The Call of the Cat Basket

by James Barrie

A Penny for the Percy

  There was a huge explosion. Then the sky lit up green. Then a high-pitched whizzing went overhead. A star exploded, pink and green. Then came a volley of short sharp bangs, like machine gun fire. It was as though Theodore was caught up in the middle of a warzone.

  Whoever invented fireworks should have a rocket inserted up their rectum, Theodore thought, flicking his tail from side to side.

  He carried on down Low Petergate. There were many shop signs hanging over the crowded street. One sign read: ‘The Cat Gallery’. I didn’t know cats could paint, he thought. We cats are a species of many talents.

  He turned left into Stonegate and spotted the bulky rucksack passing through the crowd. He dashed after it, giving a purple man on a purple bicycle a wide berth.

  The man in mauve was a living statue, who made his living by posing as a windswept cyclist on Stonegate. He also collected money for charity. His mission was to spread love and happiness throughout the world. He had been to war-torn Syria, where he had handed out a thousand soft toys to the surprised children. They were surprised to see him as they had never seen a purple man before.

  Miles stopped and Theodore stopped.

  Miles was staring down at a crumpled, dirt-streaked Guy Fawkes mask, lying in the gutter. He picked the mask up. There was a warning sticker inside. ‘Keep Away From Fire,’ it read.

  A man wearing the same style Guy Fawkes mask approached.

  ‘They’re selling them on Coney Street for a tenner if you want one,’ the man said.

  Miles stared at the masked face. ‘What do you know about Fawkes?’

  ‘They’re cutlery, aren’t they?’

  ‘Fawkes… Guy Fawkes,’ Miles said.

  ‘That Fawkes,’ the man in the mask said, who happened to be studying seventeenth century history at York University. ‘Well, he was born around here, someplace. He went to St Peter’s School in Bootham. His father died when he was a teenager. Guy was executed outside Westminster, the place they had planned to blow up rather ironically, on the thirtieth of January 1606…’

  ‘He was a scapegoat,’ Miles cut in.

  ‘He was responsible for placing the gunpowder and guarding it. He was culpable.’

  ‘He was just one of thirteen conspirators. It was Thomas Percy who funded it. Catesby and Percy were the ones behind the scheme. Fawkes was just employed because of his military background. His knowledge of explosives.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we hear more about this Percy?’

  ‘Well,’ Miles said, deliberating. ‘It doesn’t have the same ring, does it? “A penny for the Percy.” “Let’s put a Percy on the bonfire.”’

  ‘I wouldn’t want my Percy burning on a fire.’

  ‘This is not a joking matter,’ Miles went on. ‘When arrested, Guy Fawkes claimed he was John Johnson, servant of Thomas Percy… It was Percy who had put him up to it. It was Percy who had financed the plot. It was Percy’s name which appeared first on the arrest warrant.’

  ‘So what happened to this Percy?’

  ‘Percy fled to the Midlands where he met up with Catesby. They engaged with government forces and, they say, Percy and Catesby were killed by the same musket ball. They were buried but later exhumed, so that their heads could be put on spikes outside of Parliament. They got off lightly…’

  ‘So why do we only hear about Guy Fawkes then?’

  ‘Fawkes was tortured. His torture was so cruel that he could hardly sign his name to his supposed confession.’

  ‘The Attorney General told the court that each of the condemned would be “put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both. Their genitals would be cut off and burnt before their eyes, and their bowels and hearts removed. They would then be decapitated, and the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed so that they might become prey for the fowls of the air…”

  ‘So, on the last day of January 1606, Fawkes and his fellow plotters were dragged from the Tower to the Old Palace Yard at Westminster. Fawkes was the last to be sent to the scaffold. Weak from torture, he was helped by the hangman to climb the ladder to the noose. He managed to climb so high that the drop broke his neck, and he was saved the agonies promised him. He was taken down, quartered and his body parts sent out to the four corners of the kingdom…’

  ◆◆◆

  For Fawkes’ sake, thought Theodore. This is turning into a horrible history lesson.

