by James Barrie
‘Oh, rubbish,’ Trish said. ‘They just fancied a day out.’
‘Maybe they have a point,’ Jonathan said. ‘Politicians aren’t doing enough. If we don’t start changing our ways, our children are not going to have a planet left. Man has altered the Earth to such a degree that in geology, we even have a new name for it: the Anthropocene Epoch…’
‘Have you chosen a wine to go with the saltimbocca,’ Trish said. ‘Now where is the waiter?’
She understood that it was poor etiquette to bring up sex, politics or geology at the dinner table.
‘Perhaps the chardonnay,’ Patrick said.
◆◆◆
The Holy Trinity is the only surviving church in York with box pews. The Victorians took a dislike to the old box pews and threw most of them out; they preferred people to sit in rows.
Within one of these box pews, Oliver made himself as comfortable as he could in his damp clothes and began to swig from a two-litre bottle of cider.
The partitioned-off room had been historically reserved for lepers. They would sit in the wooden enclosure, segregated from the rest of the congregation, and observe the service through a peephole in the screen.
‘Not a bad start to our career,’ Oliver said. ‘What do you say, Smoky?’
Theodore voiced his opinion that any form of career was beneath him and he objected strongly to being called Smoky.
The back of Oliver’s hand put a swift end to his protestations.
Theodore stared at Oliver’s fingers. They were pink and swollen from the cold. They looked like big pink sausages. He took his chance and sunk his teeth into Oliver’s fat forefinger. He held fast but Oliver’s other hand grabbed him by the skin of the neck. He let go of the finger.
‘You little blighter!’ Oliver shouted.
He held the cat at arm’s length in front of him.
Theodore struggled.
‘Not so fast, little cat,’ Oliver said. ‘We’re business partners, remember? You need to learn the ground rules.’
He grabbed at Theodore’s collar. ‘What do we have here then?’
He picked up Theodore’s silver name tag that hung from his collar. The silver disc was engraved with his name and Emily’s mobile number.
‘Theodore, is it?’
Theodore tried to cry for help but no sound came out.
‘Well, it’s Smoky from now on.’
Then Oliver went to work with both hands. It took him some minutes to remove the cat’s collar with his swollen fingers. He threw the collar as hard as he could across the church.
With his hands around Theodore’s neck, he said, ‘We are colleagues, you see? Me and you. A team…’
Theodore struggled once more to break free. It was hopeless he knew. He still had the bootlace around his neck that was tied to Oliver’s wrist.
With the loss of his collar, he had taken another step away from his former life of safe domesticity. A few hours ago, he had been complaining about the tardiness of his food bowls being filled and dirty nappies being dropped on him from small heights. Now he had been stripped of his sole vestige of civilisation.
His collar told the world that he had owners, a home, a human family. Even if he managed to escape from Oliver and the life of the street, he wasn’t sure that he could find his way home. I should never have left the safety of the yard, he thought, not for the first time that day. He let his body go limp.
There’ll always be another cat to fill the basket, the voice in his head said. You will be forgotten and replaced by a new kitten, who will appreciate me more than you did.
He will not venture into town after escaped criminals. He will be content to stay by the radiator and wait patiently for his bowls to be filled. You will soon be forgotten. Emily will move on. We all know that the answer to departed cat is a new one.
Even Oliver noticed the change in Theodore’s temper. He put the cat down on the wooden seat beside him.
‘Oh, come on. It’s not all that bad,’ Oliver said. ‘Life on the streets has its rewards. You’ll see. We are free souls. Wanderers of the world. Free from the trappings of society. Unencumbered by mortgages, debts and taxes. We are free to come and go as we please…’
Well, I beg to disagree, Theodore thought, straining against the bootlace tight around his throat. I was free before. Free to lie in my cat basket all day.
Oliver took another swig of cider. ‘You’ll get used to it. You’ll have to. You’re with me now. We’re a partnership, right?’
