by Ged Gillmore
But the biggest change of all was to the stables. The once ramshackle building looked shiny and new. The hole in its side had been repaired with clean new bricks, and the wall which faced the farmyard was now made of metal-framed glass. Behind the glass was a huge, shiny, silver machine. Bunk’s bionic eyes could see the machine had Animal Skinning Device written on it, although, of course, Tuck couldn’t see that far, and even if he could have, he wouldn’t have been able to read it.
‘What have they done to the farm?’ Tuck cried. ‘It looks so horrible!’
No sooner had he spoken, than he and Bunk heard a loud whistle. Immediately the two humans building the wall on the farmhouse stopped and began to climb down to the farmyard. Other humans, all of them in hard hats and most of them with big bellies, appeared. They came down from the roof of the stables, out of the upright barn and through the doorway in the half-built farmhouse wall. One of them was Mr Pong, his tall and gangly frame recognisable from any distance, and, as Tuck watched with eyes so wide they hurt, Pong entered the smokehouse. The other men climbed into a truck and a car and, once Pong had raised the barrier which stretched across the driveway, they drove out, the engines of their vehicles growing louder as they approached Bunk and Tuck.
‘Hide!’ said Bunk, throwing himself under the nearest bush.
Tuck followed him sadly.
‘They’ve ruined my home,’ he said, not even flinching as the car and the truck rolled noisily past them along the driveway.
‘I caught a panorama image of the whole thing,’ said Bunk. ‘I’ve relayed it to HQ for processing. Did you notice the lorry we were locked in has gone? I wonder what has happened to the other cats?’
Tuck said nothing. He stared sadly at the ground in front of him. He didn’t think he could be any more upset, but as he and Bunk continued down the driveway towards the farm, he found he was wrong. Bunk was using long words like ‘recapture’ and ‘compliance’ and ‘submission’, but Tuck didn’t have the energy to ask what they meant. He trudged along beside his catbot friend, thinking how now it was less likely than ever that Ginger or Minnie would want to come home and stay. Things were never going to be the way they had been before. Then, as they approached the farmyard, he looked up and gasped. Where their lorry had once sat, was a large pile of rubbish. At the bottom it was mostly building materials and dusty rubble, but at the top were all the things the humans had carried out of the farmhouse. Second from top was Tuck and Minnie’s old chest of drawers from the attic.
‘Our bedroom!’ squealed Tuck, desperately trying not to cry. ‘And … but … oh!’
He was lost for words. For there, on top of the chest of drawers, at the very top of the pile, the humans had thrown Minnie’s television: its screen smashed and its wonky aerial snapped in half. The sight of it felt like a stab in Tuck’s heart. He’d been so busy having adventures he hadn’t really had time to miss his prissy miss who he liked to kiss, but now—at the sight of her beloved television—he broke down in tears.
‘Oh, Minnie,’ he cried. ‘Where are you? What has happened to you and Ginger and our lovely home?’
WHAT AN ARRIVAL!
Well, dozing dust-rags, it’s a good job Minnie couldn’t hear Tuck crying her name and asking where she was just then, or else she’d have had to lie. For Minnie was far too much of a glamour puss to shout out, ‘I’m on a bus.’ But on a bus she was, snoring gently. Maybe it was the stress of discovering her betrayal; maybe it was exhaustion from crying; maybe it was the gentle lull of the back seat above the throbbing engine. Whatever it was, no sooner had she lain down than she’d fallen into a deep and dream-filled sleep. But, did she dream of fame and stardom? For once, she did not. She dreamt she was back at the farm, watching television with Tuck and Ginger. They were watching Dora and Lancelot Soffalot in a Christmas Special, singing Minnie’s songs and bowing to the applause of thousands of their adoring fans.
‘No!!!’
Minnie woke up screaming.
‘You all right, puddy-wuddy cat?’ the driver shouted back from his seat. ‘You want the next stop?’
Minnie looked out of the window and was amazed to find herself right in the middle of the city.
