Cat Flap

by Andrew Osmond

  Chapter Fifteen: Wednesday

  “The Beast of Exmoor was tracked by both the army and several specialist investigators, the most notable of whom - Nigel Brierly - concluded that there was not one, but several, mystery big cats - most probably pumas - at liberty in the region, perhaps as a result of having been released by a private collector.”

  Art would never have admitted it, but he actually quite enjoyed choosing what Luke was going to wear for the day. There was such a range of mix-and-match possibilities, all in their own miniature versions of the adult equivalents. Combat trousers and camouflage T-shirts, denim dungarees, and Bob the Builder jogging bottoms with matching sweatshirts. Art had not quite indulged Luke to the point that some other parents had, dressing their own children in designer label clothing and tiny Nike trainers, but he did generally take more time and trouble over his son’s presentation to the world than he ever did on his own appearance.

  This morning was different though; time was of the essence. Art had set his alarm clock for six o’clock. He would have liked to have risen even earlier, but common decency prevented him from presenting himself at Rupa’s door any earlier than seven o’clock. Seven o’clock! She would be furious. He just hoped that he could explain the urgency of the situation; just hoped that she would even open the front door.

  Luke was still half asleep: normally, he began to stir as it began to get light outside, but today Art was able to change his nappy and put him in a fresh outfit before he had fully opened both eyes. The small child yawned widely and then smiled as he looked up into the face of his father. He was generally an accommodating baby by nature: this early start might not be part of the normal daily routine, but he would run with it and see what his father had in mind. No point in voicing his disapproval quite yet, things might work out for the good, and provided that an imminent meal was included in the unscheduled plans, then chances were that he would be quite content. It was something that Art had not overlooked, and while he was scooping porridge into his offspring’s mouth with one hand, with the other he was packing his rucksack with some of the items that he considered that he might need that morning: notepad, pen, the pages he had printed out from the internet, his camera, a ruler for measuring any prints; he would have liked to have been able to take some casts but he didn’t have any of the right moulding plaster, if only Luke had been a little older he would have probably had buckets of the stuff around the house. Okay, everything was ready. He had his coat and backpack; Luke was in his buggy and had his bottle of milk with him, his change bag, a banana and a pot of edible orange mush for the day; he had his house keys, the gas was turned off, double-check that he had remembered to put on a pair of trousers - one of these days Art was convinced that he would walk out into the street dressed in just his boxer shorts, or was that just one of those anxiety dreams?

  It was still dark outside as Art rang the bell beside Rupa’s door. At first there was no reply and then finally, after a second ring, an upstairs window cautiously opened and an unfamiliar, and bleary-eyed, woman’s face appeared.

  “Who are you?” said the disembodied voice, “What do you want?”

  Art was momentarily confused, “Is this number 73? I’m sorry, I think I may have the wrong house. I was looking for Rupa. Rupinder...”

  The head at the window disappeared and was replaced by a second one, the expression on the face of the new arrival no less tired than the previous incumbent, but at least this time it was recognizable. “Art. Do you know what time it is?”

  Art found himself apologizing for a second time, “I’m really sorry. Something’s cropped up. I can’t explain now, but are you still able to look after Luke for me? You’d be doing me a massive favour.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Rupa, although not sounding as annoyed as she might have been justified in being. She continued, “Give me two minutes to dress and I’ll come on down.”

  •••

  Two minutes, plus a further two minutes of grovelling “thank yous” to Rupinder and her sister and hurried farewells to Luke, plus a further ten minutes of brisk walking, brought Art to the entrance at the station side of the park and to the first narrow foot bridge over the River Gade. From there it was only a short distance to the area outlined by Trevor on the phone the previous evening. Art just hoped that he had not already been beaten to the scene.

