Cat Flap

by Andrew Osmond

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Sunday night

  “In December 1993, veterinary lecturer Sally Dyke and her husband Nick were investigating reports of A.B.C. sightings around Inkberrow, Worcestershire when they were attacked by a huge black cat, the size of a Great Dane dog, whose claws ripped through Sally’s jacket leaving deep scratches on her skin.”

  Vince had been counting down the days to Sunday.  The regular nightly gatherings he had previously organized had been thrown into something approaching turmoil since the last assembly had been so dramatically and - to Vince’s mind - mysteriously dispersed.  The devil that had so violently flung himself into their midst that evening, had had nothing to do with Vince or any of his planned illusions; he had been more surprised than anyone else when the unexpected interloper had barged directly into their ceremony, just at the point when he had been preparing for his own grand finale to that evening’s events.  Not for one minute, though, did Vince attribute any supernatural quality to the unwarranted disturbance; the elemental that had unceremoniously rushed past him and who had knocked Graham clear off his feet had been pure flesh and blood.

  If the premature break-up of the last meeting had been a disappointment to Vince, the reports that had been appearing in the local newspaper were even more frustrating to him: what had the idiot reporter been thinking? What was the point of tipping him off to a story if he goes and writes something completely different? Here he was trying to plant the idea that the Great Beast was abroad, summoned, of course, by the potency of his own incantations, and what does the journo write about?  Big cats!  Nonsense! And the Web was no better: he had hoped that he could start a spot of healthy debate in some of the fortean chat rooms by rubbishing the newspaper articles about the puma and fuelling the idea that the creature at large was of a more Horned variety, but he had found no fellow stokers for his fire. He had regularly checked back into the email account he held, under the pseudonym of HPL200890 - a code he had adopted from the initials and birth date of his favourite author - but the in-box remained stubbornly empty, no one apparently interested in entering into his homemade conspiracy theory. Vince was effectively having reinforced a lesson that he had been taught throughout his whole life: if you want a job doing you have got to do it yourself; there is no one else out there that is going to lend you a hand. For Vince, the current job in hand was a spot of self-promotion, to build himself up to appear as a genuine conjurer of supernatural powers; a consort of demons; a mover in the black arts. And the purpose? His ultimate goal was unchanged: Zoe. From the outside, it might appear that there were more straightforward - more conventional - courses that could be adopted in the pursuit of the seduction of a young woman: flowers were normally a fairly safe bet; poems worked in some cases; even the direct approach, a no nonsense question, “Will you? Won’t you?”. For Vince though, it was not just a simple question of wanting to possess her body - although, of course, he was not averse to the idea. No, he wanted something more, something that he had seldom ever received from another individual, or at least not from one whose opinion he valued: he wanted her respect too.

  Respect. For a second, the thought halted Vince in his tracks and made him examine himself critically. It was already dark in the park, and just as well, so that no one else would be likely to see him. Respect? How could he really expect it from someone else, when it was not a feeling that he even had for himself? Under cover of the obscurity of the night, Vince started a character assassination of himself, talking out loud in a low, mumbled voice, as though entering into a conversation with an unseen critic. It was a habit he had developed at home, speaking to himself: it was at least preferable to having to engage either his mother or his sister in conversation, and despite his computer’s best attempts at being a friend, the electronic box in his bedroom had remained steadfastly mute, except for the occasional electric bleat in its own peculiar language.

  “What were you thinking? Look at yourself. You’re a joke.” Vince’s voice faded away to an unintelligible monotone, his lips still moving rapidly though, indicating that he was mentally carrying on his self-abasement. From beneath the concealment of his long coat he drew out a strange, stuffed carcass, and angrily threw the dead creature on the ground. “Idiot,” he cried allowed, “What were you thinking?” he repeated. The animal, on closer inspection, appeared to be a stuffed badger, rather moth-eaten and old, a hole in the underside where the taxidermist had originally stitched it up now burst open, the material stuffing leaking out like spilled guts. Vince gave the unfortunate creature a punt with his foot, as though he were kicking a rugby conversion, sending the animal into a short orbit into the darkness. Vince mumbled a few further obscenities under his breath, before recovering his strange possession from where it had come to rest, at the base of a large chestnut tree, just off the main pathway. He stuffed the badger back beneath his coat, protectively, the rigid legs jutting out preposterously, distorting his own outline, the tail protruding between two buttons in his coat, giving him the appearance of wearing a bizarre sporran. Respect? He just prayed that he did not bump into Zoe now, before he had had a chance to properly assemble this evening’s props.

