To Be a Cat

  Miss Whipmire said nothing as her face tried on various emotions. First shock, then anger, moving up to full outrage, simmering down to general crossness, then thoughtfulness, then concern, before squeezing uncomfortably into shame.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, as innocent as a lamb at a christening. ‘I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake … I’ll tell you what, I’ll just go and have a word with his form tutor.’

  Miss Whipmire left the room and Barney’s mum waited, staring at the head teacher’s calendar. ‘Cats,’ she whispered aloud, noting the strange theme of her day.

  But Miss Whipmire wasn’t going to see Mrs Lavender. She was looking out of the school entrance to see if there was any word from her cat disciples.

  She could see Pumpkin sitting on the wall opposite looking ashamed of himself. And so he should, the flea-brained cretin.

  Barney was still out there, realized Miss Whipmire. Twice those useless swipers have failed me.

  He was alive and trying to become human again, and then in all probability would attempt to tell the world – or at least the school governors – the truth about her.

  But she had a plan. And it was so good that it shone in her mind like an oil-sleek sardine in a can. And, with that plan in her mind, she headed out of the school gates to have a word with her chief disciple.

  A Bit About Pumpkin

  MISS WHIPMIRE CROSSED OVER the road to talk to Pumpkin.

  By the way, in case you are one of those readers who has to know everything about every single character in a book, I’ll tell you a few facts about this particular swiper. He was stupid. Stupid enough to do anything Miss Whipmire asked of him. He had known her when she’d been a Siamese cat, and hadn’t liked her very much as she had been a fireside, and firesides and swipers are never the best of friends. Plus, she had been critical of his fence-walking skills. But she had been a good fighter, and good fighting always impressed Pumpkin, especially if the fighting was being done by a fireside. And then, after she had become a human, he was even more impressed. It was useful having friends in human places, especially ones who made sure he was stocked up on sardines in lemon-infused olive oil, his absolute favourite. (Even the roughest of swipers has sophisticated taste when it comes to fish.) And it gave him kudos out on the street to be a TLC’s favourite. (TLC: Two-Legged Cat. Street slang for cats-turned-into-humans. The opposite of a no-hoper, which I believe has been mentioned – human-turned-cat.) Not that Pumpkin ever wanted to be a TLC himself. No. He was perfectly happy being an orange moggy, cruising gardens, networking, boxing flies, rubbing up against old ladies in exchange for milk, and flirting with Lyka (who was never interested).

  Where was I?

  Oh yes. Somewhere around:

  Miss Whipmire crossing over the road to talk to Pumpkin.

  He saw her coming and knew she’d be even more cross with him now after his second failed attempt to get the Barney cat. So he was there, ready with an excuse.

  ‘Look, all right … OK, thing is, old gal, we failed you,’ he said. ‘We did. I did. I failed you. But there was nothing we could be doing. The Terrorcat showed up. He was going to start using his powers so we had to run …’

  Pumpkin, by the way, was a succinct cat, and fitted all of the above words into one and a half miaows plus an ear scratch.

  Miss Whipmire had no time for chit-chat. ‘Get Maurice,’ she said. ‘And tell him to come to my office.’

  Pumpkin was confused. ‘But I thought you said you wanted ’im to stay indoors at your ’ouse till the Barney cat was dead.’

  Miss Whipmire glared down furiously, for once not caring if anyone could see her through the staff-room window.

  ‘Well, Barney would be dead, wouldn’t he, if you weren’t such an idiot? And, just so you know, if I wanted questions I’d have hired someone with a pedigree,’ she hissed, her nails tingling as if they’d forgotten they weren’t claws. ‘I need Maurice here because I happen to have Mrs Willow in my office, wondering where her son is. Now do it. Go.’

  Pumpkin went.

  She looked up and saw a girl in Year Ten staring at her as she shouted at the cat. ‘And what are you doing out of school, girl?’ Miss Whipmire snapped.

  ‘School’s over, miss. I was just coming back for choir practice.’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re the terrible singer. Are you wearing make-up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you should. Or just try a paper bag. No eye-holes. You look hideous.’