  Away from the glow of the nearest street-lights it was still surprisingly dark by the river, and even though the sun was just beginning to make an appearance above the tree-lined horizon the sky was a thick blanket of clouds that looked determined to ensure that its arrival would not be heralded by warmth and brightness. Even in the half light, though, Art was familiar enough with his location to be able to navigate a course through the criss-cross of tarmacked pedestrian trails until he found himself standing on a small, stone bridge over the canal, beside a row of half a dozen, white-washed, terraced cottages, from which a rough, gravel track led steeply uphill, disappearing at its summit into the trees, presumably linking this small, woodland community with the busy metropolis some distance beyond.

  Weak bridge was how Trevor had described it: ‘weak bridge’ was exactly what it said on the sign in front of Art now. Beneath the bridge, on the canal, several barges and a couple of squat, river boats, the height of their tarpaulined superstructures almost out-stretching their length, were moored, tied up by taut ropes to the stone side of the canal. From one vessel, a plume of white smoke billowed out from a narrow, rooftop chimney, the light vapour contrasting sharply with the dark water and lowering trees beyond, but otherwise there were no apparent signs of life. The houses were silent too: they were gloomy, lifeless-looking structures; their facades damp and cold, the white paint on their lower walls stained green with moss and algae as if they had soaked up the worst detritus of the canal; acted like a filtration sponge for the surrounding water table.

  Art followed the track downhill, across the bridge, where it ran past a high, wooden planked fence on the right-hand side and the open wood on the left-hand side. The ground here, sandwiched between the canal on one side and the river on the other, was boggy and water-logged, and the lower portion of each tree trunk here was submerged to a depth of several inches in black, still waters, across the top of which, in several places, thick, lime-green pond weed had formed a beguiling carpet, giving an initial impression of permanence and stability. The air smelt stale and mildewy, like a little-used basement full of old books, the atmosphere almost a tangible miasma, like the first stagnant breath of an inchoate world; there was a chill about the place too, that Art could not imagine would ever be relieved by the sun’s rays. Without that coldness, the scene could almost have resembled a miniature version of the Florida Everglades, or a remote corner of the Amazon basin, but unlike either of those rich ecosystems, which had the capacity to support a staggering diversity of life, this place felt dead, stagnant and putrefying. Which reminded Art: he had a corpse to find.

  The wooden fence was broken down in several places, and through one of the gaps in the planks Art peered through at a flat expanse of water too perfectly square in shape to have possibly formed naturally. These were the watercress beds, a cultivated area of wetland separated from the rest of the park by the wooden barrier and a series of white, hand-written signs, warning trespassers to keep away. The path that Trevor had described ran directly into this prohibited zone. Art, normally a great respecter of private property, on this occasion did not think twice: there was a man-sized hole almost beckoning him to penetrate the perimeter fence. It was an invitation that he did not turn down. There was still no one around and little prospect that anyone would ever emerge to confront him - after all, watercress, how much looking after does it need?

  The path petered out very quickly, leaving Art standing on a raised hummock of broken down and rotting reeds, beneath which the ground felt dangerously soft and spongy, in between two cress beds which, at this time of year, wit
hout any sign of their future crop, appeared as two unfathomable empty pools, their parameters meticulously marked by the aid of a thin, green plastic twine, which was stretched, with the aid of supporting poles, all around the boundaries of the water, at a height of just a few inches above ground level. Where the path ended, it was replaced instead by a thin, but steady, trickle of water, defiantly ignoring the restrictions opposed by the green twine, flowing between the left and right hand pools, and beyond this transient stream was thick mud, indicating that at some point in time the breach had been even greater.