  •••

  It took quite a bit of frantic explaining before Art was finally put in touch with someone directly involved in the investigation of the disappearance of Robert Waterhouse: the garbled and excited theorizing of a man, who by his own admission had been in the woods pursuing an imaginary puma, was not the kind of tip-off the police generally regarded with anything other than scepticism.  When, by sheer persistence, he eventually penetrated the obstructive barrier of desk staff and, retelling his story each time, worked his way up through the ranks of uniformed police hierarchy until he was finally put through to Detective Sergeant James Leigh, Art was rewarded by a more sympathetic hearing. Initially having offered to conduct a thorough search the next morning, Leigh was eventually persuaded by Art’s urgency - and also by the threat that he would go looking by himself if he didn’t obtain any assistance from the police - and by five o’clock that afternoon a team of three uniformed constables, Leigh himself, Art, and Rupinder, who insisted on accompanying Art in the capacity of nursemaid and general minder, were assembled at one of the car parks adjacent to the woods, as close as it was feasible to get, by car, to the point where Art recalled hearing the cry, which he had now convinced himself was the sound of a man in need of assistance. Leigh was far from so sure himself, but, much to his personal chagrin, he had still been maintained as officer in charge of the disappearance of the Waterhouse boy, and although he would have preferred to have devoted his energies to the longboat murder investigation, where the kudos for solving the crime was so much greater, he knew that he had a duty to follow up all leads in the missing person case, however slender they appeared.

  It was already dark by the time the search party had abandoned their vehicles and, after a short walk along the track leading from the car park to the solitary house where Art had so recently lain unconscious, illuminated along the way by the powerful torches of the policemen, he was then able to retrace his steps to a point, as close as he could judge, where he had heard the distress call in the woods.

  “It was around here, somewhere.” Art said, staring into the impenetrable blackness of the trees, adding, his words belying their tone, “I’m pretty sure.”

  Leigh addressed Art and Rupinder, “You two stay here, on the path. I don’t want you wandering around getting lost in the darkness. My men will handle the search from here.”

  “Be careful,” Art advised, “There are some deep swallow holes in amongst the trees. The ground falls away quite steeply and unexpectedly in places.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be careful,” Leigh said sharply. “Fan out,” he called to the three young constables, “If you find anything call out, but otherwise try not to make too much noise. In this darkness we’ll be more likely to hear if there is someone in need of help, rather than actually pick him
out with the torches. Don’t go too far afield either. I don’t want to have to send out a search party for any of you lot. It’s almost five thirty now. I want you all back here by six o’clock. If we haven’t found anything, we’ll move on and try further along the path.” He added to Art, as a final shot before disappearing into the trees, “Just in case you haven’t remembered the spot correctly.”

  Art and Rupa were left alone. It was cold standing still and they were conscious of not wanting to make any undue noise by talking, since the police searchers were maintaining a silent vigil, keenly listening in order to pick up any telltale sounds from the gloomy forest. Art felt Rupa’s hand on his arm, the fingers walking down the sleeve of his jacket until they reached his own exposed hand, her fingers interlocking with his own.

  “You okay?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Yes,” he hissed back.

  “How’s the bump?”

  It took Art a second to realize to what Rupa was referring. He stroked the back of his head, where a thick padding of white bandage concealed his injury, “Better, thanks,” he said. “It’s stopped throbbing,” he said, quietly.

  They stood in silence again for several minutes. Two torch beams were still visible to them, each cutting a narrow pathway of visibility through the murk, like a machete chopping through lianas. Further distant, the other two policemen could still be heard occasionally, each time they moved forward, or when one of them paused to call out Rob’s name.

