by Ged Gillmore
‘Go on,’ said King Rat at last.
Ha! There he had her.
‘I represent Dingleberry Bottom Inc.,’ she said. ‘Your client.’
‘Whose name is …?’
Ginger let her face look calm and calculating. In fact, she was wracking her brains to remember what had been written on the ‘For Sale’ signs. Ping? Pang? Pung?
‘Don’t fool around with me, King Rat. You know who I mean. Mr Pung wants to know why you are stealing from his smokehouse. He’s sent me here to negotiate.’
The little white rat laughed his soft and gentle little white laugh again.
‘Well, they say a cat may look at a king. We weren’t aware we had stolen from you. As you know, we run a big operation here, there are bound to be mix-ups. We apologise. What kind of negotiation were you thinking of?’
‘A return of the goods, cost free,’ said Ginger. ‘Mr Peng wants me to accompany them until arrival.’
King Rat’s little white nose twitched as he seemed to think about it.
‘Tell me, how did you find out about this … let’s say, this error in our logistics chain?’
‘I discovered it myself,’ said Ginger proudly. ‘I caught your foot soldiers red-handed and followed them to the city.’
The white rat laughed again. ‘Oh, what a very resourceful cat you are. And what a brave cat too. So you saw them taking from your farm and without a second thought followed them all the way here?’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger.
‘So when exactly was it that your employer asked you to come and negotiate with me?’
‘Er …’
‘And how is it possible you don’t know his name is actually Pong?’
‘Er …’
‘And how is it you were found in a small access tunnel, not the main sewer tunnel through which all goods are delivered?’
‘Well …’
‘Enough!’ said the friendly-looking little rat. ‘You bore me. You are obviously an opportunist looking to profit from my organisation’s labour. You will be executed in the morning. Corporal Punishment, relieve the guard who was on duty and send two new rats in his place. Position two more rats every few metres up the tunnel from here. See that this cat has no chance of escape. I will retire to my nest to think of a suitably vile way of killing her.’
And with that he disappeared out of the cell, leaving Ginger alone in the dark.
WHAT A LET DOWN!
Bunk stayed switched off all afternoon. He lay so still and silent that even Tuck didn’t bother miaowing at him.
‘What’s with your friend?’ said the fat cat, Matt, as he washed his tail. ‘Tired of lying?’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Tuck. ‘He’s travelled a long way to make sure you all escape. He needs to rest.’
Well, that set all the other cats off laughing, even those further down the row who Tuck couldn’t see.
‘Help us escape?’ laughed Principessa Passagiata Pawprints. ‘Look at him-a. He can’t even-a move-a, he’s-a catatonic with shame!’
‘Help us escape?’ laughed fat-cat Matt. ‘He can’t even stand up. Hey, secret agent, secrete this!’
And with that he threw a big clump of litter across the aisle. It sailed through the air, through Bunk’s cage, and landed hard on his head. When Bunk didn’t even react to that, the laughter in the cages around Tuck fell silent.
‘Is he all right?’ someone asked.
But Tuck just glared at the other cats. Let them think what they wanted. Let them think they’d killed Bunk with their nasty jokes and not believing him. What did it matter? They were all doomed anyway.
The rest of that afternoon passed more slowly than any hours had ever passed for Tuck. Even more slowly than the previous winter when he and his friends had nearly starved to death on the farm. Because at least then he had friends. Now he was just surrounded by cats who laughed at him, and by Bunk, who was at best unconscious, if not dead. For hours on end, Tuck sat silently. He watched the shadowy back of the barn growing shadowier still, as the scant daylight from the huge barn door drew further and further away. It was properly dark by the time Tuck heard a beep beside him, and then another beep and a whirr. He stood and cautiously approached the mesh between his and Bunk’s cage. Then he watched with amazement as Bunk opened his big round yellow eyes.
‘You’re alive!’ said Tuck. ‘Oh, my goodness, I thought you were dead and I wouldn’t know what to wear to your funeral because I always wear black and I wanted something special to show how sad I am. I was thinking pink wasn’t appropriate and maybe cornflower blue would be too difficult to come by.’