  It was the mud that held Art temporarily transfixed.  Or, at least, the deep imprint, unmistakably that of a wild animal’s footprint, which was evident in the soft, brown ground, just a few feet away from the point where he currently stood. A short distance further on there was another track, this one slightly deeper than the first, although the impression of pad and toes was more indistinct.  Beyond that there was nothing disrupting the uniform, unblemished surface of the wet earth, suggesting that the creature that had left the tracks had stepped from the relative solidity of the reed cushion, padded twice into the soft and tell-tale mud, and from there had waded into the shallow waters at the edge of the cress beds.  Superficially, there was nothing here inconsistent with the tracks having been made by a puma. Although it is widely believed that big cats do not like water, the wild puma is adapted to a wide range of different environments, many living in rain forest and swamp conditions, some even making up the largest part of their diet with fish.  Art bent down to examine the print more closely and it was only then that he noticed the twist of white sinew and muscle protruding from the dark mud, grotesque and out-of-place, like a bone sticking out from the skin.  There was a glistening sheen of moisture on the surface of the exposed flesh as though it was covered in a protective dew, and across this slippery patina a couple of small, black beetles slid and persevered, trying to get a purchase on the unexpected bounty.  Now that Art glanced about, he noticed that he had passed a similarly gruesome-looking bundle a short distance back along the path he had already walked, and there was a further chunk of meat half in the water, close to where he stood.  It was all very much like the scene that Trevor had described discovering on the golf course: the same nugget sized pieces of flesh, naked and unnerving stripped of their skin and fur, but also bloodless and serene; the scene not quite conjuring up images of gory battle or recent violence, more redolent of a carefully staged still life.

  Art removed his camera from his rucksack and adjusted the lens, ready to take close-up images of the evidence before him. The light was still poor for photography and he had to open the shutter to its widest capacity in order to compensate; he could have used the automatic flash facility on his camera, but he did not want to introduce any artificial light into the pictures he intended to take. He should have brought along a tripod he realized now; it would have been useful to have had a long exposure time, but with a hand-held camera he could not risk the final images being blurred. Methodically, Art photographed each piece of flesh and both animal tracks from as many different angles as he could obtain a vantage point without adding his own footprints into the soft earth and so obscuring the overall scene. He then retraced a few steps back down the path in order to take several photos of the area as a whole. Next he retrieved the pen and paper, and the ruler, which had been inveigled into the deepest corner of his pack, such that Art doubted himself, momentarily, that he had even remembered to pack the item, and meticulously measured and recorded the dimensions of each footprint, plus the respective distances from each piece of meat to the next. Art, at this stage, was not entirely sure what he was planning to do with all this recorded data, but it seemed like a sensible scientific approach to catalogue the site before it was ultimately destroyed. He had had the foresight to pack several polythene sandwich bags and these now doubled up as secure specimen holders, into which he teased each one of the lumps of carcass with the aid of the ruler and a deft flick. Art wrinkled up his nose as the final piece was prized out of the mud with an audible noise of suction as though something unseen below the surface of the brown ooze was unwilling to let its vile booty be released. The pieces of meat were unrecognizable to Art, he could not construe from what living creature these denuded remains could once have belonged, they were just so much anonymous white flesh, the pale surface a tracery of thin red lines of vein and artery, but he thought that it should not be too difficult to find someone who could put a name to the unfortunate prey from the bits that he collected. That, at least, would be one step closer to identifying his quarry.

  Taken in isolation, Art would have been overjoyed, ecstatic, to have stumbled upon such an abundance of evidence to support the theory of the existence of a big cat in local residence, but because he already knew about the golf course site, it was impossible not to think of the whole tableau as an elaborate hoax. But performed by whom? And for what motive? Art realized that he was finding more questions than answers. He took a final look at the two footprints, an involuntary shiver running down his spine, as he realized that if he had not been so sure that he was looking at manufactured evidence, the contrary case meant that there was a dangerous predator in the vicinity, and perhaps still very close to where he was currently standing. He glanced about him, but the distant trees held no more menace than they had done previously and he did not have the uncomfortable sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. Quite the opposite, he felt very much alone.

  Unlike Trevor before him, it was a dilemma for Art whether to destroy the tracks in the mud but, concluding that nothing more could be served by their remaining intact, he retraced his steps only far enough to acquire a large stick, and then with the blunt end of his new tool obscured the soft ground such that no telltale marks remained for any would-be future investigators. He wanted to reread the notes he had pulled off the internet concerning pumas, but this hardly seemed the most conducive spot, instead he decided that his time would be more profitably spent speaking to some of the local barge owners to see if anyone had heard or seen anything suspicious in the woods. It was not a task Art particularly relished; he was not naturally gregarious, and far from his romantic notion of barge folk living in picturesque, brightly coloured longboats, the vessels that he had passed had almost without exception been strictly utilitarian, and he feared the reception that he was likely to receive would be unenthusiastic at best.

