by Frank Kusy
‘Forty-sixty, mate. My last offer. I don’t like this Spanish lot – they’re thick as planks and they don’t speak the Queen’s English – but this is my manor now and I want to keep it that way. You ain’t gonna make it on your own...’
Ginger considered. Yes, he probably did need help – one look at the assembling horde told him that – but he hadn’t lost a fight yet and he wasn’t about to start.
‘No dice, “Miguel” – or whatever you call yourself now. I can handle it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ sniggered Miguel and sat back to watch.
‘Hola, Senor!’ shouted up the lead gangster cat, scratching at the foot of the box. ‘My name Felipe – remember me? “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” Yes, I was the parrot-bird that take out your eye before, ha, ha! And say hello to my little friends Pepe and Jose. They are happy to meet with you again also. Pepe, he was the eagle who eat you up in India, yum, yum, and Jose, he was your mama-gato one time, and leave you to drown!’
Ginger stared down with dawning recognition.
‘Oh, so it’s you lot again, is it? I should’ve known! But tell me this – why have you got it in for me? I’ve done nuffink to you!’
“Nuffink?” echoed Felipe. ‘Oh, por favor, big ginger cat, you remember not. You remember not the sixteen Christian humans you eat in the Roman arena? You are very bad ginger cat back then – very fat lion gato. We follow you like bad smelling thing – from one lifetime to the next – and we are no longer so Christian feeling. You must pay.’
‘That’s rich!’ scoffed Ginger, looking around for a weapon and coming up with a dustbin lid. ‘You’re the ones what want payback? I got your number in my last life, when you scarpered off to Spain and left me to rot in that horrible little cell! Not forgettin’ the time when you all ganged up on me and had me blinded along with that dotty ol’ witch. Wot was her crime, anyway? She was a good ooman, as it went.’
‘Lion tamer!’ called across Miguel. ‘Didn’t like Christians!’
Ginger reared up in his box, a scruffy, fat crusader ready to defend the Cross.
‘Well, come on then!’ he roared. ‘COME on!’
Felipe hesitated. This was one bad-ass pussy cat, and he looked very upset.
‘Tranquilo, grande gato! Please no angry! Give us food and we call it...how you say...”quits”. It is fair, no? Before, you eat us. Now, you feed us. Enjoy your last life. Do not make us kill you again.’
‘It’s a good deal,’ chipped in Miguel. ‘Take it, mate!’
But Ginger’s blood was up. Eight long lifetimes of persecution now rankled in him and he hadn’t deserved any of it. How was he to know that eating oomans was bad? Nobody had told him.
‘I don’t deal with scum!’ he hollered down. ‘Let’s BOOGIE!’
And with that commenced a battle royal. There Ginger stood, a lone beleaguered warrior in a siege-tower of hoarded food, while rank upon rank of howling, spitting, cursing gangster cats set upon him and attacked his cardboard castle.
The first to go was Felipe. No sooner had he got to the top than he was smashed down again, sent flying by one mighty thrust of Ginger’s dustbin lid.
‘Mierda!’ he cried, clutching one eye, ‘I’m blind!’
‘An eye for an eye!’ chortled Ginger. ‘Stoopid ex-parrot!’
Pepe and Jose were next – one batted for a six into a tree, the other held down in a full sombrero until he lost consciousness.
‘That’ll teach you, you reincarnated rotters!’ raged Ginger. ‘You’ve had your nine lives and now your time is up! No more sneaky eagles and bad mothers for you!’
But then he was swiped from behind – a dirty blow that took off an ear – and he fell crashing out of his tower of treats.
Miguel, who had been waiting patiently on the sidelines, watched him go down.
‘I can’t take it no more,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What’s he trying to do, kill hisself?’
And with a loud, terrifying yowl he dashed into the fray, scraped a dozen crazed pussies off of Ginger, and hauled him back onto his box.
‘There you go, matey,’ he puffed. ‘Call it thirty-seventy. I’m not greedy.’
