Cats Undercover

by Ged Gillmore

  Ginger took a deep breath. If this didn’t work she was going to be in even worse trouble than before.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want to fight. I spent the first half of my life fighting on the streets. Now it’s time to rest. Fighting is so … pointless. You probably think that sounds stupid.’

  This last sentence was a teensy-weensy big fat lie. Ginger had read online that Kim DM had said that very same thing on several occasions.

  ‘Go on,’ she said now.

  There was no telling from Kim DM’s hard white face what she was thinking or how she’d react to Ginger’s words. Maybe she’d tear Ginger apart there and then and save herself the bother of a big fight in two days’ time.

  ‘Well,’ miaowed Ginger slowly, ‘if I win this fight I’ll have to fight another. Then another and another and soon enough I’ll have to challenge Sue Narmi for the leadership of the Fur Girls. Or Sue will challenge me. Either way, she’ll lose and I’ll end up being the chief Fur Girl. That’s the last thing I want. I hate the idea of responsibility. Like I said, I want to stay retired. You’re young; you’re no doubt ambitious; you probably want to lead a gang of alley cats.’

  Oops! I just spotted another ginger lie! Because in Hit Paws, the catfighting magazine, Kim DM had said she positively hated all forms of responsibility and wanted to open a café and call it The Frying Saucer.

  ‘Maybe I do,’ said Kim DM, with still no clues in her facial expression. ‘So what?’

  Ginger swallowed slowly. What if the reporter who’d written the magazine article had been making up Kim DM’s words? They do that a lot, you know. Or what if Ginger had misunderstood?

  ‘Oh well,’ she thought with a gulp, ‘it’s all or nothing now.’

  For Ginger was desperate not to have a fight she could only lose. Ivana had been right, there was no way she could beat Kimberly Diamond-Mine. But, at the same time, Ginger didn’t want to leave the Fur Girls in the lurch. She had a vision of them starving to death over the winter, unable to enter even the worst hunting grounds. Approaching Kim DM was the only way she could see of getting out of this mess.

  ‘So this is my proposal,’ she said. ‘We throw the fight. You win. I get to walk away in disgrace and I never have to fight again.’

  Kim DM gave Ginger a strange smile. ‘I’d win anyway,’ she said.

  ‘Eventually you would. But I’d make sure you got a few new scratches you’d never forget. And you can say goodbye to at least one of those beautiful ears.’

  Because in Catmopolitan magazine, Kim DM had opened up about how lucky she felt to have survived her fighting career with so little injuries. She hoped to do catwalk in later life. She was, after all, a very tall and handsome cat with no fat on her at all. Ginger watched the green neon reflect on Kim DM’s muscles and wondered if she’d ever been that toned.

  ‘It’s easy,’ said Ginger. ‘I let you win without injury, you go light on me. Then I walk into the sunset, you carry on fighting for the rest of your life and we’re both happy.’

  Kim DM looked anything but happy. She stood, jumped down from the sofa and paced around the room, sniffing at the corners and then licking her chest like she’d forgotten Ginger was even there. Ginger waited nervously on the sofa, trying to hide her fear in case Kim DM could smell it. After a few minutes, the white fighter cat joined her back on the sofa.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re planning to lose,’ she said. ‘I’ve always admired you. And now you turn out to be a fraud.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ginger, trying not to talk too quickly and thus show her nerves. ‘There was one other thing I was thinking. What about if, before the fight, I challenge Sue Narmi for the leadership of the Fur Girls? She’d be crazy not to just pass me her crown, but even if she doesn’t, I’ll take it from her easily. You do the same with Anna Fellactic. Then, when we meet on the wasteland, we’ll be challenging each other not just for wee-wee rights, but for the leadership of both gangs.’

  Kimberley Diamond-Mine sat back with wide eyes. ‘Join the Fur Girls and Sourpusses into one gang? But who would they fight then?’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Ginger, standing up with excitement. ‘There would be no one to fight and peace would rule the streets.’

  Kim DM didn’t look happy. She sat back in her corner of the sofa and closed her eyes. Ginger watched her nervously, trying to work out how long it was since she’d crossed the wasteland. She was exhausted and keen to get back to the Gertrude Street wharves as soon as she could.

