Cat Kin (4 page)

He left the changing area and climbed the stairs to the upper level. A girl with wavy brown hair was lingering by one of the small halls. She wasn’t dressed for sports and looked awkward
in her jeans and black coat. It was the only free hall so Ben decided to wait there too, leaning on the other side of the doorway. The girl kept glancing down at Ben’s trainers. He was
wondering if he should say hello when the texture of the air changed. He turned.

A grey-haired woman stood there, dressed as if for yoga. He hadn’t heard so much as a footstep and yet there she was. No taller than him, with neat features and eyes between brown and
green, she might have been seventy or younger than fifty—her wiry build made it impossible to guess.

‘Are you here for the class?’

‘Yes,’ said Ben and the girl together.

‘How do you do. I’m Felicity Powell.’

She seemed to be waiting for something. Finally it clicked.

‘I’m Ben.’

‘Tiffany,’ said the girl, breathlessly. ‘Erm, is this–?’

‘Hmm.’ The woman looked them up and down. ‘I was expecting a few more. We’ll wait.’

She padded off down the corridor. Ben blinked and she was gone.

Minutes passed. Just as he was thinking he had made a mistake (what mistake, he wasn’t sure) the woman reappeared with several kids shuffling ahead of her. None wore martial arts gear and
only two looked dressed for sports. A couple of them exchanged hesitant glances as if they already knew each other, if not to talk to. A girl in a blue gym suit had a newspaper tucked under one
arm, and one boy, round-faced and wearing an anorak, was carrying a flat case like an artist’s portfolio. By the time they reached the hall he looked deeply confused.

‘Welcome to my class. My name is Felicity. You can call me Mrs Powell.’ The woman did not smile. The group edged closer together.

‘There’s been a mix-up,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘This hall has been double-booked. We’re going to move elsewhere.’

Without another word she led them down to the lobby. Feeling something wasn’t right, Ben glanced back up at the balcony. A line of youths clad in white tunics were filing into the free
hall. It was the Tae Kwon Do class.

Before he could blurt out that he had joined the wrong group, he was stepping through the glass doors into the evening light. Why had they come outside? The girl in the black coat trotted to
keep up with Mrs Powell.

‘Excuse me. Where are we going?’

‘To my studio, Tiffany. I live just here.’

Ben was sure he’d misheard. Not Theobald Mansions? Uh-oh, she was. She was heading for the flats that lurked next to the leisure centre. These blocks were long overdue for the
wrecking-ball. Brown as old blood, broken-windowed, painted with pigeon muck; the idea that they might harbour life would be beyond the wildest dreams of NASA’s scientists.

Mrs Powell unlocked the main door and went in. Ben followed the girl into a hall webbed with graffiti. He climbed a staircase that reeked of cigarettes and urine. The others were drawn along
behind him, their footsteps resounding off the walls.

Where was Mrs Powell taking them? Who
was
she? And why in the name of sanity were they still following her? Fear rose in Ben’s throat. This was not normal. Not normal at all. He
tried to relax. One old lady had to be fairly harmless. Whoever she was, she couldn’t abduct seven kids. Not alone.

It was only when Mrs Powell had opened the door to the top-floor flat and was ushering them inside, and Ben was actually
stepping
inside, into this stranger’s home, that the
thought struck him like a thunderbolt: maybe she
wasn’t
alone.

Even as he woke up to what he’d done, he heard the door lock behind them.

Cobwebs, queasy smells, the mouldering skeletons of small animals underfoot—these were just some of the things he expected to find and did not. Fright gave way to
surprise. Mrs Powell’s flat was bright and spacious and spotlessly clean. She led them into a room that could have swallowed the lounge at home twice over. It was one big wooden floor with
not a carpet, chair or speck of dust to be seen.

‘This is my studio. Find a space and sit down.’

Something about her voice made obedience automatic. Ben sat cross-legged.

‘Not like that. Kneel. Sit on your heels. That’s it. Hands on the floor in front of you. Don’t slouch. Good. From now on, this is what
sit
means.’

Mrs Powell sat likewise. She surveyed them, moving her head not her eyes.

‘You may be wondering—ah. Jim has decided to join us. You are honoured.’

A cat trotted into the room, bead curtains rustling in its wake. It had the sort of coat rich women used to kill for: lush, smoky grey, dappled black in a leopardish pattern. It clocked the
group with one crystalline glance before settling near Tiffany like one of the group. That was when Ben realised. The strange way they were kneeling was just how the grey cat sat.

The round-faced boy scrambled to his feet.

‘Sorry, Miss. I think I’m in the wrong class–’

‘Sit down.’

The boy folded up again.

‘Do you know what I teach here?’ the lady asked.

In the hush Ben could hear buses rumbling down the main road. Tiffany raised a hand.

‘Mrs Powell…’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s to do with cats, isn’t it?’

‘It is to do with cats.’

Tiffany beamed and went on staring at the grey cat, her eyes wide and shining as if the animal were made of solid gold and not hair. The oriental girl in the blue gym suit raised her rolled-up
newspaper to get attention.

‘That’s not what I heard,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a kind of tai chi.’

That opened the floodgates. Soon everyone was talking, firing off questions as fast as Mrs Powell could ask their names. A girl called Cecile thought Cat Kin was a London nature trail. A tall
boy, Yusuf, who spoke like an American, said he was after the Big Cats Conservation League. Nobody could agree. Daniel, a small black kid in glasses whom Ben vaguely recognised from school, had
been sure he was joining a dance group. And Olly, the boy who’d tried to leave, had for some unfathomable reason believed he was going to an art class to draw animals. Why he had thought it
would take place at Clissold Leisure Centre, Ben never discovered.