  It was with heavy steps that Art returned to the weak bridge, and not just because of the accumulation of muck on the soles of his boots.  It should have been a joyous occasion: he had been looking for evidence of a wild animal at large in the woods and now he had found it.  If only he didn’t have the associated doubts as well.  What does constitute authentic evidence?  Isn’t almost all cryptozoology data subject to critical scrutiny and charges of dubious authenticity?  Of course, there have been so many hoaxes in the past that it is often easier to be a sceptic than to be a believer: the Surgeon’s photograph of the Loch Ness monster has been discredited; the classic Big Foot film is thought to be a man in a bear skin.  Belief.  It wasn’t easy. Ask any martyr, it never has been.  Perhaps John had been right when he had talked in his cups about cryptozoology being a religion; Art knew that this should not be the case, that to gain any credence it had to be seen as an academic discipline with established criteria and provable objectives, but he recognized that, for himself, the element of faith was key to the pursuit.  He owed it to his religion to believe in this puma; he owed it to himself.

  Leaning on the white-washed balustrade that prevented the unwary, or unsteady, from plummeting from the brick-built bridge into the canal below, Art watched two swans, attempting to steal a march on the rest of their population in the race for reproduction, gathering material with the purpose of building a large nest on a raised bank, at a point where the stream bifurcated, one fork disappearing over a low cataract, the other joining up with the course of the main river. The birds’ position wa
s further isolated from the main path by the surrounding waterlogged ground. Across the marshy panorama, their bright, white heads reared and twisted, like prehistoric creatures in an antediluvian swamp, shifting twigs and plant debris, building up the sides of their reed-based love nest, their serpentine necks entwining sensuously before separating once again.  They worked diligently, unaware of their human observer. Art thought of Rupa: perhaps he could bring her here, she would be interested in seeing the swans.  Luke would too: he pictured his son’s outstretched, pointing hand, and exclamation of surprise when he saw the big, white birds.  Sandy might not prove such a popular visitor, but the swans appeared to have chosen the site of their nest well and Art thought that it would prove impregnable against the zealous dog. There were other little sounds: the crack of wood and leaf, and the furtive scurry of small feet in amongst the low undergrowth which spread across the moist ground like a shroud, concealing more than it revealed. Art occasionally caught sight of a small, dark bird, a sparrow perhaps, or sometimes a blackbird, as he turned towards each new noise from the forest floor, but more often than not his quarry remained invisible to him. So it was with the puma: the big cat could be mere feet away from where he currently stood, but without a noise or a movement to give away its presence, it would be as invisible to Art as if it was just a figment of his imagination, and Art did not need that fact reiterated to make him aware that that was still the most likely scenario.

  The barges remained silent and devoid of life, although the plume of smoke that he had witnessed earlier was still trailing up skywards from one boat. It was as good a place to start as any.

  •••

  Janet had not slept well. Sometimes the quiet, rhythmic sound of the water brushing against the hull of the barge and the louder, hollow thud as the wooden vessel rocked against the metal buffer on the stone wall of the side of the canal acted like a tranquillizer to her, transporting her into immediate and deep repose, but last night it had had the opposite effect. Janet had lay awake well into the early hours, listening alertly for each new night noise, unable to allow the regular sounds of the boat to merge into a background blur, keenly waiting for each fresh roll and thump. The whole evening had been a disaster. First, her parents had shown no sign of going out like they normally did on a Wednesday evening. Her mother had declared that she had a headache and wanted to have an early night, and her father had crashed and banged around in the main cabin, loudly complaining that they could have been enjoying themselves in the pub by now. Finally, he had left on his own, and her mother had locked herself away in their sleeping quarters accompanied, Janet suspected, with a bottle of whisky rather than a paracetamol. She had already been made late to meet Rob, but she was confident that he would wait for her. She had not been able to meet him last week, because her father had insisted that she accompany her mother to her aunt’s house for a few days, so he would be feeling desperate for her female ministrations by now. Janet had smiled: she was feeling pretty desperate herself. She had been halfway along the towpath, anticipation of her forthcoming union growing with each quickened step, when that idiot man from the barge opposite had stepped out from the woods and surprised her half to death. At first she had not recognized him; after the initial shock she had actually thought that it was Rob, having grown impatient of waiting under the tree and come to meet her, but as soon as he spoke she had realized her mistake.