  “Do you think they’ll find him?” Rupa asked eventually.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I was mistaken. I’ve been wrong about everything else.”

  “The puma?”

  Art shrugged his shoulders, “I just don’t know. I still want to believe it exists. What do you think? Can you sense it out here? Do you feel its presence, somewhere in the darkness, watching us unseen?”

  Rupa glanced around theatrically, imagining how she would feel if she did glimpse two large, slitted, yellow eyes staring back at her from the cover of the undergrowth, but there was nothing, not a tingle down her spine, not the sensation of the fine hairs standing up on her arms or on her neck, to indicate that she genuinely entertained the notion for a second. She did not want to dash Art’s dreams though, replying, “Maybe if I was here on my own, maybe then I’d sense it more. You know how it is, having all these coppers trampling around, I just don’t think the vibe is right.”

  “You’re being kind. It’s okay. After all, what would I have done if I had come face to face with a real puma. It’s no real mystery that there are big cats loose occasionally in the countryside.”

  “It would have been nice to know for sure though if there had been one here.”

  “Perhaps. Although perhaps it is the not knowing that is the real appeal. It is like believing in Father Christmas as a kid, even though you may suspect that he doesn’t really exist you want to carry on believing so much. Once you know something for sure, it soon fades into history and is something of an anticlimax.”

  The couple were silent again, before Rupa asked, “What time is it?”

  “Why?”

  “I just wondered how much longer the sergeant would carry on searching.”

  Art looked at his watch. “Five to, I think. The battery is going, I can’t see too well. Hold on. Shush. What was that?”

  “What?”

  Art held Rupinder’s arm tightly, urging her to be quiet and to listen. The sound of the wind shaking the branches of the trees was all around them. For some reason Art was reminded of a line from a T. S. Eliot poem, Rhapsody on a Windy Night, “Midnight shakes the memory, as a madman shakes a dead geranium”. It was as though they were in the midst of a thousand madmen. Instinctively, he knew that this was the catastasis of the whole affair. Further away, the four policemen were still audible, but it had been a noise much closer to hand which had caught Art’s attention. He concentrated hard in order to block out all other distractions, desperate to hear if the sound was repeated.

  “Help. Help me, please. Someone.”

  The voice was very quiet, with a strange echoing quality to it, as though it had travelled a vast distance to reach the huddled duo and barely had the strength left to recount its message. What was peculiar, though, was that the origin of the sound appeared to be surprisingly close at hand. Art looked at Rupinder for confirmation, but there could be no doubt from the way that she had tensed, that she had heard the voice too. “I was right. I knew I had not been mistaken.” He then added, rather less selfishly and rather more practically, “Could you pinpoint where that came from?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Rupinder. “It’s so disorientating in the dark. Over there, I think.”

  Art could see the outline of the direction that Rupa was pointing. “That’s what I thought too. Stay here, I’m going to look.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the sergeant to return?” said Rupa, but the only answer she received was a further weak call for help from the imperspicuity of the forest, and the sound of Art’s retreating footsteps in the direction of the cry.

