The First of Nine Read online

  Theodore saw Frank scrambling up and over the back wall to safety, then made his own escape towards the branches of the cherry tree in the opposite corner of the yard. From the top of the wall he turned and saw Sue standing in red silk pyjamas in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on out here, Tony?’

  Tony turned to his wife. ‘We have been raided,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘An old man and a big fluffy cat. They raided us... The special ingredient is all gone.’

  He pointed at the broken glass on the floor. ‘It is all gone.’

  He pushed his fingers through his hair.

  ‘But what are we to do?’ Sue said. ‘Without the special ingredient our business will be ruined… Our competitive edge is gone… The twins will have to go to a state school. They will no longer be Mount Girls…’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Tony said.

  ‘We are ruined,’ Sue said.

  ‘I will make more,’ Tony said. ‘We still have the poppies. We will have to be careful for a while.’

  ‘We’ll get through this, won’t we Tony?’

  ‘Yes, Sue. Of course… It is just a set back to our operation. Let us go back to bed and we shall clear this mess up in the morning… Then I will go to B&Q and buy more security. I will install CCTV…’

  ‘We must make sure that this cannot happen again.’

  ‘I will lock up and then we will go back to bed. There is nothing more we can do tonight.’

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore watched from behind the tree’s foliage, as Tony locked the back door, closed the kitchen window, turned off the lights and followed Sue back up to bed. The garden was in darkness again. He glanced over at the garage in which Bal was imprisoned.

  Further up the alley he saw Frank doing squat thrusts.

  Theodore jumped down and approached Frank.

  ‘I guess I should be thanking you,’ Frank panted. ‘A lucky escape that.’

  Theodore rubbed himself against the bottom of Frank’s trousers.

  ‘You got me out of a tight spot back there,’ he went on. ‘My name’s Frank White. You can call me Frank.’

  Frank smiled, exposing his capped front teeth. They shone white in the moonlight.

  ‘I feel like walking,’ he said. ‘I am full of beans. I haven’t felt this good for years!’

  Frank walked to the top of the alley and did a star jump. Theodore followed.

  Frank marched with long strides up Queen Victoria Street, past the Knavesmire pub on the corner, and onto Knavesmire Road, flanked by grassland on both sides. Theodore had to trot every now and again to keep up with the fish and chip shop proprietor.

  They wandered out onto the Knavesmire, ominously flat and vast in the moonlight. Several cars were scattered where they had been parked the afternoon before; their owners too drunk to drive.

  Frank broke into a gallop. ‘I feel like running!’ he shouted. ‘Come on, Cat!’

  Although Theodore didn’t like being addressed as ‘Cat’, he trotted after Frank.

  Frank hurdled the plastic railings that demarcated the racecourse and began to sprint along the well-tended turf. ‘I am a racing horse!’ he shouted. ‘I am a wild stallion!’

  As he ran he pulled his polo neck over his head and flung it behind him. His steel framed spectacles fell by the wayside. Then off came his white vest, followed by his shoes, his socks, his chinos and finally his underpants, which Theodore dodged as he raced after the now naked Frank.

  His lean body was muscled from his high protein, high carbohydrate diet of fish and chips, his forty press-ups a day, forty sit-ups, and then forty squeezes on his bullworker.

  But what surprised Theodore was the artwork that festooned Frank’s body. Across his chest, his back, his torso, were dozens of pictures of foreign climes, exotic beauties, and strange beasts: mementos of his life in the merchant navy. In each foreign port, his body had been inked; the tattoos were stamps on the passport that was his body.

  Frank suddenly stopped, turned and faced Theodore. His chest hair was silver in the moonlight. The hair on his head remained golden, wet with sweat, plastered back across his head.

  He raised a fist in the air, his legs apart. ‘I will not stand for it any longer,’ he shouted.

  His body dripping with sweat; his eyes insanely wide, he shouted into the night, ‘I will put an end to their dodgy dealings!’

