A Question of Alignment
by
Barnaby Wilde
Copyright 2005 by Barnaby Wilde
Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by Smashords
Smashwords
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Cover picture based on an original photo by Infrogmation
Other works by the author.
Beaver *
Private Dick *
(The above titles also appear in a composite volume under the title ‘One and One is One’)
I keep thinking it’s Tuesday
* Written under the nom de plume ‘Tom Fletcher’
PART ONE
A Question of Alignment
Chapter 1
... The jackpot in this week's lottery draw is now an estimated ninety three million pounds following an unprecedented eighth week rollover. A source close to Downing Street announced earlier today that the government had complete faith in lottery organisers Winn-a-Lott, and saw no reason to recall parliament from its summer recess. The minister for sport, Cholmondley Bryant, described the Opposition’s call for intervention as 'the politics of envy', and recommended the Opposition Leader 'to let his hair down and go halves on a ticket with his wife.'
A spokesperson for Winn-a-Lott agreed that eight weeks without a winner was 'unusual', but added 'remember, it's just a bit of fun' and 'you've got to be in to win'. Suggestions that the entire Winn-a-Lott board were about to 'do a runner' were dismissed as 'malicious gossip'...
~
"Must remember to pick up a lottery ticket," thought Tom as he slid further down into the upholstery of the sofa. He fumbled absentmindedly for the TV controller and flicked across the channels for something to watch. It was not a vintage evening. The cat, which was curled up against the radiator, watched him through the barely open slit of it's left eye. He cycled through the channels again, but nothing looked any better the second time round than it had the first time. He scratched his crotch idly with his left hand and slipped another few millimetres to the right in the process.
The cat unrolled, yawned and stood up. It rocked forward and stretched it's hind legs, then reversed direction to stretch the other two. Tom watched it in an uninterested sort of way and contemplated throwing something just to watch it jump, but as the only thing he was holding was the TV controller this didn't seem altogether sensible. Since there was nothing else instantly to hand, he contented himself with pursing his lips and blowing a raspberry to see if it would react.
The cat finished its stretch and yawned again. It looked him in the face for a while as he continued his repertoire of cat baiting noises. He tried 'mouse' and then 'wounded bird'. He was about to move on to 'large panting dog', but the cat decided it had seen enough. "Childish," it said, and turned and walked through the wall.
Tom stopped his animal impressions and thought about what had just happened. He was not a remarkable man. Pretty average in an average sort of a way. About average height. Well, maybe even a tiny bit below. Average looks, average intelligence, normal degree of fitness for a man of his age, which is to say normal degree of unfitness, a bit thick about the waist and a bit thin on the top of the head. Not at all the sort of man to save the world.
He looked at the spot where the cat had disappeared. "Odd," he thought. "I never noticed that before."
He continued watching the wall for some minutes after the cat had gone. It didn't look a great deal different from the rest of the walls in the room. "Definitely odd," he said out loud, even though there was no one there to hear him now. The TV continued to buzz in the background and images of a game show flickered across the screen. Tom didn't notice. He was fascinated by a little patch of plain wall about two metres in front of him and about fifteen centimetres above the floor. He sat up and inclined his head to the right, the better to view the anonymous spot. It stayed anonymous, however.
Curiosity fought apathy for several long minutes and eventually won. He slipped off the sofa to bring his face closer to the point of interest. There was nothing to see. Well, nothing unusual that is. There was wall and wallpaper of course. He noticed that there was a dirty mark on the skirting board, probably where the vacuum cleaner had banged it, he thought, but nothing else. He ran his hand over the wall. Flat, hard and slightly rough to the touch, just as he would expect. "Odd," he said again. "Most definitely odd."
The door to the sitting room swung open and small, slim, sometime blonde, middle-aged woman came through. She was carrying a mug of coffee in her right hand. "Where shall I put this?" she asked.
"On the coffee table, please," said Tom preoccupied. He continued to stare at the wall and run his fingers gently over the lightly patterned paper. "Just went straight through," he said. The woman, his wife, glanced at him but said nothing as she put down the coffee.
"Thank you," he said, without looking up.
She shook her head gently and turned to go out.
"You haven't noticed anything uh, unusual about the cat," he said just as she was leaving.
"Oh, No. She hasn't been sick again, has she?"
"Don't think so," he muttered, casting his eyes over the floor in front of him and wiping his hands on his trousers just in case. He felt the wall again experimentally.
"Has she been scratching the wallpaper?"
"Hmm?"
"Has she ripped the paper, scratching?"
"Not that I can see. No mark at all in fact. Quite amazing."
Gail tidied a few papers on the coffee table and plumped up the sagging back of the sofa by bashing at it gently with her left hand. She peered behind the seats as she turned to go out of the room. "I can't even see her," she said moving towards the door.
"No," agreed Tom. "She isn't here."
"Probably gone out," said Gail disappearing into the hall.
"Yes," nodded Tom. "I think you could say that."
He went back to not watching the TV, but couldn't help occasionally sneaking glances back to that spot on the wall.
Outside, the rain continued to fall in torrents as it had done without a break for the previous four days. The front garden was now simply a sodden mess. The back garden was even worse. The pond had broken its banks two days earlier and all but one of the orfe had already made a dash for freedom. One gnome was lying on it's back totally submerged and the other was scarcely holding it's nose above water. Another few millimetres and it would be curtains for him too.
Tom continued to ignore the TV as the weathercaster droned on about the unprecedented rainfall and promised no improvement for the foreseeable future. He sipped his coffee distractedly.