  Once away from the reassuring solidity of the path, the ground underfoot suddenly felt like a veritable minefield of potential hazards; Art cursed himself for not asking the policemen for a torch, so that he could have at least illuminated his immediate vicinity and had some forewarning of soft or sloping ground or of floral obstacles. As it was, he was walking blind, aware with every step that he might slip and fall, or walk straight into an unseen tree trunk or prickly bramble. He held his arms out in front of him like a B-movie zombie, assuming a similar stiff-legged gait, trying not to let his feet get snared by elusive vines or his clothing snagged by protruding branches or sharp thorns. Prince Charming could have had no easier passage to his Sleeping Beauty, as Art had that evening, trying to pinpoint the missing youth. Intermittently, he would stop, listen and readjust his bearing, little-by-little, homing in on the resting place of his quarry. He was still baffled by the calls he was hearing: they sounded so close, and yet, at the same time, so far away. It was not until it appeared that he was practically on top of the voice, and yet still not able to locate any actual body, that Art realized the reason for the weak cry: Robert Waterhouse was somewhere underground. The young man was effectively buried alive. The thought sent a chill down his spine. Unable to effect any kind of excavation without some visual assistance, Art spoke reassuringly to the trapped youth, letting him know that help was at hand, and then called out loud for the four policemen to join him. It was not long before the entrance to Rob’s catacomb was ablaze with criss-crossing torch beams and, under the supervision of James Leigh, one of the uniformed constables had stripped off his bulky outer garment and gained access to the tomb beyond. The figure that ultimately emerged from the tunnel looked like Stig of the Dump. Art momentarily mused that perhaps his cryptozoology ambitions had been realized after all: rather than discovering a big cat in his local woods, instead he had stumbled upon a missing link between Homo Sapiens and our earlier forest ancestors. Here was the original man of the woods. The newly liberated youth needed the help of a policeman holding each arm to support him to walk, such was the numbness in his legs, and every exposed part of his skin was caked in mud, making it impossible to differentiate where his body began and his clothes ended. His hair was matted and tangled, sticking up like an elaborate head-dress. Only his eyes showed bright, defining his inherent humanity, and a flash of white teeth, behind cracked and bloodied lips, revealed that he was trying to raise a smile.

  “Robert Waterhouse?” Leigh was anxious to get his confirmation, “Are you Rob Waterhouse?” He stared at the other man’s grimy features with a mixture of excitement and disgust: on the one hand, it would be a genuine coup if this unlikely figure did turn out to be the missing youth, in the meantime though he could not disguise the horror he felt addressing an apparition that looked more unsavoury than something the cat had brought in.

  Th
e erstwhile caveman nodded weakly, adding, “Water. Please, I need some water.”

  One of the constables offered him a hip-flask which, judging from the young man’s surprised reaction as he greedily swallowed several mouthfuls from the container, held something considerably more fiery than simple H2O. Leigh was already on his mobile phone, requesting an ambulance. The drivers hardly needed directions, they had only been here the day before to pick up the unconscious body of Art.

  Despite the obvious shock of his ordeal, and the superficial injuries he had sustained as a result of his original beating, Robert did not appear in too much discomfort: while the strange-looking group awaited the arrival of the medical services, he was already asking Leigh about the events leading up to his discovery.

  “He contacted you then? He said he would. I knew that he would. I knew that he wouldn’t leave me here.”

  Leigh was not following the young man’s words, “Who? Who wouldn’t leave you?”

  “Dave. Dave Sherry. He said that he’d tell you where to find me. When he’d got his passport. When he’d got away.”

  “Dave Sherry?” The name was like an alarm bell to James Leigh, “What has he got to do with this?”

  “It was him that told you where to find me.”

  “No,” James had to contradict Rob, “You have this man here, to thank for that.” He pointed to Art. “He heard you call when he was out walking,” he added, not wanting to go into the details of the circumstances leading up to the police search.

  “But...” Rob was momentarily confused, unable to speak. It was as though the reality of the events of the past few days had suddenly become apparent to him. “He didn’t call? He would have left me there to die?” Rob repeated the last words, seemingly unable to believe them. His faith in his captor’s promise had been the only thing that had sustained him during the darkest points of his entombment, and now, even at the moment of his release, the realization that his jailer had had no intention of honouring his pledge to have him freed struck him like a hammer blow; as much a shattering attack to his mental security, as the degradation of his confinement had been to his physical well-being. He lapsed into a silence, which neither Rupa’s words of comfort nor Leigh’s persistent questions would break. Even when the ambulance arrived he remained steadfastly mute, unable to answer the medical team's questions regarding his physical injuries.

  “I hope he’s going to be okay,” said Rupa, when the flashing lights and noisy siren of the retreating ambulance had faded away.

  “He should consider himself lucky,” said Leigh, “He’s in better shape than the last chap who bumped into Sherry.”

  “Oh?”

