by Nick Green
Then Cobb was standing over her.
‘What are you doing?’
She stopped the sound. ‘Nothing.’
‘You were purring.’ He squatted down. ‘Is that one of your tricks? How is it done?’
Tiffany said nothing.
‘I doubt you’re happy. So what’s it for?’ Cobb wore a friendly smile, patting the cage. ‘What else did that woman teach you?’
‘If you let me out of here,’ said Tiffany, ‘I’ll tell you. Just let me go home to my parents. I’ll teach you everything I learned.’
She was so desperate, she half-believed it herself. Cobb, however, didn’t.
‘That’s not a workable scenario,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve no desire to run across rooftops myself. All that interests me is the process. How does a simple girl defy physical laws?’
‘How can a person kill his own mother?’ Tiffany shouted at him. ‘How can a human being keep animals in tiny cages and stick tubes in their guts?’
‘These animals you love so much often kill their own relatives,’ Cobb replied. ‘And as for my treatment of them—you eat meat, don’t you? You take medicines and wear makeup. All of it’s been tested on animals.’
‘But, no, listen—’ Tiffany floundered. ‘What you’re doing is—’
‘We can sit and have this pointless debate,’ said Cobb, flourishing a piece of paper, ‘or we can discuss…aha. This is familiar, is it?’
Tiffany, with a lump in her throat, found herself looking at a printout from the BBC’s website. There was a photo of her dad speaking into a microphone. Beside him stood Mum, her heavily made-up eyes ruined from crying.
‘So it is you,’ said Cobb. A sound broke from Tiffany’s throat. Cobb smiled. ‘Tiffany Maine. And these are your parents. Yes?’ He moved the picture further to her right, holding it in his claw-like hand. She followed it, magnetised.
‘If you want them to see you again safe and well,’ Cobb went on, in a gentler tone, ‘then all you have to do is…’
There was a stirring in her peripheral vision. She turned sharply. Cobb’s other hand was poking a hypodermic syringe through the bars.
‘No! No!’ Even as she grabbed at it, the needle jabbed into her shoulder. She fought in crazed fear, bashing herself against the cage’s interior. Her struggles lasted brief seconds, before the pain faded in a cloud that dampened sound and turned the light black.
Ben’s hands shook so much that he had to try three times to dial the right number.
‘Hello, this is Safeline.’
Safeline. A nice name that surely fooled no-one.
‘H—hi. M-my name is Ben—’
‘You don’t have to say your name if you don’t want to. This is a confidential line,’ said the comforting female voice.
‘I’m Ben Gallagher. I’m a friend of Tiffany Maine’s. The missing girl. On the television.’
‘Oh…’ There was a short silence on the line. ‘Good, Ben, go on. What do you want to tell me?’
‘I think I know where she might be.’
Think? He knew it. Knew it with terrible certainty. When he hadn’t been there to help, Tiffany had simply gone ahead without him.
‘Go on, Ben.’
‘I think she’s been…’ he felt ridiculous saying it, ‘kidnapped.’
She had gone to that place. She had tried alone to free the animals. And, inevitably, she had failed. How could he have let this happen?
‘Where are you at the moment, Ben?’
‘In a phone box.’
‘And how do you know about Tiffany?’
‘I’m her friend.’
‘Is she with you now?’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘I told you. I think some men have…abducted her. They’re at the old factory in Stoke Newington.’
‘Okay, Ben. Keep calm. I need to know how you know this.’ Not even a bomb could have shaken this woman’s calm. ‘Can you explain some more? If we’re going to alert the police, we need to convince them that no-one’s telling tales.’
‘I am not making this up!’ Ben shouted. ‘Listen, if I’m lying, arrest me. My name is Ben Gallagher and I live at flat one, twelve Defoe Court. Come round and check. Okay?’
‘Thank you, Ben.’ Deftly the woman wound up the conversation. ‘We’ll look into it. Take care now.’
Ben put the phone down. His rush of relief lasted less than a second. Too late he remembered that flat one, twelve Defoe Court didn’t exist any more. He punched the phone, sucked his skinned knuckles and tried to think. Who would believe him? Who in the world? There was no-one. No sane person would spare him a second—
No sane person. Of course. He ran out of the phone box and down the darkening street.
