Catnapped!

by Gareth P. Jones

  “So what about the cats?” asked Holly.

  “Fresh meat. They’ve been forcing her to eat the cats.”

  “But that will kill her,” she said.

  “Yes, but first her blood will boil and more importantly turn to gas.” He tied the other end of the rope to the post and checked the length. “Then they put you out as bait and unleash the monster, so when the police arrive they find Mandy apparently attacking you. They open fire and BOOM!”

  “The knights in shining armour slay the monster.”

  “Yes. They turn Mandy into a colander, releasing enough poisonous gas into the atmosphere to wipe out every living creature in a ten-mile radius.”

  “So Mandy’s a bomb?”

  “Exactly,” said Dirk. “And the boys in blue here are loaded up with the detonators.”

  Flashing lights shone through the trees. Sirens sounded. Police cars were driving down the path to the clearing.

  “What are you going to do?” said Holly.

  “I’m going to set her free,” said Dirk. “I’ll have to bite through the thinnest part of Mandy I can find.”

  “But won’t that release the gas?”

  “Some, yes, but Limpworm skin grows back pretty quickly near the tail. It’ll probably knock me out but this rope should make sure I can find my way back. Try to stop them shooting at her,” said Dirk, diving head first into the water with a splash just as a headlight swung across the darkness, illuminating Holly.

  She watched the coiled rope unravel as Dirk pulled on the other end.

  A car screeched to a halt. She turned to face it, squinting into the lights. More appeared behind it. Blinded by the brightness, Holly heard car doors open, crackling police radios and people shouting orders. A spotlight came on and illuminated the Limpworm. Tiny red dots appeared on the creature as rifles took aim.

  “No!” yelled Holly. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  A silhouetted figure emerged from the bright lights. “Hold your fire,” he said, walking forwards. As he neared, Holly could make out the police inspector’s bearded face, his eyes staring up in bewilderment at the huge creature in front of him.

  “What … is … it?” he said quietly.

  “Don’t let them shoot,” Holly pleaded.

  “What is it?” he asked again, his gaze fixed firmly on the beast.

  “It’s a Limpworm,” said Holly. “Her blood is poisonous and it’s turned to gas because she’s been eating meat, and if you shoot her you’ll release it and wipe out the entire city.”

  The inspector looked down at Holly, then back up again. “Huh?”

  A police officer joined them and said, “Do you want us to open fire, sir? Sir? Inspector Hughes, sir? Are you all right, sir?” she said.

  “Sergeant?” said the stunned inspector.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  “I would describe it as a huge winged serpent of the variety that hitherto was only thought to have existed in the mythological writings of the ancient Egyptians and such like,” said the sergeant.

  “It’s a bomb,” said Holly. “Don’t shoot it.”

  “A bomb?” said the sergeant. “No, bombs are a lot smaller than that and rarely have wings or heads. That’s your basic winged serpent, that is. Should we shoot it, sir?”

  The bearded inspector looked at her, blinked, and said, “What? Yes, shoot it. Shoot it down now!”

  “No!” said Holly. “You’ll kill us all.”

  “Sorry, miss, we’re just following protocol,” said the sergeant.

  “But it’s not attacking. Look.”

  The Limpworm was clearly in great distress as she tried to free herself but none of her frustration was directed at the humans.

  “Just because it’s not attacking right now, doesn’t mean it’s not going to attack at some point.” The sergeant took hold of Holly’s arm and dragged her behind the cars, followed by the dazed inspector. Struggling to get free, Holly saw a line of officers aiming at the Limpworm.

  “No!” she cried. “Don’t!”

  “So, should we fire or not, sir?”

  “What?” said Inspector Hughes, still staring. “Yes, fire. Shoot. Kill it.”

  “Ready!” shouted the sergeant at the top of her voice. “Aim for the head! Aaaand fire!”

  Holly shielded her ears as an explosion of bullets took to the air, sounding like thunder.