  “Where are you going?” Tal had said. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Had it been her imagination, or had he lingered over the last word, drooling as though he had a mouth full of saliva?

  She had sounded guilty and confused, annoyed also, that she was having to justify her actions, “Just for a walk. You scared me.”

  Janet had not been able to see the expression on the man’s face in the darkness, but she had sensed him smile as he answered, “Why? Guilty conscience?”

  “No,” she had blustered, “Of course not. What do you mean?” she had added more angrily.

  “Nothing. I just wondered if your dad knew that you were out walking so late. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to see you come to any harm.”

  “I’m not a child,” Janet had said.

  There had been that lingering pause again, “No. Oh, I know that.”

  Janet had felt herself flush.  “Will you let me pass,” she had said, aware that Tal had effectively blocked the path ahead of her, such that she would have to either brush against the encroaching shrubbery to her left, or risk stepping perilously close to the open water on her right, if she didn’t want to actually press her body against his.  After a slight pause, as though to further establish that he was the person in control of this situation and that any concessions were only granted on his terms and in his time, he had stepped aside, allowing her to push by him, but even then she had heard his words behind her as she was swallowed up into the darkness, “What would your dad say?”

  It was something that she didn’t dare think about.  Her father would be livid if he got the slightest inkling that she had been sneaking out of the boat at night unchaperoned; incandescent with rage if he ever found out about Rob.  Except, of course, it didn’t look like she was going to have to worry about that possibility now.  That had been the thing that had capped off the whole evening: Rob had not shown up.  She realized that she had been late, but that was not normally enough to deter him, quite the opposite, sometimes it only seemed to sharpen his expectation; his desperation.  Even if he had grown weary of waiting for her, he normally left a note: a few hand-written words on a slip of paper, hidden in the hollow at the base of the tree - their letterbox as they had christened it.  But there had been nothing.  It was clear that he had not turned up at all.  Most likely, he had grown bored of her; had found someone else, one of the college girls he occasionally mentioned.  She did not really blame him.  What could she offer in comparison to them?  She had waited for a few minutes beneath the branches of the rendezvous point, but it was more to allow time for Tal to clear off rather than with any great hope that Rob would be coming now.  He was never late.  It was one of the things that she liked about him.

  Janet shuddered as she remembered returning to the barge in the dark, conscious that Tal’s watchful eyes could be focused upon her every step, viewing her from some invisible hiding place in the woods. She was aware that he watched her from his own boat each evening: at first, she had been flattered by his furtive attention; amused that she could exercise a measure of control over a fellow human being. Since she had met Rob she had been conscious that she had rationed her exhibitions; he had given her a self-confidence and respect that she had not experienced before, and suddenly her night-time displays had seemed cheap and tawdry to her. But now he was gone. Perhaps he had never really liked her. Why should he? What was she, after all? An uneducated bargee. They had had nothing in common. She had been stupid even to think that she could have changed her situation. Rob had been a lifeline to a different world: he would have introduced her to interesting people; he would have bought her nice clothes; she would have been taken to smart parties at big houses. Rob had talked about them all the time; he had promised to take her - next week, there would always be another one next week. He had provided a link between reality and the fantasy world that she only read about in glossy magazines. But that frail connection had now been severed. And so what was she left with? Tal? Or another of his kind. There were plenty enough similar chancers that she had met during her years on the waterways. But someone else like Rob: there was little prospect of ever meeting someone like him again.