There had been a time when Tom had been a man of action. A hive of industry. A veritable profligate in the production of toys, paraphernalia and household articles. A D.I.Y.er of distinction undaunted by plumbing, carpentry or central heating. An occasional artist cranking out passable pottery and paintings. A competent businessman with a moderately successful management career to his credit. Even a modest author. Once he had flirted with the idea of becoming a zookeeper, but the moment had passed. But that had all been before. Before job, children, wife and life had ground him down. Now he was slipping gently into that moribund state of sloth and apathy that characterises so many men of his age. In short he was almost entirely normal. Almost.
There was inside him though still a tiny, lingering, flickering, nagging thought that he had yet to find his true vocation. That somewhere there was a job still for him to do if only he could muster the energy. That life still had something to offer him if only he could summon the strength. That he still had undiscovered talents which only needed to be, well, discovered ... Maybe tomorrow...
... He sprang suddenly to attention as lukewarm coffee soaked into his left trouser leg. The mug bounced onto the carpet depositing it's remaining contents in a pool at his feet. "Damn," he said, flicking at his leg with his handkerchief. "Damn." He got down on his knees and began scrubbing frantically at the carpet. It had little effect. "Damn," he said again.
"Well?" said a voice behind him.
"Must've dozed off," said Tom turning. His cheeks reddened visibly. "Just a few splashes. I expect it will dry out. Probably won't even notice once it's been vacuumed." He tried to tuck his wet leg behind the other so it didn't show and at the same time to slide his right foot sideways in order to rub his shoe back and forth on the carpet in an attempt to make the stain disappear. A feat easier to describe than to perform. "It was balanced ..." He looked up expecting to see his wife. His voice trailed off. There was no one there.
"Well?" said the voice again. It came from somewhere behind him and low down. Very low down. Somewhere near his feet in fact and it definitely wasn't Gail speaking.
"Are you coming, or not?" asked the cat.
Chapter 2
... wettest August since records began. One hundred millimetres of rain fell today in four hours in Dorchester, turning the centre of the town into a lake. Schools were closed and the local bus services were cancelled. There were reports of snow in parts of Kent ...
Tom looked down at his feet. There was a large spreading stain on the carpet in front of him and his left foot felt distinctly moist. His trouser leg clung limply to his calf. To the right of the stain sat a small black cat. Well, almost black. More of a very dark brown if you looked closely, especially in strong sunlight. At the moment, though, she looked black.
"Oh, you're back," he said peering down at the cat.
She stared back at him.
"Must've nodded off," he added. "Made a bit of a mess with the coffee I'm afraid." He eyed the cat suspiciously and leaned gently towards it. "Erm. Hello," he ventured. "Hello, erm.... cat."
The cat continued to stare at him.
"I thought I heard you say something," said Tom in an embarrassed sort of way. "Must've imagined it." He felt a little foolish and bent down to stroke the top of her head.
"There's no time for that now," said the cat standing up abruptly. Tom's hand shot back as though he had received an electric shock.
"Oh, my god, you made me jump! You did say something! Oh, my god!"
He backed away slowly and hit the front of the sofa with his calves, falling back onto the cushions so recently plumped up by his wife. He picked up one of the satin covered scatter cushions and clutched it to his chest. He was tempted to suck his thumb, but that was probably going too far. He gazed at the cat, which had begun to lick coffee off its paws to her evident distaste.
After a minute or so she stopped her preening and turned her attention back to him. There appeared to be some sort of decision making process going on inside her head and eventually she gave a small sneeze.
"That'll be the coffee," said Tom. "I don't think cats are supposed to drink coffee. Especially black. Coffee I mean. Black coffee, not black cats. I shouldn’t think it matters what colour the cat is. Except to another cat maybe."
Apparently a decision had been reached and she jumped up onto his lap. He recoiled slightly and clutched the cushion more tightly than ever.
She sat on his lap looking up at his face. He was almost sure that he saw her shake her head and sigh, but later, when he reflected, he decided that he had probably imagined it. She continued to look up at him for a few seconds as if pondering the wisdom of her choice and then, "It's you and me, pal," she said. "You and me."
He nodded in agreement, though without the first inkling of what he was agreeing to.
"It's up to you," she continued. "We've discussed it in the committee and we can't do it on our own. You are going to have to help us. I told them you would."
He had no idea what she was talking about, but he was already getting used to the notion that she was talking. In fact it didn't seem that strange at all when he thought about it. After all, humans often spoke to cats so maybe it wasn't entirely unreasonable that they should talk back. Except that they didn't actually have the apparatus, did they?
"How do you do it?" he asked. "Without a voice box I mean."
She continued looking up at him with what looked remarkably like an expression of disdain. "There isn't time," she said. "If we don't go now it will be too late."
“... and even if you had a voice box, surely it would be a much higher pitch from someone as small as you."
"You're wasting time," she said. "And we don't have time to waste. Are you coming or not?"
"It's a put on isn't it," said Tom, smiling. "I've worked it out. We're on TV aren't we? There's a camera somewhere isn't there?" He began craning his neck to find it.
"It’s not a bloody put on."
" Uh, uh. You'll have to bleep that out. Did Gail put you up to this? OK you can come out now."
"It is not a bloody put on. You are not on TV you gormless pillock."
Tom was a little taken aback. This was not very ladylike language from a cat. He opened his mouth to speak but wasn't quite sure what to say. A pithy retort was called for, but just at the moment he couldn't think of one. In the meantime he just sat with his mouth open.
"We have to go now," said the cat. "The committee is waiting."
"What committee?" asked Tom lamely.
"The Committee for Action To Save the World, or CATSW as we call it for short," she replied. "We were going to call it Committee for Action To Save the Planet Earth, but we had trouble with the acronym." She was clearly getting agitated by the delay. "If you just come with me I'll explain on the way."