  Dirk swam through the murky water, fighting against the strong undercurrent. I’m swimming in the Mediterranean, he thought. It’s a lovely sunny day and I’ve gone for a swim to cool off. It certainly isn’t the River Thames and I am certainly not about to bite into something that will poison me and possibly kill me.

  There were lights swirling over the river’s surface and Dirk could make out the end of the Limpworm’s long body, snaking down through the water. He tried to swim towards it but felt a tug on his belly. The rope wasn’t long enough. He had no choice. He untied it and let it go. It floated away into the darkness. He would have to find his own way back.

  Dirk followed the tail down to the bottom of the river, where it was at its thinnest. He stood on the riverbed and looked up. It appeared as if the body went on forever, but Dirk knew that somewhere up there it did have an end and at that end was the head of a scared, long-maned Limpworm called Mandy, with the potential to wipe out every living creature in London.

  Here goes, he thought, grabbing the tail to hold it still. He opened his mouth, letting in the foul river water.

  I’m on holiday, he thought, I’m in a warm ocean enjoying a lovely bit of celery. Mmm, celery. He bit down and his teeth sliced through the tail, splitting it clean in two. He felt the rancid taste on his tongue and the water darkened.

  Lethargy washed over him.

  His eyelids grew heavy.

  His body felt weak.

  Bubbles, he thought, there are no bubbles.

  Then he blacked out.

  The gunfire stopped but the noise reverberated around Holly’s ears. A cloud of smoke wafted in front of them. This is it, she thought. They had failed. The bullets would have penetrated the Limpworm’s skin and the poison would be spreading through the atmosphere. The Kinghorns had won.

  She waited.

  But nothing happened. There were no agonizing cries from a wounded creature. No clouds of poisonous gas. The Limpworm had vanished. The water was once again calm.

  “Did we hit it?” asked the inspector.

  “Spotlight!” shouted the sergeant and a spotlight on the back of a van swung its beam across the surface of the water. There was no sign of the creature. “Should we send in the divers, sir?”

  “What? Yes, good idea. Send in the divers.”

  “Get the divers!” shouted the sergeant.

  “You must have missed it,” said Holly.

  “That’s very unlikely,” said the sergeant. “We have some excellent marksmen in the force. Wilkins over there won a prize last year, didn’t you, Wilkins?”

  Another police officer gave a little wave and shouted proudly, “Best shot in Barking three years in a row!”

  “But we’d all be dead if you’d hit it,” she said.

  “You seem to know a lot about this,” said the bearded inspector, who had snapped out of his trance. “My name is Inspector Hughes. And what, may I ask, is your name?” he demanded.

  “Holly.”

  “And how do you profess to know so much, Holly?”

  “I—” Holly stopped herself from bursting out with everything she knew. The Kinghorns. The cats. The plan to blow up London. Dirk had said that if humans knew dragons existed then there would be a war.

  “Are you alone?” asked Inspector Hughes.

  “Yes,” said Holly. She glanced at the rope, which led into the river, then quickly looked away, but the inspector followed her gaze.

  “What’s on the end of this, then?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I don’t know.”

&nbs
p; “Sergeant, haul in that rope,” ordered Hughes.

  The sergeant grabbed the rope and pulled it in easily. Dirk was no longer tied to the other end. Holly’s relief that they hadn’t found him was tempered by thoughts of what might have happened to him.

  “OK, Holly,” said Inspector Hughes. “Start talking.”

  Holly opened her mouth to speak but before she could utter a word her attention was drawn to the sound of a slow handclap. She and both officers turned to see a man in a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat walking slowly towards them clapping his hands together.

  “Bravo! Bravisimo! Well done. Tallulah, you are an a-genius. Even when the camera is not a-pointing at you, you continue.” Holly recognized the man who had been following Dirk. He spoke in an Italian accent, gesticulating flamboyantly. “This is real method acting. You make De Niro look like an am dram theatre ham. I will call him tomorrow and tell him as much.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Inspector Hughes.

  “My name is Alfonso Firenze. I am a great film director. This is my card.” The man pulled out a card from his top pocket and the sergeant took it.

