He remained still and thoughtful for what seemed like an age. Rosemary was impressed by his deep cognitive reverie, his apparent contemplative serenity.
She liked him. He was thin and his face, neck and upper legs were covered in pinky sores. His coat was an intermittent ginger, and his eyes were half covered in their white sleep-sheaths. He was a bit like a mantra (she thought). When he was still and thoughtful there was something lulling and repetitive about him, something that pulsated calmness and tranquillity.
She went to the fridge and got out a bottle of milk which she poured into a breakfast bowl. She then opened a tin of spam and crushed it up with a fork on a plate. Every so often she peeked out of the window to make sure that he hadn’t moved. Rasputin remained erect and immobile. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rosemary moving about in her kitchen. The core of mad wilderness inside his scraggy chest fluttered and pulsated. He remained still, watching the light shimmering on the edges of his whiskers.
Rosemary opened her back door with infinite gentleness, bent down slowly and placed her bowl and her plate gingerly on the back step. She was sure the cat would run away.
Rasputin watched her and growled gently to himself. His throat vibrated like a guitar string. After a couple of seconds, before Rosemary had withdrawn – he didn’t give a damn – he stood up, stretched, and then marched towards the back step, Rosemary and the two plates. He wolfed down the spam and then (unlike most cats, who lap their milk with spiky tongues) he placed his face into the bowl of milk and sucked at the liquid with great force. He drank an inch or so (in depth) and then stared at Rosemary with a dripping visage. She smiled and offered him her hand to smell. He bit her hand and then dashed between her legs and into the house.
After washing her hand and dabbing it with TCP, Rosemary stealthily crept around the house, trying to locate Rasputin (by now he had been named), but he was nowhere to be found. The only indication of his presence was a large pool of smelly cat urine in the centre of her living-room carpet. Following ten or so minutes of fruitless searching she made herself a cup of tea and tried to concentrate on Bergerac again.
Rasputin sidled around the house like a blotchy marmalade shadow. He marked certain items of furniture with his own special cat scent, located in glands between and behind his whiskers. His tail was fluffed out like a stick of candy floss, his mood was predatory.
Eventually he returned to the living room. He sensed a tension in the air, he knew that Rosemary was ill at ease, uncertain as to his whereabouts, vulnerable. He tiptoed under the sofa where she sat and stared out at her two legs which looked to him like two pinkly fleshed chicken limbs; tempting, bitable.
Rosemary watched the concluding sequences of Bergerac and then, after yawning and gently touching and inspecting her still-throbbing bitten hand, stood up, picked up her tea cup and took several steps in the direction of the kitchen. Rasputin saw Rosemary’s lovely chicken legs move away, tensed his body and then sprang at them. He curled his midriff around her left leg with the aid of his front paws and pummelled the calf of this leg with his powerful back paws. He bit whatever flesh came to hand.
Rosemary was taken entirely by surprise. Her immediate impulse was to hit at the cat with the tea mug which she still held in her hand. The mug cracked resolutely against Rasputin’s skull and front teeth. She hit him three times before he released his grip and shot away in the direction of the hallway like a terrier down a rabbit hole.
Rosemary’s legs were substantially cut and bloodied. She dropped the cup – as though it burned her hand – then ran into the kitchen and shut the door. She poured some water into the sink and used some damp kitchen towel to wipe down her leg. After seeing to her cuts and bites she dug around in the cupboard under the sink and located an old pair of Wellington boots which she pulled gently on to each leg. As she completed this task and considered her options the doorbell rang.
Emily was on her doorstep, tired after a long day at work and keen to get her feet up with a nice cup of tea. Rosemary opened the door four or five inches wide and peered out at her. Emily smiled. ‘Can I come in?’ Rosemary looked warily behind her and opened the door slightly wider. She said, ‘I’m sorry Emily, but it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’
Emily’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it Gerald?’ She peered past Rosemary and into the hallway.
Rosemary shook her head. ‘No, it’s this cat I’ve got in the house. He’s a bit wild. I think he might bite you if you come in.’
Emily frowned. ‘Why on earth are you wearing your Wellingtons?’
Rosemary looked down self-consciously. ‘Well, he just bit my legs, so I put these on so he couldn’t bite me again. He’s slightly maladjusted but I’m sure he’ll settle down given time.’
Emily scowled and looked suitably petulant. ‘So I can’t come in for tea and a chat because you’ve got a wild cat rampaging about the house? For God’s sake, Rosemary, get rid of it. You don’t need this sort of responsibility at the moment. You’re too vulnerable. It’s silly.’