  And with this proclamation, Frank White lay down on the soft turf. His mouth open an inch, his capped upper teeth sticking out, he began to snore.

  There Can Be Only One Willow

  The night grew cold.

  Theodore tried to wake Frank White, who was laid out star-shaped on the flat turf of the race track. He scratched at his chest and dabbed at his face with the pads of his paws, but Frank was out cold, his blood cooling by the minute. Fearing the old man might not make it through the night, Theodore settled on his chest, allowing his body heat to flow into Frank’s. He fell asleep to the patter of Frank’s heart.

  As dawn broke over York and the racecourse, Theodore stirred. Frank was trembling beneath him.

  In the distance a sortie of seagulls strutted across the turf.

  Theodore located Frank’s glasses and carried them back along the racetrack to where Frank lay. He dabbed at his face with the pads of his paws and Frank stirred.

  His eyes, bloodshot and red rimmed, flashed open.

  ‘The racecourse! How did I get here? Where are my clothes? My glasses?’

  He noticed the fluffy grey cat standing by his side, his glasses at its paws. He sat up and put on his glasses.

  He grabbed his black polo neck and pulled it over his head. He glanced about, wondering where the rest of his clothes were, and why he was in the middle of the racecourse. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  ‘I remember now!’ he said. ‘The special ingredient… We must make sure those Wongs cannot continue destroying the minds of the good people of York. We must put a stop to their opiate foolery. Yes, we must finish what we have started. We must destroy the poppy garden! What do you think, Cat?’

  Theodore rubbed himself against Frank’s side and purred in agreement. Frank was evidently still affected by his overdose of the opiate-laced secret ingredient.

  ‘Good. Now where are my underpants. We must strike while the iron is hot!’

  Theodore raised his tail aloft and led Frank to his underpants.

  His clothes retrieved and fully dressed, Frank made his way back across the racecourse, Theodore at his side.

  It had just turned six o’clock; the bells of York Minster told them so. The first dog walkers had yet to venture out. Apart from Fred’s Bakery that they passed on the corner of Albemarle Road, there were no signs of life.

  Frank paused as he passed his fish and chip shop. He looked up at the red and blue sign over the shop window:

  THE BATTER’D SEA CODS’ HOME

  THE PLAICE FOR QUALITY FISH & CHIPS

  PROPRIETOR – MR F. WHITE

  (“THE COD FATHER”)

  When he thought of the name back in the nineties, he had been pleased with the puns. But now the paint had flaked from the sign and the colours faded.

  He shook his head and then clapped his hands together.

  ‘I reckon we should have enough time to deal with the Wongs and be back in time to fry up some fish for breakfast,’ Frank said. ‘What do you say, Cat?’

  Theodore rubbed himself against Frank’s calves and miaowed his approval. They continued down Queen Victoria Street.

  As they approached the Lucky Twin, Frank took from his trouser pocket his stainless steel comb and combed back his hair. He brushed grass from his chinos with the backs of his hands. He plucked some grass from his polo neck jumper and then hitched up his imitation snake skin belt.

  From the shelter of the cherry tree they surveyed the rear of the property. The curtains were still closed. No lights were on. The Wongs were still in be
d.

  From the street they heard the milkman whistle as he delivered pints to those customers who still preferred their milk in glass bottles. Frank glanced at his watch and waited for the second hand to complete a minute.

  ‘Time to act!’ he cried, and launched himself on top of the wall and down the other side in one swift movement.

  Theodore followed shortly after, landing in the soft earth of the poppy garden seconds after Frank.

  Then they went to work. Theodore employed his back legs to unearth the plants, while Frank yanked them from the ground and launched them high into the air. Within ten minutes all the plants had been uprooted and scattered across the garden. Frank stamped on them as they lay in the dirt.

  ‘I think our work here is done, Cat,’ Frank declared.

  Theodore miaowed no.

  ‘What is it, Cat?’

  Theodore approached the side door to the garage. He miaowed again.

  His miaow was echoed from inside.