  ‘I have a counter-proposal for you,’ said Kim at last, still sitting with her eyes closed. ‘My proposal is this. You get out of my apartment and don’t ever disgrace either of us again with an offer to throw a fight. You get out of here before I open my eyes, and I will not caterwaul loudly to let the Sourpusses know you’re here. I also won’t send a message to Sue Narmi to tell her she’s got an undercover traitor in her midst. And I won’t tear you into pieces until we meet on the wasteland.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Grab your hat and get out of my flat, you rat!’ spat the cat who sat. ‘Your chat is tat, like a pat of bat skat. I’ll splat you flat on the mat like a gnat, you brat.’

  ‘Drat!’ thought Ginger, but she said nothing. Instead she sprinted across the floor, jumped through the open window and ran down the fire escape which led down to the alleyway. Then, ignoring how hard her heart thumped in her chest, she ran all the way to the wasteland, straight across it and back to the wharves. But no matter how hard she ran, she couldn’t escape the truth. Since she had first spotted Kimberley Diamond-Mine training on the wasteland, she had only ever had one plan, and now it had failed.

  WHAT A REVELATION!

  Now, I’m not actually supposed to tell you about this next little bit because it’s Secret Men’s Business. And, let’s not forget, the whole point about Secret Men’s Business is that it’s secret. But, in my experience, anything anyone ever calls Secret Men’s Business is in reality men behaving like silly little boys and using it as an excuse to get out of the washing-up. Which maybe isn't such a bad idea. You might want to try that next time it’s your turn to load the dishwasher? Tell your resident adult you simply can’t help, and when they ask why not, look them in the eye and say ‘I can’t tell you. It’s Secret Men’s Business’. This works equally well whether you’re a boy or a girl, trust me. Put your hands on your hips for added effect, and don’t blame me if you get sent to bed with no dinner (although if you’re supposed to be loading the dishwasher you’ve probably already had dinner, so what are you complaining about?).

  Hennyway, this next bit is a little secret, but, seeing as it’s you, I’ll share.

  As Tuck stood in the dark, dank and damp depths of the Dell of Hell, he realised he didn’t know what to do. He knew what he’d been told to do, which was to climb the tree and wait for Bunk to come and find him. But Bunk had told him that before the dogs started barking, and surely he couldn’t have known how close they were? Tuck could hear them barking still, and, as he sat at the edge of the dark stream and listened, he heard the barking turn to snarling. Dogs never do that unless they are very close to another animal.

  ‘Oogy,’ thought Tuck. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

  But it seemed nobody had told Tuck’s legs that, for they were already moving him back towards the spot where he’d last seen Bunk.

  ‘Oh no,’ he thought, ‘I wish I was still a coward when other cats are in danger too, then I’d be safe up that tree near the stream.’

  But even as he thought this, he moved further and further from the stream, and closer and closer to the snarling dogs. Soon he could smell them, smell their wild ways and the drool dropping from their jaws. But the thought of how terrified Bunk must be drew him ever forward. Then, as he climbed slowly over a fallen tree trunk, the dogs suddenly came into view. There were five of them in all: thickset brown-and-black dogs with huge ears and strong jaws. Each of them was baring its teeth, and Tuck could see the drool he’d smelled a s
econd before. None of the wild dogs noticed him for they were all staring at Bunk, who had backed himself against the trunk of a huge fig tree and was staring back at them.

  ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh,’ thought Tuck. ‘I’ll have to divert them. If they chase me that will give Bunk time to get away.’

  And he was about to miaow loudly when he suddenly noticed Bunk’s eyes. They were red again, but now a far brighter red. A red like the heart of a burning fire. Tuck gasped as one of the wild dogs shot forwards to snap at little Bunk, his teeth reflecting red in the light from Bunk’s eyes. But, as he did so, Bunk turned calmly in his direction and the red in his right eye shot out a laser beam.

  ‘Heyoweeeeewlll!’

  The dog screamed and fell backwards, its fur singeing and smoking where the laser beam had burned through it. No sooner had he done so than another dog leapt forward to attack Bunk. This time, a laser shot out of Bunk’s left eye, and this dog too screamed in agony.