C.A.T.S.P.E. thought Tom to himself. "I can see the problem," he said.
He had always thought himself a reasonable man. Sensible. Level headed. Open to new ideas. Take talking cats for instance. Never knew they existed ten minutes ago, and yet here he was calmly debating the hazards of unfortunate acronyms with one. On the other hand, talking to a cat in the privacy and security of one's own home was one thing. Getting off the sofa and following it to who knows where was something quite different.
The cat, however, decided she had waited long enough and jumped from his lap. Neatly avoiding the spreading coffee stain, she walked straight into the wall. Literally, into the wall. She just walked at her normal pace, without hesitation or deviation and progressed into the wall, slowly disappearing from the nose on until only the tail was visible in the room and then finally that was gone too.
Tom clutched the cushion yet more tightly and this time his thumb did make it to his mouth. But even as he watched the blank spot on the wall, a nose, followed by a face and finally a whole cat reappeared from the wall at almost precisely the same spot it had, moments ago, vanished.
"How do you do that?" he asked.
"You just put one foot in front of the other in front of the other. Repeat the action and that's all there is to it," she said, with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "I believe it's called walking. Of course it's more complicated if you have four legs, but I understand that even humans have mastered the technique with two."
"No. The wall thing," continued Tom. He was not a man to be easily deflected by a sarcastic cat. "How can you pass through a solid wall?"
"Oh that," she said nonchalantly. "It's not a lot different from walking through air. Just a bit stiffer."
"But air flows around you as you walk,” he said. “Walls don't flow, they're sort of, you know, solid." Tom was a man of few words most of the time, but he liked to think he could phrase things succinctly when the occasion demanded.
"Didn't they teach you anything at school?" continued the cat. "Even solids are mostly space."
Something flickered dimly in the recesses of Tom's mind. Something about electrons and nuclei and charged particles flying around in orbits. He couldn't remember much of the detail, but there was a vague awareness that most of the volume of an atom was just empty space. In fact, it was nearly all space as far as he could remember.
"You mean that you simply walk through the spaces in the atoms, avoiding all the lumpy bits where the electrons and nuclei are?"
"I suppose that's how it works," she said. "I've never really thought about it. Just something I've always done. All cats do it. We call it ‘counter atomic tunnelling’."
Or C.A.T. for short, thought Tom. It seemed inevitable somehow. "You're having me on, aren’t you?" He had completely accepted by now that he was carrying out a conversation with a cat. That a cat could talk was no longer news. It seemed, therefore, entirely reasonable that if a cat could talk it was equally capable of spinning a yarn. Or indeed, of telling whopping big porky pies. On the other hand, he had seen it go through the wall several times now.
"What happens if you get stuck halfway?" he asked suddenly.
"Well, I'd suggest putting a picture frame round the protruding bit and treating it as part of the decoration," she said witheringly.
"A true Cat arse trophy," chortled Tom, rolling about in his mirth. He may have been a man of few words, but he was also a man of many bad puns.
"I was thinking about the other end, actually," she muttered stiffly.
"Oh, she's back I see."
Tom jumped visibly. He hadn't heard Gail come back into the room. "Oh, Tom," she said. "Look at all that mess on the floor. Was that Smokey?"
"Erm… sort of,” he mumbled. "I was just going to clear it up. We were talking about space. Did you know it mostly is? Space I mean."
"Thanks pal," hissed the cat as she sat, the picture of innocence, licking her paws.
"I'm off to my staff meeting," continued Gail. "That's what I came in to tell you. You'll have to clean up the carpet yourself. There's shampoo in the cupboard under the sink."
"I wondered what you were all dressed up for," said Tom.
"I'm sure I told you. Anyway, I may be quite late home." She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. Almost. Missed by about the thickness of gnat’s proboscis. It takes years of practice to get that good, thought Tom gloomily. He felt the draft of her passing and smelled something expensive wafting after her. Anais Anais he felt sure. It was obviously going to be some staff meeting.
He tried to return the kiss, but she was already half way out of the door. "Don't use too much water," she called. "Whisk it up into a foam." And then she was gone.
"Leave the carpet," said the cat. "We don't have time. I told them we'd be there by eight."
Tom looked at his watch. It was seven fifty five. "How far do we have to go?" he asked.
"It's just two walls and one block," said the cat. "It will only take a couple of minutes."
"I don't know how to do the wall thing," said Tom. He realised as he said it that he was already falling in with the cat's plan. Gail's departure had taken away all his resolve. What little he had, anyway. He was almost sure she hadn't mentioned the staff meeting to him before.
Smokey looked up at him. "I'd thought about that," she said. "I was going to teach you, but the trouble with humans is that you are all the wrong shape and your noses are inside out."
Tom wasn't sure how his nose could be inside out, but he did concede that he was a different shape from a cat, though why that should be important was more difficult to understand.
"You have to lead with your nose, you see."
He realised that the cat was still talking, but that he hadn't been paying proper attention.
"Sorry," he said. "What's that about noses?"
"You have to approach correctly. The tip of your nose has to be the first point of contact. Oh, and it has to be moist. I'm not sure why, but it can get very sore if you have a dry nose."
"Moist nose,' repeated Tom abjectly. His mind was still half on the staff meeting.
"Just watch me, and copy exactly."
The cat turned square to the wall and sort of flowed through it. Tom was on his own. He reached out and touched the wall tentatively. It felt much as it had earlier. Hard and slightly rough to the touch.
"Just walk," said a voice by his feet. He looked down, the cat was back. "Go on," she said. "Just walk normally."