  ‘There’s a cat in there, is there?’ Frank said, approaching the door. ‘We must get it out!’

  He tried the door but it was locked.

  He looked around and noticed the spade against the garage wall. He slid it into the gap between the door and the wall, above the lock, and pushed down hard. The door swung open with a loud creak and splintering of wood. He replaced the spade against the wall and entered the garage.

  It took a few moments to focus in the dim light. He scanned the boxes of ingredients piled precariously high, the chest freezer against the back wall, and the industrial-sized bags of rice.

  Bal miaowed once more, and Frank’s eyes were drawn to the wall of boxes.

  ‘So that’s where you are,’ he said, approaching the boxes.

  He began to move a tower of boxes, stacking them one by one onto the top of the chest freezer. Theodore kept watch at the door.

  ‘There we go!’ Frank said. ‘What a fat cat!’

  Bal was almost identical to Belle, though she had indeed put on weight during her weeks of captivity. Her fur was matted.

  She purred as Theodore examined her. She would be all right, he thought.

  Theodore led her out of the garage, and Frank opened the gate and let them out into the alley.

  ‘Well, it was good working with you,’ Frank said. ‘You get yourselves home now, Cats.’

  Then they parted their ways. Frank strolled away towards Queen Victoria Street and his fish and chip shop, and the two cats towards their homes in Clementhorpe.

  ◆◆◆

  Shortly after eight o’clock, Tony and Sue Wong rose from bed, dressed and opened the curtains. They looked out at their garden.

  ‘Our garden!’ Tony cried. ‘It has been destroyed.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing!’ exclaimed Sue.

  ‘Little Rosie and Lily will have to go to Millthorpe School now,’ said Tony, shaking his head.

  ‘We are in the wrong business,’ Sue said. ‘We should have set up a late night disco like Tommy Fong did. The Willow has made him millions over the years… He doesn’t even cook food anymore. He just hands out prawn crackers… The students are so drunk they don’t care.’

  ‘I don’t like students,’ said Tony.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Sue said. ‘Our daughters will be students when they go to university. Will you not like them then?’

  ‘No,’ Tony said. ‘That is different. They are our little girls.’

  ‘Maybe Tommy Fong didn’t like students,’ Sue said. ‘But he was happy to take their money and smile. Now he is a very rich man and they say he will retire to Filey.’

  ‘Maybe you should have married Tommy Fong,’ Tony said.

  ‘Stop being silly,’ Sue said. ‘I married you. We must persevere with the Lucky Twin.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tony agreed. ‘We must persevere with the Lucky Twin.

  ‘We must make sure Rosie and Lily remain Mount Girls,’ Sue went on.

  ‘I will buy more poppy seeds when I go to B&Q this morning… And I will make sure no old men or big fluffy cats can penetrate our garden again.’

  ‘We will get through this,’ Sue said determinedly. ‘One day it will all be worth it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tony said. ‘We will get through this. Our daughters will benefit from the education that we didn’t have…’

  Cat Confessional

  Theodore led Bal along the back alleys to Clementhorpe.

  The Birman cat lagged behind and had to stop frequently to rest. But as they neared Avondale Terrace, she recognized smells from before her incarceration and, with tail held aloft, trotted across the blue cobbles towards her gate. She paused in front of the gate and miaowed, a long raspy miaow.

  From inside, another cat miaowed back. Belle shortly jumped up onto the back wall and then down into the alley. She rubbed against her sister, purring loudly. She licked Bal’s fur and Theodore joined in. By the time they had finished, Bal’s fur was slicked back but matted clumps still stood proud.

  Then Theodore began a caterwauling and the two Birmans joined in.

  Zeynep snapped open her curtains. Then she hurried downstairs.

  ‘Bal?’ she cried as she came out into the yard. ‘Is that you, Bal?’ She swung open the back gate and saw the three cats.

  She collected Bal in her arms and hugged her. ‘Bal,’ she cried. ‘You’ve come back!’