  ‘Awooo-eeeee!’

  As Tuck watched, two of the other dogs jumped as one, but this time both of Bunk’s eyes shot out a beam and caught each dog in mid-air so that they fell, smoking and howling, in front of him. The fifth dog had seen enough and ran barking into the darkness of the trees, its tail between its legs. Slowly, each of the other four dogs picked themselves up from the ground, licked their still smouldering wounds and slunk into the darkness. Before she left, the last of them asked Bunk in a pitiful voice, ‘What are you?’ But Bunk merely hissed in return and the dog ran away without asking again. Then Bunk turned towards Tuck. Or at least his body did. His face stayed where it was.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he said.

  Then, as Bunk turned further towards Tuck, his face swung in the opposite direction and Tuck saw it was only attached to Bunk’s head by a small hinge. Beside the hinge on Bunk’s head, where his face should have been, was a series of lights and wires and a circuit board.

  ‘Ooh, my goodness gracious me,’ said Tuck. ‘Bunk, you’re a catbot!’

  He jumped down and ran across the snow towards his friend. As he did so, the catbot turned away, sat up on his back legs and used his front paws to snap his face closed again. And just like that he was Bunk again.

  ‘That is classified information,’ Bunk said in a rather peevish tone, his underbite more pronounced than ever.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ said Tuck. ‘But, but, but … you’re a catbot!’

  Bunk sat down with a miserable look on his face that, even with the rather shocking information now available to us, did look very realistic.

  ‘I’m sure you’re very disappointed,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tuck, who had never been anything with more than two syllables.

  ‘Yes, you are. You thought I was a spy and a secret agent and a real cat. But I’m just a machine. You probably don’t want to hang out with me anymore.’

  ‘Of course, I do!’

  ‘Don’t pretend. Nobody wants to be friends with a catbot. You know, cat, for a while I was tempted to stay back at the farm, surrounded by cats who didn’t know my secret. I can consume food through my mouth and push it through my output cable so, as long as I stick to chocolate, nobody need ever know. Then I thought maybe if I rescued everyone, people would like me as though I was a real cat. But now you know, and you’ll probably just want to change my program so I can carry you the rest of the way to safety. Boohoo.’

  Bunk said this last word as mechanically as he said everything else, and it took Tuck a while to realise he was crying. Not that there were any tears, sniffs, gulps, sobs or snot. Just those two words and the heartbreaking look on his strange little face.

  ‘Oh, crikey-pants,’ said Tuck. ‘I won’t change your programme at all. Minnie never lets me change the programme at home so I’m quite used to it. And I don’t want to be carried; I like running, it’s just I need a rest sometimes. And I won’t tell anyone about you being a catbot if you don’t want me too.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘No really,’ said Tuck. ‘Let me tell you some secrets and then we’re quits. Erm … I’m scared of my own poo and I can’t count past … that one after two, and my second name is Mypantzin.’

  ‘My second name is Tech 2000,’ said Bunk sadly.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Tuck. ‘That doesn’t matter. Shall we be Best Friends Forever anyway?’

  Bunk looked up, his big round eyes once more yellow, but shiny with what looked like excitement.

  ‘Best friends?’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a best friend before.’

  ‘Oh, they’re great’ said Tuck. ‘You get to tell them everything until they tell you to shut up and stop being annoying, and then you have to guess how long it is before you can start talking again, and if you get it right you keep on going until they tell you to shut up again.’

  Bunk looked confused. ‘But why don’t they just listen to everything you have to say as a means of gathering useful data?’

  This time it was Tuck’s turn to look shiny-eyed with excitement.

  ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh! We’re going to be the best Best Friends Forever ever!’ he said. ‘So, when I was born …’

  And he started telling Bunk his life story, not even hesitating when Bunk told him they needed to continue on through the dell. On and on and on Tuck talked, as he and Bunk walked deeper and deeper into the forest.

  WHAT A RORT!*

  (* Look it up)

  Now that she was a star, Minnie never got out of bed before midday, unless it was to have a quick saucer of milk before going back to bed for some well-deserved rest. But on the day the trouble hit, she was awoken by a strange sound coming from the milk bar beneath her bedroom. It sounded like singing.