He walked gingerly towards the wall and struck it with his right foot.
"All the wrong shape," tutted the cat. "All the wrong shape. Try leaning your head forward so that your nose goes ahead of your feet."
Feeling somewhat absurd, Tom stuck his backside out and dipped his head. He gently pushed at the wall with his nose. Hard and rough, just as before.
"Wet on the inside, dry on the outside," said the cat disdainfully. "Body the wrong shape and nose inside out. Just as I said."
Tom butted the wall feebly a couple of times with his nose, but only succeeded in making the tip of it red.
"Oh dear. Pick me up," said the cat despairingly. "I can see I shall have to do everything. If you want a thing doing properly, do it yourself. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about this whole thing."
She's having second thoughts, thought Tom. But he said nothing.
"Come on then," she said. "Pick me up and point me at the wall. We're going through in tandem."
Tom had never been an unkind man. He didn't think of himself as a particularly 'animally' sort of a person but what he did next caused him no small amount of anguish. After only a few moments hesitation, he picked up the cat and holding it in front of him, pushed it's head into the wall.
Chapter 3
As the cat's head disappeared into the wall, Tom was fascinated and scared in about equal measures to see his hands and then his arms, in which she was nestled, following after her. He gulped and took a step forward.
It was a difficult sensation to describe. Just as Smokey had said, it was like walking in air, only thicker. It was dark, but not completely because there seemed to be small scintillations of light always at the edges of his vision. Yet, if he turned his head they were gone. There was a texture too. Nothing Tom could put his finger on exactly, just an almost, but not quite perceptible viscosity.
He took two steps forward and as quickly as he had entered that dark space found himself emerging into the light again. He was surprised at the suddenness of it and walked right into the back of a sofa. As though she had rehearsed this a hundred times, Smokey jumped nimbly from his arms, merely using the seat of the sofa as a rebounding point en route for the coffee table. "The wrong shape and clumsy with it," she sighed as she leapt.
Tom sprawled headlong over the back of the sofa and landed with his feet higher than his head just in time to see a mug which had been balanced on the edge of the coffee table topple gently over the rim onto the floor below, depositing the lukewarm contents onto the carpet.
He lay across the sofa with his head on the floor and his feet in the air for some seconds watching the spreading pool of coffee. "Not too much water and whisk it to a foam," he said to no one in particular.
"Leave it," hissed the cat. "We don't have time."
She stepped daintily off the coffee table onto the arm of the sofa and nipped Tom's ear.
"We have to go now," she said.
He didn't move, except for his eyes, which were beginning to take in the scene around him. "It's my sitting room," he said. "Ours. The one we just left."
"Only in a manner of speaking," said the cat. "But we really don't have the time right now."
Tom continued to gaze around him. Even from his upside down vantagepoint he could recognise his own sitting room. The wallpaper, the carpet, the suite were all the same. The pictures, the TV, the coffee table. No, something was different. One of the pictures was different, but which one?
The cat bit his ear again, harder.
"Ow. That hurt." said Tom.
"Someone's coming," said the cat. "We have to go."
By dint of more biting she got Tom to the opposite wall. Using the same tandem technique as before he pushed his arms ahead of him with the cat and they flowed through.
Gail entered the room just as the final part of Tom's trailing heel disappeared from view. She noticed nothing but the mug on the floor and the wet patch of coffee. "That damned cat again," she muttered, and turned back towards the kitchen to fetch the cleaning stuff.
Inside, the wall was exactly as before. Dark, but not quite, barely discernible viscosity and the remote opalescence always on the edge of vision, and then, just as suddenly, they were out into the light again.
This time Tom managed to stop just as his thighs made contact with the back of the sofa. He stood with his mouth ajar. The open mouth thing was fast becoming something of a habit.
"It's the sitting room again," he mouthed. "Every time we go out on one side we come back in on the other. Neat trick. I wonder how that works?"
"It isn't your sitting room," said the cat. "Well, not exactly anyway."
"Yes it is," said Tom. "I recognise my own sitting room." He looked around at all the familiar things. The curtains were the same and the bookshelves, but there were differences too. One of the pictures was different again. The flower vase was different too. And the sofa, was it the same, or was there something different about that as well? The more he looked the more unsure he became.
There was a mug on the coffee table. He didn't recognise the design on the mug, but he had a bad feeling about the contents.
"I need to drink that coffee," he said, moving round the sofa and putting the cat down onto the arm as he passed.
She rolled her eyes. Not an easy manoeuvre for a cat. "We don't have the time," she said despairingly.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and a woman came into the room. She was petite, blonde and beautiful. She was wearing a white silk blouse and a nearly black skirt with a slit at the side. The skirt barely reached to her knees.
"Gail?" said Tom to himself. He looked at her closely. It was Gail, but she looked different somehow. More radiant. Younger. Yes, definitely younger. Her hair was more blonde. Her skin more smooth. Her legs just that bit more, well... sort of leggy. Her bust just that bit more... well, just that bit more actually. And... she had a red rose in her mouth.
He stared at her in disbelief. Fortunately he managed to retain sufficient presence of mind to keep his lower jaw from sagging completely. He felt behind himself for the arm of the sofa and sat down almost flattening the cat in the process. His legs suddenly felt rather weak.
She began to unbutton the top of her blouse and tucked the rose gently down her cleavage as he slid off the arm and down onto the seat. "I thought you might be ready for some dessert," she said with a pout.
He could see that she was wearing fresh, red lipstick and he could smell her perfume wafting gently towards him. It was Anais Anais. The perfume she always wore.
"Oh, no," muttered Smokey. "I knew something like this would happen. We really do not have the time." She walked along the arm of the sofa and neatly skipped across onto the coffee table.
