Cat Kin (13 page)

‘Then again,’ Ben couldn’t resist saying, ‘it kind of
was
your fault.’

‘What?’

‘Sandwich?’ He held the plate out. She ignored it.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, dangerously.

‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘you do sometimes lord it over the rest of us. Always trying to prove you’re the best. Which you probably are.’

‘That is
so
made-up,’ snapped Tiffany. ‘I don’t do that. I never expected to be any good at pashki. You’re the competitive one. And the—’

‘The what?’

‘Well…a bit rude, since you ask. Acting like I’m not there.’

‘You don’t exactly chat much to me, either.’

‘Well, if you’d been less…I don’t know, wrapped up in yourself.’

‘That’s what I thought
you
were like.’

They stared at each other a moment. Slowly, Tiffany broke into a smile.

‘We seem to be talking.’

‘Yeah.’ Ben felt suddenly shy. ‘It doesn’t hurt that much, does it?’

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Friends, then?’

Feeling his face go a shade redder, he fetched two plates from the cupboard.

‘Want to share these?’

They went into the lounge, where a pair of his boxer shorts were drying on the radiator. He snatched them off, stuffing them under a cushion as he sat down. They munched happily at tinned tuna
and cucumber.

‘It’s funny,’ Tiffany spoke with her mouth full, ‘I really thought you were angry with someone. Me, or Mrs Powell. I guess I imagined it.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ said Ben. ‘I mean, I am angry. But not at anyone you know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

She nodded. He looked at the wall beside her and told her everything. From the first appearance of John Stanford to the wrecked front door, to Dad’s beating at the hands of the thug Toby.
As Tiffany listened, Ben felt a weight lift off him. Soon he was talking not to the wall but to her face.

‘Phew,’ said Tiffany, when he finally trailed off. ‘Can’t you go to the police?’

He repressed a groan.

‘We did try,’ he said. ‘Apparently, no crime has been committed. Stanford’s too good at covering his tracks.’

‘But the door…your dad…’

‘This is Hackney,’ said Ben, bitterly. ‘The door could have been kicked in by any druggie. And my dad went looking for trouble and got it. Thanks to me. I should have kept my
mouth shut.’ He picked at his sandwich. ‘Sorry. I bet this is a real downer for you.’

Tiffany flicked a crumb at him. ‘Don’t go back to being like that. You should talk about it. I know what it’s like when…when no-one will listen.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’

Now it was her turn to talk. She told him about her brother. Of a terrible, creeping illness, of hospital wards and empty houses, of parents pushed near breaking point. By the time she finished,
the living room was darkening and the remaining sandwiches had gone crisp. Ben didn’t bother turning on the light. Both of them could see perfectly well.

‘Sorry,’ said Ben, after a while.

‘S’alright. It’s nothing you did.’

‘I mean…I’ve been thick. I always thought you must have this perfect life, compared to me.’

‘I look at lots of people and think that.’ said Tiffany. ‘But there’s no such thing. Even if Stuart wasn’t ill…’ She looked sad, then brightened.
‘Anyway. He’s getting better. With this new medicine. So things probably are tougher for you.’

‘Not that we’re being competitive or anything,’ said Ben.

They both laughed. Tiffany was okay, Ben decided. Maybe more than okay.

‘Do your parents know?’ she asked him, abruptly. ‘About the Cat Kin, I mean?’

‘As if!’ said Ben. ‘Well, Mums knows I take a class. It was her idea that I do self-defence. To her, pashki’s just a kind of karate. That suits me. As for my dad…
well, I don’t really talk to him enough. So it’s never come up.’

Tiffany gave the wryest of smiles. ‘Sounds
ve-ry
familiar.’

‘You keep it secret too?’

‘Ha.’ Her smile soured. ‘Wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. Wouldn’t matter if I recited Akhotep’s catra chant at breakfast. One day, I swear, I’ll
climb the stairs in two strides and they won’t even blink. All my mum and dad think about is—’ She stopped.

‘Stuart?’

Tiffany gazed at her feet. ‘I’m not, you know, jealous of him or anything. I—I love him. And he’s ill. He needs them more than I do.’