‘Sunlight,’ said Bunk slowly. ‘Need to recharge.’
‘Don’t speak,’ said Tuck. ‘I’ll …’
Before he could say anything else, there was a very human noise from the other end of the barn. Tuck pricked up his ears and tried to resist moving to the back of his cage. Suddenly Mr Pong’s long, thin face (above his longer, thinner body) appeared between the two rows of cages. He was carrying a tray full of din-dins.
‘Miaow, miaow, miaow!’ All the other cats started up mewling, as if they’d never learned not to eat anything Mr Pong put in front of them. ‘Yum, yum, yum. Miaow, miaow, miaow!’
Bunk said something else, but Tuck couldn’t hear it.
‘Wait for later, Bunk,’ he said. ‘Save your energy. Don’t speak.’
Tuck watched Bunk barely lift his head as Mr Pong put his hand through the flap in his cage and leave a bowl of food inside. But then Tuck’s nose realised something unusual was happening. His stomach was rumbling, his nose was twitching, he was salivating.
‘Ooh, ooh,’ he said. ‘I think this food is OK to eat. It smells really good.’
Tuck looked around and saw the other cats were thinking the same thing. Those who had already been given bowls were sniffing it closely and purring.
‘No,’ Tuck heard Bunk say quietly. ‘My detectors are still detecting poison. It’s just he’s lreant to hdie the sleml of it.’
‘Oh no!’ said Tuck. ‘Bunk, your spelling’s gone like mine. Stop talking, save your energy.’
‘Don’t let tehm ate eeeeeeet …’ said Bunk, as a big puddle of drool came out the side of his mouth.
‘Oh no!’ said Tuck. ‘Don’t power down again, Bunk. I need you to be clever. I need you to save us. I can’t stop them eating it by myself.’
‘You are clveer,’ said Bunk in a strange slow-motion voice, the saliva dripping from his mouth. ‘You are as clveer as you thnik you arrrrrrrrrr.’
‘No, no, I need you!’ cried Tuck. ‘I need you to be in charge and tell me what to do!’
As if in response, Bunk suddenly sprang up on all fours and his head span all the way around while his yellow eyes rotated in opposite directions. When he spoke it was in a high-pitched voice, the words pouring out so fast Tuck could barely understand.
‘Be cool, you fool, I don’t want a duel. Rule the school to stop them eating gruel while I unspool in a pool of drool.’
And with that Bunk fell down again, his legs and tail at strange angles, his eyes wide open, his whole body flat and silent and still.
WHAT A TURN UP FOR THE BOOKS!
At purrcisely the same time, back in the city, Dora was also lying flat and silent. But not because she was a black bot bitterly battered by flatter batteries; not a bit. Dora was lying flat and silent under the weight of Minnie’s front paws. The two cats had left the stage to thunderous applause, which is a strange expression, if you think about it. I mean, what are people clapping with to make a sound like thunder: canons?
Hennyhoo, no sooner were they off the stage and in the wings than Minnie dragged Dora behind a curtain and pinned her to the ground.
‘You thieving little minx!’ she spat. ‘It’s not enough that you steal my songs and steal my job, now you want to steal my chance of fame too! Well, I’ve got news for you, kitten. No one gets between Minnie and what Minnie wants. You understand?’
Dora said no
thing. She just looked up at Minnie, her pretty little eyes wide open, her ears slightly squashed against the floorboards.
‘Do you understand?’ Minnie said again.
Still Dora said nothing, until Minnie said a very, very, very rude word, hissed in Dora’s face, and removed her not-as-substantial-as-it-used-to-be weight from Dora’s little body. Immediately, Dora sprang to her feet and took a step or two backwards, towards the curtain hiding them from everyone else in the wings.
‘Sorry,’ said Dora. ‘But I am like you, I want get ahead. Problem is for me, I have no talent, so I think to take yours. You have enough to spare, I think.’
‘Nice try,’ said Minnie, struggling to resist the compliment. ‘But take someone else’s. How did you even get down here before me?’
‘I take first bus who come,’ said Dora. ‘They say I am so cute I can ride for free. I see him stop for you and I hide, but you no get on bus.’
