The Last Free Cat

by Blake Jon

  “Hi-i!” she said, in a false-friendly voice. “I’m Livvy. You must be Jade.”

  The woman gave me a flimsy handshake. She was probably in her mid-twenties, blond, immaculately turned out from her ears to her fingernails, wearing a lilac tunic-suit over neatly tanned and toned limbs.

  “We’re just going to go through a few things, Jade,” she said. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  I sat. Livvy smiled. “That’s the cat in there, is it?” she asked, eyes on the box beside me.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Could I take a peek?” asked Livvy.

  I opened the lid. Livvy glanced quickly inside. “Oh, she’s lovely,” she said. “I can see why you …”

  Livvy trailed off and shot an anxious glance at Sewell, who had sat himself on the opposite side of the table.

  “I won’t touch him,” said Livvy. “Not till we’ve had the vet’s report.”

  “Her,” I corrected, wondering who exactly had invited Livvy to touch Feela in the first place.

  Livvy returned her attention to me. “Tell me, Jade,” she said. “Have you had any media training?”

  “Media training?” I repeated. “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t do it at school?” asked Livvy.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s important that you’re prepared for the kind of questions you may get asked,” said Livvy.

  “Who by?” I asked.

  “The media!” replied Livvy, baffled at my baffledness.

  “I didn’t know there was going to be media,” I replied.

  “Jade,” announced Livvy, with a trace of concern, “this is a media event.”

  “I thought I was just signing a contract,” I replied.

  “Yes,” replied Livvy, “but you didn’t think Mr. Viafara was coming all this way without getting a news slot?”

  “No one told me anything about the media,” I said.

  “Yes, but it’s obvious, isn’t it?” asked Livvy.

  “Not to me,” I replied.

  Livvy looked a little impatient. “Well, just so you understand,” she explained. “We have the event planned for the Ambassador Suite at seven PM, and in attendance will be all the major news, j-format and reality media, plus our legal people and invited guests. There’s a strict guillotine on audience input at 7:50, but until that time you may be asked a number of questions. It’s very much in your interests that you take our advice concerning these. Particularly as you haven’t had any media training.”

  A wave of awful depression came over me. How had I managed to fool myself that there would be some small, discreet signing ceremony before I’d slip off into the night, back to a quiet, happy life? None of this was happening for my benefit. I was here to be used.

  “If you like,” added Livvy, “we can also give you the use of Mr. Viafara’s stylist.”

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied.

  “He’s very good,” said Livvy.

  “I’m happy how I am, thanks,” I replied.

  “Up to you,” said Livvy. “But I will warn you, the screen puts four kilos on you.”

  Livvy awaited my reaction with a grave face, as if she had just told me a nuclear war had broken out. From that point I found it increasingly difficult to listen to her at all. As she ran through her lists of dos and don’ts for dealing with the media she became like a strange, talking doll, mouth opening and closing, practiced expressions coming and going, none of it having the slightest relevance to the grim battle of existence in which I was involved. I vaguely wondered how much they paid her for this.

  Sewell, at least, was taking an interest. A couple of times I glanced over to see his world-weary eyes slowly scanning her up and down as if she was something he was about to choose from a canteen servery.

  What a world, I thought. What a world to come back to. How wonderful Kris suddenly seemed.

  It was a call to Sewell’s mobile which finally put an end to Livvy’s prattle. The results of Feela’s blood test had come through. Livvy reminded me how lovely it was to meet me, then departed briskly to attend to Mr. Viafara. That left me alone again with Sewell, because we were to wait there till Stott arrived.

  It was a long wait. Even though I was sure Feela was not ill, there was always that tiny seed of doubt, and my head was in such a mess now that this seed grew into a fully grown tree of terror. It didn’t help hearing Sewell on his phone every few minutes, discussing the events at the front of the hotel, where things were clearly heating up. I wished so much Kris was with me, but of course I had no way of contacting him or knowing when he would show up.