The syrupy blackness began to ripple. Tiffany swam up against the tide of unconsciousness, to where voices echoed like water in a cave. She fought to open her eyes.
‘If it had been left up to you,’ someone was grumbling, ‘the girl would be in a police station by now, telling them everything.’
‘It was your thug who nearly let her escape.’
‘Toby is my chief of security. You should be grateful I brought him.’
‘And the dogs? I don’t like dogs. You never said you were bringing dogs.’
With a mighty effort Tiffany prised her eyelids apart. She was lying on her back on the cage floor. Oh, no—had she been doped again? She felt sicker than ever. Merged into one blur, Stanford and Cobb stood talking close by.
‘I won’t let Fred and Ginger hurt you.’ Stanford clicked his tongue. His two gigantic Dobermans sprang to their feet, tongues flapping. ‘But if one of your monster cats gets loose, I want protection.’
‘Do you now?’ Cobb steepled his fingers. ‘Let’s suppose that a tiger such as Shiva did escape. Your ferocious dogs would have a life expectancy of, oh, approximately three seconds each.’
Stanford drew himself up. ‘You’d be amazed at how far I can run in six seconds.’ He hooked a finger in one dog’s collar. ‘Speaking of which, your cats had a job to do. Have they done it yet? Have you done it?’
Tiffany’s heart clenched. She had forgotten their hideous plan. How they intended to dispose of Mrs Powell’s dead body. All her sorrow flooded back, spilling fresh tears over her cheekbones. Again and again, in her mind, she saw Felicity fall, struck down by the bullet that smashed just below her right shoulder.
Cobb hesitated. ‘I’ll sort it out. Soon. Don’t worry. No-one will notice one more carcass in the meat locker. Now I’ve other things to think about.’
He advanced on the cage. Tiffany tried to draw back but felt as if she were pinned with paving stones. She could only loll her head and watch the scientist approach.
‘John, my friend, share my excitement!’ Cobb’s eyes gleamed like ice. ‘We could transform our manufacturing process. Panthacea is distilled from cat bile. Think how much time and money we might save if we could get it from a purer source.’
‘A purer–?’
‘The same basic product, already compatible with the human body. Here is the answer, handed to us on a plate!’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘It’s a theory,’ Cobb admitted. ‘I should test it.’
From a pocket of his coat he drew a syringe that look big enough to sedate a rhinoceros. He ripped a fresh needle from a paper sachet and fitted it. Tiffany’s throat closed in terror. She didn’t care for needles at the best of times, and this one was practically a bayonet.
‘A bile sample is what I need,’ said Cobb. ‘Analysis will tell me if the right feline compounds are present in this girl’s system.’
He knelt by the cage. Tiffany sucked air in gulps. Move, her mind screamed at her, move out of reach. It was no use. Her limbs refused to obey, lying lifeless as a mannequin’s.
Stanford cleared his throat. ‘Is this a good idea?’
Cobb slid the giant needle through the bars. ‘It’s finding the right spot that’s tricky. My human physiology is so rusty.’
&nb
sp; Tiffany bit hard on her own lip, trying to shock her body into life. Roll away, she had to roll away. Catras, where were her catras when she needed them? They floated out of reach, faint and cold as distant planets.
‘Steady now.’ Cobb levelled the needle over her left side. ‘The bile duct ought to be somewhere around here…’
‘Cobb!’
Philip Cobb jerked backwards, the needle falling from his hand. Stanford had yanked him away by the collar. With a thump Cobb was sitting on the floor. He glared up at his associate in total bewilderment.
‘No,’ said Stanford. ‘You make a mistake with that pig-sticker, what happens then? We call an ambulance? Why can’t you just leave things be?’
Cobb stood. He straightened the creases in his coat, picked up the needle and dropped it into his pocket. Bringing his face very close to Stanford’s he said, ‘Don’t ever touch me again.’
Tiffany lay still, her heart crashing in her chest. Cobb withdrew to his office chair. He rotated it so that his back was turned.
