Cat Flap

by Andrew Osmond

  Chapter Sixteen: Wednesday night

  “In May 1992, Ron Mills, a mechanic from Tipton in the Midlands, encountered what he described as a large lynx-like cat with tufted ears, foraging around beside dustbins on a housing estate in the centre of town.”

  There was a smell of rotting wood and wet, decaying leaf matter and also something else, something musky and alive, a rich, pungent smell that made his nostrils flare with repugnance.  All things considered though, Rob was just happy to be able to experience his sense of smell at all, and it had been the throbbing pain in his head that had made him throw up the moment that he regained consciousness, not the unpleasant olfactory sensations that he was picking up from his surroundings. He had still not summoned up the courage to open his eyes, instead he had been trying to gather as much knowledge of his environment as he could from the messages brought back by his other four senses.  Smell, he had decided, was not altogether encouraging.  Taste was largely useless to him, although the rich, body smell of sweat was so thick in the air that he felt as though it could have almost been ladled into his mouth, and he was only sure that the essence was a smell rather than a taste because his mouth was efficiently sealed by a tight gag which made any oral sensation or communication impossible.  And hearing?  He had listened at some length, silent himself in order not to miss the smallest noise, but there was not a sound, not the rush of the wind blowing, or the rustle of leaves in the trees, not a bird call or the slightest sound of life, nothing except the steady beat of the blood running through his veins, pulsing loud in his ears as though he was hearing the noise from deep inside the earth on which he lay prone.  It was odd, his hearing was proving the most contradictory of all his senses; he felt sure that he must still be somewhere within the woods, but all the natural, outside sounds were somehow blocked to him.  It was as though he was entombed in a protective womb, impregnable to anything beyond its mothering walls.

  He was left with touch.  He was aware that his wrists were bound and that his hands were uncomfortably tied behind his back, and any sensation that he might have felt there had long since disappeared from where he had been laying on top of them for he didn’t know how many hours.  The rest of his body ached exhaustingly from the beating he had received; his ribs felt bruised perhaps broken, and his head was thick with the blow that he had received to his forehead.  He was glad that he could not see or touch his nose; he could feel the dryness of what he presumed was congealed blood on his top lip and in his nostrils but he did not like to contemplate what sort of a mess the front of his face was in - a Picasso painting could be his mirror.  The thought made him smile, and then laugh - laugh until the pain in his chest was unbearable - and then cry until he drifted back into unconsciousness again.

  Waking for a second time, Rob felt, rather than actually witnessed, that the atmosphere around him had changed slightly.  It had got darker: even without opening his eyes he was aware that the amount of light he was experiencing on the closed lids above his retinas was perceivably reduced.  It was colder too.  He shivered, and this time because of the chill and not through fear alone.  He was quite certain that he was alone: despite the all-pervading animal stench, there were no other indications of another living presence in close proximity; no sounds of breathing, no movement at all.  He opened his eyes now, but he already knew that they would tell him little: the darkness was total.  He could only guess that he was in a cave, or a warren of some sort, certainly he felt caged, the sense of claustrophobia was intense, the walls of his tomb hemming him in even if he could not actually see them. How had he come to be here?  He had to presume that his nocturnal attackers had brought him here with a purpose as yet undisclosed.  He could feel a tight cord around his ankles, adding to his shackles, but he was not restrained so completely that he could not move at all.  He arched his back as best he could and tried to edge himself forward caterpillar-style, bringing his bent legs up to his chest and then straightening out full length once again, inching along head first, on his left side, each movement an agony of bruised limbs and tired muscles.  He did not know in which direction he was travelling; whether he was burrowing deeper into the ground, or if he would suddenly break through into the fresh air and daylight.  He did not have long to speculate before he was halted abruptly, his head striking something hard and solid, and he realized that he had reached a dead end. Dead end. The thought suddenly struck him: what if his captors did not return? He had assumed that he was being kept prisoner for some specific reason. But what if that was not the case? He might have just been left here, in this burrow in the ground, like a discarded mattress; too awkward to shift far, too big to dispose of completely. Perhaps they had assumed that he was already dead? Or that they had deliberately buried him alive. Perhaps there was no way out of this tomb? Panic momentarily took possession of him. Too many thoughts, too many questions.

  •••

  “...and their offspring are usually born in a cave, a hollow at the base of a tree, or a dense and protected thicket.  A typical litter would be one to four cubs, but up to six is not unknown.” Art was reading aloud to himself from some of the notes that he had gathered from the internet. He still harboured doubts about the authenticity of the evidence that he had gathered that morning, but he could not help but be excited about the prospect of interviewing an eyewitness - that in itself might open a few doors into the cryptozoology clique; might be worth a small article in a respected journal, perhaps even a feature in one of the national dailies if the source proved informative and reliable.