  “Alfonzo Firenze,” he read aloud. “Director, producer, writer and genius.”

  “Oh ha ha, a little joke.” The man laughed again. “I never write.”

  “And you know this girl?” said Inspector Hughes.

  “Is it a-possible that you do not know this girl?” demanded the man. “Look at her. Do you not recognize her? She is Tallulah Manderville, the greatest child actor of our time. You should see her cry. It is a-beautiful. Cry for the policeman, Tallulah. Cry,” he said.

  “Er…” Holly was unsure how to react. Dirk had been suspicious of the man but they were kind eyes set into his rough face and Holly trusted him.

  “Cry. Show the officer how good you are,” insisted the man, with a subtle wink in her direction.

  Holly was well practised at crying convincingly but with each fake sob she felt a very real sense of relief bubble up. She had to gather herself to maintain control of her emotions.

  “Yes, well. That’s very good,” said Hughes.

  “Thank you,” said Holly, smiling.

  “You a-see,” said the strange man. “She was still in a-character when you met her. Poison blood, very good, Tallulah. Such improvisation. Such a talent.”

  Another police officer approached the sergeant and said, “The divers are ready. Should we send them in?”

  “Divers?” said ‘Alfonso’. “Oh, ha ha,” he laughed. “I am so sorry, officers, there is no need for your, as you call them, a-divers.”

  “You mean that creature had something to do with you?” said the inspector.

  “Oh yes. We are a-making a film. A very important film. A film about people and emotions and struggle and love. It is called The Big Scary Beast and the Poor Little Orphan. Working title, of course. You’ve met the orphan, Miss Manderville. And you have obviously a-seen the big scary beast.”

  Hughes eyed him suspiciously. “Where are the cameras then?”

  “All over there,” said the man. “All on the other side of the river and I am furious with them all.” He looked across the river where crowds of people had gathered, and shouted, “Furious! You hear that, Matteo?” Turning back to the inspector, he said, “It’s going to set us back days.” Then he shouted again, “Matteo, you are a nincompoop! I said do not start the creature up until my a-say so.”

  “So that creature was…”

  “A model, yes. That’s right. Magnificent, isn’t she? Built entirely from a-plasticine. The studio wanted it all CGI but I am old school.”

  “But how come we didn’t know about it? Have you got a permit to film?”

  “A permit? Yes, of course we have a permit. My assistant Matteo has it. I will make him email you first thing tomorrow morning, then I will fire the fool.”

  “Now, sir, you’ve cost us a lot of wasted time, not to mention terrifying half the local residents.”

  “You hear that, Matteo, you idiot? You’ll be making cat food commercials for the rest of your short career!”

  “Right, I see. Well, Mr … er…”

  “Firenze. Alfonso Firenze! Are you sure you have not a-heard of me? I am very a-talented.”

  “Er, I don’t know. Did you do that one with alien monkeys?”

  “Alien monkeys? How dare you! That was Alfredo Fintenze. I would never stoop to such low budget tat. I did the film with the monster apes!”

  “OK, come on, sergeant,” said Inspector Hughes. “Let’s go. False alarm.”

  “What about the divers, sir?” asked the sergeant.

  “Never mind that. We’d better go and dispel the panic, explain to everyone it was only a movie prop. Just as I suspected.”

  “Right, sir,” replied the sergeant and then shouted, “Everyone out! False alarm!”

  Inspector Hughes bowed and said, “It’s a pleasure to have met you, Miss Manderville.” He shook the man in the wide-brimmed hat’s hand and said, “I look forward to the movie, sir. The Big Scary Beast and the … er…”

  “The Poor Little Orphan, yes. Just a working title. A-thank you! A-thank you. So sorry for the inconvenience. So sorry,” said ‘Alfonso’, and the police officers got back into their cars and drove away, leaving Holly and the man alone.

  “Who are you really?” she said.

  “My name’s Ladbroke Blake,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “I was hired by your mother to follow you.”