Rosemary bit her lip and looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s no need to say it, Emily, I know you’re thinking that I’ve only let this cat into my home because I recently lost Gerald and I’m trying to fill the vacuum that he’s left in my life, but it isn’t like that. I didn’t really invite him in, he sort of …’
Emily interrupted impatiently. ‘I wasn’t going to say that at all. In fact I was going to suggest that you took him to the vet’s in the morning. If he’s a stray he could have worms. Maybe you should have a TB jab if he’s bitten you.’
As Emily spoke, a loud crashing commenced upstairs in the vicinity of Rosemary’s bedroom. Rasputin had located Rosemary’s dressing-table mirror, make-up and perfume. Rosemary smiled apologetically and said, ‘I’m sorry Emily, I must go,’ then closed the door and ran towards the sound.
The following morning – Rasputin had been locked in the hall cupboard for the night, but not without a fight – Rosemary spent several hours luring Rasputin into a strong cardboard box to take him to the vet’s. She decided to wear her Wellingtons in case he escaped in the surgery, although she was sure that she must look rather foolish.
The vet stared uneasily at the howling cardboard box as Rosemary placed it on the surgery table. He said, ‘What’s in there, a banshee?’
Rosemary laughed. ‘No, it’s a cat. He’s called Rasputin. I wanted you to look him over to make sure that he’s in good health. I’ve kind of adopted him. He’s a bit highly strung.’
The vet frowned when he caught sight of Rosemary’s left hand as she used it to push a stray piece of hair behind one of her ears, ‘He’s scratched you to pieces.’
She nodded. ‘He got my legs last night, that’s why I’m wearing my wellies.’
The vet put on a pair of padded gloves and opened the box. Rosemary half expected Rasputin to burst out of the box like a streak of lightning, but he didn’t. So she moved closer to the box and peered inside.
Rasputin was lying in the corner of the box, on his side, limp and frothing. His eyes were rolling about distractedly and his mouth was covered in foam. The vet stared at him for several seconds and then closed the box again. He shook his head and took off his gloves. ‘I’m afraid that I’m going to have to put this animal down.’
Rosemary was devastated, ‘He wasn’t like this before, honestly. He was fine up until now. He’s just a bit erratic. I’m sure he’ll be all right.’
The vet shook his head. ‘He’s obviously brain-damaged. He’s dangerous. It’s kinder to put him out of his misery.’
Rosemary put her arms around the box and picked it up. ‘He hasn’t got brain damage, he’s just been mistreated and is a bit wild. I’m sure I can give him a good home.’
The vet smiled but didn’t look happy. ‘There’s nothing you can do for this animal. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist that you give him to me. Keeping him alive is cruel. If you don’t give him to me I’ll be forced to report you to the RSPCA.’
Rosemary didn’t put the box down; she took several steps backwards towards the door. ‘I know he gets excitable, but …’
She thought of the previous evening when she had seen him sitting still in the garden, deep in his reverie, peaceful, benign. ‘Sometimes he can be very gentle and peaceful. I’ve seen it. I’m sure that he’ll be all right.’
She turned and left the surgery.
The following three days were nightmarish. Rasputin took over the upstairs landing and Rosemary’s bedroom. He sprayed this territory with his cat scent and refused to allow Rosemary access to these two rooms. He had the advantage of height – which he used to the best of his ability – so that he could launch attacks on Rosemary from the top step of the stairs, thereby avoiding all intercourse with her Wellington boots. When he wanted feeding he sidled downstairs and mewed plaintively. At these times he seemed almost normal. Unfortunately, as soon as the food had been provided he became intensely tetchy and aggressive. Rosemary took to standing in the garden while he ate, fearing for his digestion and her skin. She bought him a cat litter box but he proudly refused to interact with it. Instead he left sizeable deposits on the carpets and urinated like a giraffe.
On the second day a stranger knocked at Rosemary’s door. She answered promptly, carefully peering up the stairway before venturing into the hall, and stared out at him through the crack in the door.
‘Yes?’
He was tall and muscular and had big square teeth like a sheep or a goat. ‘I’ve come to get the cat. RSPCA.’
He showed her his card. She slammed the door shut, ran into the kitchen and switched the radio on, ignoring the bell’s ringing.
That night Emily phoned. She was brief: ‘Has that cat gone yet, Rosemary?’
Rosemary felt paranoid. ‘Why should he go? No one wants to understand him. I know he’s difficult, but people have mistreated him. He can’t speak to defend himself so I have to defend him.’
Emily sighed and hung up.
