Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (27 page)

  Fastening the door of run nine behind me, I stare into Zack's pit, suite ten. He gives me a grimace and sinister, amber light radiates from his eyes as he sees me unbolt the door. With trepidation, I enter the narrow cell and am on the point of shutting the door behind me when without warning he flies through the air and lands on my neck with claws unleashed. I give a yowl loud enough to freeze the blood in my own veins. Neatly propelling himself off my head, Zack races out of the run like a bit part in a cop drama. Actors! I feel blood on my neck and scalp, but there's no time to have a diva moment. I rush after him down the corridor but, like a silver streak, he turns at the corner and begins scaling a set of high metal shelves. He scowls down at me, hissing furiously, his eyes now flashing a vivid jade green. Emily and Dawn have already heard the commotion and calmly enter the fray from the adjoining office, shooing me out of the way and standing by the shelf in reasoning mode like a pair of suicide counsellors.

  'Come down, Zack,' says Dawn in soothing tones. 'No one's going to hurt you, sweetheart.'

  He gives her a wary scowl, but I notice he's stopped spitting.

  'We love you, Zack,' coos Emily. 'You're such a brave boy.'

  I stand by the wall, redundant, like an inept social worker. Dawn has donned leather gloves and now reaches up to Zack. He scratches at her, but on the third attempt begrudgingly accepts her embrace.

  'There, there, pet,' she croons, gently taking him back to his run and settling him in his basket.

  Like a guilty school pupil, I follow Emily into the outer office. She rounds on me coldly.

  'Didn't I warn you about leaving doors open?'

  'It happened in a flash.'

  She raises her eyebrows and nods slowly but is evidently disappointed.

  'I'm afraid Jessie won't be pleased. She's very specific about security.'

  I feel my hackles rise. 'He didn't get very far though, little psycho.'

  She gives a loud tut. 'Actually, he's a highly talented and intelligent cat. When you gain his trust, he's a darling. His owner says he's in constant demand for TV work. Mark my word, it won't be long before he gets a Hollywood contract.'

  'You mean in a Hammer Horror?'

  Perhaps unwisely, I continue in goonish mode.

  'That's right folks. Zack is back. He's dark, dangerous, deranged and he's in a cattery near you. Be afraid. Be very AFRAID!'

  She doesn't smile. Instead she frowns at the dried blood on my neck and arms.

  'You'd better clear up those wounds. It's a hygiene risk.'

  'Give me a break,' I mutter.

  Truculently, I open the first aid drawer and with some cotton wool dab a liberal amount of Dettol on my cuts. She gives me a sarcastic little smile.

  'Well, if you thought running a cattery was a piece of cake, you'd better think again.'

Jessie and I have just returned from the vet with a pair of sick kittens. They only arrived late the night before but have become increasingly poorly, throwing up their food and showing signs of listlessness. Jessie was taking no chances so immediately put them in an isolated run in the field away from the other healthy felines and booked to see the vet during the afternoon. Like her shadow I accompanied her in the car and helped carry one of the cat baskets into the surgery.

  'New assistant?' beamed the nurse.

  'She's a trainee,' said Jessie.

  'Oh, well you've picked one of the best catteries. Having fun?'

  I had thrown her an indulgent smile, thinking back to the vomit I had been cleaning up for the best part of the morning.

  'A thrill a minute,' I replied.

  The good news, the vet informed us, was that both cats appeared to have minor stomach upsets but were otherwise in fine form and apparently needed only rest, a 24-hour fast followed by a bland diet. We drove them back to the cattery in some relief.

  Dawn bustles into the office as Jessie and I take off our jackets and slump into chairs.

  'The kettle's just boiled. Everything OK with the kittens?'

  'Yes, love,' says Jessie. 'Nothing untoward. Still, better safe than sorry.'

  Dawn ambles over to the kettle and makes a pot of tea. 'Oh, by the way, that strange woman from London's coming in half an hour.'

  Jessie turns to me. 'Now, this lady hasn't been to us before. She's got a Scottish Fold.'

  'A what?'