  The tap on the window was so slight that at first Janet thought that it was just the wind rattling the surround where the glass met the metal casement, but when the noise was repeated, louder this time, she drew back the drape across her cabin window and looked out, to be confronted by a strange man’s face peering anxiously in, his nose almost pressed up against the glass. He drew back seeing her startled expression, but otherwi
se showed no signs of moving on.

  “What do you want?” Janet mouthed through the glass.

  The man made a series of complicated hand gestures which appeared to indicate that he would like to speak to her outside, either that or he was conveying a more complicated message in a form of semaphore that she was not familiar with.

  Janet held up a finger to convey that she would be one minute and then pulled the curtain back across her window, blocking out the stranger’s view. She was still dressed in only her night attire and she had no desire to add numbers to her voyeuristic audience ratings while she changed into her day clothes. He had looked all right, though, not the normal kind of loser who visited her father and sometimes disturbed the family at all hours of the day or night. Janet wondered what he could want. She also wondered what had happened to her mother. She had not heard her father return last night, but it was not unusual for him to stay away for days at a time, but she had not heard her mother rise early and leave the barge. Perhaps she had taken something for her headache after all, and was dead to the world in her own cabin. She would see what the stranger wanted first and then investigate.

  Once dressed, Janet opened the door at the front of the barge and stepped out on deck. It was cold but it looked as though it was going to be a nice day, the earlier clouds having begun to disperse. She stretched her arms wide, embracing the morning, and yawned.

  “Hello,” said the stranger uncertainly, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  Quite posh accent. Could it be one of Rob’s friends? Perhaps he had sent someone to explain why he had not turned up the previous night. A bit old, though, this bloke must be almost thirty. Janet could not really imagine her erstwhile boyfriend and this man having a great deal in common. Nice looking though - she could forget ‘old’ when there was ‘nice looking’ as compensation. Janet struck a self-consciously provocative pose, her hip thrust forward, her hand resting on her side, saying, “It’s okay. I was up anyway.”

  Art gulped. When he had chosen this barge as the objective for the first point of call on his investigations, he had imagined his encounter to be with a surly, unshaven canal-farer; a mariner with decades of experience of the waterways of England behind him; a man, basically. The young woman standing before him was something of a surprise. “Is this your barge?” he asked, rather lamely.

  It was a question that would have raised the suspicions of anyone. Janet’s brow furrowed, “What’s it to you?”

  Art blustered on, “I’m sorry. No, what I meant was... I mean, I’m just surprised. I was expecting...”

  “Do you want my father?” Janet asked aggressively. It looked as though this was going to just turn out to be another one of her father’s punters, a bit different to the usual deadbeats, but a loser none-the-less. She removed her hand from her hip and stuck her chin out confrontationally, bending down towards the man who, standing on the bank, was at a height disadvantage while she remained on board the boat.

  “No,” Art said, “I mean, not unless... No, I’m sure that you will do fine.”

  Janet looked confused, “What?”

  “I’m not explaining very well.” Art finally found his tongue, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Art continued hurriedly, seeing the sudden look of fear flash across the young woman’s face, “It’s nothing serious. I just want to...” He stumbled over his words, embarrassed now to explain the reason behind his visit, before eventually deciding just to leap in feet first, “This is going to sound crazy, but have you ever seen a big cat in the woods?”

  Janet’s expression changed from one of suspicion to one of amusement. When she realized that the man in front of her was earnest in his intentions she actually laughed out loud, before saying, “You’d better come inside and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  •••

  Like Janet, Tal had not slept well. He was feeling confused and also slightly worried. The initial plan for the previous evening had gone well, flawlessly even. Ray and Jack had been more than eager to lend their muscle, when Tal had explained that a barge daughter’s reputation was at stake and, if they had needed any further convincing, had accepted the fifty pounds he had offered as generous payment for work which was envisaged to be of no more than a couple of minutes duration. “Not too rough,” Tal had stipulated, “Just enough to scare him off.”

