To Be a Cat Page 4

  Barney tried to get to his feet but couldn’t, or at least not in the way he normally got to his feet. He was standing up, and yet his back was still pressed against the soft, warm gigantic cave of a duvet.

  He moved forward, but his arms and legs weren’t working like they normally did. Something was wrong with his coordination. And where were his knees? What had happened to them? It was as though his skeleton was a jigsaw puzzle that had been mixed up overnight. Things that should have bent didn’t. Things that shouldn’t have did. And some pieces of his bone-jigsaw were entirely new. Most notably, he could feel something trailing behind his back. Something that he could move in various ways as if it was made of ten elbows joined together.

  Mum, he said, or tried to. And then, pointlessly: Dad. But he couldn’t make words, just noises.

  Trapped as he was in this strange new body, he started to panic. Barney urgently wanted to get out of the darkness, and the only way he could think of doing that was to crawl from under it. So he did. Shuffling forward on his new limbs, with his head low and his legs close to the spongy floor, he pushed his way through.

  And then he was there, out in the cold light of morning.

  He looked down to see a great vastness that at first seemed like an ocean. The length of the drop was at least three times his height so it took a moment to realize that the great blue vastness he was looking down at was his own carpet.

  This was his bed.

  This was his room.

  But everything had grown beyond all possibility. The wardrobe was the size of a house. The bedside lamp peered down at him like some strange armless robot. The door was miles away. And the school uniform which hung over his chair belonged to a giant.

  Next he saw something which made even less sense.

  His hands, or his feet – he couldn’t tell which – were entirely covered with hair. And they were fingerless. Toeless. He turned his head to see what he had only felt so far. A tail. Curled into a quivering kind of question mark, as though the rest of his body was a query wanting an answer.

  It was impossible.

  He was still Barney. His ‘Barney-ness’ was still there in his head, his mind still the same bulging suitcase of memories and emotions. But at the same time he already knew he wasn’t him at all. He was something else. Something so impossible that he thought this had to be a dream, like the one he’d had about his father.

  He blinked, and then blinked some more.

  No. There was no doubt about it.

  He was awake.

  Indeed, he was as awake as he had ever been. So, to his horror, he had to believe what his eyes were telling him, and what the black hair and the tail and the paws were telling him. And what they were telling him was this: he may have gone to bed human, but he had woken up unquestionably, unmistakably, unimaginably cat.

  The Jump

  NOISES.

  His mother taking an item of cutlery from a kitchen drawer. Something he wouldn’t normally have been able to hear from up here. Now it was as sharp as if he was in the room with her.

  She was feeding Guster. He heard the spoon tap three times against the ceramic bowl, shaking off the dog food.

  Mum! Barney shouted. Except he didn’t, obviously, as his mouth didn’t work any more. It was a cat’s mouth, dry, which could conjure nothing more than the feeblest miaow.

  Then his whiskers curled (cat-magic trick number six, as you’ll remember) and tingled with the knowledge of imminent danger; a danger that soon made every one of the hundred thousand new hairs on his body stand on end.

  Guster.

  Within five seconds of the food reaching his bowl Guster would have gobbled his breakfast. Then he would do one of two things. Either he’d fall asleep in his basket or – most likely – he’d trot quickly into the bedroom to lick Barney’s face. Only today he wouldn’t be able to find Barney’s face. He’d find a cat’s face. And Barney knew that Guster was to cats what an oven was to ice cream.

  A memory flashed in his mind: Guster chasing after a Siamese cat in the park. The cat had disappeared out of view before Guster got the chance to do anything, but that was only because it had been a super-fast cat, disappearing as if by magic in a second or two.

  At the time, as Barney had jogged after Guster, it had seemed quite amusing. But now he was the cat he couldn’t see the funny side.

  He looked down at the carpet.

  Jump. You have to jump.

  If you don’t get out of here, Guster will kill you.

  And there it was.

  The rising, deadly thunder as the spaniel galloped up the stairs.

  Jump! Barney told himself one last time.