  And, as the girl ran crying into the school, Miss Whipmire sighed to herself in disgust. ‘Humans.’

  An Accurate Description

  ‘YOUR SON WILL be here shortly,’ Miss Whipmire said, on her return to the office. ‘He’s just, erm, playing an important game of rugby right now.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Willow, looking out of the window at the girls playing hockey. ‘I didn’t think he had games today.’

  The head teacher drew the blinds closed then sat down on her chair, smoothing her back against the sheepskin rug.

  ‘Well, don’t worry. As I say, he’s on his way.’

  They chit-chatted a while, then sat in silence for almost half an hour.

  Miss Whipmire sensed Barney’s mum was feeling horribly awkward sitting in that room, which made her happy.

  ‘Are you a cat person, Mrs Willow?’

  ‘Erm, no. Not really.’

  A condescending smile. ‘Didn’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘I’ve lost my cat.’

  ‘Really? Oh.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Whipmire, acting every bit the concerned pet owner. ‘He’s called Patch. Because of the white patch of fur around his left eye.’

  ‘How weird. I’ve just seen a cat like that.’

  I bet you have, thought Miss Whipmire. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. But this one belonged to someone else. A woman saw it and claimed it after it came into the library.’

  ‘Oh?’ Then Miss Whipmire’s face screwed up with false pain. ‘Oh, please, oh, no, don’t tell me it “belonged” to a lady with blonde hair, wearing a bit too much make-up and over-sized earrings.’

  Barney’s mum thought, and her face revealed that this was a pretty accurate description. ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘So my dear little Patch is with her?’

  ‘She said the cat’s name was Maurice.’

  Miss Whipmire wanted to try and make Barney’s mum feel guilty, just for fun, but she decided not to. She had all the information she needed, and making too big a deal out of it would only arouse suspicion. And the suspicion had to wait at least until Barney Willow was dead.

  She smiled. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure it was a totally different cat.’

  And around about then there came a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Miss Whipmire.

  A boy who looked every bit like Barney entered. Mrs Willow stood up and hugged him. ‘I’ve been so worried about you!’

  ‘See, I told you he was OK, Mrs Willow. And, look, he’s all red and sweaty from playing rugby.’

  Maurice realized this was his cue. ‘Yes, Mum, I’ve been playing rugby.’

  ‘Now,’ said Miss Whipmire in a rather clipped tone, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ve really got quite a lot of business to attend to. You’ll see Barney later on. Don’t worry.’

  And so Mrs Willow left, mildly confused but generally relieved, and headed outside to her car. Inside the office, meanwhile, Miss Whipmire was touching Maurice’s face.

  Her son’s face.

  ‘Oh, my darling, you’ve done it! You’ve done it! My brilliant, brilliant boy!’

  And Maurice smiled softly. He was pleased to see his mum, and happy not to belong to the Needles, but he still wasn’t comfortable yet in his new skin. ‘Yeah. I love you, Mum.’

  His mother didn’t hear him as his words coincided with the sound of the bell ringing for the final time that day.

  ‘Now, listen,’ she said. ‘Here’s the plan.
’

  The Warney Pillow

  BARNEY GAZED AROUND the room with that weird kind of excited terror that comes from being in an enemy’s territory when the enemy isn’t around. He was about to leave when he saw something lying on the bed. Something soft and grey and sad-looking. A donkey! Eeyore! Gavin Needle had a cuddly Eeyore on his bed.

  For a moment this struck Barney as such a brilliant piece of information that he forgot about being a cat. But he was reminded when he heard a noise. The kind of noise that when you are a cat you can’t really ignore.

  It wasn’t loud.

  Just a whimper, really, coming from somewhere else.

  The dog.

  Leonard.

  Barney waited.

  It would have been perfectly easy for him to sneak out of the room and run back downstairs, but Barney reminded himself he’d come upstairs for answers.

  So, with a determination he felt speed his heart and flick his tail, he went out and followed the sound all the way to the spare room.

  This is crazy.

  What kind of cat seeks out a dog?