Gail rubbed her hands seductively on her thighs. As she did so her skirt rode up exposing more of her legs. Her leggy legs, thought Tom. She moved towards him until she was straddling his legs. His eyes were wide with amazement. He couldn't remember Gail being like this. Twenty years. It must have been twenty years ago.
A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Smokey was headbutting the mug of coffee and sliding it gently along the coffee table. Gail reached forward and began to unfasten the belt on Tom's trousers. The mug was sliding closer towards the end of the table. Gail slid his belt completely out from the loops of his trousers and hung it from her teeth for all the world like an animal devouring a snake. She growled like a tiger and shook her head. Her blonde hair swung with the movement, a loose lock falling across her face. She took hold of the zipper on his fly and teased him by moving it down and then back up by just a few millimetres. He became aware of a stirring inside his trousers. Smokey single-mindedly continued with her task and was apparently about to succeed.
"Coffee," shouted Tom suddenly. “I haven’t finished my coffee." He thrust past Gail and grabbed the mug just as it overbalanced the end of the table. It was almost full, but not a drop was spilled. He swigged great mouthfuls from the mug. It was nearly cold. He drank so fast that a dribble of coffee escaped and rolled slowly down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and suppressed a belch. Almost.
"Just how I like it. Not too hot. And sugar. Not any, I mean. Never take it, but of course you know that."
Tears welled up in Gail's eyes. "I thought it was what you wanted, Jim. I don't understand you at all. You don't love me any more, do you?"
"Jim?" spluttered Tom. "Who's Jim?"
She ran from the room still holding his belt, her eyes streaming with tears.
"I do love you," he called after her. "But twenty years. You surprised me that's all. And the carpet..." His voice trailed away as the sound of her footsteps receded up the stairs and he heard the bedroom door bang shut. "Anyway, I thought you'd gone out to a staff meeting," he continued slowly to himself.
"We do have to go," sighed the cat. "We're already late. Valerie doesn't like lateness."
"Who the hell is Valerie?" asked Tom, turning his attention briefly back to the cat. "And who the hell is Jim for that matter?"
He ran to the bottom of the stairs and called up. "I'm sorry. I have to go out. It's a cat thing apparently. Something about the end of the world."
He noticed a red rose about half way up the stairs and was about to pick it up but Smokey bit his ankle again. "You can't bring the rose. There's been too much stuff moved already. That's the problem. Please come with me now before it's too late."
"I can't leave Gail like that," said Tom. "She needs me."
There was a short pause. "There's no easy way to say this," said the cat. "But that isn't Gail. Not your Gail anyway. If you come with me I can explain, but we do need to go now."
"I'm not going through any more walls," said Tom.
"We don't need to. I told you it was two walls and one block. We've already done the two walls. You really are going to have to learn to keep track or you'll be in all sorts of trouble." She walked away from him down the hall and sat by the front door. It took him a moment to understand the significance, but reluctantly he followed her and reached for the doorknob.
He pulled the door shut behind them, but as an afterthought he pushed open the letterbox and called through it. "It is what I want. I'll be back."
"I think she was wearing suspenders," he said as he followed Smokey down the path. “You could see those little bobbly things making dimples in her skirt."
He suddenly dashed back and pushed open the letterbox again. "I say. You couldn't let me have the belt back I suppose. No. I suppose not just at the moment. I'll collect it on my next visit."
As they hurried away from the house they were passed by a man going in the opposite direction. A momentary look of recognition flashed between them and Tom knew he’d seen the man somewhere before. Very recently in fact, but the thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. A similar thought passed fleetingly through the other man's mind and was lost as soon as it arrived. He turned into the pathway that Tom and Smokey had so recently vacated and took the front door key from his pocket.
"Hi, I'm home," called Jim as he closed the door behind him.
Chapter 4
Tom jogged down the familiar street at a trot, following a small black cat, which bounded on ahead. He clutched at his trousers with one hand as he ran. He wished now he had been more persistent about his belt. He took no notice of the buildings and gardens that he'd passed a thousand times before. Many of the gardens were dried up and parched. Flowers wilting or already dead. Smokey disappeared round the corner and he hurried on to catch sight of her again. She was about fifty metres ahead when he turned the corner. The trousers were definitely slowing him down. He saw her vanish through a large, unfamiliar pair of wooden drive gates. He followed her up the drive and she ran on round to the side door of the house. He glimpsed her disappearing through a cat flap as he ran down the side passage after her.
"Bloody brilliant. How am I supposed to get through there?" he thought. "Don't tell me, it's another nose first job."
He got down onto all fours and peered through the transparent plastic cat flap, or tried to, because many moist noses pushing on the transparent flap over the years had left it smeared and opaque. He hesitated for a moment then shrugged and pushed at the flap anyway with his own nose. It swung easily inward, but he couldn't even begin to get his head through.
"Is he the one?" a voice asked. "Doesn't look too promising, but first appearances can be deceptive I suppose."
Tom pulled back to see the owner of the voice. "Just checking the hinges," he said. "Needs a bit of oil I think." He patted his pockets in a pantomime of looking for an oil can. "Have to come back later. Seem to have forgotten the oil." He laughed in what he hoped sounded like a nonchalant way.
"No need to explain," said the voice. "Excuse me." A pure white cat who had been doing the talking squeezed past him and nosed open the flap. "Seems to be working now," she said as she slipped gracefully through. She was closely followed by a tortoiseshell.
Tom pushed open the flap with his hand and peered through. He could see very little except the bottom corners of some white kitchen units. "Hello," he called. "I say."