  ‘Cor blimey, that’s a bit weird, innit?’ thought Minnie, ‘’oo’d want to listen to anyone but me singing a song?’

  She turned over in her bed, thinking she’d make a complaint to Lancelot about the conditions she was forced to live in and the selfishness of other people. Naturally, though, she couldn’t do this without getting her beauty sleep first, so she shut her eyes tight and tried to think beautiful thoughts.

  ‘Me,’ she thought, ‘Me, me, me.’

  But it was no good. If anything, the sound from downstairs was getting louder.

  Now, this may surprise you, but Minnie was not the kind of cat to take interruptions of her beauty sleep lying down. So she stood up. Then she stropped down the stairs and pushed open the door to the bar. She was about to make her feline feelings on noise pollution and poise annihilation known, when she saw what was happening. At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes. But then, remembering they’d never lied to her in the past, she was so shocked, so horrified, so outraged, flabbergasted and bowled over that, for once, she stood and said nothing. For there, in the middle of the milk bar, sat Lancelot Soffalot, smiling outrageously at what he was watching on the stage. And there, on the stage, scratching at the scratching post was Minnie’s springy-tailed assistant, Dora, dressed in Minnie’s best frou-frou, singing her own version of Minnie’s best song:

  ‘Scritchy, scratchy, scratch,

  Minnie’s not a patch

  On me; for against me,

  A fat old cat’s no match.

  ‘Scratchy, scratchy, scritch

  With me there is no hitch;

  After me you’ll be sure

  Minnie was a—’

  At this point, Dora noticed who was standing in the door of the bar, glaring at her. She stopped singing and smiled her sweetest wide-eyed smile without any sign of shame or embarrassment.

  ‘Brava!’ shouted Mr Ocelot, thinking maybe Dora had forgotten the word ‘glitch’ and not minding at all. ‘Very good, very good.’

  Well, mangled moggies, this was too much for Minnie, who at last found her voice.

  ‘What the furball is going on here?!’ she screamed, stomping into the bar and right up to Lancelot Soffalot’s face. ‘Why is that jumped-up little madam dressed in my ribbons, singing my song and standing on my stage?’r />
  Now, as you can imagine, most cats would be terrrrrrified by a furious Minnie scowling and spitting and squealing in their face. But Lancelot Soffalot wasn’t any old cat: he was an ocelot, and whilst he’d didn’t get cross a lot, when he did, you knew who was boss. A lot.

  ‘It is not your stage,’ he said, pulling himself up to his full height and glaring at Minnie with his beautiful big eyes. ‘It is mine. And, check your contract, those are not your ribbons. You wore them on my stage, so now they are mine too. And that song is also mine, as per the contract you signed.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Minnie, who was yet to learn the ins and outs of intellectual property law/ theft.

  Mr Ocelot didn’t reply at first. He merely produced the contract (which he always kept within convenient reach), and let it unfurl to the floor.

  ‘Read that!’ he said, flicking one of his rather frightening claws at the clause which was the cause of his discourse. ‘And that. And that. Those songs belong to me now, and I can do what I want with them. You, however, have no rights over them whatsoever. It’s all here. And what is also here is that I can terminate this contract with no loss to myself whenever I want. And that, Miss High Maintenance, is now. You are too expensive and too demanding. I have replaced you with a younger, prettier, slimmer and cheaper version of the same act. Which means you, Ms Minnie, are fired!’

  WHAT TO DO?

  That morning was a hard one for Ginger too. She had pinned all her hopes on Kimberley Diamond-Mine agreeing to her plan, the only ploy she could think of for not abandoning the Fur Girls to a winter of starvation without being torn to pieces herself.

  She’d not been lying when she told Kim DM she thought fighting was pointless. She believed it from the bottom of her bellies, even though there were only two of them left. For, underneath it all, Ginger was a peaceful creature—as most martial arts experts are—and whilst she enjoyed fighting as a sport, for anything else she thought it was the most stupid way of sorting out any situation. And I have to agree. A scrap or a slap is generally a trap when a rap or a chat will do.