Theodore closed his eyes defiantly. I will never get used to this life. The street is no place for a respectable cat.
‘I’ve even got you a little something.’
Oliver reached into his plastic bag and took out a pouch of cat food. He ripped it open along the top. He tried to tear down the side of the pouch but it wouldn’t open out. He squeezed the pouch onto the wooden floor. Then he placed the cat on the floor facing the small mound of cat food.
‘There you go, Smoky.’
Theodore sniffed the food. Carcass scrapings was his verdict. He turned his back to the brown heap of food, raised his tail high and let out a stream of urine. That’s what I think of your cheap supermarket-brand food.
‘You’ll learn to eat what you’re given,’ Oliver snapped. He took a long swig of cider. ‘You’ll learn.’
After drinking two two-litre bottles of cider and half filling an empty one with urine, Oliver fell asleep and began snoring.
Theodore felt the bootlace slacken from around his neck. Now was his chance to escape. He tried to duck out of the noose but it got stuck around his head. He pulled against it but then Oliver snorted in his sleep and jerked on the bootlace. Theodore was dragged closer to the drunken Oliver.
He managed to place a paw across the bootlace so that it was held tight in front of his face. He began to chew against the waxen black thread, grinding it between his teeth. A minute later he had freed himself.
He darted into the corner of the box pew. He glanced back at his adversary.
Oliver jerked erect. He stared at the cat, his eyes yellowed and bloodshot. Seconds passed before he realised what was going on. Then he stumbled to his feet.
Theodore jumped up on top of a wooden partition.
Oliver lurched forward.
Theodore darted along the partition, narrowly avoiding Oliver’s grasping hands.
Oliver fell to the floor.
Theodore navigated the wooden partitions of the box pews, making his way to the church entrance.
Oliver managed to get to his feet. He picked up a urine-filled bottle of cider and flung it at the cat.
Theodore jumped down onto the church floor as the bottle flew through the air. The bottle of amber fluid hit the stone wall behind him with a whack.
‘You damned cat!’ Oliver shouted.
And Theodore exited the church into the grey day and ran. His life spent begging on the streets of York was over.
Utter Shambles!
Oliver sat on a bench in the churchyard. It was raining steadily and his shirt was wet through. On the bench was a little brass plaque. It read:
‘Benjamin Bartholomew
Liked to Sit in this Churchyard.
R.I.P.’
From time to time Oliver Bartholomew glanced at the little brass plaque and took a gulp of cider.
‘Daddy,’ he said to himself, as there was no one else to hear him, ‘I miss you.’
And he sat on the bench in the rain and cried to himself.
◆◆◆
Kings Square was once home to a church, its yard used to keep flocks of animals before their slaughter by the butchers that were located in the Shambles. Blood flowed down the middle of this little street in medieval times. On this dull November day, blood would once more flow. But this time it would not be the blood of animals but human blood.
Theodore spotted Milton as he entered Kings Square from St Andrewgate. He had spotted the pink and white trainers Milton wore along with Jonathan’s blue
hooped socks. Otherwise he would not have realised it was him, as he was now wearing a Guy Fawkes mask like many people in the street.
Milton had snatched the Guy Fawkes mask from a table in the beer garden of the Keystones pub. He’d avoided the more popular streets, heading down Aldwark and then St Andrewgate, before he was faced with the crowd that thronged Kings Square.
An escapologist entertained the crowd. Many people had come for the protest march that evening, that had been dubbed the Million Mask March, but in the meantime they were playing tourist in the city. Milton was now one of the anonymous faces in the crowd, indistinguishable apart from his footwear.
As Milton made his way through the people he jostled a pair of Japanese tourists.
The woman said to her husband in Japanese, ‘It’s him… the escaped convict, Takeharu. Remember we saw on the news. They said he is wearing pink and white trainers, remember?’
‘You’re right, Yoshi,’ Takeharu said. ‘We must stop him.’