  Theodore, like many cats, was not keen on history. In fact it had been his worst subject at school.

  Then he felt hands tighten around him.

  The Good Samaritan

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Becky said. ‘It’s that cat that’s missing. I saw it on Facebook.’

  ‘Looks like a street cat to me,’ her friend Sam said.

  Sam backed into a shop doorway, still clutching the cat. ‘I’m sure it’s him. His name’s Theodore.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a collar on,’ Sam said. ‘Just put him back down. You can tell he doesn’t want to be picked up.’

  Theodore struggled in Becky’s grasp. His manhunt had been halted by millennials. Excuse me, he thought, but I have the important business of catching escaped convicts and crooked bankers who would prefer you dead.

  ‘Just leave him be,’ Sam said. ‘He’ll find his own way home.

  ‘This woman on Facebook was really worried,’ Becky said. ‘What with it being Bonfire Night and all. Pets shouldn’t be allowed out. I need to contact her.’

  ‘But we’re missing the protest. And I heard that there’s going to be a gig in the gardens later on. There’s a rumour that Radiohead are flying over from America to play just one gig and then fly back tomorrow, just to highlight the threat from climate change…’

  ‘Then the sooner we get Theodore returned to his owner the better. Here you hold him and I’ll find the post on Facebook. She’s probably in town somewhere looking for him.’

  Becky passed the cat to Sam.

  Her day had not gone well. When she had arrived at the shoe shop on Pavement that morning, she found out that the shop was due to close. Herbert House was to close for renovation and the shop’s lease was not being renewed. She had been manhandled by escaped convict Milton Macavity in the alley behind the shop. She had then had to go with the police to Fulford Police Station, where she had made a statement.

  She had told the police what Milton had said to her about there being some terrible plot for that evening and his brother being behind it, but the police hadn’t seemed to take it too seriously. The escaped convict was trying to take attention away from himself and what better way than to claim there was going to be some form of terrorist plot planned for the centre of York. They probably had a point, she’d thought, once she had managed to get home.

  ‘This protest is a bit of a let-down anyway,’ Becky said. ‘I mean there aren’t even any TV cameras. If it’s not on the telly, there’s no point in doing it, is there? We need exposure.’

  ‘But we have to make a stand now,’ Sam said, taking Theodore. ‘Before it’s too late. There is no Planet B, remember?’

  Becky was wearing a T-shirt that read, ‘There is no Planet B.’ It showed a forlorn polar bear heading towards a pine forest, a mountain range in the background.

  Theodore struggled in the hands of his new captor.

  Sam held onto him, pulling him tightly against her chest. Her T-shirt read, ‘Help More Bees. Plant More Trees. Clean The Seas.’

  Get Off, Please, thought Theodore, still struggling.

  He understood that the two young women were trying to help reunite him with Emily. Unfortunately they were impeding his attempts to stop Miles.

  Becky took out her mobile and opened Facebook. She searched her groups until she found the ‘Pets – Lost & Found – York-UK’ group. She scrolled down until she found Emily’s post.

  ‘I think we’ve found your cat,’ she wrote. ‘We’re outside the Teddy Bear Shop on Stonegate. Please come quickly! Not sure how long we can hold onto him…’
/>   ‘You take him back,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t think I can hold onto him much longer.’

  She passed the struggling cat back to Becky. Becky slipped her mobile into her jeans pocket and then took Theodore. She held him with both hands so that he faced away from her, his hind legs dangling down.

  ‘We’ll be missing the speeches,’ Sam said.

  ‘We can’t let him go though,’ Becky said. ‘He’s scared out of his mind. We need to do the right thing. We need to reunite him with his owner.’

  Emily and Jonathan made their way back to the entrance of the Museum Gardens. More protestors were entering the gardens and they had to make their way against the flow.

  ‘I need to get home and lie down on the sofa,’ Jonathan said, holding his nose between two fingers to stem the bleeding.’

  ‘You can go and lie on the sofa,’ Emily said. ‘I’m not going to return without Theodore.’

