There's Something Wrong With The Cats: A zero-to-hero sci-fi mystery, page 1
There's Something Wrong With The Cats
C J Powell
Copyright © 2023 by C J Powell
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Thank you
1. Mousebane
2. Jammy. Little. Bugger.
3. Gatsby
4. Mousebane
5. It Might Sound Crazy But...
6. Smash Flap
7. Mousebane
8. Camera One, Camera Two
9. Midnight Stroll
10. Old Band Stuff
11. The Squat Thickens
12. The Incident
13. Timeline
14. Dan's What Palace?
15. Mousebane
16. Hello Guys, I Love You
17. Mousebane
18. Snowflakes
19. Better Than Not Being Talked About
20. The Warehouse
21. Mousebane
22. Memories
23. Promises
24. Promises Broken
25. The Pit
26. The Surrey Puma
27. The Forest
28. Origin
29. Mousebane
30. Danny Dixon & The News
31. Captain Frogcatcher
32. The Disappearing Woman
33. Bad Call
34. *Gags*
35. You Are In Control
36. Do You Know Ju Jitsu?
37. Old Sport
38. Amuse My Bouche
39. Cold Butter
40. Obligate Carnivore
41. Mousebane
42. Behind You
43. Dud
44. The Message
45. Hurt Them A Lot
46. Amy In The Boot
47. Following The Trail
48. The Disappearing Amy
49. So Close
50. Chameleoman VS EggSack
51. A Dragon To Fight
52. The Source
53. Home Again
54. Mousebane
Thank you
Also By C J Powell
The Demon Hunter's Wife
Afterword
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Mousebane
They call me The Night. The Shadow That Stalks Behind. The Dark One.
My brother and I go to war.
I hunt as if my life depends on it, for I know hers does. And she is my everything.
My prey, you ask?
Probably the old man in the suit. Or maybe that blonde woman over there. Or perhaps The Disappearing Ones.
Definitely that squirrel.
Trifle with me squirrel, and you will rue the day you ever crossed my path.
Oh, running away? I thought as much.
The street calls for my aid once more.
In a thousand anguished voices it cries my name.
Mousebane.
Jammy. Little. Bugger.
The printer jammed another copy of the poster up into its insides and cranked to a stop. Dan refrained from launching it through his third-floor window and out onto the street.
But only just.
Instead, he gave it a good hard squeeze with both hands. Stuuupiiiddd priiiiinterrrr!
How was it that a man could fly a rocket to the moon, or a surgeon could remote pilot scalpels on the other side of the world to perform delicate brain surgery, or an automated biscuit factory could churn out perfect custard cream after perfect custard cream, but as soon as it came to getting a bit of bloody ink on a bit of bloody paper, all human capability in engineering and science went flying out the flipping window?
Printers. Never. Worked.
Especially when you needed them most.
Helping your mum make invites for her birthday party? Error! Ink cartridge running low.
Printing out a boarding pass for a flight and you should have left ten minutes ago? Error! Printer speed settings are not within an acceptable range.
Making a poster because your poor little cats have been missing for four days straight and you’re worried sick? Haha, not today you son of a mother! No paper.
“I know there’s no bloody paper,” spat Dan, not caring if anyone outside could hear his bitter tirade. “You’ve just sucked it all up into your stupid brain, you absolute cretin.”
He had the urge to headbutt it. But instead closed his eyes and began to count to ten. Stopped at four. Felt better enough. Anger didn’t often get the better of Daniel Dixon, but when it did, you would not want to be on the receiving end.
A soft breeze blew through the open window into his tiny home office. The net curtain, with its concentric swirls of lace, danced slowly as the room filled with the sweet, musky air of the cool autumn day that was beginning outside. He took a deep breath. Held it.
Two huge cardboard boxes, one labelled ‘old band stuff’, sat stacked beneath the window. He leant both his forearms on the top one and gazed out at the street. Pigeons cooed hypnotically on the roof opposite. Crisp husks of leaves swept by on the pavement below.
He breathed out. Looked at the picture of the cats on his desk. Where were the little buggers?
It wasn’t like them to go missing.
Catman had spent maybe two nights outside before now. Roaming around the block, culling the local rodent and bird populations, and causing general havoc, no doubt. But as far as Dan knew, The Flash always came in early for his dinner and never left the house again until the following morning.
He looked up and down the road, hoping to see them waltzing up the pavement.
Nothing.
Last week, the street had been all go. The couple from across the road, the ones who’d leant him that strimmer he still had in the shed, had moved out, and an older gent had moved in. Lorries and removal men had busied themselves outside all day.
Perfect procrastination fodder.
He’d passed the new neighbour on the street a few times since. A funny old fella. Always wearing an expensive-looking suit and a large, wide-brimmed hat like some 1920s gangster.
He and Amy had nicknamed the man Gatsby.
Dan didn’t know his real name. Small talk wasn’t his forte, especially with old people, so he didn’t go out to introduce himself. Didn’t want to get caught in a conversation about the war or cricket in the 1930s or something.
But since moving day, the street had been dead.
