The Call of the Cat Basket Read online

  He’s gone. You might as well come home now. There’ll be biscuits in your bowl. And then you can have a nice long nap!

  Before his cat basket could sat anymore, he jumped down and set off down the alley in pursuit of Milton Macavity.

  ‘Where’s Theo got to?’ Emily said.

  ‘He was about,’ Jonathan said. ‘He was miaowing at the cat flap earlier. He wanted me to get up and let him out.’

  Emily looked at the backdoor. Overhead there was the whirring of a helicopter.

  Jonathan said, ‘Someone’s escaped from prison. Milton Macavity. The Napoleon of Crime, they call him. He faked an appendicitis; then overpowered his prison guards at the hospital… He’s on the run.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  Emily passed the baby to Jonathan. ‘Could you take Joseph while I feed Theo? His bowls are completely empty. No wonder he was miaowing. You know you could feed the cat rather than just sitting there watching television all morning.’

  She filled his bowls and then opened the backdoor.

  ‘Theo!’ she called. ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

  She looked out at the yard. Theodore was nowhere to be seen. A faint drizzle hung in the air. She called again for Theodore but still he didn’t come. She looked at the washing line, thinking that the clothes would never dry in this weather. Then she realised that there were gaps on the line.

  ‘That’s strange,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there was more washing than that when I hung it out.’

  ‘He killed somebody during a jewellery shop robbery,’ Jonathan said, not looking away from the television. ‘Ran them over. A hit and run…’

  Emily glanced over at the television. The weather was now on. Grey clouds covered Yorkshire. It was typical autumn weather.

  ‘Don’t forget we’re having lunch in town with my parents,’ Emily said. ‘Caesars, the Italian place. My mum swears by the saltimbocca in there.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Jonathan said.

  Emily turned to face the backdoor. ‘I’m surprised Theo hasn’t come in for his breakfast.’

  She took the box of cat biscuits and shook them.

  ‘He’ll come when he’s hungry,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘But he’s always hungry.’

  Then Joseph began to cry.

  ‘He’ll want his porridge,’ Emily said.

  ‘They say he’s very violent,’ Jonathan said, holding baby Joseph to his chest and jigging him on his knee.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Milton Macavity. The escaped convict…’

  ‘I’m sure the police will soon catch him,’ Emily said, and went to make some porridge for Joseph.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Jonathan said. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’

  The Ice House

  Near to Monk Bar and behind the beer garden of the Keystones public house, there is a small building that looks like a stone igloo and is known as the Ice House.

  It was built in the early 1800s on the northern rampart of the city walls. Below the structure a hole was dug into the earth and in the hole ice was kept in warm months to stop it from melting.

  These days it serves no purpose and is off the tourist trail. The entrance is covered by a metal grille that, until recently, had been padlocked. The padlock had been removed by homeless Oliver Bartholomew, who was using the Ice House as a makeshift shelter.

  Unfortunately for Oliver, he was about to meet escaped convict Milton Macavity.

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore was standing in the remains of St Maurice’s graveyard, a small grassed area with several gravestones, either standing erect or lying flush with ground.

  He had managed to catch a whiff of Milton and follow him to this spot, but here at the junction in front of Monk Bar, the traffic fumes had obscured any trace of his quarry.

  To his right there was an advertisement painted onto the gable end of a building. It announced in beige and brown:

  Nightly, BILE BEANS, Keep You,

  HEALTHY BRIGHT-EYED & SLIM

  I don’t think I’ll be having any of those, thought Theodore. He looked back at the street in front of him.

  He could give up the chase now, he reasoned. He had done his best. Maybe it was better to leave the police to get on with their work. He could find his way home and have breakfast. His stomach agreed that it was the best course of action.

  Yes. You can come back now and forget all about your silly little adventure, came the call of the cat basket. As if you could have caught this escaped criminal… You’re delusional!

  With this last quip from the cat basket, Theodore narrowed his eyes. He was more determined than ever to track down Milton.