Ben took a breath and found his mind had gone blank. He couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t sound stupid.

‘Of course,’ Tiffany went on, her voice sounding husky, ‘I never would tell them the real story. About pashki. But I do sometimes feel…it might be nice if they were a
little bit curious, now and then. Don’t you think?’

Ben decided to gather the plates.

‘Shall, er…shall I put the TV on?’

Tiffany checked her watch. ‘I ought to be going. Even my family might be wondering where I am by now.’

‘Sure,’ said Ben. He felt relieved and disappointed. ‘I’ll give you a call and we can do some more—’

‘Yeah…’ Tiffany looked distracted. ‘What’s that?’

Ben heard the footsteps in the lobby.

‘You see?’ he sighed. ‘My mum doesn’t even like staying out late anymore.’

He went to open the door. Tiffany got in his way.

‘Don’t.’

‘Huh?’

‘That’s not your mum,’ she whispered.

A keyring jingled, faint.

‘Of course it’s her.’ Ben hated the fact that he was whispering too. ‘No-one else has a key to this place.’

‘I don’t know how I know. I just do.’

The hairs rose on his neck and he had a sudden, stabbing pain in his gut. He had no idea who stood on the other side of that door, but she was right, it wasn’t Mum. A key scratched in the
lock.

‘Hide.’

He opened the linen cupboard and scrambled to the top rack. There was just enough space to curl up. Tiffany dived into a lower shelf. Ben pulled the closet shut just as the front door
opened.

Through a crack he saw a blond man in a suit. For a moment John Stanford stood there listening, then made for the bathroom. Ben heard him running the taps, opening and closing the medicine
cabinet, shaking bottles of shampoo. He flushed the loo.

Stanford. He was here. Here in their home. He had a
key
to their home.

Ben’s blood, already cold, went arctic. This wasn’t an ordinary landlord’s key. They’d replaced the original lock when the door got smashed. Stanford must have come here,
in secret, to have his own key specially made. When? How many times, for heaven’s sake, had he been in here without them knowing?

‘Is that…him?’ Tiffany whispered.

Ben couldn’t speak. His mind was in freefall.

Stanford crossed his thin field of vision, entering the kitchen. Praying the cupboard door wouldn’t squeak, Ben eased it open a centimetre. Stanford was banging drawers. He opened the
fridge, took the top off the milk bottle and tossed it in the bin. He found the bottle of whisky on the windowsill, chose a glass off the draining board and poured himself a huge measure, swigging
it as if it were orange juice.

‘What’s he
doing?
’ asked Tiffany.

Ben didn’t dare
shush
her so he poked her with a folded section of Christmas tree. Stanford had another whisky, finishing the bottle, then rifled in the kitchen cupboard. He
fished out the bag of sugar. Ben watched in sick astonishment as Stanford dug into it with a dessert spoon and helped himself to a generous mouthful.

‘I’m going to get him.’ The words just broke out. ‘I’m going to rip him to pieces.’

‘Sssh, Ben.’

‘When he comes out of there I’m jumping on him.’

‘No, Ben. He’s twice your size.’

‘We could take him together. We’re faster, we can do things…’

‘Mau claws or not, he’d be too strong.’ Tiffany’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘Ben, listen. You know pashki doesn’t work properly if you’re afraid. And
I am.’

Ben was too. Mortally so. He wanted to bury himself under the spare blankets. But John Stanford in his home, unchallenged…he couldn’t stomach it. He steeled himself. Stanford
sauntered back into the hall, wiping his mouth and dusting crumbs of sugar off the lapel of his sharp suit. Ben tensed. He had to do it. Now.

A terrifying racket turned his limbs to jelly. Wild dogs barking, gnashing their prey. He shrank back into the darkness. He heard a beep.

‘Hello?’

The barking had stopped. Ben peeped out of the cupboard. John Stanford was holding a phone to his ear. That noise must have been his ringtone.

‘What, tonight?’ Stanford’s face wrinkled. He glanced out of the window. ‘Yes, I am in the area, but…All right, if you insist. See you in twenty
minutes.’

He touched his jacket pocket.

‘Make that forty. I’ve left the plans at home.’