  At last the agony was over, or so it seemed. Stott walked in, accompanied by a man in plain clothes who nevertheless had Comprot written all over him. Before they had said a word to me, however, they took Sewell aside and had urgent murmurings with him. I couldn’t make out a word but there were several glances at Feela’s box, each one seeming more sinister.

  “I need to have a look at the cat again,” said Stott to me, finally. He opened the lid of the box, scrutinized Feela closely, then began feeling about her body, intense concentration on his face. When this was finally done to his satisfaction, he sat down.

  “The good news is,” he began, “your cat is not infected with HN51.”

  That certainly was good news, and the fact he said “your cat” was heartening too.

  “However …” he began.

  What now? A new disease? A fatal condition?

  “… the cat is pregnant.”

  Of course. Why had I not realized they would discover that? I had to think up some excuses fast.

  “Pregnant?” I repeated, trying to sound surprised. But I’m no actress.

  “You knew she was pregnant,” said the plain-clothes man. He had a head of tight black curls which looked suspiciously like a perm, and what looked like a fake tan as well. Something about him reminded me of a shop-window dummy, except not as friendly.

  “No I didn’t,” I replied.

  “Your boyfriend told us,” said Fake-Tan Man.

  This threw me completely. Surely Kris wouldn’t have told them anything! On the other hand, what might they have done to him, or threatened him with?

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I replied lamely.

  “How did she get pregnant?” pressed Fake-Tan Man.

  “I don’t know!” I lied. “It must have happened before I found her.”

  Stott shook his head. “This is a very recent pregnancy,” he announced.

  My tired head searched for a believable story. “I’m not always watching her,” I blabbed. “She does go outside.”

  “Don’t waste our time,” snapped Fake-Tan Man. “All legal males are neutered. This cat’s met with an illegal.”

  “No she—” I began.

  “What we want to know,” continued Fake-Tan Man, “is where and when.”

  I clammed up.

  “Your boyfriend’s already told us,” added Fake-Tan Man.

  “Then why are you asking me?” I asked.

  “To check his story,” replied Fake-Tan Man.

  “What was his story?” I asked stupidly.

  Fake-Tan Man gave a sarcastic smile, to let me know exactly how amusing he found this question. At this point there was a brief knock on the door and Livvy reappeared.

  “Everything’s ready to go,” she said. “We need Jade in five minutes.”

  Fake-Tan Man nodded, Livvy left, and all attention was back on me. “You’ll be going nowhere tonight until we get an answer,” said Fake-Tan Man.

  “I’ve been promised!” I cried.

  Sewell held up a hand. “You’ve been promised to keep the cat,” he pronounced. “That still applies.”

  “And to go free!” I cried.

  “You’ll go free as soon as we have the information we want,” replied Sewell.

  “No one said that!” I cried.

  “You never told us the cat was pregnant,” snapped Fake-Tan Man. They’d slipped
into a good-cop, bad-cop routine.

  Sewell checked his watch. “We’ve got to wrap this up, Conor,” he said.

  Fake-Tan Man gave an impatient sniff and pointed a finger in my face. “You listen to me, love,” he snorted. “I’ve got no say in this deal, and I don’t have to like it, but I’m going to make one thing clear. No one’s going spreading a pandemic around this country on my watch. Once this show’s over you are coming with me and you are telling me everything you know about how this cat got pregnant. I’ve got the same message for you as I’ve got for that mob out there: Observe the law and you have nothing to fear. Break it, and I will break you.”

  There was something so sinister in the way Fake-Tan Man made everything so personal. I really felt I was in the presence of a playground bully, except this bully was paid by the government, and there was no one, absolutely no one, to run to if he victimized me.

  “Come on, love,” said Sewell, rising from his chair. “You can still be home tonight.”

  “No, no,” replied Stott, correcting him. “Not tonight.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Sewell.

  “We can’t do the operation till tomorrow,” replied Stott.

  “What operation?” asked Sewell.

  “The hysterectomy,” replied Stott.

  The word hit me like a truck. One of Mum’s friends had had a hysterectomy. They had cut her womb out.