  By the entrance someone was handing out flyers. Jonathan waved one away when it was pushed towards him.

  Emily felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She backed up against a wall and clicked on the alert.

  ‘Someone’s found Theodore,’ she said. ‘He’s at the Teddy Bear Shop on Stonegate.’

  She texted, ‘I’m on my way. Five minutes max. Please don’t let go of him.’

  Then she said to Jonathan, ‘Come on. We’re going to get Theodore.’

  And she pushed through the crowd on Museum Street.

  ◆◆◆

  Becky felt her mobile pulse in the back of her jeans.

  ‘Sam. Get my phone from my back pocket. I think she might have responded to my message.’

  Sam took Becky’s mobile. ‘You have an alert,’ she said. ‘She’s responded. She’s on her way.’

  Looks like you’re coming home whether you like it or not, came the voice of the cat basket. Your little adventure is at an end. I’ll be seeing you soon no doubt. Then we can get reacquainted…

  It’s not over ‘til the fat cat miaows, thought Theodore. He kicked backwards with his hind legs, catching Becky in the stomach with his claws.

  ‘That hurt,’ she gasped, but she did not let go. ‘Your owner is on her way. Just stay still, will you?’

  Theodore stared out into the crowd, expecting to see Emily approach. But instead he saw Miles with his bulky blue rucksack hurry past.

  He kicked out with his legs again but this time Becky pulled her body backwards and managed to avoid his claws.

  He glanced from side to side. He spied some flesh on her arm that he could just about reach. He twisted in her grasp.

  This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me, he thought. Then he twisted to one side and bit Becky on the arm.

  She cried out in pain and dropped Theodore to the ground. She looked at her arm that was bleeding just above the wrist.

  ‘This is turning out to be the worst day of my life,’ she said, staring after Theodore’s grey tail as the cat disappeared into the crowd.

  The End of Purpleman

  Milton knew he had to return to the crowded streets and find Miles, before his brother could carry out whatever fiendish act he had in mind.

  He pushed his way through a large group of people at the entrance to the Museum Gardens. He noticed some protestors lying down in the road in front of Pizza Express, stopping the traffic from passing through the city. Police officers stood by the protestors. Car drivers blew their horns in frustration. Milton watched on as a police officer stopped a taxi driver from dragging a Radiohead fan from the road.

  He stared at the crowd for his brother. There were so many masked faces. There were those in Guy Fawkes masks. Then there was a smaller group of people wearing cow masks, their black clothes daubed with white paint, so that they resembled Friesian cows. They carried a banner that read, ‘Dairy is Scary!’ Then there were people wearing badger masks and also dressed in black and white. They carried a banner that read, ‘Innocent Till Proven Guilty!’

  His brother may well have got a mask. He might even be dressed as a cow or badger. He shrugged his shoulders in despair; perhaps he should have stayed put in prison.

  Then he remembered his brother had been carrying a rucksack. A large bulky rucksack. He needed to find the rucksack and his brother.

  He turned, pulled his Guy Fawkes mask down and set off towards the Minster. That was where most of the crowd seemed to be drifting. That would be where Miles was heading.

  As he walked, he remembered the last time he had seen his brother.

  He had caught the National Express down to London. His trial was coming to a close and he was about to be sentenced.

  On the coach, he noticed other travellers reading tabloids. His brother’s face was on many of the front pages. The headlines read:

  DISGRACED FINANCIER

  BANKER WANKERED

  GREEDY SWINE

  TIME TO PAY THE PRICE

  The general public had no sympathy for the former banker. Scapegoat or not, he epitomised the hated public-school-educated City types who received massive bonuses while they worked long hours for little reward.

  Outside the court, Milton watched from the crowd of onlookers as Miles was brought out. His eyes darted among the crowd.

  ‘Miles!’ a woman shouted.

  Milton looked across and saw Carol, Miles’s wife. Milton had never met Carol Macavity but he recognised her from photographs in the newspapers. Miles’s former personal assistant and then trophy wife.