  She laughed. But then her laughter turned to tears and she broke down. ‘Oh Bal,’ she spluttered, carrying the cat inside. ‘I’ve done something terrible.’

  Theodore took up position on the back wall and was soon joined by Belle. They watched as Zeynep sat down at her kitchen table, holding Bal beneath her chin, the cat resting on top of her bulge.

  ‘I thought that pigeon man had done something to you,’ Zeynep said.

  Then she told Bal what she had done.

  ◆◆◆

  Ahmet had been out at work, doing his evening shift, so Zeynep had gone out to look for Bal.

  She had walked down the alley and near the bottom she heard a murmuring from a yard. She realized it must be the pigeon man talking to his birds. She remembered what Ahmet had said about people who kept birds not liking cats.

  She approached the back gate. Standing in the glare cast by the security light, she listened to the man mumbling away to his birds from behind the wall.

  She would ask him if he’d seen her cat. She would ask him if he could check his shed. She would find out if he had done something to Bal.

  She rapped on the gate. Peter Morris went quiet.

  She rapped again, a little louder.

  Then she heard soft-slippered footsteps approach the gate.

  ‘Hullo?’ he said from the other side.

  ‘Hello,’ Zeynep said. ‘I live up the street.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Peter said.

  ‘Can I speak to you for a moment?’

  A moment passed and then the gate opened.

  Peter Morris stood in the gateway. In his hands he held a plump pigeon.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My cat has gone missing,’ Zeynep began, ‘and I was wondering…’

  Peter sucked in the cool night air between his teeth.

  ‘I thought she may be in your shed,’ Zeynep went on. ‘She might have got locked in.’

  ‘Look,’ Peter said, stepping aside, so that Zeynep could see past him and into the outbuilding, ‘there’s no cat in there. See for yourself.’

  Zeynep looked into the outbuilding. There was no cat.

  ‘Just because I keep pigeons,’ Peter muttered, ‘doesn’t mean I’ve done something to your bloody cat.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did.’

  Peter shook his head from side to side.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re married to that taxi driver fellow, aren’t you? I’ve seen him coming out of No.24. He’s been having it off with that Lancashire hotpot. That’s what he’s been up to…’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Zeynep said.
r />   ‘You heard… He’s been having sex with that tart from No.24. Don’t you understand English?’

  ‘Tart?’

  ‘Diane,’ Peter said. ‘Her from the wrong side of the Pennines. He’s been having it off with her.’

  Zeynep was stunned into silence for a moment, by Peter Morris’s rudeness and also the fact that her husband was having sex with one of her neighbours when she was carrying his child.

  Then she said slowly, ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ Peter said excitedly. ‘I live here, that’s what.’

  ‘I live here too. Here is my home.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I live here. I was born here. You lot should go and clear off back where you came from.’

  ‘You lot?’ Zeynep’s cheeks glowed with anger.

  Peter began to close the gate on her. ‘Yes, you lot!’

  Zeynep pushed back against the gate, sending Peter falling backwards into his outbuilding. The events that followed were a bit of blur in her mind; it happened so quickly.

  She remembered the pigeon scrabbling about on the floor of the yard. She remembered the old man’s grunts as he lay on the floor of his outbuilding, seed spilling onto him from an upturned sack. He was on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet, his back to Zeynep.

  She spotted the cobblestone holding the door open. She picked it up. Then she hit him on the back of the head with it before he could get to his feet.

  Pigeons scattered into the night, their wings beating white against the dark sky.

  ‘He was groaning in pain,’ Zeynep gasped into Bal’s fur. ‘I ran up the alley, I threw the cobblestone over a wall as I passed. I got home. I sat here at the kitchen table… Waiting for Ahmet to come home. I was going to tell him everything. I waited and he didn’t come… I was going to tell him what I’d done, but he didn’t come home…

  ‘Hours passed and I went up to bed… I couldn’t sleep. Then I heard him come in. And I thought he would come up and check on me, but he didn’t. He started doing laundry. Then I knew it was true. He had been with her. I decided not to tell him what I’d done…