  He closed his eyes. Saw his dad’s face at the side of a swimming pool, long ago, encouraging Barney to jump from the diving board. You can do it, Barney. He heard the pounding of heavy paws against carpet as the potential cat-killer ran up the stairs.

  You have to do this. On three.

  One, two—

  In the self-imposed darkness Barney dropped down into the air, smooth as water pouring from a glass.

  But he landed hard and heavy, his peculiar new head hitting the carpet. Things blurred, then sharpened back into shape. No time to think. Guster was upstairs now, his panting breath getting closer.

  Barney ran. He didn’t know how, being so rearranged, but he managed it quite easily. Hid in the corner of the room, nothing but his fear for company, while Guster nudged the giant door open with his nose.

  The door swung back giving Barney something to hide behind as he tried to ignore the voice of his own doubts, telling him he was about to die.

  Guster jumped on the bed, sniffing traces of boy, traces of cat, traces of whatever was in between. Then, creating what felt to Barney like a brief earthquake, he jumped off the bed.

  This is not happening, Barney told himself. I am not a cat. I am a human being. I am a boy. A twelve-year-old boy. Everything will be—

  A wet canine nose peered round the door; two black nostrils, like eyes on a monstrous face. The nose waited a moment, working something out. And then the nose nudged the door backwards, and suddenly Guster’s whole face was there, with its caramel-brown and white fur and bright eyes, high above Barney. He seemed ten times bigger than normal. A King Charles monster.

  Then the most incredible thing of all. A voice. A pompous, almost regal voice came from Guster. ‘Oh my goodness! One is simply lost for words! A horrible feline. In my house. My house!’

  ‘No, it’s me,’ Barney tried, and realized he was understood – by Guster, at least. ‘It’s Barney. Guster, honestly, you have to believe me. I don’t know what’s going on. I just … in the night something must have …’

  ‘What are you doing here? What is your intention? Speak! Speak, I beseech you!’

  There was a demented madness in Guster’s eyes. He looked capable of anything.

  ‘It’s me!’

  ‘Confine your tongue!’ Guster barked crossly. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? I am a King Charles spaniel. My ancestors were there to witness the restoration of the King of England. They helped make this country what it is today. And, like all my noble breed, I have a strong set of principles that I live by religiously. Of the utmost importance is this – never let an uninvited feline into your house. If such a thing should happen, one has no choice but to kill said feline. So, you furry vagabond, I suggest you prepare to die.’

  ‘Oh, Guster, what on earth is the matter? Stop barking!’ This was Barney’s mother, calling from downstairs. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  Mum! Barney tried to shout. Mum! Mum!

  Three pathetic miaows, not even worthy of speech marks.

  Guster growled, showed teeth. Teeth he planned to use.

  ‘Guster, listen,’ Barney said, and was thankful at least that Guster could hear him. ‘It’s me – Barney. Ask me anything you want. Something only I would know and—’

  The dog moved closer, gnashing his jaws. Barney backed into the wall. Norma
lly, as a human, nothing in the world can look as cute and innocent as a King Charles spaniel. But Barney was now seeing things from a whole new angle.

  ‘You treacherous, lowly moggy!’

  ‘Guster! Honestly, I’m Barney. It was my birthday yesterday. My dad is missing, presumed dead. My dad – you know, the one who chose you from that rescue centre.’

  Guster seemed suddenly furious at the mention of this. ‘Rescue centre? What a blot on my honour. How dare you? I must tell you again – I am a King Charles spaniel. My ancestors lived in the royal court of King Charles the Second, enjoying such privileges as no dog has ever known. Rescue centre! What an insult.’

  Barney didn’t know what else to say. ‘But it’s true. Your last owners, they didn’t want you any more. So we saved you. Dad saved you.’

  Guster paused. He seemed to be thinking about something. For a moment Barney thought his words might have got through. That he might have found an ally in Guster. But no.

  ‘Liar-gggh!’ Guster growled.

  And then his jaws opened and came speeding towards Barney’s new head.

  I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to—

  Barney closed his eyes and waited for his head to be bitten off, but it didn’t happen.