  Aware that he had perhaps said too much, James Leigh changed the subject. “My men will have a better look at that hole he was sealed in tomorrow, when it is light.  Looks as though it must have been an animal’s deserted earth.  Perhaps a fox, or something similar.”

  The mention of the woodland’s fauna brought back to Art’s mind an unresolved mystery regarding his own big cat.  While he had both the attention and the gratitude of a senior officer in the C.I.D. it seemed like an opportunity too good to miss.  “I don’t suppose,” he began, “you were involved in the investigation of a dog slaying, on a gypsy encampment, not so far away from here?”  Art pointed in the general direction of where the travellers’ field lay.  “It would have been a few weeks ago now.”

  “Yes,” said James cautiously, “I seem to remember something of the sort.”

  “Did you ever find out what killed the dog?” asked Art, “I just thought...” His voice trailed off, unable to admit the suspicions that he had originally harboured about the Alsatian having been the first victim of the Cassiobury Cougar.

  “I can’t remember,” said James, “No, hang on.”  His mind went back to the autopsy report that had formed part of the dossier he had been compiling on the escaped convict David Sherry.  “I don’t think the lab. boys were ever sure.”  He tried to remember the exact words, “Killed by creature or creatures unknown, something like that.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “Is that any good to you?”

  Art smiled.  He put his arm around Rupa’s shoulder.  “It doesn’t really matter.”

  •••

  If it hadn’t been for the dead Alsatian Vince thought that he would probably never have embarked on such an elaborate deceit.

  He had discovered the savaged creature completely by chance one night several weeks before, during one of his night-time walks, following the break-up of a meeting with Zoe and Graham. It had still been relatively early, and not wishing to return to his house until he felt tired enough to fall directly asleep, he had wandered along some of the moonlit forest trails, revelling in the mysterious, ghostly atmosphere of the lonely woods. He hadn’t recognized the shape on the ground at first; it had just been an unaccountable small mound in a field which normally would have been featureless: there had been an encampment of travellers close by and his initial thought had been that it was just some rubbish the caravan-dwellers had discarded. As he approached closer, he could see by the light of the moon that the object was undoubtedly organic; he remembered feeling a thrill of anticipation that it might even be human, memories of the group’s recent conversation about satanic vampire killers still firmly in his mind. Discovering that the corpse was that of a dog was not altogether an anticlimax when he noted, with a degree of congratulation, the level of savagery that had dispatched the brutish-looking animal to the dark hereafter; the breed of the creature was scarcely recognizable, such was the mauling it had received. Vince recalled lifting up the shaggy head, registering surprise at how heavy it was as a dead-weight, and then allowing it to drop back to the ground, the Alsatian’s neck shattered and unable to support itself. He felt a warm, sticky dampness on his hands, and holding the palms close to his face could see that they were covered in still fresh blood. A light had gone on at that moment in one of the nearby caravans and there had been the sound as if of a door about to be opened. It was only then that Vince had realized the compromising position he was in: whoever - or whatever - had killed the dog he did not know, but if he was discovered in his current situation he would find it very difficult to prove that he was not responsible for the unfortunate creature’s demise. His footprints were all around the body, clearly visible in the wet earth; he could not hope to remove them all, but he hurriedly tried to obscure any recognizable traces in the immediate vicinity of the dead dog. Still no one had emerged from the caravan, but he was sure that it was only a matter of time. Without a second look back, he had hurried away across the field, disappearing behind the private screen of the dark trees once again. It had only been when he was safely back home, in the sanctuary of his bedroom, that he had thought to ring the journalist. The walk back through the woods had given him plenty of time to think: Zoe, Graham and him had been talking about satanic rituals, and then what had he discovered? A corpse, which to all intents and purposes appeared to be the bloody aftermath of just such a sacrificial rite. Why not then use it to his own advantage? Vince knew that he was not so dedicated to the black arts that he would ever have performed any such ritual himself, but he was perfectly happy to piggyback on the efforts of others. All he needed was a little bit of media interest to fuel the idea: how could Zoe fail to be impressed?