"Good evening," said a large grey as it shouldered past him and on through the cat flap which he was still holding ajar. "Thank you, most civil I'm sure."
"Drains," said Tom feebly. "Just checking out the drains."
A black head appeared through the flap from the inside. "Come on. They're waiting for you. I thought you were right behind me."
'It's the flap. I can't get through it. The nose thing doesn't seem to work. My head's too big. Well, not too big. It's the right size actually. For a head that is. It's the flap that's too small. For a man I mean."
"The door's not locked," said Smokey despairingly and she disappeared back inside.
He found himself in a sort of utility area and closed the door behind him. There was no sign of the cats, but he could hear voices coming from an adjacent room. He followed the sound and arrived in a well-furnished lounge. The furniture was predominantly antique. There was a cut crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the room illuminating a Persian carpet beneath. The suite was brown leather and on it were cats. Dozens of them. All colours and sizes. They stopped talking when he came into the room and all heads turned in his direction. On the Persian carpet was a magnificent Persian cat. Tom stood in the doorway clutching his trousers.
"Good Evening," said the Persian. "We were expecting you. Boudicca tells me you were delayed."
"Yes," said Tom. "Coffee problems. Everywhere we went there were carpets to shampoo. Had to drink the last lot. The coffee that is, not the shampoo. Rather too fast in fact." He had a sudden feeling that he might need a loo. "Could have done without it actually."
The Persian ignored him and continued, "Boudicca, he's your pet. Perhaps you should make the formal introductions."
“Boudicca?" said Tom looking about him. "Who's Boudicca? I mean I know who Boudicca was. But she's dead isn't she, or very old anyway." He was wondering about telling his woad warrior joke, but Smokey interrupted him.
"Shut up," she hissed. "Madam president, may I present Tom Fletcher. Tom, President Valerie, chaircat of C.A.T.S.W."
"Tom! What kind of a name is that?" protested a large ginger. "Half the dudes here are Toms. What's his pseudonym? Oh, mine's Levi by the way."
"I was coming to that, thank you Levi. He goes under the name of... of... of Cougar," she said suddenly.
There was a murmur of approval at this. The cats began to take more notice of him.
"I do?" thought Tom.
"Why don't you come and sit by me Cougar?" purred Valerie. "While the rest of the committee introduce themselves." He did as she suggested and she rubbed herself against his leg as he sat down.
"Pleased to meet you, Cougar. I'm Dog. Not much of a name for a cat, I know, but my pet had a poor sense of humour."
There were more introductions. Most of the names passed Tom by. There were various herbs, a Sooty and a Snowflake he recalled later.
"Cat Twenty-Two," drawled one individual. "Pleased to meet you. Before you ask, my pet was called Yossarian."
"Oh," said Tom, as if that explained everything. He stroked Valerie absentmindedly as the introductions were made.
"Show us your special talent, Cougar," said Levi. There were more nods of approval at this. "Boudicca told us you'd reveal it only to the committee."
Tom looked around to see who was being addressed. "Cougar?" breathed Valerie. "We're ready when you are." She had somehow insinuated herself onto Tom's lap unnoticed. He scratched the top of her head without thinking.
"S.. sp..special talent? I don't really have one. More a sort of Jack of all trades really. Bit of this, bit of that. Bob and weave you know. Not weave you understand in the scarf sort of way, more uh more duck than scarf. Yes, bob and duck I suppose you could say. Saw a sign once in a pub. 'Duck not grouse' it said over the doorway. Not grouse the bird of course. More grumble I guess."
The cats began to fidget. This wasn't quite what they had expected. "Get on with it," hissed Smokey. She made to bite his ankle again, but he saw her coming this time and pulled away.
"I don't have any special talents," he said to her. "And why are they calling me Cougar? And why are they calling you Boudicca for that matter?"
"Shhh!" she hissed. "I just thought it would sound better that's all. You heard what Levi said. Everyone's called Tom around here."
"But why Cougar?"
"Just came to me, that's all. Just then."
A definite restlessness was taking place in the room. A murmuring was growing with several of the cat's muttering quite loudly.
"Could you move your hand just a bit to the left," cooed Valerie. She had turned her head so that he was scratching just under her chin. "Mmm, that's purrfect," she said as he adjusted his arm fractionally. Her eyes were almost closed and a soft rumbling noise was starting up somewhere deep inside her.
"Well, what can you do?" It was Cat Twenty-Two who had spoken this time.
"Yes, what can you do?" echoed other voices.
"Well, a bit of carpentry, I suppose. Plumbing. Electrical wiring. Just the simple stuff of course. And gardening. Quite a keen gardener actually. Flowers mainly. Don't go in for vegetables much. To grow, that is. Eat them of course. All the time. Courgettes, carrots that sort of thing. Not keen on tomatoes though."
Things were not going well. It was obvious that the committee was not impressed. Several members looked actively hostile and others had begun to talk amongst themselves. Tom noticed that one or two appeared to be asleep and the white cat who had been so polite when he let her through the cat flap now had one leg pointed skywards and appeared to be licking her own bottom. He wasn't sure if this was intended as a comment on his performance or just a matter of pressing personal hygiene.
“... and meat of course. Lots of meat. Yes, plenty of meat." He thought perhaps this was more consistent with his cougar image, but it did nothing to placate the cats who were now distinctly restless.
"What about weapons, lasers that sort of thing?" pressed Levi.
"Weapons? No, nothing like that," admitted Tom.
The atmosphere was definitely beginning to turn hostile. One or two of the cats who had seemed friendly when he came in no longer looked quite so peaceable as they had. A low hissing began in one corner and was taken up quickly by several others.