‘I made it!’ she yelled. ‘Oh, to be back in town, how glamorous, how glorious, how gluttonous. But, oh my goodness, what time is it?’ She stared out of the window until she made out a clock on the tower of an old stone church.
‘Oh, crispy cod flakes!’ she squealed. ‘I’ve got to be there in less than an hour! Stop! Let me off this blooming jalopy.’
And she grabbed her teeny-tiny suitcase and ran to the front of the bus, holding onto the huge vibrating gear stick as she tried to get the driver’s attention. But the gear stick was bigger and stronger than Minnie, and it wobbled her and wibbled her and wabbled her and wubbled her as she spoke.
‘Ta-a-a-a-a-a-ke me-e-e-e-e-e to-o-o-o-o-o-o the-e-e-e-e stu-u-u-u-u-udioo-o-o-o-s of the Fe-e-e-e-e-e-e-line Broadca-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-tting Company-y-y-y-y-y,’ she said.
But, of course, all the bus driver heard was ‘Mi-i-i-i-a-a-a-o-o-o-w.’
‘Puddy-wuddy cat want to get off?’ he said, slowing gently before opening the doors. ‘You’re not the first cat to want this stop this week and you won’t be the last.’
Unfortunately, the driver’s foot then slipped off the brake so that the bus jerked hard forwards.
‘Oopsadaisy!’ he said, bringing the bus once more to a very sudden standstill by jamming his foot on the brake. Unfortunately, the result of this was that Minnie fell backwards down the bus steps—plunk, plunk, plank, splonk—before landing in a dirty puddle—splash! And as if that wasn’t humiliating enough, her teeny-tiny suitcase followed her out and landed on her head. Bonk!
‘Ow!!! ’ow blooming well dare you!’ she screamed at the bus driver, ‘Do you know ’oo I am?’
‘Miaow, to you too,’ said the driver, ‘See ya, puddy-wuddy cutey-pie.’
And with that he closed the bus doors and drove off, splashing through another puddle which completely soaked the bits of Minnie which hadn’t been soaked by the puddle she’d landed in before. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Minnie soon discovered the puddle wasn’t rain water. It wasn’t water at all! It had been made by a travelling salesman’s poodle earlier that morning. Well, pongy pools! I don’t know if you’ve ever paddled through a puddle of peddler’s poodle piddle, but it’s not very nice.
‘Look at me!’ screamed Minnie. ‘Look at my beautiful fur! I can’t go to an audition like this. I stink! Oh boo-hoochie, karoochy-boo.’
Then she heard a giggle behind her. Then another giggle, then another, and soon a whole host of giggles. Minnie swung around, willing to fight whoever made light of the sight of her plight, but the surprise which met her eyes made her stop and stare. For there, not twenty metres away, was a queue of the most glamorous pussies she’d ever seen. There were beautiful Burmese, perfect Persians, slinky Siamese, tantalisingly-taut tabbies, jaw-dropping gingers and magnificent moggy mixes all standing in a line. Every single one of them was primped and preened and beribboned and backcombed to within an inch of their lives and all of them—at least all of those who had seen Minnie’s less-than-graceful descent from the bus—were laughing at her. With horror, Minnie read the sign which stood at a street corner where the line ran out of view:
Kitten’s Got Talent.
Auditions
Estimated queue time from this point: four days.
Minnie gasped, ignoring the puddle pong which immediately entered her nostrils, and ran to the corner. The line of beautiful cats ran on and on down a very, very, very, very, very long street until it reached a huge FBC Studios sign, tiny in the distance.
Now, as you may or may not have noticed, Minnie may have many minor mundane flaws, but a lack of quick-thinking and ruthless ambition are not amongst them.
‘Agh,’ she screamed. ‘Agh, help! My suitcase landed on my head and I think I’m about to explode sticky cat guts over everybody in sight!’<
br />
Well, primping preeners, can you imagine the effect this had on the carefully caticured crowd? Every one of them stopped giggling and started screaming, careful to maintain their place in the queue.
‘Get her out of here!’ bellowed a Burmese.
‘Call the police!’ miaowed a moggy mix.