  Tal himself had taken up a position concealed in the obscurity of the trees, by the side of the canal towpath, ready to delay Janet should she decide to be early for her nocturnal tryst. The last thing he wanted was for Janet to walk into the beating that he had scheduled for her young lover. As it happened, his precautions were unnecessary: Janet had been late herself for the rendezvous, so much so that he had even had time to be able to meet up with Ray and Jack and have them confirm that the target had been “sorted”.

  “We left him there,” Jack had said, “Underneath the tree you said. Just where she’ll find him.”

  “He’s out cold,” Ray had said, “But he’ll come around shortly. We only gave him a tap. Just say the word if you want...” Ray had nodded to indicate that an invitation to further violence would not be an unacceptable suggestion to them.

  “No,” Tal had said. He only wanted to discourage Rob, not do him any serious harm. He had heard the way he had spoken about Janet when he had been eavesdropping in the supermarket, there was no real respect there, no real affection, she was just a ‘bit of rough’ to this young man from the fancy estate. A few bruises would be enough for him to tell her that he wanted to have no more to do with her. By the end of the evening their relationship would be in ruins. And who would be waiting in the wings, there to comfort Janet if she need it? Tal had smiled to himself. It was just a matter of waiting. She would come to him, eventually. She would beg for him, eventually.

  He had not been able to resist detaining her, when she had eventually come along the towpath that evening. She had looked so expectant, so happy, he could not prevent himself from slipping out from his hiding place and surprising her. It had been a mistake, he realized as much now. She had been angry with him. It was not the impression that he was hoping to create, but he had been excited. Oh, why had he been so foolish? Why, when he had waited so long, couldn’t he have been patient for just a short time longer and have her served up on a plate?

  He had returned to his own boat after leaving her; had gone the long way around via the small bridge, rather than risk following Janet and encountering her as she discovered Rob. He wanted that surprise to be hers, and hers alone. He had waited for her return, not knowing if it would be swift or long, not knowing how she would react upon seeing the broken body of her boyfriend, or how she would behave when he told her that he wanted no more to do with her. In the end, his vigil had been surprisingly brief. He had heard the quiet footsteps before he had seen her figure in the moonlight. She had been alone, which he had expected, but she had not been sobbing, as he had imagined in his perfect scenario, instead, she had boarded the barge much as she did on any other evening and, when her face had been momentarily illuminated as she opened the external cabin door and the light from within shone fully upon her, the expression revealed was one of mild annoyance, rather than the despair or horror that he had pictured.

  His first thought was that Ray and Jack had stitched him up, had taken his money without doing the job they had promised, but if that had been the case Rob would have been there at the rendezvous as arranged and, by now, the two of them would have been hard at it in the dark woods; there would be no reason for her to be returning so soon. Perhaps she had just not found him? Although Ray and Jack had been quite precise on this point, they had laid him out at the base of the tree - it seemed inconceivable that she wouldn’t have stumbled upon his unconscious body. Did she care so little, that she had just left him there?

  Tal had decided that there was little point in this idle speculation. He would do as he had always done. He would wait and he w
ould watch.

  •••

  Having initially congratulated himself on obtaining such a useful invitation, Art was now beginning to wonder if there was any escape from the submarine confines of the longboat; his shipmate was proving rather too hospitable for his liking and Art was fast becoming aware that it was not only information that his young companion was prepared to offer. He could not deny, though, that her initial confessions had been interesting, to say the least.

  “We heard it one night. A great cry it was. Scared us half to death. Me and my boyfriend that was. Not that we are together now,” Janet had continued, “That relationship is over.” She had glanced at Art mischievously, at the same time biting at her bottom lip with her front teeth.

  “Can you describe it any more?” Art had pursued. “The cry,” he had clarified, seeing that Janet would have been only too prepared to reveal any intimacies about herself and her former love.

  “It was terrifying, sort of inhuman.”