  Except his scheme had not run exactly to plan. Firstly, the journalist had not played ball. In hindsight, Vince might have known that would be the case - he had met the hack when his school had been featured in a newspaper story about the growing use of the internet in the classroom, and the article that had appeared had been unrecognizable compared to the reality that Vince knew to be true. Perhaps he should have been more specific in his phone call? It was always a mistake to lead a journalist so far and then allow him to draw his own conclusions. He should have been more explicit in his statement that it was devil worship that was at hand, rather than purely to have described the macabre
scene; it would have made a far superior story in any case. Vince cursed himself. Subtlety. It had always been his problem: too subtle for his own good. The additional problem that he had encountered was that one ‘occurrence’ was just not enough. Yes, Zoe had been initially impressed when he had claimed to raise dark spirits capable of killing a large dog, but she had soon demanded more. Women! Once was just not good enough. Vince had soon discovered that a regular performance was now required of him, and more than that, only an improving display was sufficient to sustain the young girl’s interest. Maintaining a relationship: it was an exhausting business. And so here he was again, in the woods at night with his stuffed badger, an heirloom purloined from the archaic rubbish that made up the greater number of possessions in his old house, ready to make some fresh tracks to show his gullible companions, in an attempt to continue fanning the fires of the existence of a supernatural beast conjured up at his request. It all seemed a long way removed from the academic interest and integrity, which had initially got him interested in matters of the occult. Then he had been searching, trying to find something spiritual to fill the void that organized religion had been unable to do. Yes, it had been a rebellion, but it had been a genuine journey of discovery too. To have now stooped so low as to be falsifying icons, it was as phony as the lip-service morality that he had found so unattractive in the major faiths. Vince felt a sudden wave of self-loathing rise up inside him: he had sought earthly love, but at what expense? In his quest for Zoe’s physical affection he had compromised his mainstay belief. He was suddenly not so sure that the trade-off was worth it.

  He had reached the point - close to the river, at the boundary where the park and the woods merge - where he had arranged to meet Graham and Zoe later that evening, and where he had intended to pre-plant the evidence to give veracity to the lie of the success of his latest satanic summons. Vince now found though, that he could not go through with his plan; it was beneath him, it was laughable. As if to give audible confirmation of his mental assessment, Vince was surprised to hear a distant sound of merriment; a solitary female voice; a peal of laughter and delight coming from somewhere among the dismal trees. He halted and listened hard. Occasionally before, he had chanced upon other people in the park after dark - illicit lovemaking couples and nocturnal dog-walkers mostly - but generally he regarded the night-time woods his own solitary domain. The noise was repeated, floating to him on the wind like a siren’s call, luring him towards it irresistibly.  He let the stuffed badger drop to the ground as he advanced towards the sound, allowing himself greater freedom of movement, perhaps mentally preparing himself for flight should he be discovered.  The moon which had been obscured behind low cloud for most of the evening, showed itself for the first time, subtly illuminating the night-time woods with its ethereal glow.  Now that he was closer, the noise that he had taken for laughter appeared actually to be a singing voice; a simple, melodic tune of just one or two notes repeated, as though someone was practising a scale, or could not rid themselves of a particularly persistent earworm.  In the darkness, though, the song had a haunting quality that it would not have possessed otherwise; a purity that managed to make itself heard above the barrage of elemental forces.

  The small clearing was not an area of the woods familiar to Vince, either that, or he did not recognize it by moonlight: not that his attention was attracted by the arboreal and herbaceous variation.  It was the dancing figure in the centre of the grassy expanse that held him captivated.  That it was Zoe he was in no doubt, although he had never seen her naked form before, except in one or two particularly vivid dreams, and even then his imagination had not done justice to the vision now before him.  She pranced and leapt uninhibited, like a frolicsome young mare, dancing to a soundless tune, only audible in her own mind.  The sounds that had initially drawn Vince towards the rite were her vocal accompaniment to the movements she made; a choreography both meaningless and beautiful at the same time.  Vince was conscious that he had not drawn a breath since he had arrived at the scene, partly not wishing to disturb the performance, partly not wanting to be discovered, although on the latter score he did not need to seriously trouble himself - it would have been inaccurate to describe Zoe as being ‘away with the fairies’ but there were certainly some parallels that could be drawn between her current state of preoccupation and the old adage.