‘Call security!’ growled a grey-stripe.
And they kept on screaming until a group of two tortoiseshell security cats did indeed come running down from the front of the queue.
‘Help me, help me, I need water, I need rest, I need to get into that studio,’ cried Minnie.
Well, what with the screaming crowd and the manipulating Minnie, the security guards thought they better do what they were told. They put her on a stretcher and carried her at a trot up to the corner and down the very, very, very, very, very long street (Minnie winking at the queue as she passed), right into the foyer of the Feline Broadcatting Company.
‘Don’t worry, miss,’ one of them said to Minnie, holding his nose against the wild whiffs of wet wee-wee coming from her fur. ‘We’ll get you to a doctor.’
‘I am a doctor,’ said Minnie, for whom the truth had scant value at the best of times, let alone at the worst of them. ‘You’ve no time to waste, save me if you can! I need a nice warm bath, some flea-dirt remover, a can of hairspray and a squirt of Chanel No 5, stat.’
‘Er …’ said the larger of the two tortoiseshells. ‘Are you sure you’re a doctor?’
‘Do you want a death on your hands?’ Minnie screamed and with that she fell off the stretcher in a rather dramatic backward faint with a double salto.
Well, miraculous makeovers, to cut a long story into a not-quite-as-long story, Minnie ended up arriving at the front of the queue half an hour earlier than her allotted registration time and looking not far off her very best. She had, after all, done so much exercise in the previous days, that she was close to her ideal weight. But, aside from that, in the time between shooing the security men out of her sickbay and leaving the room herself, she had achieved such a magnificent metamorphosis that even the two tortoiseshells—who by that time had worked out her ruse and were on their way to eject her from the building for queue-jumping—didn’t recognise her as she flounced past in her fluffy and fully-furred finery.
‘Ripperton-Fandango!’ she said to the rather handsome tom, barely more than a kitten, who was holding a clipboard at the front of the queue. ‘Minnie T. Ready for my close-up!’
‘Mm,’ the young tom consulted his clipboard. ‘Yeah, you’ve been bumped. Your audition’s been moved to tomorrow. But you may as well get in the queue now. It takes twenty-four hours to get to the stage.’
And with that he beckoned to a whole new queue of cats which stretched down the corridor behind him. For a second, Minnie was downhearted. Did anyone understand how much effort it took to look this fabulous? Could see keep it up for another twenty-four hours?
‘Yes, I can!’ she said out loud, much to the surprise of the tom who hadn’t, as far as he could remember, asked her a question. ‘In fact, I can be fabulous for however long it takes.’
And with that, she pushed past the handsome young tom and, for once in her life, joined the queue.
WHAT A SITUATION!
Ginger, at that precise moment, was not feeling quite so fabulous. In fact, she was downcast, downhearted, downtrodden, down underground and generally just down. She was sitting at one end of a collapsed overflow pipe which had once run into the huge sewer she’d looked into that morning. And, as if that wasn’t depressing enough, she was being guarded by a particularly nasty rat who went by the name of Binjuice Jones. He was grey with black streaks and had two huge front teeth sharpened into vicious-looking points. His eyes were hidden under the visor of his flat black leather cap, and every so often he’d reach under his cap, pull out a hip flask and sip on what to Ginger smelled like turpentine. Each time he did this he’d burp happily in a very sloppy and grotesque manner and say ‘Scuse me’, as if Ginger was in any position to excuse the perp’s chirpy slurpy turps burps.
No doubt you’re wondering how Ginger got into such a position? You’re not? Oh well, let’s talk about dice instead. Oh, you were joking? Well, I wasn’t. Did you know the opposite sides of any die (which is the singular of dice) add up to seven? And did you know that if you’re throwing two dice, seven is always the most likely total score. Fascinating, mm?
OK, back to Ginger.
After Bumfluff McGuff and Fleabomb McGee had scrambled away and merged in with the traffic of rats in the sewer, Ginger had waited anxiously to see who was coming down the tunnel. She sat there, summoning up her courage and practising what she was going to say. But all she could think of was what BumMcG and FleaMcG had suggested. Negotiate. Well, it wasn’t long before she had to.