  Giant teeth were only a thin whisker from Barney when suddenly the dog was yanked high away. Mrs Willow had grabbed him by the collar just in time, saving Barney’s life.

  Barney opened his eyes to see a giant lady towering above him.

  And his mum saw him. Except she didn’t know who she was seeing, of course.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘A cat! Barney, could you please tell me what a cat is doing in your room? Barney? Barney …? Barney?’

  She was looking at the empty bed, wondering where her son was. Barney could see the worry in her distant face, setting in like bad weather.

  ‘Barney, are you in the bathroom?’ she called. ‘Are you still having trouble with that hair?’

  No, Barney said. No, I’m here. I’m the cat. It’s me. Mum, please, listen. Mum!

  He looked up at her. It was like trying to convince a cathedral.

  ‘You trespassing liar,’ snapped Guster. ‘Please, Mrs Willow, let me deal with this vagabond.’

  ‘Come on, Guster.’ Mum pulled the dog away. She went and shut him in Barney’s father’s old office, which was now the spare room. ‘Now, you stay there,’ Barney heard her say. ‘And no scratching at the door.’

  A moment later she was back. She crouched down, and he felt her hand underneath his stomach then – whoosh – he was pulled high into the air. He tried to hold onto her dressing gown, and his claws appeared and tucked themselves into the fabric.

  ‘Don’t do that, you naughty thing,’ said his mother. ‘Now, where’s Barney? Barney?! Where are you? I really haven’t got time for this!’

  I’m here! You’re carrying me!

  She hauled Barney around the house, her grip getting tighter with every new room she couldn’t find her son in.

  Eventually Mrs Willow opened the front door, detached Barney from her dressing gown and dropped him to the ground, out in the frosty February air.

  Mum! he cried. Mum! Don’t worry! I’m—

  The giant door closed with a heavy thud and he was left there.

  Cold.

  Confused.

  And infinitely alone.

  The No-Hoper

  BARNEY WAITED ON the porch for a while, expecting his mother to realize he wasn’t anywhere in the house and hoping she’d make the connection. But the door didn’t open. It just stayed there, a gigantic piece of unfriendly wood, which Barney’s dad had painted three years ago when he still lived there.

  The usually quiet street felt full of a hundred noises – twittering birds, distant traffic, crisp packets scraping concrete as they travelled with the breeze.

  Another noise. Rustling, coming from the little juniper bush in the garden. Two green cat’s eyes staring at him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who are you?’ the cat asked tenderly, in a voice as soothing as hot cocoa. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

  She stepped out of the bush. She was a sleek, chocolate-brown cat that Barney vaguely recognized as belonging to Sheila, the new arrival at number 33.

  ‘Yes, you have,’ Barney said as this other cat came and rubbed her head against the side of his face. ‘I’m the boy who lives here. In this house. It’s just … I’ve changed … and I don’t know why.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and then she said it again (only this time in italics). ‘Oh. Oh, you poor thing. You poor little sardine. You’re one of them.’

  ‘One of who? Wait … does this happen to other people too?’

  ‘Oh yes. It does. I’m Mocha, by the way, and I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She purred, but then her mood switched at cat-speed and the purring stopped. Mocha started to look anxious.

  Barney, though, needed answers. ‘Look, do you know why I’m like this? Do you know how I can change back? Could you help me?’

  Mocha was looking past Barney now to the street. Her tail twitched, and her whiskers were curling slightly. She was sensing something. ‘I think, sweetie, we’re being watched.’

  ‘Watched? By who?’

  ‘By swipers, most probably.’

  ‘Swipers? What are they?’

  Mocha turned to Barney and gave a rushed explanation, her soothing hot-chocolate voice now fast and nervous, like his mum’s after too much coffee. ‘There are three types of cats,’ she said, then named them. ‘There are swipers, who are tough street cats, and who you need to be scared of. Then there are firesides, like me, who have owners and who generally prefer staying at home. We aren’t scary, as a rule, not unless you try and bathe us. Well, apart from the …’ She hesitated, as if frightened to finish her sentence. ‘Apart from the Terrorcat.’