‘Listen to me,’ said Stanford. ‘This girl. She isn’t a slum kid. They’re looking for her. We cannot keep her here.’
Cobb stayed silent. He appeared to be sulking.
‘We can’t!’ Stanford insisted.
‘But neither can we simply release her.’ Cobb didn’t look round. ‘She’s seen us. She knows our names.’
‘Yes, thanks to you. What do you suggest?’
‘You’re the strategist, John. You tell me.’
‘We’ll have to leave the country,’ Stanford sighed. ‘Write off this mess while we still can. Hide out in Eastern Europe for a bit and start over when things have cooled off.’
‘A delightful prospect.’
‘You don’t have to tell me!’ Spit flew from Stanford’s mouth.
‘Calm down, John. You’re forgetting we have an alternative.’
‘What alternative?’ Stanford lowered his voice, moving farther from the cage. Tiffany reached out with cat hearing and managed to pull their whispers into earshot.
‘The other option,’ murmured Cobb, ‘is to make sure we’re never found out.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘You know, John.’
Silence fell, so that for a moment Tiffany thought her power had failed.
‘John? I want you to say it.’
‘All right, I know,’ Stanford breathed. ‘By destroying the evidence. Like we’re doing with the other. Our only other option is to kill her and feed her to the cats.’
DARKNESS AND DAY
A shining claw hung over Theobald Mansions. Ben slowed to a walk, letting his eyes fall from the new moon to the single lit window beneath. She was back from holiday. Relief soured to foreboding and he stood still on the pavement. It would be much easier to turn around, go home, sit on the sofa with Mum and Dad and watch late-night telly. For all he knew, his guess about Tiffany was quite wrong.
He stood for a minute, debating with himself. Then he was walking towards the block. The main door stood ajar, wedged with a copy of The Times. That was odd. He tried the lobby light—broken. He had almost forgotten what darkness was like. Blind, he groped his way up the stairs, missing more than ever the lightness of cat feet that would have carried him to the top in seconds. He fell against the last door and thumped.
‘Mrs Powell! It’s Ben. I need to talk to you.’
The door opened. Light dazzled around a dark figure.
‘It’s okay,’ Yusuf called over his shoulder. ‘He’s come.’
Dazed, Ben stepped inside. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I think.’
In the pashki studio he found Susie, Daniel, Olly and Cecile, all kneeling in the Sitting Cat pose.
‘Hey, man,’ said Daniel.
Cecile glanced up, her face anxious. ‘Hiya.’
Ben half-expected them to shout Surprise! and throw balloons about. ‘Have you been waiting for me?’
‘Kind of,’ said Olly. ‘We tried every other way to find you. Short of shining a cat-signal into the clouds.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Daniel demanded.
‘Well, for starters, my home got demolished.’
‘Good excuse,’ Daniel laughed. ‘I’ll use that next time I’ve got late homework. Seriously, Ben—’ He stopped. ‘Wait a second, you don’t mean it?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You don’t—you didn’t live at Defoe Court?’
Ben, totally bemused now, nodded.
‘Oh no. Oh no…’
Out of nowhere came the connection. What was the name of the building company that worked for Stanford? Horton and Forrester? Daniel’s surname was Forrester. His father, a builder.
‘That was your dad’s company? Your dad smashed up my home?’
He went for Daniel, who backed up against the window.
‘I didn’t know!’ Daniel spluttered, holding his arms across his face. ‘Nor did he. He was doing his job. How could he know you used to live there?’
‘I was still living there. Okay, okay.’ Ben shook himself free of Olly and Yusuf, who were pulling him away. ‘Forget it. There’s no point. Just forget it.’
A bitter taste stung his throat. He stared at a blank patch of wall. His rage at Daniel quickly ebbed. That wasn’t why he’d come.
‘Did Mrs Powell call you here?’ He looked to see if she was spying from the kitchen.
‘We don’t know where she is,’ said Cecile. ‘She must be back from India ’cos there’s new milk in the fridge. But Jim hasn’t been fed for ages, he’s half-starved. I gave him some cat food but now he bites if you stroke him.’