  'They're lovely cats. They have special ears.'

  'In what way?'

  'They're squashed flat, as if they're folded.'

  Dawn slaps a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit down on the small table in front of me. Jessie reaches over and taps my knee conspiratorially.

  'Between you and me, the owner sounded a bit neurotic when she rang so it might be interesting for you to meet her.'

  In heaven's name, why? I've got enough neurotic clients of my own to last me a lifetime.

  'Yeah, you've only met nice clients so far. It's good to know how to handle the difficult ones,' says Dawn. 'Jessie's got an appointment with a supplier so you and I can handle this woman together.'

  'It takes all sorts,' murmurs Jessie, taking a sip of tea.

  I take a bite of my biscuit, wondering what this client and her special-eared cat are going to be like. Forty-five minutes later I find out. The office doorbell rings and Dawn gives me a warning wink. She puts on her best smile and swings open the door.

  'Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Buckley. We were expecting you.'

  A middle-aged female as thin as a twizzle stick with peroxide blonde hair and perma-tanned skin barges in, tottering on towering stilettos. Her eyes blaze.

  'The traffic was horrendous and this place is simply impossible to find! The directions were dreadful.'

  She accentuates the vowels and rolls her 'r's in a clumsy attempt to sound grand. I wonder whether she's an actress. She shakes her long mane and after what appears to be a pause for effect, says, 'The Duke of Marlborough's in the boot.'

  Dawn's brow buckles slightly. 'Erm… sorry, who?'

  'It will probably take three of us,' Mrs Buckley rattles on. 'He weighs a ton.'

  I shoot Dawn a wary look. Either I'm about to become an accessory to a murder or the woman's a complete fantasist. Either way, police presence might prove reassuring.

  'Don't just gawp at me, woman,' she snarls in my direction. 'Hurry up. I haven't got all day. I don't like to keep the Duke waiting.'

  I leap up from the seat and fumble for my jacket. I can see the sky is already dredging up some new tears but there's no time to search out an umbrella.

  Dawn gives a little cough. 'Excuse me, but if we could just sort out some basic admin here first.'

  Mrs Buckley flicks a gloved hand in Dawn's direction. 'I really don't have time for this.'

  She drops her black handbag on the desk and begins throwing out various items. 'Here, this is the cash for the Duke's three week stay and these are his vaccination details. Right, let's go. I have a plane to catch tonight.'

  She opens the door and sweeps out in her chic camel jacket with Dawn and me following in her wake. Gusts of icy wind and spitting rain hit us as we head off through the field to the front drive. Dawn presses a hand in my back and I turn to see a furious expression on her face. We arrive at the sleek black Range Rover with its personalised number plate of BUCK O1 and watch as Miss Twizzle Stick uses her electronic key fob to release the boot's lock. Inside an enormous cream cat squats in a metal cage. I feel myself gasp. Dawn peers inside.

  'I take it this is the Duke?'

  'Who else did you think it was? The President of the United Bloody States?'

  Dawn frowns. 'There's really no need for that tone, Mrs Buckley.'

  I lean in and try to budge the cage.

  'Get out of the way,' she hisses at me. 'I know how to slide this out. Here,' she pushes a massive holdall towards me. 'These are his toys and belongings.'

  I take the bag while she, assisted by Dawn, removes the Duke from his confinement. He looks up at his owner and lets out a pitiful whine. I can't blame him. We stagger back to the office with the Duke of Marlborough and his bag. Once inside, Dawn rests his cage on the carpet and invites Mrs Buckley to take a seat. Irritably, she shakes her head in dissent and stands with arms folded by the desk. The Duke squats forlornly within his den, eyes darting nervously about him while we remove our soggy jackets.

  'Would you like to settle him in?' asks Dawn stiffly.

  'That's what I pay you people for, isn't it?' the woman's eyes flash. She is tapping a restless foot against the floor.

  I'm beginning to think Daniella Popescu-Miller is a walk in the park.

  'What does he weigh?' demands Dawn.

  Mrs Buckley pushes an irritable hand through her fair tresses. 'He's perfect.'