As the scuttling, scuffling paws got closer and closer to her in the dark, Ginger realised the rat who was approaching was of an almighty great size. And of a familiar scent. Ginger could even smell her breath by the time the rat squeaked ‘Paws up!’ in a raspy voice. Ginger didn’t turn around.
‘You must be Corporal Punishment,’ she said doing her best to sound bored, and not putting her paws up at all. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for ages. Does the King like to be kept waiting?’
There was a hesitation behind her, then the raspy voice spoke again.
‘I said put your paws in the air. Where I can see them.’
Ginger had to hide her sigh of relief. Now she was sure it was the huge rat she’d spied in the forest. She turned and looked at the Corporal. Up close, she was even scarier than Ginger remembered. She had thick scars across her face, and her teeth looked very menacing. She wasn’t much smaller than Ginger herself, but she looked a lot musclier, meatier and meaner. If anything, she reminded Ginger of Kimberly Diamond-Mine. Ginger leaned against the wall of the tunnel and lifted a front paw, but only so that she could give one of her best claws a cool and calm inspection.
‘Do be a love, Corpie, and let the King know I’m here. We have a deal which needs tying up. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.’
And with that she gave a huge yawn which also happened to show off all of her teeth. When Corporal Punishment spoke again, she didn’t sound quite so confident.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ginger.’
‘And the King is expecting you?’
‘He’s expecting someone. He didn’t know it was going to be me. Maybe you should take him a message and tell him I’m here?’
Well, the Corporal did just that, but only after she’d called Binjuice Jones down the corridor and ordered him to take Ginger to ‘the holding room’. To do this, Binjuice had marched Ginger halfway back up the tunnel she’d crawled along, and down an off-shoot she’d not even noticed on the way down. It was at the bottom of this smaller tunnel—even darker and danker and durkier than the first—that they found the dead end in which Ginger now sat. Corporal Punishment, she hoped, had gone to find the King.
And what was Ginger supposed to do when he arrived? Say she’d made a mistake and was actually looking for the loo? Attack him and let herself be mauled by his guards? Pretend she was a strange species of big fluffy ginger rat? Cripes! What an uncomfortably confusing and consistently confounding conundrum.
Ginger sniffed around the back of the collapsed overflow pipe, but there was definitely no escape there. And even if there had been, it would only have been an escape into the main sewer.
‘Stop panicking,’ Ginger told herself. ‘Sit and think quietly.’
This, I have to point out, is always extremely good advice. No matter the situation, you’ll probably find a solution more quickly by sitting and thinking than by running around and screaming. Unless, of course, you’re being pickpocketed in a crowded train, which, I need not point out (but, ooh, I just can’t help myself), Ginger was not.
It was over an hour before Ginger heard anything, and when she did it was, at first, no more than the unmistakeable sound of rat
claws on the tunnel floor. She listened carefully and worked out there were two rats approaching her cell. She swallowed hard and sang under her breath the song she always sang when she needed to feel brave:
‘I’m a survivor,
Like Lady Godiva.*
Bet you a fiver,
I’m better than MacGyver.*
I won’t take a dive or
Slip on my saliva,
Like a bee in a hive-ah;
I’m a survivor.’
(*Look it up!)
Ginger had barely finished the second verse when she heard Binjuice Jones grunt out an exclamation.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Food for the prisoner, special orders, so,’ said another rat who Ginger couldn’t see.
‘Food for the prisoner? What about food for the guard, I’d like to know. And what’s that?’
‘Water for the prisoner, like,’ said a third voice.
Ginger crept forwards to try and see past the guard, but he saw her and snapped at her with his sharpened teeth.
‘Get back there!’ he squeaked, staring at her with his pink eyes. Ginger considered biting his head off, but she knew she’d soon have a hundred more rats on her if she did. She retreated to where the roof of the overflow pipe had caved in. Once more, she heard Binjuice Jones talking to the two rats she couldn’t see.