  At a different time, in a different scenario, Vince would have been delighted to watch Zoe unobserved for as long as it was possible to do so, but tonight, in his current state of reflection, there was something so pure and truthful about Zoe’s performance that it only further served to illustrate to Vince what a long way he had strayed from his own ideals. He did not know what tune she danced to or what particular belief filled her head, but he knew that she had discovered something meaningful for her, and so, like a superstitious savage scared of disturbing a scared site, he slunk quietly away. There would be no more charades. It was time to spend some serious time on his own to think. Time: it was a luxury of youth, he knew, but still it was too precious to be wasted.

  •••

  Art could hear the telephone ringing from inside, as he turned the key in the front door of his house.

  “Where have you been?  I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”

  Art had abandoned Luke in his buggy in the porch, in order to reach the ‘phone in time before the caller rang off, but hearing Trevor’s aggrieved reprimands, he was annoyed with himself for his skewed priorities.  “Hang on,” he said to Trevor, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”  Art put down the receiver and returned to the front door, dragging the three-wheeled pram over the threshold.  His son was fast asleep, well wrapped up in a light blue blanket, snoring peacefully.  Rupa’s sister had done a good job of wearing him out.  He would be okay for a little longer; Art would transfer him to his cot after he had found out what Trevor wanted.

  “Hi Trevor.  What’s up?” he said, jauntily into the receiver.

  “It’s about your big cat.”

  Art noted that the possessive pronoun had shifted from our to your.  It was not likely to be good news.  He assumed a tone of faux optimism, “Oh yes?”

  “I’ve heard back from my pal who was analyzing the flesh samples I sent him.  You know, the ones I discovered on the golf course.”

  “And?”  Art prompted.

  “They’re rabbit.”

  Art could not understand why Trevor sounded so despondent.  Rabbit was as likely as any other kind of prey that a genuine wild puma would be likely to catch in the locale.  “Sounds about right,” said Art.

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Trevor, “Frozen rabbit.  I’m talking, pre-packaged, use-by, date-stamped, High Street supermarket, fresh from the cold compartment rabbit.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, too bloody right.  Where does this leave us?” asked Trevor.  “It’s all been a put up job.  A big hoax.  Someone having fun at our expense.”

  “At your expense,” corrected Art.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t think I ever did get that mention in your article, did I?” said Art mischievously. “There’s nothing to reveal that I was ever taken in by this practical joke.”

  “No, but...” Trevor blustered, “Hey, we were in it together, right?”

  “If you say so,” agreed Art.

  “I’ll have to publish an apology.  I’ll look an idiot,” Trevor whined.

  Art was more practical, “I shouldn’t worry, mate.  I don’t think that anyone will be too worried.  You know how these things are: they blow over and are forgotten as quickly as they arise.  Sleep on it,” then in a moment of generosity, he added, “Take a tip from me, if you find yourself back in the woods first thing tomorrow morning, you’ll find a far bigger story than any wild cat to report upon.”

  Trevor scoffed, “You must be joking.  I’ve had quite enough dawn walks to last me a lifetime.  It’s not true what the
y say that the early bird gets the worm, all he gets is cold, dew-coated feet.  I’ll tell you where I’ll be tomorrow morning: fast asleep under the covers in my bed, and if you have any sense you’ll...”

  “Don’t tell me I’ll be doing the same.  Under the covers of your bed is one of the last places I want to find myself,” jested Art, good-humouredly, still feeling light-headed with the excitement of the events of the early evening.

  Trevor, not entirely unperceptive, was surprised to hear Art’s jocular tone, “I thought you’d be disappointed by the news,” he said.  “Is there really something up?”  he asked, ever the journalist.

  “If you go down to the woods...”  Art sang the words, leaving the rest of the lyrics unsaid.