  “Stepmother,” corrected Holly. “Are you going to tell her about all this?”

  “You think she’d believe me? No, I’ll tell her something else. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

  From the river came a splash and a gasp for breath. Holly looked and saw Dirk crawl on to the bank and collapse on the ground.

  “Dirk!” exclaimed Holly, diving to his side.

  “Ah, so the dragon detective is actually a dragon.”

  Ladbroke sounded surprisingly less surprised than Holly would have expected, but it wasn’t him she was worried about right now. “You did it, Dirk. You did it,” she said.

  Dirk didn’t respond.

  Holly turned to Ladbroke. “Please, we need to get him home.”

  “I’ll get the car,” replied the detective.

  Dirk Dilly was awoken from his fitful sleep by something damp and rough rubbing itself on his face. He forced his eyes open to find a black cat with a white face and a black smudge on its nose licking him. He moved Willow off his belly and put her down.

  He was in his office. His head thumped. He groaned in pain.

  He crawled to the desk and looked at the piles of newspapers there. He picked up one and read:

  In scenes straight out of a monster movie, last night East London residents were terrified to find a gigantic sea monster thrashing about in the River Thames. The police were called and even shot at the monster before it was revealed that it was indeed a movie model that had got out of control. Inspector Jack Hughes, one of the first to arrive on the scene, said, “The local residents were panicking but as soon as I got a good look at it I could tell that it was in fact a mechanical device. When you’ve worked on the force as long as I have there’s not much that you haven’t seen. There was never any doubt in my mind that this was some sort of stunt gone wrong.”

  Dirk picked up another and read:

  The mystery of the missing cats that has been perplexing the police over the last few weeks was finally solved when local allotment owner Len Cooper discovered hundreds of cats on a disused cargo boat on the north bank of the River Thames while looking for vegetables that had been stolen from his allotment. “I’ve heard of Puss in Boots,” Mr Cooper told us, “but this was a case of Puss in Boats.”

  Then he read another:

  Following an anonymous tip off, the police have finally caught the perpetrators of the mysterious catnapping crimes. Mr Arthur Holt and Mr Reginald Norman are currently being held in custody. Although both men deny any involvement, t
he police were able to carry out forensic tests which showed that the cats had all been transported in the back of a van registered in Mr Holt’s name, while Mr Norman’s fingerprints identified him as the driver of the van. The two men’s motives are so far unknown, although Mr Holt, representing himself, issued this statement: “I, Arthur Holt, hereby deny any charges of cat theft levelled against me. I have long since suffered from a condition known as felinophobia, a fear of cats and all things catlike, which I contradicted while holidaying on the Isle of Mann.” Mr Norman added: “I, Reg, don’t know nothing about no cats.”

  Dirk put the papers down and peeked through the blinds at the street below. Across the road, leaning on a lamppost, was the man in the wide-brimmed hat. Ladbroke Blake. But if he was still following Holly then where was she?

  “Mr Dilly?” called the familiar voice of Mrs Klingerflim, knocking on the door. “Your niece is here. She’s bringing you some of my homemade medicine.”

  “Thanks, Mrs K,” said Holly, entering the room holding a brown bottle.

  Dirk looked at her and smiled. “I’m not drinking that stuff again,” he said. “It tastes worse than Limpworm blood.”

  “Dirk!” she exclaimed. “You’re better!” She ran across the room and threw her arms around his neck.

  Dirk returned the hug then got embarrassed. “All right, let’s not get all sentimental. You’re still being followed, you know.”

  “Ladbroke? Yes, he gave me a lift. It’s quite handy being followed by somebody with a car. He gets to keep a close eye on me and I get a lift from someone who can actually see the road.”

  “How long have I been out?” he asked.

  “A whole week this time. I’ve been so worried. I’m glad you’re OK.”

  Holly felt more relieved than she could express. The last seven days had been agonizing, not knowing whether Dirk would recover, but she could tell that he was even more unused to public displays of emotion than she was, so she just smiled and picked up a newspaper and said, “They found the rest of the cats.”