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘any chance I could come in?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah,’ said Ty, still bouncing. He moved to one side and, filling his lungs, he yelled, ‘JA-A-A-A-ZZ! BERTIE’S HERE!’

  The shrieking at the other end of the house stopped abruptly and Mrs Brown came out of the kitchen, looking very unlike her normal unflustered self. Her face had smudges on it, her forehead was creased into a frown and her hair was rather ruffled.