"Order,” said Valerie quietly. Tom had thought she was asleep. She had rolled completely over on his lap and was lying on her back with all four limbs akimbo. Tom was gently scratching her exposed underbelly. "Let's not be too hasty now," she continued. "I'm sure that Cougar here is just being modest. All part of his cover I'm sure. After all, Boudicca has told of us of some of his adventures. Just a bit more to the right if you could, please, Cougar. Purrfect. Mmm. Purrfect." Her eyes had remained closed during her interjection and the purring which had not ceased even while she spoke increased in intensity to something like a low growl.
"He's got a catapult." It was Boudicca who had spoken.
The hissing stopped. This was more like it. There was a general murmuring and the word catapult was heard several times.
Levi was obviously impressed. "What model would that be?" he asked. "Would that be a single elastic or a double? Straight 'Y' or classic 'U'?" It sounded as if he was trying to impress somebody himself and it looked as if he was succeeding. Smokey gazed at him admiringly.
"It's got an alloy frame," she added. This went down well with the audience. Several of them obviously had personal knowledge of catapults and were keen to tell their neighbours.
Tom was vaguely aware that he did once own a catapult, but it had been years since he had seen it. He had no idea where it was now. He used to use it to keep cats off his garden as he recalled, but maybe this wasn't the time to mention that.
"Juggling," he said suddenly. "That's a special talent. I just remembered that I used to do a bit of juggling." Somehow this didn't produce quite the same degree of interest as the catapult. The murmuring died a little. "I could show you if you like. I just need three juggling balls. Oranges would do. Tangerines are better, but oranges would be OK if they aren't too big. Apples are no good at all. They don't have any give you see. Don't bounce well either. Bananas, they're a bit of a no no as well. I did try it with coconuts one time. Saw a chap doing it with chainsaws once and eggs. Not at the same time you understand." He wished he hadn't started this.
"Not sure how the juggling thing would help, man," drawled Levi. "But I'm willing to be convinced. Any pet of Boudicca's is OK by me, man."
Smokey was melting under the attention from Levi. Her common sense was about to desert her as so often happens in these circumstances. She decided to press her advantage. "There's a fruit bowl on the sideboard, Cougar," she said. "Why don't you show us."
Tom couldn't move without disturbing Valerie, but she seemed to be completely asleep and he was able to lift her onto the floor without any break in the rhythm of her snoring.
Somehow both he and Smokey knew that this was a mistake, but they were both aware that they had talked themselves into a corner. Their credibility was at stake here.
Tom walked over to the corner of the room, hitching his trousers as he went, and looked into the fruit bowl. It was lavishly furnished with a veritable cornucopia of fruit. Apples, grapes, bananas, a whole pineapple and, fortunately, oranges. He picked three. They were a little larger than he would have liked and he tested their weight in his hands. Moving back towards the centre of the room he was aware that every cat was watching him intently. He lofted one of the oranges a few centimetres experimentally.
"It's been a while," he said. He threw one of the oranges into the air and a second from his other hand. They crossed somewhere in front of his face, but somehow the third one was never quite launched. He managed to catch the first two without dropping either, however, and with only a small stumble.
"Was that it?" asked the cat named Dog. Obviously underwhelmed.
"Bit out of practice,” said Tom. He tried again. This time all three oranges made it into the air. Their flights were a little erratic, but again he managed not to drop any. His confidence increased some. He took a more positive stance. This time all three oranges not only made it into the air, they all assumed approximately equal parabolas, and he not only caught them, but was able to relaunch for a second time without a break. "Like riding a bicycle," he grunted. "You never really forget." It was a mistake to attempt contemporaneous speech. He lurched to one side to retrieve a rather wild throw, but managed to recover. He felt his trousers begin to slip. He bent his knees a little in an effort to stop them falling completely, but the result was that the throwing became even more erratic. He wanted to stop but couldn't remember how. The oranges flew higher. Their trajectories more wild. The trousers slipped lower.
"Hey, man," shouted Levi excitedly. "I think he's going to do the pants outside the trousers thing."
Just as his trousers decided to go all the way, a particularly strong throw hit the chandelier. In that split second, twenty cats who had been lying and sitting in various semi comatose poses around the room perceived what would happen next and moved as one. In about a microsecond they were merely a blur of departing tails. Save one. Valerie was oblivious to the world. She still lay legs akimbo on the Persian carpet. Her paws twitched from time to time as though she might be dreaming. She muttered something that could have been 'Just a little lower, please, Cougar', but Tom couldn't be sure.
There was no one to record whether it was the trousers or the chandelier that hit the floor first, but the C.A.T.S.W. meeting appeared to be over.
Chapter 5
Fortunately the chandelier was more securely held than Tom's trousers. The wayward orange had merely knocked one of the chains from its point of suspension. The structure slipped drastically to one side and a shower of cut glass tear drops rained to the ground, but the bulk of it remained hanging from the ceiling, albeit at a drunken angle. Several of the glass beads hit Tom but they did no more damage than one very small dent in the top of his head. Incredibly, none of them hit Valerie though they peppered the carpet around her.
She woke with a start to find Tom with his trousers around his ankles and her committee departed. Unfazed, she declared the committee meeting closed and thanked Cougar for offering to help them save the world. With that she yawned widely and went back to sleep. A queen surrounded by diamonds.
Tom found Smokey cowering under the hedge in the front garden. There was no sign of the other cats.
"Nice one, Cougar," said Smokey. "I've been building you up for weeks. Should have known."