Ginger had no time to reply. He was now assaulted on all sides, and he no longer had his dustbin lid. Miguel had his back, but he couldn’t see his front. Blood from his severed ear was trickling into his eyes, and he was fighting blind.
‘Good Gawd!’’ shouted Miguel as the box filled up with marauding moggies. ‘It’s like that ooman bloke Custer and his last stand against the Indians! Where’s the bloomin’ cavalry?’
As if on cue, the cavalry arrived. Or rather, a halting, juddering Tesco’s van with Sergei at the wheel. The poor little Pole had not yet mastered the steering, and the van had three more gears than his old farming tractor. So he just ploughed it into the busy food mountain – scattering every gangster cat in sight – as he tried to find ‘neutral.’
It was fortunate timing, since Ginger and Miguel had nearly been overwhelmed. The fight had left them battered and bruised, and they barely had breath left to speak.
‘Well, you took your time,’ croaked Ginger, wiping his eyes clear. ‘Wot took you so long?’
‘Oh, you’re hurt!’ cried Sparky, leaping forward to lick his damaged friend. ‘What happened to your ear?’
‘Same as the other one now – got a matching set. Wot did take you so long?’
‘Sorry about that,’ apologised Sparky meekly. ‘But Sergei hasn’t driven for ten years. And he didn’t even pass his tractor exam.’
‘Is this your “third party”?’ sneered Miguel, preening his sleek, black fur. ‘He don’t look up to much. He’s just a baby! Let’s cut him out, mate. We did all the fighting!’
Ginger did not hesitate. He sank his teeth into Miguel’s neck and flung him to and fro until he begged for mercy.
‘You ain’t my “mate”, mate!’ said Ginger, finally spitting Miguel out. ‘Sparky is my mate – my only mate – and you’re just fodder for the ants. Here, take your ruddy prawn, you earned it, but that’s all you’re gonna get from me. Now, adios and get lost before I bust your bloomin’ head!’
‘What was that all about?’ asked Sparky, as Miguel quietly slunk away. ‘And am I really your only friend?’
‘Well, I said it so I said it,’ mumbled Ginger uncomfortably. ‘No-one’s gonna cut you out and get away with it. We had a deal, you and I, and you did me proud. So I guess that makes us pals for life. You got a problem with that?’
‘No, no,’ said Sparky, secretly pleased. ‘No problem at all...’
Chapter 10
Surrey or Bust
The real problem arose as they finished loading the van. Yes, it was still working (incredibly) but then Sergei began reversing it back into the road. And as he did so, two figures came round the corner. Two figures who recognised their cats at once.
‘Sparky? Ginger?’ said Joe and Madge in unison. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh Gawd!’ Ginger groaned to himself. ‘Now we’re in for it!’
What he meant of course was that he was in for it. He knew he had taken a risk, that Joe and his missus were in town and he might just bump into them. But he had never expected to see them wandering around during the hottest part of the day.
Result? He was in poo up to his neck. They would never forgive him this time.
Sparky, on the other hand, was overcome with joy. He had never expected to see his humans either, not in this lifetime, and here they were, miraculously, standing right before him.
He sprang forth to greet them and leapt excitedly into Joe’s arms. He dug his nose into the ageing hippy’s face and then he leaned over to lick Madge’s face as well. He was a cat in ecstasy and, no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop purring.
‘Well, we missed you too!’ said Joe, tears of sentiment welling up in his eyes. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have left you behind.’
‘Yes,’ cooed Madge soothingly. ‘
He’s been talking about nothing else ever since we arrived. It’s been “Sparky this” and “Sparky that” and “I wonder what Sparky’s up to right now?” Well, we know now, don’t we? That naughty Ginger’s brought you all the way to Barcelona. Where is the evil old mog anyway?’
The ‘evil old mog’ had shot back into the van. He was a bad cat again, he knew it. Perhaps the worstest bad cat in the universe. And he wasn’t coming out of that van in a hurry. He clung onto a surprised Sergei, still at the wheel, and hid his head in shame.
It was lucky for him – very lucky – that Sparky remembered their last exchange. The one where Ginger had suddenly, out of the blue, declared his undying friendship.