  He crossed the carpet, and detected the faint but rather putrid smell of sweating dog. A pair of wide, bulging brown eyes stared out from under the bed. A giant skinny monster of black and brown fur. A Doberman. Barney tried not to panic.

  ‘Hello,’ said Barney. ‘I’m Barney.’

  ‘What?’ Leonard sounded nervous and actually rather desperate. ‘You’ve forgotten your own name. Or … or …’

  ‘No. I haven’t. It’s just I’m not who you think I am … I’m not Maurice.’

  ‘I’m going mad! First the cushions and now this.’

  Barney didn’t understand. ‘The cushions?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve turned against me. The ones on the bed. They’re always frowning at me. Trying to make me feel weird. Look! Are they still there?’

  Barney stepped back, and checked on top of the bed. There were indeed cushions. Two of them. Normal square cushions crumpled on the bed.

  ‘I don’t think they’re frowning,’ Barney said, trying to reassure the frightened dog. ‘I just think they’re creased.’

  ‘Creased? That’s what they want you to think.’

  Barney started to back away. Leonard was obviously too mad to be of any help.

  ‘Don’t leave me again,’ he drooled. ‘Please.’

  Barney hesitated. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t belong here. I have my own home.’ He turned, was nearly at the door.

  ‘Don’t go to the Whipmires’,’ implored Leonard.

  ‘What?’

  The dog wasn’t listening. ‘I told the radiator earlier. I said, “That’s all he used to talk about, Mummy-Caramel-Whipmire-Mummy-Caramel-Whipmire.”’

  ‘Did you just say Caramel?’

  ‘I had a job!’ the dog said, adding to Barney’s confusion.

  ‘What?’

  The dog clenched his eyes shut. ‘I was a somebody! I worked in security! But do I ever think of going back?! Do I? No! Yes! No! No! Yes! But I don’t. I can’t. The cushions won’t let me. And even if they did, I wouldn’t, because I have different owners now. And I accept that.’ Right then he looked more sad than mad. ‘I have to accept that.’

  ‘Listen, please, you have to help me,’ said Barney, trying to sound as gentle and soothing as possible.

  The dog ignored him, and recited a slow, sad piece of Doberman poetry.

  ‘Oh, who can love a dog like me?

  Not the cute one on TV

  With golden hair for all to stroke,

  And who fails to see life’s big joke.

  No, I am not a Labrador,

  Or a terrier with tiny paws,

  No, I’m not one you hug and squeeze,

  Or that lies flat out upon your knees.

  I’m a different kind of breed,

  One in which you can’t succeed,

  Unless you are prepared to scare

  The ones you want to love and care.’

  The Doberman seemed far away, lost in his own sad, mad thoughts.

  But Barney had an idea. ‘Listen, please, you’ve got to help me. The … erm, cushions say you’ve got to help me.’ The Doberman switched to alert mode. ‘What? They said that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Barney insisted, thinking on his paws. ‘They said you have to tell me what you know about Maurice. They want you to tell me why you think he ran away?’

  ‘To see his mummy,’ said the dog, chewing at his front paw. ‘He wants to see his mummy. As if we don’t all want to see our mummies!’

  ‘Caramel?’

  ‘Caramel! Caramel! Caramel! All day long. Caramel …’

  Barney thought. Caramel. Miss Whipmire. ‘Maurice is Miss Whipmire’s son!’

  The dog studied him. For a moment Barney could imagine Leonard’s former self: the responsible guard dog. ‘Someone came one day. A ginger cat. He had a message.’

  ‘What was the message?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a whispered message. All I know is that Maurice was never the same again. He said he was going to escape. He was going to find a pillow.’

  ‘A pillow?’

  ‘Or a Billow. The Warney Billow or Pillow. And that would somehow make everything all right.’

  Warney Billow.

  Barney Willow.

  Barney realized that cat hadn’t been there by accident yesterday afternoon. ‘So, it was all deliberate. He targeted me on purpose. But why me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please, tell the cushions I’m sorry.’

  ‘They’ll … get over it,’ Barney said. ‘They look like very understanding cushions.’