  “And when was this?”

  “A week or so ago.”

  “You can’t be more precise?”

  “No. Hang on, yes, perhaps I can. It was the last time I met Rob. You know, Rob, he was the one I was telling you about. Although we are not seeing each other anymore. It must have been Friday.”

  “Last Friday?”

  “No, the week before.”

  “And you’ve not heard anything since. Not last night, for example?”

  “No,” Janet said truthfully, before adding when she saw the look of disappointment pass across Art’s face, “I know someone that’s seen it though.”

  “What!”

  “A big cat, you say?”

  “That’s right,” said Art, excitement getting the better of both his reason and his manners, “When was this?”

  “Last night was it you said?”

  “That’s right,” confirmed Art.

  “Well that’s when he saw it.”

  “Who? Where? What?” Art could barely restrain himself from gripping hold of the young woman’s arms and shaking the information out of her, such was his desire to hear more facts.

  Janet, for her part, was both a little surprised and a little terrified at how effective her lure had been. She had only invented her imaginary observer in the hope of detaining Art for a few extra minutes, perhaps just long enough to seduce him with a winning smile or a quick flash of leg; she had been scared that as soon as he discovered that she had no new evidence to impart on the subject of his big cat that he would have been gone as swiftly as his elusive quarry. Now though, she suddenly saw a way of extending their association, perhaps even meeting him again away from the possible interruptions of either of her parents - something that she was keenly aware could occur at any moment. It would be one over on Rob too; screw him for standing her up, she could do better than him. To Art she said, “It’s just someone I know. I heard him talking about it. Saw it in the woods, that’s what he said,” she added.

  “Can I meet this person?” asked Art. “Can you tell me where to find him?”

  “I can do better than that,” said Janet, “I’ll take you.”

  “Great,” said Art. He began to head towards the door of the longboat, “Let’s go.”

  Janet had already worked out her plan, “I can’t now.”

  Art stopped in his tracks, looking dismayed, “Why not?”

  “He works the canals. You know, up and down, up and down. He’s not here any longer.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Just that he had seen a big cat. Huge, he said.” Janet’s description became more elaborate as she began to convince herself of the truth of her words, “I got the impression that it proper scared him. Two big eyes staring out at him.”

  “Was this at night he saw it?” Art asked.

  Janet studied Art’s face carefully, trying to judge from his expression and from the intonation of his words whether he was expecting a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ answer. Eventually, unwilling to commit herself to an incorrect response which might throw doubt upon the validity of her claim, she answered, “He didn’t say.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Janet could see that she needed to keep Art hooked; the meagre crumbs that she had offered him were not enough to sustain him for long, “He’ll be back again soon. It’s like I said, he travels up and down, up and down, regular as clockwork.”

  “When will he be back?” asked Art, desperate to cling on to any lifeline.

  “What’s today?” Janet needed time to think. Her parents would be in tonight and it was unlikely that she would be able to exit the longboat and meet this man without them finding out. The same was true of tomorrow.

  “Wednesday,” Art said helpfully.

  Janet was still weighing up her options. The day after tomorrow. It would have been one of her usual Rob nights. The coast was generally clear then. “Friday,” she finally said. “He’ll be back again on Friday. Not until late though. Around eight.”

  He was going to have to make arrangements about Luke again, but it was an opportunity too good to turn down; a chance to meet someone who had actually come face-to-face with the puma. “Shall I meet him here?” Art asked.

  “No.” Janet said the word quickly: that was the last thing that she wanted. “There is a tall tree close to the big canal bridge.” She pointed along the boat cabin in the direction that she meant. “It’s got a large ball of mistletoe at the top of it. You can’t miss it. I’ll meet you there and then I will take you to him.

  Art thought that he already knew the place that Janet described, “I’ll find it,” he said. He turned, opened the cabin door and began to climb back on deck, “Eight o’clock, Friday,” he confirmed as his passing comment.

  “Yer, see you Friday,” Janet said. Yer, nice bum, Janet thought.