So the Japanese couple set off after Milton. They caught up with him in the Shambles. These days the butchers’ shops have been replaced by Harry Potter shops with names like ‘The Shop That Must Not Be Named’.
Takeharu placed a hand on Milton’s shoulder. ‘I know who you are,’ he said to the masked face. ‘You are the one the police are looking for. It is your trainers that give you away.’
Meanwhile Yoshi called the police on her mobile phone.
Milton turned to face the tourist. He was over a foot taller than him. ‘Get out of my way,’ he growled from behind his mask.
‘No,’ Takeharu said, ‘you will wait here until the police arrive.’ He placed a hand on Milton’s shoulder. ‘My wife is on the phone to them now.’
Milton glanced around. There were many people wearing the same mask that he had found discarded in the beer garden of Keystones. Some of these masked faces were now turning to him.
One of them said, ‘Is that man bothering you?’
‘Well, yes,’ Milton said.
‘You leave off him,’ a masked man said.
‘Excuse me?’ Takeharu said.
‘You leave him alone,’ the masked man said. ‘He’s with us.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Sod off, suit,’ a masked woman said.
‘You don’t understand. This man must be arrested,’ Takeharu protested.
‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I am a surgeon,’ Takeharu said. ‘A paediatrician.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I think he said he’s a paedo.’
‘A paedo? Let’s have him!’
The masked woman pushed Takeharu. A man jostled him. He was surrounded by malevolent plastic faces. He fell to the ground. People piled on top of him. Then there was a punch to his head. Blood gushed from his nose. He raised his hands to protect his face.
The masked crowd kicked at his body. Some of them began to chant, ‘One solution, revolution!’
Yoshi was pushed to the edge of the fray. ‘Takeharu!’ she screamed.
‘Yoshi!’ Takeharu gasped from beneath the scrum of masked protestors.
Theodore looked on from the windowsill of a shop. In the window there was a hand-written notice that read:
THIS WINDOWSILL IS OLDER THAN YOU. PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON IT.
I’m sure it doesn’t mind, thought Theodore.
He watched as one of the masked men broke away from the melee and carried on down the Shambles, past the queue outside a Harry Potter shop. He was wearing pink and white trainers.
He looked on as Milton turned left at the end of the street and into St Crux Passage.
Takeharu had given up trying to protect himself. He lay slumped in the middle of the road. The crowd began to lose interest and parted around him. Yoshi ran to her husband’s side.
Two mounted police officers entered the street from Pavement, their horses’ hooves clipping the sandstone flags.
Theodore’s gaze followed the mounted police officers, as they approached the Japanese couple. He noticed a street sign.
SHAMBLES, it read.
Yes, Theodore agreed: Utter Shambles!
He jumped down from the windowsill, skirting the queue of Harry Potter fans. He had no time for teenage wizardry. He set off again after Milton.
◆◆◆
Back at Caesars Italian restaurant, Emily, Jonathan, Trish and Patrick were looking at the dessert menus.
‘Isn’t that Barbara from Scarborough over there,’ Trish said, glancing at a woman at the next table.
Patrick looked up from his menu. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘I thought she’d moved to Market Harborough.’
‘No, Trish said. ‘You’ve got her mixed up with Shirley from Wortley.’
Just then Emily’s mobile phone rang.
‘I think I might have found your cat’s collar,’ a woman said.
‘Where was it?’ Emily said.
‘In Holy Trinity Church,’ the woman said.
‘That’s not far from us. We’re on Goodramgate. Can you wait there? I’ll be there in two minutes.’
‘I don’t have time, I’m afraid,’ the woman explained. ‘But I’ll leave it on the altar, so you can find it.’
‘OK,’ Emily said. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
Once Emily had returned her phone to her coat pocket, Jonathan asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Somebody’s found Theo’s collar. It’s in a church just off Goodramgate…’
‘Theo must have followed us into town.’