‘And Tiffany’s not—’
‘No,’ said Susie. ‘You’ve seen the news?’
Ben nodded.
‘Cecile rang me up,’ Susie went on. ‘Eventually I realised she was really worried about something. So we came here. We thought Mrs Powell might know what happened, but her door was locked.’
‘But,’ said Cecile, ‘we found the key!’
‘Taped just inside the cat flap,’ Susie grinned.
Ben looked from one to the other, trying to keep up.
‘To cut it short,’ said Yusuf, ‘we got together to work out what’s going on.’
‘We thought you’d disappeared too,’ Daniel mumbled. ‘When your phone was on the blink.’
Ben could feel it, like a weight around his neck. They were waiting for him to explain it all. He knew, they didn’t, and it was torment.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if Tiffany is with Mrs Powell, I don’t think she can be in danger. But there’s something you don’t know.’
There was a lot they didn’t know. The threats from Stanford. The bus-roof pursuit. The factory of caged cats. They listened in silence while he told them everything.
‘That place…It really shook Tiffany up. She thought we might save those cats ourselves. She kept asking me to help.’
‘But you didn’t,’ said Daniel.
‘There was nothing we could have done,’ Ben snapped.
‘Maybe she didn’t think so,’ said Yusuf. ‘When you said no, she went to Mrs Powell. Is that where they’ve gone? To the derelict in Albion Road?’
‘They might have.’
‘They’ve been missing three days,’ said Susie. ‘Tiffany would have rung home.’
‘Unless they’re in trouble,’ said Cecile.
There was a long silence. Then someone murmured, ‘Well. There’s no choice, is there?’
They all looked in surprise at Olly, who fidgeted.
‘We’ve…we’ve got to go after them.’
Susie paled.
‘He’s right,’ said Yusuf. ‘We can’t sit here doing nothing. And you can forget about the cops, because by the time we’ve explained everything…I’m afraid it’s us or no-one, my friends.’
His eyes raked over them. Cecile nodded quickly. Daniel stood up, all four-foot-nine of him, pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose and clenched his
fists.
‘Count me in.’
Susie got to her feet.
‘This is your worst idea ever, Yusuf’ she said, ‘but if there’s no other way…’
‘If I think of one, I’ll yell it out.’
Ben felt their stares on him.
‘You can lead us in there?’ said Yusuf.
‘I can’t—’ Ben corrected himself, ‘we can’t do this!’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Olly.
‘Listen, if they’ve,’ Ben could hardly get the words out, ‘if these men have done something to Tiffany and Mrs Powell, what chance have we got? You—you can’t imagine what they’re like. I’ve had John Stanford in my home. He had my father beaten up. And as for the other one…’ The hairs bristled on his neck. ‘I’d do anything to help Tiffany. But if we go in after her we’ll make things worse!’
‘So your plan is…?’ Yusuf waited. After a minute he punched his palm. ‘That’s settled then. Olly. The gear.’
Olly unzipped the kit bag that lay at his feet and began dishing out black bundles. Susie and Cecile collected one each and left the room. Daniel and Yusuf took theirs into a corner of the studio. Olly tossed a bundle at Ben. It flopped against his chest and fell to the floor.
‘Your uniform,’ Olly explained. ‘I got them printed, like I said. Only about twenty pounds each. You can pay me later.’
Yusuf and Daniel suited up. In their black outfits, emblazoned with Olly’s striking cat whisker design, they resembled a cross between Japanese ninjas and acrobats from the Cirque du Soleil. Susie and Cecile reappeared, both changed and wearing their cat face-prints. No. This had to be a joke.
Yusuf looked at him quizzically through his own painted face.
‘What’s got into you, Gallagher?’
‘Nothing. Yusuf, wake up! We’re a bunch of kids. We are not superheroes!’
‘We aren’t,’ said Daniel. ‘But you are. You and Tiffany. What you can do—’
‘I can’t do anything!’
His voice rang in the silent studio.
‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘Not any more. I’ve lost it.’
A motorbike snarled up the street outside.
‘How?’ Susie whispered.
‘There was an accident.’ He could hardly bear to remember it. ‘With pashki. Something happened.’