Not for the first time, Ben clocked something odd about Stanford’s voice, in the way he pronounced certain words.

‘Yes, you’re busy, everyone’s busy. I’ll be as quick as I can. The traffic tonight would give Buddha a migraine.’

Stanford mouthed something at the phone and turned it off. There was a watercolour painting on the wall, one of Mum’s. He nudged it askew before going out, slamming the door. His footsteps
crossed the lobby.

Ben burst from the cupboard. Tiffany rolled out tangled in a bedsheet.

‘What was all that about?’

‘The scum!’ Ben balled his fists. ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Shouldn’t you—’

‘Call the police? Talk sense.’ He thumped the wall. Think, think. Why had Stanford come? Thank heaven Mum had been out. Stanford had a key. He could return again, and again, and
again…

Ben stopped dead.

‘I’ve got to follow him!’

‘Why?’

‘He’s meeting somebody. He said something about plans, you heard.’ Ben was gabbling now. ‘It’s to do with this place, I know it is. And you can bet it’s not
kosher.’

‘So?’

‘Tiffany, if I can prove he’s doing something illegal,’ cried Ben, ‘those lame coppers might finally lift a finger! I can’t let him get away.’

He tore across the lobby and opened the main door just in time to see Stanford’s silver saloon pulling away from the kerb.

‘He’s gone,’ said Tiffany. ‘You can’t chase him without a car.’

‘That’s what you think.’

Ben sprinted to the corner. Lonely trees grew beside the main street, their leaves styled into overhanging quiffs by the constant passing of tall vehicles.

‘We’re not going to catch him,’ panted Tiffany.

‘No,’ said Ben. ‘We’re going to catch a bus.’

Amazingly there was one around when they needed it. Stiff and awkward in their everyday clothes they climbed to a branch that grew over the road, just as a shiny red 73 came
chugging round the bend.

‘This is a seriously bad idea.’

‘My family’s in serious trouble,’ Ben replied.

‘It’s impossible to move properly in jeans. And I’m wrecking these shoes.’

‘Maybe I can ask Mr Stanford to wait so you can go back and change.’

‘Maybe you can stop being so sarcast—’

‘
Jump!
’ Ben interrupted.

He landed with a thud on the bus’s curved roof. Tiffany dropped behind him. They threw themselves flat as another low branch whipped past. The bus crunched over a speed hump and Tiffany
was nearly bounced off.

‘I don’t believe it. I followed you
again
.’

Ben grinned. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t always wanted to do this.’

Windows of first-floor flats flickered by as the bus picked up speed. A woman at a kitchen sink emptied a teapot over her clean washing-up as she turned in astonishment to watch them pass. Early
streetlamps blinked on.

‘Anyway,’ Ben added, ‘we need to be mobile.’

‘Mobile?’

Ben’s hunting eyes found their target. The silver-grey car was shouldering its way through a junction about a hundred yards ahead. Their bus caught up with another as they neared a set of
traffic lights. The lights switched to amber.

‘Quick!’ Like an athlete off the blocks Ben ran along the roof. He leaped onto the top of the next bus as it accelerated through the changing lights, leaving the other standing at
red.

‘Oh,’ said Tiffany, ‘mobile.’ She gave him a sour look and rolled away from the roof’s edge. She had barely made the jump in time.

Ben struggled to keep Stanford’s car in view. It was a long way ahead, jostling with vans and taxis, a grey mouse in a maze. The traffic thickened like syrup. More and more buses filtered
into their road until they were stuck in a crawling train of them.

‘Hurry
up
.’ Ben slapped the bus as if it were a lazy horse. Then he realised how daft he was being. Beckoning Tiffany, he took a running leap onto the next red roof in the
queue, then the next, using each one as a stepping stone. By the time they reached the leading bus, Stanford was clearly visible, swerving right at a crossroads without indicating. Their new ride
pulled away and Ben whooped in triumph. Then a thought struck him.

‘What number bus are we on now?’

‘How should I know?’ Tiffany demanded.

‘We need one that’s going his way!’ He caught the bus’s reflection in a shop window as they approached the crossroads. It was a 38. That meant it would go straight on. In
the corner of his eye he saw a bus turning.