Emily got to her feet. ‘We need to go and look for him. He can’t be far away… We need to find him.’
‘But we haven’t had dessert yet,’ Patrick said.
‘Dessert can wait till we get back to Acaster Mildew,’ Trish said. ‘Now you sort out the bill. We will go on ahead to Holy Trinity Church.’
Emily had already crossed to the pram, where Joseph was sleeping. Jonathan got to his feet too. A minute later they had set off to retrieve Theodore’s collar and search for the missing cat, leaving Patrick by himself at the table waiting for their bill, the dessert menu still in front of him.
Milton Gets a New Pair of Shoes
Theodore stopped on the corner where the Shambles meets Pavement. Pavement is actually a street, so called because it was the first bit of road to be paved in York, back in 1378. Before then, it was known as Marketshire and was probably a bit muddy.
There was a small rectangle of grass adjacent to St Crux Church Hall. A low stone wall provided some protection against the passing hordes of humans. The top of the wall was studded with silver circles, where the former iron railings had been sawn off to be melted down as part of the war effort in the 1940s. However, most of the iron collected was not required, and the government of the day quietly disposed of the metal rather than admit it was more for propaganda than bullets to kill the enemy.
Theodore stood up on his back legs and peered over the wall. He scanned the passing people but saw no giveaway pink and white trainers.
You might as well give up the chase now, came the voice of the cat basket. Cut your losses and come on home. Who knows what else might happen out there? Oliver might be out looking for you. And if you do manage to locate Milton, he will probably stamp on your tail and not give it a second thought.
Behind the wall someone had left a half-eaten chicken burger even though there was a bin only yards away. He looked across the road and spied the Yummy Chicken shop from where the burger had originated. Behind the wall there was other human debris, mainly disposable coffee cups. Have you ever known a cat to litter? thought Theodore. We leave the world as we find it. If only humans behaved the same…
Theodore pawed at the grease-proof wrapper, exposing the remains of the chicken burger in a bread bun. He pawed away the bread. He noted that the chicken was smothered in white sauce.
Mayonnaise! If there is one thing Theodore could not stand, it was mayonnaise. Yummy Chicken! I don’t think so, thought Theodore
.
There are fresh biscuits waiting in your bowl, the cat basket said temptingly, and fresh water in your bowl.
Theodore blinked his eyes to rid his mind of the image of his food bowl. But his stomach growled insistently. He had not eaten all day. This was no time to be picky. He needed nourishment if he was going to continue the pursuit. Perhaps he had been a little quick to turn his tail up at the pouch offered by Oliver.
He took a bite from the burger and tried to chew without smelling. He gulped down the meat. This was not eating. This was survival. Survival on the streets of York. At this rate, he would be devouring mice, tails and all, by the end of the day.
With each mouthful of chicken, he realised he was moving further away from domesticity, further away from the comforts and boredoms of civilisation. He was stepping towards the life of the street. A life of constant danger. A primordial existence.
A man was sitting further along the wall. He wore a pin-striped suit and a pink shirt. The pin stripes of the suit were pink to match the shirt. The suit was crumpled and the shirt creased. There were flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of the jacket. The man had a dried smear of white on his stubbly chin. Mayonnaise, thought Theodore. It had to be the litter lout.
Theodore narrowed his eyes and folded back his ears.
The man had a bulky rucksack on his lap. He was bent over the rucksack, fiddling with something inside. His eyes were narrowed in concentration.
A young girl wearing a Guy Fawkes mask approached. She veered towards the suited man. As she got near to him, she spat on the ground.
The man looked up. Then he looked down at his shoes. Spit coated the toe of his right brogue. He looked at the girl who had spat on his shoe.
‘What’s your problem?’ he shouted after her.
On the back of her black leather jacket were the words painted in white, ‘CAPITALI$M $UCKS’, and a portrait of Che Guevara. She did not turn round.