  'I'm sorry,' Dawn replies firmly. 'He looks significantly overweight to me, which means we'll want to get him checked by our vet.'

  'More like you want to extract more money out of me,' she sneers. 'You people are all the same.'

  I've had enough. 'That's completely untrue. Perhaps you and the Duke should take your custom elsewhere.'

  Mrs Buckley narrows her eyes. 'How dare you! I could have you fired.'

  'Actually, she doesn't work here,' says Dawn quickly. 'She's just a visitor.'

  The woman is unsettled. 'Why did you carry my bag in from the car then?'

  Dawn answers for me. 'She was just being helpful.'

  Mrs Buckley sits down on the small sofa, smoothing her tight black skirt over her thighs. I notice that the tips of her stilettos are caked in wet mud. Her shoulders seem to droop and she gives a loud sigh. 'I'm sorry. I've been a bit stressed out of late.'

  Dawn nods encouragingly. 'I see. Well, we all have those days.'

  She gives us a plaintive look. 'The Duke does like his food.'

  'Don't we all,' I exclaim. 'But he looks about to pop.'

  Her eyes widen in alarm. 'Poor Dukie. He's my life. If anything should happen to him…' There's a theatrical sniff.

  'Let's start from the beginning, shall we, Mrs Buckley?' says Dawn firmly. 'We can check the Duke over and get him on a slimming regime but first I do need to sign him in properly. Now, where's that pen?'

I'm sitting on the concrete floor in Zack's run. With some irritation he looks up at the sound of a new arrival entering the cattery and gives a low growl. I stroke his ears and he lies back against my stomach in a state of contentment. My hands are covered in scratches, my neck still stiff, but Zack and I have miraculously come to an understanding. I have worn him down with kindness, turned the other cheek, and shown him who is boss. During the last two days I have, with grim determination and against the odds, administered his eye drops, fed him his pills and groomed him, even earning a begrudging nod of approval from young Emily.

  Jessie appears at the doorway of the office and smiles.

  'Your cab's here.'

  I give Zack a final caress of the ears and grip his silky head between my two hands. His large amber eyes bore into my own.

  'Now listen old buddy, if you want to have friends, you must make an effort, OK?'

  He averts his gaze and gives a yawn. Stretching his long, silver blue body, he curls his paws up to his face as if he's praying.

  'I'm serious, Zack. You can't go around mutilating people like some Mad Max doppelganger. It's just not cricket. I know about the past, but you've got to let it go.'

  Jessie shakes her head.

  'You really are a head case. I thought you'd never make it, but you've proven yourself to be a regular Mowgli.'

  I look at her fiery red hair and big robust frame and marvel that she's humoured me for the last week. I've had my own minor diva moments, that's for sure.

  'I'm tempted to bring him back to Mallorca with me.'

  As I bolt the run and head for the office, she places a broad hand on my shoulder.

  'And what did I say about becoming attached to other people's cats?'

  'That it's a no-go area.'

  'Precisely. Anyway, he's one of my rising stars. His owner makes a mint out of him.'

  'It's a crazy old world.'

  She gives a husky laugh. 'Well, it's been a tough week, but you've made it.'

  'I still haven't tried giving a cat an injection yet.'

  'Well, you can practise with a syringe on all those juicy oranges in your field. Then get the nice local vet you told me about to show you how it's done.'

  She hands me a certificate, proof that I have undergone my cattery management training. With a degree of satisfaction, I pop it into the side pocket of my case.

  'And don't forget,' she says. 'If you want your builder to come and see how we constructed our own cattery, we'd be delighted to put him up.'

  'Stefan doesn't speak much English so I'd have to come too and maybe even bring his sister along.'

  'The more the merrier – then we can put you all to work on the rounds.'

  Willie opens the outer door for me and Emily and Dawn lean forward and both give me a little hug. I step inside the cab and wave as we make a slow retreat down the gravelly drive. I wonder what will become of psychotic Zack, but can only hope that a Hollywood career really does beckon and that one day I'll see my furry friend's name up there in blazing lights.