Tom was hurt by her tone. Two hours ago he had been content to be a couch potato in the privacy of his own home. Now he was not only having to hold up his own pants but he was charged with saving the world and he had not the slightest idea from what he was supposed to be saving it. Smokey set off down the drive. He followed her because he couldn't think of any better plan. They came out of the drive and back into the familiar street. He was puzzled. The street was certainly familiar, but the house they had just come from certainly wasn't. He paused and looked up and down the road. Yes, most of the houses were definitely familiar. He had walked past them most days, but the big house with the chandelier shouldn't have been there. He tried to remember what was normally there, but it was indistinct.
"Who's house was that?" he asked, pointing back the way they had just come.
"Valerie's," said Smokey over her shoulder without even bothering to look back. "Or, rather, her pet's. I think they're in Spain at the moment if that's what you are wondering."
Somehow this answer didn't relieve Tom's sudden gloom. Smokey padded on down the street and he padded lamely after her hanging onto his redundant trouser belt loops. In a sudden uncharacteristic moment of decisiveness he stopped. "I'm not going any further without an explanation," he said.
She was surprised by the firm tone of his voice and turned to look at him. She could see that for once he meant it. "OK," she answered. "I suppose it's as good a time as any."
They sat on a bench at the edge of a small recreation ground. Just a patch of sunbleached and worn out grass with a couple of tired swings. The sun had already set in a vivid display of alizarin clouds, but it was not yet dark. There were still one or two children playing despite the lateness of the hour. A mother hurried past to retrieve her offspring. She looked anxious as she passed a slightly dishevelled middle-aged man sitting with a cat, apparently studying the playing children. Tom smiled at her as she passed, but it only increased her sense of anxiety.
"Where do you want me to start," asked Smokey.
"Well, how about the wall thing?" he ventured. "And talking cats, and the end of the world?" It sounded moronic even as he spoke it. He wondered, perhaps, if he were in the early stages of senile dementia. Or even the late stages. "You would shoot me, wouldn't you?" he asked suddenly. But then he remembered that it was Gail who had agreed to shoot him. It had been an arrangement of assured mutual destruction that they had made a quarter of a century ago when old age and dementia was a thing far off and could still be discussed in the abstract. He doubted that she would even remember the conversation now. "If you had a gun, I mean. Hypothetically speaking that is."
Smokey had not the slightest inkling what he was talking about, but years of living with him had taught her to ignore most of the things he said and simply go with the flow. Gail had come to much the same conclusion.
"It's all to do with probability," she began. He opened his mouth to speak, but she ignored him pointedly and continued. "The balance of probability has been altered, and if we don't alter it back then the world as you know it will change forever."
It was Tom's turn to have no idea what was being discussed. He tried to assume an intelligent but questioning expression but it didn't seem to help. She saw that he wasn't following her and changed tack.
"You have to understand that there is statistical variation in every process in the universe." His blank expression scarcely changed. If anything the blankness increased somewhat.
She tried again with a more practical example. "Consider a flower shedding its seeds. Not every one of them will germinate. Of those that do, most will perish or get eaten. In fact, on average only one plant will make it to maturity in the whole lifetime of the original and set seed to replace the parent. Otherwise the population would grow out of control."
The incongruity of a small black cat trying to explain statistics to a middle-aged man struck neither of them at that moment. For the time being, she was the expert and Tom was content to be the pupil. He nodded at what she said. Clearly she had found his level.
"Which seed eventually grows up is a matter of chance," she continued, "and of course it isn't as simple as saying that each plant will produce one replacement. Some plants will produce many and some none at all." She glanced at Tom. He was still nodding.
"It isn't only plant reproduction that's a matter of chance, of course, every process is governed by statistics. The weather, adult height distribution in the population, the number of road accidents, how long you will have to wait for a bus, winning the football pools. Just about everything." She paused. So much for the simple stuff, things were about to get heavy.
"I suppose you are going to tell me about Gaussian curves and natural variation," he said.
"I was. But maybe I don't need to," she said in surprise. "What do you already know?"
"Oh, just that if you plot a graph of natural variation, like for example how many coins will come up heads if you repeatedly toss a hundred of them at the same time you often come up with a curve shaped like a bell."
She was astonished. "Yes, that's exactly what this is all about. What that means is that on average if you toss a hundred coins you will get fifty heads and fifty tails, but usually you won't get exactly that. You may get more heads sometimes and more tails at other times. In theory you could toss one hundred heads one time or one hundred tails another, but the chances of that happening are very small and that's why the curve is low at that point. In the middle the curve is high because it's much more likely to be fifty fifty, or close to it."
The redness of the sky was beginning to fade and it was starting to get quite dark. The mother hurried back past with her children. She looked at Tom and tutted disapprovingly.
"I still don't see what that has to do with going through walls and cats that talk, though," said Tom.
"I think we should be getting home," said Smokey, slipping off the bench as she spoke. "We can talk as we walk, and we still have to get your belt or there will be even more damage."
"I wasn't planning on any more juggling," said Tom defensively. "Tangerines would have been better though. They're a bit smaller. Easier to catch. I reckon I'd have got on better with tangerines. I used to have some proper juggling balls once, you know. Not sure where they are now though. Probably with the catapult I shouldn't wonder. I could use string, I suppose."
Despite her natural inclination to ignore most of his ramblings, his surprising interjection on the subject of natural distributions and Gaussian probability curves had dulled her instincts momentarily and she found herself sucked into his train of thought. "How do you juggle with string?" she asked.
He treated her question seriously. "With difficulty I would think," he replied. "I suppose if it were still in balls it would be OK, but once it began to unravel you'd be in all sorts of a mess. Maybe even end up tying yourself up and starving to death. If you were doing it in private, of course. If you were on a stage I expect someone would cut you free. Unless they thought it was part of the act,” he added as an afterthought.
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