‘You appear confused.’ Mrs Powell’s voice brought instant hush. ‘And yet all of you are right. What you will learn at Cat Kin is somewhat akin to dance. It isn’t
unlike tai chi. And it will bring you closer to nature. Even Oliver here isn’t totally off the mark: we will be copying an animal. What we shall do together is
pashki
.’

Mrs Powell stood up in a single fluid movement.

‘Pashki. One of the most ancient disciplines of body and soul. For more than–’

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ put in Susie, the oriental girl.

‘You are about to,’ said Mrs Powell softly. Ben got the feeling that only a very foolish person would interrupt her again. ‘You all know what yoga is? Perhaps you have heard
that many movements in yoga are inspired by the animal kingdom. In particular, cats. You’ve seen how cats stretch and flex themselves—ah, speak of the devil.’

Her cat was reaching out his long, wicked claws, shivering in ecstasy.

‘Cats do this to maintain their physique. Unlike humans, cats don’t need to go to the gym. You might say that Jim is his own gym.’ She didn’t smile. A few in the group
laughed nervously.

‘Long ago in Egypt,’ said Mrs Powell, ‘people worshipped the cat. They called it Mau—for obvious reasons. The goddess was named, variously, Bast, Pakhet, or
Pasht.’

‘Excuse me.’ It seemed Tiffany couldn’t help herself. ‘That’s where we get the word “puss” from, isn’t it?’

Ben tensed, but this time the interruption was welcome.

‘Yes! Look, Jim, we have a cat scholar among us.’

The grey cat actually turned his head towards Tiffany and his tail flicked. Ben squirmed involuntarily. That animal gave him the creeps. And all this kneeling was making the arches of his feet
hurt like crazy.

Mrs Powell began explaining how the high priests of Pasht developed pashki as a form of worship and exercise. Ben found it hard to pay attention. He’d never had a pet of his own, but he
liked taking his aunt’s Labrador for walks down in the West Country. Cats, on the other hand, left him cold. Worse than cold.

And now Mrs Powell was bringing Jim round to each of them in turn.

‘You see his forehead,’ she said. ‘Ordinary tabbies have these markings too. The patterns make a clear M shape. M for Mau. After more than four thousand years, the original cat
is still among us.’

Hands reached up to caress the fur. Mrs Powell stopped by Ben.

‘You can stroke him,’ she said. ‘He won’t scratch.’

Ben shook his head.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t stroke cats,’ Ben said, hoping no-one else would hear. ‘They always give me electric shocks.’

It was true. His friend Rajesh’s moggy only had to brush his bare arm for him to feel the crack of a tiny whip of fire.

Mrs Powell peered at him for a few seconds.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they can do that occasionally. Poor you.’

Ben made a non-committal sound.

‘You don’t like cats?’ said Mrs Powell.

‘Not really.’

‘Why is that?’

Ben shifted in discomfort.

‘I don’t like the way they stare,’ he replied, knowing as he said it that Tiffany was staring at him. ‘They always seem really…I don’t know, selfish. Chilly.
They’re not like dogs, are they?’

‘In what way do you mean?’

‘Dogs, well. You look after them and they love you back.’ He was beginning to sweat. ‘Cats don’t care. They can’t help it, it’s how they’re made.
I’m just not a cat person.’

This evening was light-years away from what he’d had in mind. He yearned for the simple violence of Tae Kwon Do. Mrs Powell was silent a moment.

‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘So you hate cats. I’ve known many cats who hate cats. Take the tiger. He won’t let another within three miles of him. Unless love is
in the air.’

She set the cat down and it trotted back to its place by Tiffany. Ben could feel Tiffany’s look turn hostile, as if she’d been personally offended by his words. Mrs Powell settled
into her sitting-cat pose.

‘Yoga,’ she said, ‘is about becoming one with yourself. Pashki awakens the part of yourself that is like a cat. For cats have much to teach us. They are proud spirits yet calm.
They live in the present, without worries beyond it. Cats are pools of serenity that may surge up in storms. They are weightless clouds that can quicken to lightning.’

The grey cat chose that moment to yawn and wander back to the bead curtain.

‘Jim? Leaving us already?’

Jim ignored her completely and disappeared into the room beyond. A smile stole over Mrs Powell’s face. She began to recite:

‘The words of Akhotep,’ she said. ‘A poet of ancient Egypt. What he observed then still fascinates us today.’

Ben’s legs were really killing him. He would have moved but he didn’t want to attract any more attention. Several others appeared equally uncomfortable, especially Tiffany. She
looked desperate to get up, her face struggling to hide the agony her knees must be feeling. He bet himself that she cracked before he did.

Mrs Powell told them to stand. She demonstrated a couple of stretches, like the ones her cat had performed. They made Ben’s hamstrings twang, but helped to shift the ache in his legs.
After that the lesson appeared to be over. Mrs Powell went from person to person, collecting money. Ben handed over the five-pound note he had saved, thinking of the fish and chips he might have
bought.

He hurried out, leaving Mrs Powell chatting with Tiffany. They already seemed thick as thieves, those two. Cats were evidently like football: some people were just obsessed. Not that he’d
ever use a cat as a football, he wouldn’t go that far. He was merely glad his first and last pashki lesson was over.

On the stairs he heard Mrs Powell call after him.

‘See you next Thursday, Ben.’

‘Uh-huh.’ And he whispered to himself, ‘Not if I see you first.’

He had reached the scuzzy hallway when her voice floated down:

‘You won’t.’

He was so unnerved that he almost forgot to pick up his stuff from the leisure centre.