  He scanned the pavements. He noticed several people in a group wearing plastic masks. The masks were of a man with a white face, moustache and pointed beard wearing a black hat. Two police officers were walking behind the group. As soon as the two police officers had passed beneath Monk Bar, Theodore spotted Milton.

  The escaped convict in pink and white trainers and blue hooped socks dashed across the road and disappeared behind the public house on the corner.

  If Theodore crossed this junction, he would be in unknown territory. The streets were filled with people. There were cyclists and motorists whizzing by in potentially deadly weapons. It was not a place for cats.

  Another police car drove by, its siren blaring, its lights flashing.

  He had a duty, he reminded himself. A duty to stop this thug from committing further atrocities. He blinked his eyes. Then he raced across the junction. Cars beeped their horns and braked to avoid the large grey cat.

  Theodore made it to the public house. He went down the side of the building. There was a deserted beer garden.

  Theodore looked at the side door of the pub. Had he gone into the building? But then he heard voices.

  He looked over at the strange-looking stone building below the city walls. There were steps leading up to the Ice House. Theodore climbed up the steps. The voices grew louder.

  The metal grate over the entrance was open. Theodore crept forward. There was a ladder leant against the wall, descending about ten feet into a dark pit.

  ‘What else do you have in that bag?’ he heard Milton say.

  Theodore peered down into the dark.

  He made out Milton standing over another man.

  The second man was down-and-out Oliver Batholomew..

  ‘Give me that knife,’ Milton said.

  ‘But I need it,’ Oliver said. ‘What am I supposed to eat with?’

  Milton thumped Oliver on the head. Oliver fell to the floor. Milton grabbed up the canvas bag. He emptied its contents onto the floor of the Ice House. He stuck the knife in his pocket. Dozens of plastic bottles were strewn around the building. They had contained cider but now most of them contained urine.

  Milton shook his head. ‘This place is a right mess,’ he said.

  ‘I try to keep it tidy,’ Oliver said.

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ Milton said. ‘Now give me your coat.’

  Oliver slowly took off his army coat. He handed it over to Milton.

  Milton put on the coat. He looked down at his trainers and then at Oliver’s army boots.

  ‘And your boots…’

  ‘Not my boots,’ Oliver said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Milton said, ‘but I need your boots. I can’t go round in pink trainers. Whatever would people think? Me, an escaped convict. The Napoleon of Crime is what the papers call me…’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you,’ said Oliver. ‘You should learn to just be yourself.’

  Milton clenched a fist and leant over Oliver, ready to strike him again. ‘I’m having your boots,’ he said. ‘Whether you like it or not.’

  ‘All right,’ Oliver said. ‘You can have my boots.’

  He removed his boots and handed them to Milton.

  Milton held the boots to his nose. ‘They smell,’ he said, ‘like a slab of gorgonzola
left in the sauna over summer in the Sahara.’

  ‘I think I might have athletes foot,’ Oliver said.

  Outside there were more police car sirens.

  ‘I can’t wear them.’ Milton threw the boots back at Oliver. ‘Now get out of here!’

  ‘But this is my home,’ Oliver said.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be in here, are you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Oliver said. ‘No one should be in here.’

  ‘I’m here now and you need to get out.’

  He lifted Oliver up by his shirt. ‘Now get up that ladder and clear off.’

  Oliver slowly climbed the ladder. ‘This is everything I have, down here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s mine now,’ Milton said. ‘Push off and don’t come back.’

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore caught the bearded man’s gaze as he climbed up the ladder. His eyes were welling up with tears.

  Theodore backed away and trotted down the steps away from the Ice House and back towards the pub, before Oliver emerged, blinking in the daylight.

  Oliver followed Theodore into the beer garden. He sat on a bench and began to tie his bootlaces. His hair was overgrown and his face covered by a thick tangle of beard.

  He spotted Theodore. ‘Here, pussy cat!’ he called.