  ‘The Terrorcat? Who’s that?’

  Mocha came closer, to whisper. ‘I hope you never find out.’

  ‘Why? What makes him so scary?’

  ‘He was just a normal cat once, but then he changed, just as a night follows a sunset,’ Mocha said with a shudder. ‘He developed powers, dark and evil powers, and became something else. He looked the same. But he was very, very different …’

  ‘What made him change?’

  But Barney wasn’t going to get an answer on this one. You see, Mocha had just spotted something: a fat, thuggish ginger moggy on the other side of the street, lying under a parked car, staring straight at them. Or rather, straight at Barney.

  ‘Is that the Terrorcat?’

  ‘No, my dear. You would know about it if that was the Terrorcat. That’s Pumpkin. A swiper. He’s stupid. But violent. And he’s got a lot of equally stupid, equally violent friends.’

  ‘Why’s he watching me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and suddenly seemed less keen to be friends. ‘Now, I’d love to hang around, truthfully, but my owner – Sheila – she’s going on holiday today and I’m going to the cattery, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘I thought cats hated catteries.’

  ‘Not this one. It’s lovely.’

  The cat started to trot away down the side of the house. ‘But wait!’ Barney called after her. ‘What about the third type of cat? You only mentioned two.’

  Mocha stopped, tail-twitched, turned. ‘That’s your type. Former humans trapped in cat bodies.’

  ‘What are we called?’ Barney said, stalling for time and wanting Mocha to stay with him as long as she possibly could.

  ‘The no-hopers,’ Mocha told him sadly. ‘Because it’s true. You really have no hope.’

  Best Friend(ly Giant)

  BARNEY LOOKED AROUND nervously. Saw the ginger moggy still staring at him. Perhaps he should have followed Mocha. But, no. He wanted to stay here in the hope of convincing his mum who he was, even if it meant being at the mercy of a swiper.

  The fat ginger cat started to walk out from under the car. He bec
koned down the street with his tail, and soon there were other cats there too. Street cats of varying shapes and furs prowling menacingly towards him.

  ‘Right, lads, this is the boy,’ said Pumpkin. ‘Do yer worst on ’im.’

  The cats got closer and closer.

  ‘Wait,’ said Barney. ‘Please, I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Well, that’s all we’s be wantin’, see,’ Pumpkin sneered. ‘That’s all we about, innit, fellas? Trouble. And the causing thereof. And, besides, we be ’avin’ our orders.’

  ‘Who’s ordered you?’ Barney asked, panicking as three more swipers headed up the path. One, an evil-looking cat with oversized ears, hissed in Barney’s face. ‘Prepare to die!’

  Barney had no idea how he would prepare for his death so thought he’d better try and avoid it for a while. He backed away, heading down the side of the house. ‘Mocha? Are you still there? I might actually need some help here.’

  But if Mocha could hear him, she certainly wasn’t saying.

  ‘Now, swipers,’ said the ginger moggy. ‘Let’s be showin’ what we’re made of.’

  ‘What he’s made of, you mean,’ laughed big-ears, her claws at the ready.

  ‘Wotchit, Lyka. I do the jokes round here.’

  Barney tried to run away but he was faced with a giant compost heap blocking his path. He tried to climb over it but his feet kept sinking into the mush of leaves and earth and weeds, some of which had probably been thrown there by his dad over two years ago. There were now five cats down the passageway, and they all had their hair raised and their claws out, ready to pounce.

  And I can assure you they would have pounced if they hadn’t heard something behind them.

  Or rather, someone. Humming tunefully to themselves as they walked along the path.

  ‘Pumpkin, what shall we do?’ asked Lyka in her evil cat hiss.

  ‘We can’t be doin’ no murder with ’oomans round. You’s know the rules.’ So, on Pumpkin’s orders, the street cats fled, running over the compost heap and over Barney, their sharp claws scratching him as they went.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pumpkin, before disappearing across the top of the heap. ‘We be seein’ you shortly.’