‘But why didn’t you stay up at The Scratching Post? You had my job after all.’
‘Oh no. That Mr Soffalot, the ocelot who scoffs a lot, he want me to sign crazy contract only an idiot cat would sign.’
Dora smiled sweetly in a way which made Minnie want to pin her to the ground again, this time pummelling her ears until she screamed.
‘I don’t ever want to see you again in my life,’ Minnie said. ‘Got it?’
Dora’s eyes opened even wider. ‘But where will I go? What will I do?’
‘Oh,’ said Minnie, with a soft voice. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart. The answer to both of those questions is really easy. It’s “I don’t care.” Now get out of my sight and don’t ever cross my path again. Not if you like the idea of keeping your looks. Go on, get lost!’
And with that Minnie made a swipe at Dora which made her jump backwards in fright. But before Dora could turn and flee, the curtain behind her was swept to one side and Mickey Manx appeared behind her.
‘There you both are!’ he said, his overly-whitened teeth a glimmer of gleaming glamour in the glum and gloomy space. ‘What are you two up to?’
‘Oh, Mr Manx!’ said Minnie. ‘Oh, what an honour. Oh my, I was just telling Dora not to get lost.’
‘What a caring mother,’ said Mickey Manx, patting Dora patronisingly. ‘What a wonderful role model. Such looks, such talent, and a soft motherly heart to boot. How moving, how meaningful, how massively marketable.’
‘One does one’s best,’ said Minnie. ‘And can I just say I have always been your greatest fan. I’ve so often dreamed of meeting you. You’re even more handsome in the flesh, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘One does one’s best,’ said the Manx, looking rather uncomfortable.
‘Back home in Andorra,’ said Dora, ‘we have a Juan. He always does Juan’s best too!’
Mickey Manx’s teeth flashed as he laughed, lighting the space around him.
‘Oh, but she’s adorable. You must be so proud.’
‘I am!’ said Minnie, flicking her tail in a way which she knew was fetching. ‘But my dear darling Dora is doing direly. She’s drooping and dreary, aren’t you, dearie? She was just off for some rest, weren’t you, sweetie? Yes, you were. So run along and leave Mr Manx and me to talk.’
‘I …’ said Dora.
‘Run along’ said Minnie.
‘But …’
‘Off you go …’
‘It’s just …’
‘Bye then.’
‘Can’t I …’
‘Bedtime!’
‘If …’
‘Toodle-pip!’
‘Not a bit of it’ said Mickey Manx, laying a paw on Dora’s back. ‘Dora should be here to hear this too. I have an offer of fame and fortune for you. There’s no need to wait for all the other stages of this silly competition. I’m willing to offer you a contract right here and now so we can get on with lighting up the lives of all those poor pussies out in the real world!’
‘What?’ said Minnie. ‘A contract! For me?’
‘What?’ said Dora. ‘A contract! For me?’
Dora and Minnie looked at each other, then they both looked at Mickey Manx.
‘A contract for who?’ said Minnie.
‘A contract for whom?’ said Dora, who, having learned her yammer from a crammer, had better grammar than her mamma. Mickey Manx’s teeth shone again and his whiskers wobbled and his stripes shook. Being a Manx cat, he had a very short tail, but even this twirled slightly as he laughed.
‘For both of you!’ he said. ‘You’ll be my first double act and I have high hopes for you. There’s no time to waste. We’ll launch you this weekend on What’s New, Pussycat? Then it’ll be work, work, work. Endless hours of rehearsals and tours and appearances and recordings. But never fear, you’ll both be together the entire time. You’ll never be out of each other’s sight!’
‘Er …’ said Minnie. ‘That’s …’
‘That’s fabulosa!’ said Dora.
‘That’s …’
‘We see a contract, yes?’
‘That’s …’
‘Because we want fully copyright, trailing commissions on recordings, guaranteed payola, separate trailers and an annual non-performance-related fee, por favor!’
‘That’s … my girl,’ said Minnie.
And, for the first time in a very, very, very long time / ever, Minnie considered the pussibility she might not be the smartest cat in the room.
WHAT A PLIGHT!