  Theodore kept his distance.

  Oliver called again to him.

  Theodore approached cautiously and then allowed Oliver to stroke him. He was just a homeless man who had been kicked out of his shelter, Theodore thought. The Ice House had been Oliver’s special place, and now he had been kicked out of it by Milton.

  Oliver picked him up and put him on his lap. Theodore rubbed up against him. I’m sure Milton will soon be on his way, he tried to reassure Oliver, purring against his new companion. Then you can have your special place back.

  He looked across at the Ice House, in which Milton now hid. It was unlikely that the police would look in the stone igloo for the escaped convict. Not unless either he or Oliver alerted them. Maybe he couldn’t apprehend Milton by himself, he thought, but now he had a human by his side, they might together bring him to justice.

  He puzzled over how to alert the police to Milton’s hideout while Oliver messed with his bootlace. He didn’t realise that Oliver had removed the lace from the boot and formed a noose until it was around his neck. Oliver pulled on the end of the lace and it tightened.

  Theodore protested loudly and tried to wriggle free but the waxed cord tightened around his neck.

  ‘Now you be quiet, little cat,’ Oliver said. ‘We’re going to be a team, you and I. We’re going to make lots of money on the streets of York. Just you wait and see!’

  I’m no Street Cat Bob, Theodore thought. I have a house and a family waiting for me. I have food in my bowls and a garden to use as a toilet. The street is no place for a cat. Especially not a cat of my pedigree.

  ‘Yes, you’re coming with me!’ Oliver said. ‘You’re going to make me rich!’

  He held Theodore up in front of him and laughed. His teeth were yellow; his gums were bloody; his breath was rancid.

  Theodore closed his eyes and held his breath. I should never have left the safety of the kitchen, he thought. I should have stayed by the radiator and let the outside world carry on without me.

  I told you so, came the knowing voice of the cat basket. Now, see what trouble you’ve got yourself into… This is what happens when you don’t listen to reason.

  Yours will be a life spent on the streets. A life of destitution and despair. It is a life of your own making.

  Street Cat Theodore

  ‘Every hour was filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial.’

  Jack London, The Call of the Wild

  Monk Bar is one of the four historic gateways into York. Today it houses the Richard III Museum.

  On the pavement below Monk Bar, Theodore sat on his haunches beside his new companion. Oliver had placed several pieces of cardboard onto the ground to sit on. At least there is something between me and the cold wet ground, Theodore thought, trying to think of a positive in the face of such adversity.

  His new companion had swiped a pint glass from the pub and placed it in front of them. In large letters on the cardboard he had written:

  MONEY FOR CAT FOOD

  MUCH APPRECIATED.

  The pint glass rang out every minute or so as people tossed in their coins. More generous people popped in fivers or tenners, which Oliver quickly retrieved and stuffed into his trouser pockets. His plan to make money by using the cat was definitely working. He shivered in his damp shirt. As soon as he had raised a decent stash, he would buy some cider to warm up.

  Theodore had struggled at first to get away but the bootlace around his neck that was tied around Oliver’s wrist tightened every time he pulled against it. In the end he lay down on the soggy cardboard and feigned sleep. His brain, however, was more alive than ever. He needed to escape this terrible situation and deal with Milton before he could hurt or kill someone else.

  While the escaped convict hid out in the Ice House, the people of York were safe. But Milton would get hungry before long and then come out. Prowling the streets of York. The next person he came across might not get off as lightly as the football-playing family or Oliver Bartholomew.

  A girl’s voice said, ‘What’s your cat’s name?’

  Theodore opened his eyes just enough to see a young girl standing in front of him.

  ‘Smoky,’ Oliver said. ‘He’s called Smoky.’

  ‘Because he’s grey?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Oliver said.

  ‘That’s a rubbish name for a cat,’ the girl said. ‘Can I pet him?’

  ‘It’ll be a pound for a pet.’