Having finished dripping saliva over his rediscovered humans, Sparky grabbed a marker pen from Joe’s top pocket, leapt down to the ground again, and wrote a quick message on the side of the shiny-white van:
Dear ol’ Joe it read. Do you remember Alice?
Joe’s shock at seeing his cat with a pen in its mouth was overcome by his shock at the message itself.
Of course he remembered Alice. It was the main reason he had stopped going to bed lately. Every time he closed his eyes, there she was: the small bookish girl with the pen in her mouth. It had still been in her mouth when she was writing a story for her beloved cat Ralph, the day before she died.
‘You’re “Alice?” he declared with astonishment.
Yes and you’re Ralph! wrote Sparky. I’m SO happy to find you again!
‘Me too!’ said Joe, grabbing back his baby cat and smothering him with kisses. ‘I knew we’d met before! But I always thought you were my poor dead mum, not Alice! She’s been giving me nightmares for weeks!’
‘What about Ginger?’ scoffed Madge, bringing them both back to reality, ‘What was he? The Artful Dodger?’
Sparky was running out of van-space to write on, so he chose a low wall instead.
Ginger was a bad cat he wrote. In my dreams he was a very bad cat – but now he is a very GOOD cat – he is my new best friend – you must not punish him!
‘Oh, and why’s that then?’ said Madge, still fascinated with Sparky’s new-found literary talent. ‘He’s brought you all the way here, for his own selfish purposes, no doubt, and you want us to forgive him?’
It was then, as the wind suddenly changed direction, that the salty, flavoursome reek of seafood from the van hit her, and she dived inside to investigate.
‘Just as I thought,’ she called back to Joe. ‘There’s a whole freezer-full of messed-up Spanish scraps in here. And a telltale sombrero. If that’s not Ginger’s work, I don’t know what is!’
Joe hobbled to the side of the van, to see who was manning it, and was greeted by a happily waving Sergei.
‘Who the heck are you?’ he demanded. ‘And why are you trying to steal our cats?’
‘Steady on, old boy!’ said Sergei, the smile slowly draining from his face, ‘My name Sergei and I am top-notch, hoity-toity, good egg. You no take Ginger cat. He is friend of mine. If you try to take, your ducks will come home to sit on the grill!’
‘I think he means “our chickens will come home to roost!” Joe called to Madge. ‘He’s not coming out. What are we going to do?’
Madge had no idea what to do. All she knew was that she had two stubborn cats, an even more stubborn Pole, and a stinky white van on her hands. And this vexed her greatly. She had barely been in Barcelona a day and her carefully worked-out sightseeing schedule – prepared with typical Madge-like zeal on the flight over – was falling apart.
‘I don’t know!’ she wailed. ‘Ask Sparky!’
But Sparky wasn’t needed.
It was Sergei who saved the day.
Sensing that his long-awaited trip to England was in dire jeopardy, he leapt down from the cab with his karaoke machine and gave the surprised couple an impromptu performance of his favourite song – yes, Thriller again, and this time with no holds barred.
Joe and Madge watched on in amazement. It was quite the most bizarre spectacle they had ever witnessed. The flailing arms, the frenzied clapping, and the manic moon-walking were one thing. But the terrifying werewolf noises – like a madman baying at the moon – were quite another. A chill ran right up their spines and they wanted him to stop.
When he did finally stop, he made a quick bow and said, ‘I like the Michaels Jacksons. I like to go England and be big star on X-Factor. What you think?’
Joe didn’t know what to think, but he clapped politely and said, ‘What about our cats?’
‘No worry for cats!’ replied Sergei. ‘I am easy-pleaser. I take cats to England also!’
Joe and Madge exchanged a secret smile. Anyone this crazy, and this crazy about cats, might just make it.
‘You’re mad as a box of frogs, mate,’ Joe informed him. ‘But here – take these house keys, and some petrol money too, and be our cat-sitter for a week. You’ll be doing us both a favour.’
Joe knew that Sergei didn’t understand one word he had said, but that didn’t matter. Sparky would interpret for him, and Ginger would give him directions. If only Sergei could avoid being arrested for bad driving, he should have them all back home by tomorrow.