  “You’re not touching her womb!” I said.

  It was as if I’d said nothing. The three men discussed the practicalities of the operation to remove Feela’s womb and abort her kittens as if I wasn’t there. Once they’d sorted these details out and pronounced themselves satisfied, Sewell picked up Feela’s box and asked me to follow him. I continued to argue, offering to have the kittens registered, pleading for them to let nature take its course. In the middle of this Livvy reappeared, looking almost panic-stricken.

  “Mr. Viafara’s waiting!” she cried.

  “So?” I snapped.

  Livvy stared at me with an expression of absolute bafflement. “Mr. Viafara is waiting!” she repeated.

  “Let him wait,” I replied.

  Livvy’s look of bafflement turned to one of outrage. Sewell stepped in aggressively. “Listen here, love,” he growled at me. “You go out there now and do what you’ve agreed to do, or you will be spending the next thirty years behind bars.”

  “And your cat,” added Fake-Tan Man, “will be in the incinerator.”

  My protests dried. With my head in turmoil and my body suddenly feeling hopelessly weak, I left the room behind Sewell and Feela, and walked shakily through the giant lobby of the hotel, hardly registering the continued mayhem outside the front doors. Up ahead were the doors to the Ambassador Suite, guarded by both Comprot and hotel security, but we weren’t entering the room that way. Livvy’s heels went clack-clack-clack with total singleness of purpose around a maze of corridors until we reached the rear of the hotel and another entrance to the suite. Despite the state I was in, it had become second nature to me to map out my surroundings, check the exits, note the signs. I clocked a back entrance to the hotel, heavy with security cameras, turnstiles blocking the ways in and out, keypad lock on the door. I spotted toilets, an office, and a green room, presumably for performers in the Ambassador Suite. I noted that, compared to the front entrance, security was virtually absent here.

  Livvy reached the door she was seeking and issued final instructions. Sewell was to take Feela in and put her in the prepared box. I was to follow Livvy to my seat, await my cue to shake hands with Viafara, authorize the payment from my insurers, sign the contract, and accept the Viafara collar which would then be fitted on Feela. Questions would follow which I should field as instructed. Any deviation on my part would mean the immediate termination of the event, the consequences of which were well understood.

  My mouth dried. My heart thumped like a drum. Livvy tapped a number into the keypad and opened the door to reveal a room packed to the brim with cameras, microphones, and hyped-up, staring people. Straight ahead of us was a stage area where James Viafara sat next to an empty blue leather and chrome chair in front of a screen with the Viafara logo and the words WORKING WITH NATURE FOR A SAFER FUTURE. In front of the chairs was a glass table on which sat a Viafara platinum-X collar, a transparent pet box with the Viafara logo, some papers, and a large ornamental ink bottle in which was an old-fashioned quill pen, the kind I’d seen in books about the Victorians.

  Viafara turned to look at me. He seemed unnaturally clean, almost like a waxwork, in an impeccable silver jacket over a black polo-neck. He was, of course, a celebrity, a professional, who’d been in these kinds of situations a thousand times and knew exactly how to milk a crowd. They trusted him, just as I’d trusted him once. Now, however, I saw with crystal clearness that this man was my enemy. This man wanted to have my cat’s womb removed and her kittens terminated. He wanted this so his firm could go on making profits and he could keep his private islands and jets and customized wardrobe.

  “That’s for you,” urged Livvy, indicating the empty chair.

  By now every eye was upon me. Flashguns popped and a hubbub of murmur filled the room. James Viafara’s expression was becoming mildly exasperated.

  “Will you please take your seat!” pressed Livvy.

  It was an impossible situation. Now I was here, now it was really happening, I knew I could not go through with it. But neither could I sentence Feela to death.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” I said.

  Livvy slapped her hand dramatically against her forehead, then marched into the arena and whispered in Viafara’s ear. As she returned he shared a joke with the crowd which I missed but which they obviously found amusing.

  “Please,” she said. “Two minutes at the most.”