  Art read on, to the accompaniment of the computer printer whirring in the background as it churned out some more downloads pertaining to his subject. “The adult puma can weigh up to 100 kilograms and reach an overall length of over six feet. The puma has a lithe, muscular body and, for a cat, a comparatively long neck and elongated trunk, and a relatively small head, crowned by small, rounded ears. The tail is heavy and cylindrical. The puma’s colour varies widely across its range, but the classic pelt would be tan coloured, usually with whitish markings around the lower face and throat.” Art smiled at the use of the word ‘pelt’: he had obtained his information from a website devoted to tracking, and it was only too apparent that the compiler was more acquainted with seeing the dead carcasses of the cat than the living animal.

  “Despite obviously looking like a big cat, pumas show many of the attributes more commonly associated with small cats. They have a thick layer of fibrous tissue covering their larynxes, which means that, unlike most big cats, the puma can purr continuously, and they can also produce very high pitched shrieks and screams, because the hyoid bone in their mouth is completely ossified.” Art recalled Janet’s description of the cry that she had heard in the woods; if he had any reason to doubt her evidence it was not being born out by the account before him.

  “Deer are the puma’s primary food, but they will supplement their diet with smaller mammals, such as raccoon, porcupine or marten.” Well, none of those were particularly relevant here, thought Art. “When larger prey is not available, pumas have been known to sometimes eat fish, rabbits, and even reptiles and insects. They are opportunistic, adaptable killers, generally preferring to hunt by night, and can often prove a menace to livestock and domestic animals whenever they come in close proximity to human settlements, although normally pumas try to avoid humans and reported incidents of attacks on people are very rare. A puma’s home range can vary over several hundred square miles of territory, subject to availability of food.” It was the fact that Art had been trying to deny most. There was no reason to suppose that even if there was, or had been, a puma living in his local woods, that it would stay around for any length of time. His meeting with his informant was on Friday: it seemed like a lifetime to wait. And what of HPL200890? Art wondered how his mysterious rival was currently spending his time? Most likely down the woods at this very moment, a high-powered night-vision scope at his eyes, perhaps already trained on
the object of their quest.

  Aware that it was fruitless to speculate on things outside of his control, Art decided instead that he could spend his time more profitably by ringing Trevor. Since returning from the park this morning, he had been racking his brains as to who he could contact to help identify the remains that he had discovered: Trevor would not be able to help himself, but he was a man who knew people and Art was sure that he would be able to put him in touch with a handy contact. As it turned out, Trevor was already one step ahead of him.

  “Spoke to him last week,” Trevor said, after listening to Art’s request. “You know I told you that I found some lumps of flesh myself. You didn’t think I just put them in my deep freeze ready for Sunday dinner, did you?” he joked.

  “I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Art, “So what did he say?”

  “I haven’t heard back yet. He’s a busy guy.”

  “I thought you said that he owed you a favour.”

  “He does. But not a very big one. Anyhow these tests can take time and he doesn’t have access to the lab twenty-four seven.”

  “Well, let me know as soon as you hear anything,” said Art.

  “Will do,” promised Trevor.

  “I’d love to get my hands on the police report of the first killing too,” said Art, “I wonder if there were any similarities between the death of the dog and the two sites that we discovered?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” said Trevor. “Listen Art, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you, right.”

  Art replaced the receiver, but still kept hold of the hand-piece, lost in his own thoughts.  There was little else that he could do until Friday, unless Trevor managed to get back to him in the meantime.  Rupa had agreed to come around on Friday evening and baby-sit while he went out - “what else would I be doing on a Friday night” she had said sarcastically, although she had reassured him that she was only joking and that she would be delighted to help out, and that Luke had been “as good as gold” that morning.  His relationship with the young Indian woman had not quite taken the direction that Art had hoped: he could have hired a babysitter if he had wanted one, but an understanding friend was not so easy to come by.  It was his own fault, he realized.  He had hardly set up the best circumstances for romance.  Perhaps after this big cat business was over?  Art lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a new number.  He heard the connection tone and then waited for ten rings before hanging up.  He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock.  It would still be early afternoon in New York.  It was not surprising that there had been no answer: Amanda would still be at work. Art considered dialing her office number and then thought again: she would not want to be disturbed if she was in a meeting.  Perhaps he would try again later.  There was always later.  It was the lifetime consolation of humanity.