‘Nice one!’ said Madge happily. ‘Far better than cancelling our trip and smuggling three illegal immigrants home by ferry. Now, let’s get back to my itinerary. It’s the Gothic area next – and you’ll like this – a slap-up birthday meal at Els Quatre Gatos.’
‘Els what?’
‘The Four Cats. It’s where Picasso and Gaudi used to hang out. I hear the chicken there is divine!’
‘And how are we going to pay for that? We forgot to bring any euros, remember?’
‘Oh,’ tittered Madge craftily, ‘that’s the one thing I did get right. I rang up ahead to book it, and I left my credit card details. We’ll sort out the bill tomorrow.’
Joe picked Sparky up one last time.
‘Gonna miss you “Alice”, he said sadly. ‘But it’ll only be for a few days this time – not another lifetime.’
Sparky dug his head into Joe’s greying beard and gave him his fondest farewell prrrrp!
‘Yeah, I hear you, buddy. “Ralph” hears you. And no, I’m not going to break another leg and die in a forest. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep for once – you too, I hope – and if we meet in dreams again, we are going to be together. We are always going to be together.’
Ginger leaned cautiously out of the cab window.
‘Yeah, and I’ll be there right with you!’ he chuckled to himself. ‘You ain’t seen the last of me!’
THE END
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Hi folks – Frank here!
Thank you so much for reading my book, I do hope you enjoyed it! If you did, I’d love it if you could leave a few words as a review. Not only are reviews crucial in getting an author’s work noticed, but I personally love reviews and I read them all!
I’d also love it if you checked out the second book in the Ginger series – the award winning Ginger the Buddha Cat. Not to mention (though I just did!) my more ‘adult’ travel memoirs: Too Young to be Old: From Clapham to Kathmandu, Kevin and I in India, Off the Beaten Track: My Crazy Year in Asia and Rupee Millionaires. You can find the links at:
http://frankkusybooks.weebly.com/
Oh, and if you like reading memoirs (some of them about cats) there’s a really cool Facebook group called ‘We Love Memoirs’. We’d love it if you dropped in to chat to the author and lots of other authors and readers here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/welovememoirs/
Acknowledgements
Prrrrrps! and thanks go to Sarah Monaghan, Terry Murphy and Cherry Gregory (for editing and laughs), Mark Roman (for meticulous web admin), Maggie Raynor (for my fab cover and illustrations), and to all the good people
on Authonomy who have helped with crits and comments. Prawns all round!
About the author
Frank Kusy is a rather fat Buddhist who likes playing bridge with little old ladies and writing stories about cats.
He wrote his first cat book when he was eight. It was called 'Jessie the Cat' and even his mum liked it. There followed 'Toad's Dilemma' (a sequel to Frank's all time fave kid's book, 'The Wind in the Willows') and a whole host of similarly derivative anthropomorphic masterpieces. Only after a short affair with journalism in his 20's did he write anything with a human being in it (the Financial Times insisted upon it), and only after he went to India, aged 30, did he stop writing about cats (he only saw one in India).
Frank's first published book (1986) was a travelogue on India – re-released here on Grinning Bandits as Kevin and I in India. 'I wrote it to avoid having to return to a mind-numbing job in Social Services.' There followed a slew of Asian travel guides – India, Thailand, Burma, Indonesia etc – but none of them paid very much and the last one gave him a ten-year writing block: he simply couldn't decide which Delhi hotel had the best bathroom, the Taj Intercontinental or the Oberoi.
Frank returned to writing after breaking his leg in 2005 – his wife nagged him into it. And the first thing they penned together was...another cat book. Thus came into being 'Ginger the Gangster Cat', the story of one fat cat's devotion to Spanish cuisine. For anyone interested, Sparky – their 5-year old perennial kitten and Ginger's shy and nervous sidekick – is real. He really is the cutest cat in the universe. Ginger himself is a composite of every stray tom-cat Frank has had in the past – absolute terrors all of them!
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