  And Barney stepped backwards, away from those crazed eyes under the bed, and retreated out of the room, realizing that whatever had been whispered in that message would explain everything. Then he remembered something Miss Whipmire had said as she’d waved that envelope with her address on it. ‘These are my tickets. Mine and my only love’s. Out of here for ever. This time tomorrow I’ll be en route to Old Siam – Thailand.’

  If Barney was to find Maurice, he now knew where to start – he’d need to pay a visit to Miss Whipmire’s house. But he also knew he didn’t have long before his human self was on a plane to the other side of the world.

  Then Barney’s heart sank further as he heard the front door open and close, and Florence squeal with delight. ‘Gaff-Gaff home! Gaff-Gaff home!’

  Toilet Trouble

  GAVIN HAD BEEN home for five minutes, and for three of those minutes he had been standing on Barney’s tail.

  Barney had hidden in the bathroom. Trouble was, Gavin always needed the toilet when he came home from school, and he’d managed to shut the door before Barney could escape.

  And now the boy was sitting on the toilet, trousers around his ankles, and the sole of his left shoe (more of a boot) was pressing hard enough into Barney’s tail bone to cause the kind of pain that makes you think fondly of being crushed on a rugby pitch.

  ‘Ow,’ Barney was saying. (The one word that is the same in both cat and human.)

  ‘Sorry?’ Gavin was saying as he laughed. ‘What’s the matter, Maurice?’

  Please get off my tail.

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

  Yes you do, you evil psycho. Please. It hurts.

  And Gavin stared down into Maurice’s face. ‘You look different. Wimpier. You look like …’ He shook his head, as if dismissing a silly thought. ‘Anyway, what were you doing at the bus stop this morning? I don’t want my cat following me to school. Makes me look soft. And I don’t like looking soft. Because I’m Gavin. And Gavin’s the Greek word for rock.’ (It’s not, by the way, Gavin was just an idiot.) ‘And that’s what I am. I am a big rock.’

  I could think of some other words, wailed Barney.

  ‘So, don’t do it again, fur-face, or you’re dead,’ continued Gavin. ‘Understand me? D. E. D. Dead.’

  D. E. A. D., actually, said Barney.

  Gavin didn’t know he was being taun
ted by his cat, but pressed harder on his tail anyway, just for fun. So it was a sweet relief when the doorbell rang downstairs and the pressure lifted.

  ‘Who’s that?’ wondered Gavin aloud as he tore off a very long sheet of toilet paper.

  Then: ‘Gavin! Gavin?! Could you get that? I’m on my exercise bike.’

  ‘Yuh,’ said Gavin, in caveman.

  Gavin finished up and went downstairs, and Barney sped after him, close to his heels. Gavin opened the door. ‘Hello,’ said a man selling cloths and feather dusters. ‘Could I speak to the home owner, young man?’

  Barney never heard Gavin’s reply. He was out. And he was running. Because he knew he couldn’t waste a second.

  63 Sycamore Terrace

  SYCAMORE TERRACE WAS THE most normal-looking street you have ever seen. It was so normal-looking that even if you had never been on it before you would think you had, because it was like so many other streets you’ve been on. It had normal-looking houses. The houses had normal-looking doors and windows. True, there was one piece of graffiti, on a wall near the end of the road, but the street was so boringly normal and uninspiring that the graffiti just said, ‘Graffiti’. And the most absolutely normal thing of all was the house at number 63.

  Sandwiched in a terrace between the still-pretty-average 61 and 65 – where the Freeman children had once lived (the ones who had blown away a certain cat’s tail with a firework) – number 63 was so achingly normal it made its otherwise bland neighbouring houses look positively crazy with their patterned curtains and Neighbourhood Watch window stickers. Seriously, number 63 was so boring-looking, with its door and its three windows and its roof, that you could forget what it looked like even as you looked at it.

  But as Barney arrived outside in the fading evening light he felt anything but bored. After all, he knew who lived at this house. And he knew that if he had a chance of becoming his true self again then this was the most obvious place to start looking.