  ‘Carol?’ Miles said, uncertainty in his voice.

  The crowd quietened down, suspecting some outburst of emotion. Cameras flashed. Television cameras turned from husband to wife and back again.

  ‘I’m divorcing you!’ Carol cried in a Cockney accent. ‘And I’m going to take you for every penny you own.’

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  ‘You’re finished,’ she went on. ‘I’ll make sure of it!’

  Miles didn’t respond. He let himself be led to the waiting Amey van.

  As he passed, Milton called out, ‘I’ll write to you!’

  Miles turned and caught his brother’s eye. ‘Don’t bother,’ he called back.

  Some of the crowd had begun to chant, ‘Wanker Banker! Wanker Banker! Wanker Banker!’

  Milton watched as the van doors were closed; then he turned and began to walk back to Victoria Coach Station. Miles was the only family he had in the world. But then if what Miles had implied was true, they were only half-brothers. His own father was a ginger-haired former neighbour he had never known. He felt very alone as he walked along the crowded streets of the Big Smoke.

  Milton was brought back to the present with a jolt. Someone had shoved him as they passed by. He looked up and saw a man with a big blue rucksack pushing his way through the crowd. It was Miles. Milton started after him.

  ◆◆◆

  Miles was making his way down Stonegate towards York Minster, the rucksack on his back.

  He glanced at the faces of the young people around him, in their T-shirts with slogans and cheap plastic masks.

  It is easy to be idealistic when you are young, he thought. These kids would have it kicked out of them before too long.

  By his forties, Miles had already spent twenty years in the dog-eat-dog world of finance. It was trample or be trampled on.

  The traders were known as fat cats but they were more like feral cats, fighting over the meagre scraps dropped from the dining table of the top cats, the few who really ran everything.

  Under his breath he quoted:

  ‘Remember, remember the fifth of November,

  Gunpowder treason and plot.

  We see no reason

  Why gunpowder treason

  Should ever be forgot!’

  He pulled on the straps of the rucksack. There was quite a weight in the bag. I’m going to give you a fifth of November to remember!

  Then he heard a shout from behind him. He turned and saw a man wearing a Guy Fawkes mask coming straight at
him.

  ‘Miles!’ Milton shouted. ‘Stop there!’

  Miles turned back round but he didn’t stop. He carried on, past the purple man on his purple bike. He pushed people aside, shouting at them to get out of his way. The crowd parted, pushing themselves to the sides of the street.

  Milton saw the purple man on his purple bike. One of those living statues, he thought. Another person trying to make a living by not doing much of anything.

  He pushed the purple man off his bike. A purple pot of coins crashed onto the pavement; silver and gold coins spilled out onto the flagstones. The bike fell to the ground. Milton snatched it up. He would soon catch up with his brother on this purple bike.

  He jumped on it and pressed the pedals. But they did not turn.

  ‘Bloody useless thing! he shouted, as Miles turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

  ‘It’s a prop!’ Purpleman shouted from the ground.

  Two men approached. They were dressed in black shirts and trousers but wore purple ties.

  They were security guards employed by Purpleman to protect him from drunken racegoers, stag and hen parties and football fans. It wasn’t the first time that Purpleman had been pushed off his bike.

  One of the security guards helped Purpleman to his feet; the other turned to Milton. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘I needed to borrow a bike…’

  Milton threw the bike back onto the ground. ‘It’s bloody useless…’ A purple toy dog fell from its purple basket at the front of the bike.

  ‘I know you,’ the security guard said. ‘You’re Milton Macavity… The so-called Napoleon of Crime. Been reduced to stealing bikes, have you?’

  Milton raised his hands to his face. Somehow he had lost his Guy Fawkes mask.

  The security guard had a walkie-talkie. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need some assistance.’

  Purpleman replaced his purple hat which had a small purple camera mounted on the top. ‘I’ve had enough!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve been sworn at, spat at… had things thrown at me. I’ve been pushed off my bike. I’ve had enough.’