Ginger didn’t sleep that day. She had always imagined her last hours would be spent lying in the sun, and maybe eating her favourite food—not imprisoned by rats deep underground. She tried to keep her spirits up, but all she could think was how she’d let everyone down. Tuck and Minnie, back on the farm, would probably starve to death over the winter. As for the Fur Girls, Ginger had lost track of time, but she knew the fight would be starting soon. When she failed to show up, the gang—or her friends, as she now thought of them—would forever think her a coward. Nobody would even know she was dead. Ginger tried not to think of what form her execution would take, for what was the point in worrying about that? It was better to try and meditate and enjoy what little time she had left. But even in the quiet dark of her cell she couldn’t concentrate. There was a dripping noise somewhere, the unchanging faint light from the end of the tunnel, and every few hours the changing of the guards.
‘The prisoner is yours,’ she heard one of them say as he went off-duty. ‘She’s quiet in there, but watch out. She’s got the look of a mouser about her.’
‘That’s right,’ said the other. ‘She’s an absolute monster.’
Ginger rolled her eyes. The guards who were going off-duty hadn’t even seen her: they were just trying to frighten whoever was taking over. From the sound of the new guards’ voices, it hadn’t worked.
‘Ah, sure, we’re very careful of cats where we come from, so,’ one of them said. ‘I once had an aunt who asked a cat for advice on punctuation. The cat told her she couldn’t give a rat’s asterisk and ate my aunt then and there. Which was very rude, now, if yer ask me.’
‘My own father lost his tail to a cat, like,’ said the other. ‘I asked him what happened and he said there was a tale to it, but as he no longer had his own, he didn’t feel he could share.’
The reaction of the departing guards to this nonsense was so rude it simply cannot be typed, at least not by my delicate fingers. And even if it could be typed, it would be too rude to be printed, and even if it could be printed, it would be too rude to be published, and even if it could be published, it would be too rude to be sold, and even if it could be sold it would be too rude to be read by someone of your young and impressionable age. Which is a lot of ‘evens’ and an equal amount of ‘ifs’, so just face it, you’ll never know. Suffice to say, it was rude. Ginger didn’t care. She knew to which two rats those two voices belonged, and, if you don’t know too, then all I can say is maybe I should have typed the rude thing after all because you probably wouldn’t have got it any
way.
‘Bumfluff!’ she hissed happily as soon as the other guards had scampered away. ‘Fleabomb, is that you?’
‘I should hope it is us,’ said Bumfluff McGuff, the faint light catching his shiny little eyes as he appeared in the cell. ‘Or, sure, yer’d have blown our cover to anyone who wasn’t us.’
‘I thought cats were supposed to be discreet,’ said Fleabomb, appearing beside him. ‘Just because ye’re about to suffer a gruesome, lingering and horrible death, doesn’t mean we have to too, you know.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Ginger.
‘Oh, sure, it was nothing.’
‘You know,’ said Bumfluff, looking at his cousin, ‘yer too modest, FB.’
‘I was being sarcastic,’ said Ginger.
‘Well, there’s no need for that, now, is there?’ said Bumfluff. ‘I once had an aunt …’
‘The plan!’ hissed Ginger. ‘How are you going to get me out of here?’
The two rats looked at each other.
‘Is she joking?’ said Fleabomb.
‘Is that the sarcasm again?’ said Bumfluff.
Then to Ginger he said: ‘Come here till I tell yer, this is the plan. We’re here, are we not? We’re yer guards. So go on, be our guest now, escape. We’re not going to stop yer. Off yer go.’
‘But what about the other guards further up the tunnel?’
‘What about them?’ said Fleabomb. ‘Surely ye can’t mean us to replace them too?’
‘Well, I thought you might at least consider getting rid of them. Otherwise I won’t get very far, will I?’
Ginger watched Fleabomb and Bumfluff thinking about this.
‘Could ye not be killing them at all?’ squeaked Fleabomb after a while. ‘I think that’s what most cats generally do.’
‘I could kill one or two,’ said Ginger. ‘Maybe even get past three or four. But with all the noise they’d make, by the time I got up to ground level I’d … Oh, hang on! Mm. And then they’d … And then I’d … Mm, that could work!’