On the morning of the third day Rosemary was standing by her rose bushes waiting for Rasputin to finish devouring his breakfast when the RSPCA man sprang into her back garden and pushed her up against the picket fence. She didn’t immediately recognize him. He held on to her arm with one hand and took out his card. He said, ‘Remember me? My name is Bill. I’ve come to get your cat.’
His hand on her arm was enormously powerful. She said, ‘Go away. Leave us alone. I’m all he’s got. He isn’t doing anybody any harm.’
Bill stared down at her and smiled, ‘How the hell do you know what he wants? Who gave you the right to decide anyway? You think you know what’s for the best but you don’t.’
He let go of her arm and strode into the kitchen. She ran after him. Rasputin was huddled in the corner by his food bowl. His eyes were hooded but he didn’t growl. He was so thin. Bill bent down and picked him up. Rasputin didn’t struggle. Rosemary was amazed. ‘He’s so calm with you. How do you do it?’
Bill smiled. ‘He knows that I want to help him. Do you have a box?’
She moved towards him. ‘Please leave him with me. I’m sure I can make him better.’
He stared at her in silence for a minute or so and then said, ‘Are you very lonely?’
She clenched her fists, furious. ‘Don’t patronize me.’
He grinned, and his face was like the face of an extraordinary animal, a buffalo or a moose. He said, ‘I’m going to kill this cat because it is the kindest thing to do.’
She wanted to cry. ‘You don’t understand …’
He put Rasputin down gently and then stood up straight again. He filled the kitchen. Something about him made her dizzy. An energy was in the room. Rasputin seemed very small and insignificant, like a mouse or a tiny kitten. Bill said, ‘I do understand. I want to show you something.’
He put his hands to his waist and unbuckled his belt. Rosemary gasped. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her with the belt or expose himself. She watched his hands as he undid his buttons and then slid his trousers from his hips.
She could barely believe what she saw. His thighs and legs were completely covered in soft brown fur. He bent down and untied his shoes. He said, ‘I have to adapt my shoes so that they look realistic, as though they are supporting a whole foot instead of just a hoof.’
He removed two large, round, yellowy hooves from his Argyll socks. They made a horsey clip-clopping noise on her tiled floor. She felt uncomfortable but couldn’t resist saying, ‘Do you mind if I feel your fur?’
He shook his head. ‘Feel free.’
She stroked his fur back into place where it had been ruffled by his clothing. He smiled as she stroked him and then said, ‘I bet you want to know the answer to two questions, but you are too afraid to ask.’ He paused. ‘Firstly, how was I produced, from a woman or a goat? Secondly, do I operate effectively in the sexual arena as a man?’
She smiled and blushed slightly. ‘I must admit, I was wondering …’
He grinned. ‘Well, I’m afraid we’ve got more pressing matters to discuss at the moment.’
He nodded towards Rasputin who was lying on his side near a puddle of urine. Rosemary picked up a cloth and ran it under the tap. She said, ‘I’m going to clear this mess up and then I’m going to make us both something to eat and drink.’
Bill shrugged his shoulders, ‘Whatever you say, but remember, I’m a very determined character.’
He picked up the dishcloth and stared at it ruminatively. She caught him just in time, and, snatching it away said, ‘Hang on a minute! I like that dishcloth. I know you goats eat just about anything, but today I want you to have a proper breakfast. We’ve got a lot to discuss.’
Later they ate a delicious meal of eggs, beans and mushrooms and drank mugs of steaming coffee.
Praise
NICOLA BARKER’S eight novels include Darkmans (short-listed for the 2007 Man Booker and Ondaatje prizes, and winner of the Hawthornden prize), and Wide Open (winner of the 2000 IMPAC Dublin Literary Award). She has also written two prize-winning collections of short stories, and her work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She lives in east London.
WINNER OF THE DAVID HIGHAM PRIZE FOR FICTION
WINNER OF THE PEN/MACMILLAN SILVER PEN AWARD
From the reviews of Love Your Enemies:
‘The most impressive literary debut of the season’
Elle magazine
‘Nicola Baker has a rare writing talent and looks set to inject some badly needed new blood into the tired and cautious world of English publishing’
Time Out
‘Barker’s clear, uncluttered prose is a treat … she’ll soon be on the library shelf, between Amis and Barnes – where she belongs’
Spectator
Other books by the same author
Reversed Forecast
Small Holdings
Heading Inland
Wide Open
Five Miles from Outer Hope
Behindlings
Clear
Darkmans
Burley Cross Postbox Theft
Copyright
Fourth Estate
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First published in Great Britain by Faber and Faber Ltd in 1993 and in paperback in 1994
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES. Copyright © Nicola Barker 1993. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-00-743603-3
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 978-0-00-746247-6
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