  The girl’s mother rummaged in her handbag and produced a pound coin. She popped it into the pint glass.

  Theodore allowed the girl to pat him on the head but he didn’t purr. Smoky? What sort of a name was that?

  Worst were the dogs. If they noticed Theodore, they would strain against their leads to get at the cat. Oliver had to pick him up several times and shield him from the excited canines.

  And so it went on, for at least an hour. By which time the pint glass was half-full of coins and Oliver’s pockets held half a dozen crumpled fivers and tenners.

  ‘I think it’s time for you and I to go shopping,’ Oliver said.

  He grabbed up Theodore in one arm and the pint glass in the other and made his way to a small supermarket on Goodramgate.

  Several minutes later, he exited the supermarket, a plastic bag in one hand, Theodore in the other.

  ◆◆◆

  Emily and Jonathan were sitting in Caesars Italian restaurant with Emily’s parents, Trish and Patrick. They had been seated in front of the large window, looking out onto Goodramgate. Emily and Jonathan on one side, facing the window; Trish and Patrick on the other, facing inside the restaurant. Baby Joseph was in a highchair at the head of the table, by Emily and Trish.

  Emily looked out of the window and took in the street. She noticed a man walking by in a green army jacket. Probably some homeless guy, she thought. She noted that he was wearing the same red and black checked shirt that Jonathan had and also jeans that looked similar to Jonathan’s and were too short for him. She looked across at Jonathan. He was wearing a dark denim jacket, some rock band T-shirt and beige cords. The cords were worn down at the knees.

  ‘I think we should go to the Designer Outlet and get you some new clothes,’ she said.

  Jonathan glanced down. ‘There’s plenty of life in these yet,’ he said, slapping his thighs where the corduroy was worn flat.

  ‘I think I might have the saltimbocca,’ Patrick said staring at the menu.

  ‘Yes, you can always gauge an Italian by its saltimbocca,’ Trish said. ‘I think I’m going to have the same.’

  ‘I fancy a Hawaiian,’ Emily said, ‘but it’s no
t on the menu.’

  ‘That’s because this is an Italian restaurant,’ Patrick said.

  As everyone knows, the Hawaiian pizza is actually a Canadian invention. Along with paint rollers, peanut butter and Celine Dion, it ranks highly in the list of Canada’s contribution to civilisation.

  ‘I’ll just have a margherita,’ Emily said.

  ‘I’m going to have a pepperoni,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘We need to order a bottle of wine,’ Patrick said, his forefinger running down the wine list.

  ‘Did you hear about the escaped convict,’ Jonathan said. ‘He escaped from York Hospital. Milton Macavity, he’s called. He’s supposed to be very dangerous…’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Sounds like he should be on the stage,’ Trish said, ‘with a name like that!’

  ‘They call him the Napoleon of Crime. He attacked a family on our street,’ Jonathan went on. ‘It was on the television just as we were leaving. They said that the police are looking for a man wearing pink trainers.’

  ‘You’d’ve thought they’d be wearing more sensible footwear,’ Patrick said and laughed at his own joke. Then, ‘The merlot, I think.’

  Trish tutted. ‘That’s not going to go with the saltimbocca.’

  Patrick turned his attention to the whites.

  Joseph scrunched up a napkin and threw it onto the floor and laughed.

  Emily stared out of the plate glass window. Raindrops slid down the glass. The road outside was black with rain. People wearing Guy Fawkes masks passed; they all bore the same malevolent smile. A shudder passed through her.

  ‘Those people in masks give me the creeps,’ Emily said, still staring out of the window. ‘I bet half of them don’t even know he was born in York.’

  ‘The only man to enter Parliament with honest intentions,’ Patrick said, still studying the wine list.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Trish said.

  ‘Guy Fawkes,’ Patrick said. ‘These postmodern anarchists have taken his image to demonstrate their own protest and anger at the government. They feel let down by politicians, who say one thing to get in, and when they do get in, do nothing but claim expenses.’