  Sewell immediately clamped himself to my side. Feela was left in Livvy’s care as I was escorted like a death-row prisoner out of the room—leaving the door open—back down the corridor to the ladies’ toilet. Sewell knocked on the toilet door, gave the place a quick once-over, then ushered me in—thankfully taking himself outside. I went straight to one of the cubicles, sat down, and fought to compose myself.

  This was like no toilet I’d ever been in before. It even had a TV screen set in the door. Ha! I thought. Sewell missed that. For no reason other than bloody-minded disobedience, I pressed the on-pad.

  At first I couldn’t take in the newsreader’s words. All I saw was Kris’s face, a recent picture of Kris’s face, with the words DELANEY ESCAPES CUSTODY—DELANEY ESCAPES CUSTODY running across the screen below it. When the shock of this had faded, fragments of the story began filtering through to me: Kris Delaney, arrested under Terrorism and Aliens Act, also charged with theft, assualt, abduction of Jade Jones, assaulting a community protection officer … being transferred from Comprot station to maximum security detention center … escape may have involved others … details unclear … public warned not to approach under any circumstances …

  That was enough. Enough to know I’d been conned, enough to make up my mind, enough to send me charging from the toilet, past a startled Sewell, back through the open door into the Ambassador Suite. High on emotion, unafraid of anything, I marched center stage. The room fell utterly silent, and next moment I heard my own voice, loud and strong and inevitable, as if it was pre-recorded:

  “I am not a criminal!” I cried. “I have stolen nothing!”

  I turned to Viafara and pointed an accusatory finger. “This is the criminal!” I cried. “This is the thief!”

  My eyes fell on the table prepared for my sacrifice. I seized the ornate ink bottle and with one decisive sweep of the arm sent the contents cascading over James Viafara.

  “Victory to the Free Cats League!” I cried.

  There was a moment’s utter shock—not least from Viafara—then pandemonium. A surge of people came forward, cameras flashing, voices yelling and, in the midst of them, to my amazement, a Free Cats League banner. Punches were throw
n between the people holding this and the security guards, and the next second Comprot had opened fire with electric stunners.

  I had not lost my new talent for clear thinking in the most desperate situations. In the center of all this chaos I saw both Feela’s box and my escape route. Sewell was fully occupied with a demonstrator and only Livvy barred the way. In seconds I had the box in one arm while the other dealt with Livvy—not a hard strike but perfectly timed, enough to dump her on her perfectly toned backside. As I escaped through the exit door I slammed it shut, knowing the keypad would delay my pursuers for the vital seconds I needed.

  Luck was with me. As I reached the back entrance a man was coming in. I placed Feela’s box beside the turnstiles, vaulted them all at once, grabbed the box again, and charged past the baffled incomer and out of the hotel.

  Was I fated to escape? It was beginning to feel like that. Making that speech, standing up to one of the most powerful men in the world, had made me feel invincible. Even though the rear of the hotel was guarded by a wall at least four meters high, I was convinced an escape route would open up for me. Sure enough I found the pedestrian entrance to the hotel’s underground car park which I took without a second thought, hammering down a set of steps into an alien world of concrete and luxury limos, their gleaming hoods as unnaturally clean as Viafara. Somewhere there was an exit for those cars—surely that would provide an escape for me.

  Footsteps clattered down the steps behind me. No need to look behind: They couldn’t catch me. My laser sharp eyes had already spotted the golden arrows marked EXIT painted on the floor of the car park. Despite the weight of Feela I ran like lightning around the corners, up the ramps, between the cars, until it appeared before me: a mesh gate and gatekeeper’s booth, on which the word FREEDOM was burning in letters of fire, if only in my mind.

  The fact that this gate was closed did not bother me in the slightest. I went straight into the same routine we’d used to get out of the car graveyard—except instead of using a stone I simply kicked the nearest car, setting off an ear-splitting siren and bringing the security guard hurrying towards where I’d been standing. I was already gone of course, taking a zigzag route to the exit gate, all concentration focused on the controls to that gate, wherever they were.