Now, instead of seeing his cats, he saw a lanky man in a parka ambling confidently in the direction of his house. Feet aimed in almost opposite directions as he walked, as if he were about to plié. Didn’t look the ballet type, though. More like he was about to belt out Wonderwall to a packed pub, punch a granny, and down another Carling. His arms swung wildly at his sides. A strut that was all elbows and knees. A strut that ever since school, Dan had associated with danger. If someone walked towards you like that on the playground, you were about to get decked.
Parkaman was familiar. The parka gave him away. As did the gaudy walk. He’d been loitering on the road outside their house a few weeks ago. Dan always noticed a loiterer, but rarely remembered one unless he saw them again.
That time, Parkaman had taken something from his pocket and placed it next to their garden path. The guy had no idea Dan had been spying on him from behind his net curtain. When he’d moved on, Dan had crept out to take a look and found a small pile of little stones stacked neatly against the wall. At the time he’d thought it strange, but had soon forgotten.
This time, Parkaman walked straight past without stopping. Maybe just the faintest of glances up.
“No creepy little stone piles to dispense today, huh?” Dan whispered to the empty room. “You still look super shady, matey boy. What are you up to? Some sort of drug deal? Looking for cars to steal? I’ve got my eye on you.” An eye, which he narrowed in judgement.
Parkaman threw odd jerky glances over his shoulders, as if he were about to surprise the road by crossing it, and continued on his way
Dan took a deep breath. He was getting himself worked up. His heart had begun to dance to rapid drum ’n’ bass in his chest. He gave his head a little shake.
Amy would have said, “you’re just being overly creative again.”
His wife liked the term “overly creative” for his imaginings. She’d picked it up from his mother.
She would be able to come up with a plausible reason for Parkaman’s darting, furtive glances. “The man’s probably just got a nervous tick,” she’d say.
A tick?
He sighed. Catman had a tick once. Dan had to remove it with tweezers. Its little black legs kicked as he squeezed it flat and washed it down the sink. Revolting. Bugs made his back itch. Ticks, both kinds, made him nervo
When Catman and The Flash hadn’t come home last night, he’d considered calling the police, but Amy had just made fun of him, coming up with an idea for a TV show called Cat Cops, where a ginger tom in a police uniform hunted down cat-nappers to a funky 70s backbeat. She’d strutted around the living room strumming an imaginary guitar singing, “Cat Cops - chika wowwow”. He’d laughed, licked his thumb, and added some gnarly slap bass.
If Amy said the cats were fine, they probably were.
Not including the leaf that he’d adopted for a week, aged three, with the unorthodox name of Stick, Dan’s boyhood pet history consisted of a single goldfish. And that mother flipper had only ever run away once, before dying an untimely death twitching on the kitchen rug.
It was The Flash he worried about mostly. He and Catman were binary opposites. Catman liked nothing more than to chop a baby bird into tiny bits, and hide the remains in the tumble dryer. That cute little murderer would be fine on the mean streets of Walton. The Flash, on the other hand, just wanted to sit and chill out on the sofa, watching TV with his mum and dad. He wasn’t cut out for the big wide world with its fast cars and tail grabbing children.
Dan hoped Catman would take care of his brother. Catman could hunt down mice and birds if they needed food, and would likely punch any tail pulling toddlers square in the face.
A clap of wings caused him to look to the roof opposite. The trio of plump pigeons perched there had been startled into flight. A shadow moved behind where they had just been.
Catman and The Flash darted out from behind the brick chimney, and across the tiles like four-legged ninjas on a covert mission across the rooftops of a Japanese stronghold. They moved quickly, Catman’s pitch black coat almost hidden against the dark slate. The Flash, as ginger as a fluffy orange, stood out like a flamingo at a funeral.
He edged closer to the glass to get a better look, careful not to twitch the curtain. Although technically he was one, it would be his worst nightmare to get a reputation as a curtain twitcher.
Something was different about Catman. After four nights away, Dan had expected him to come back thinner, perhaps with his fur in a tangle. The opposite was true. He looked chunky and sleek.
Must be a trick of the light, he thought. Black fur on charcoal slate making him look bigger.
Dan squeezed his thumbs with his fists. The pair of them were bloody high up. His heart popped an E and continued its D’n’B rave from earlier.
The cats sat on the edge of Gatsby’s roof and looked down for a moment.
Catman turned, gripped the gutter with his claws, and dangled his tail over the side. The Flash caught hold and swung down to the window ledge on the third storey.
Um… Dan peered closer. That wasn’t normal cat behaviour.
He squeezed his thumbs harder. Felt like a mother watching her only child fool around in the top branches of a giant redwood. Realising his mouth was hanging open, he shut it with a snap of teeth.
The Flash balanced on the ledge like a tight-rope walker then disappeared through the top of Gatsby’s glazed window.
He gasped. Jammy. Little. Bugger.
Catman clambered down the drain pipe after him. In the light of day against the brick front of the house, Dan could see he was definitely bigger. Not fatter, but more muscular, like he’d been getting beach body ready for the summer. In his mind’s eye, he saw an anthropomorphic steroid pumped Sylvester the Cat in speedo’s flexing some impressive biceps.
It was definitely strange. Dan had been going to the gym for years and had put on nowhere near as much weight. And here Catman was making some serious gainz in just four days. What had he eaten?
From his window ledge vantage point, Catman scanned the street. What was he looking at? Parkaman had moved on. The place was deserted.
Dan leant closer to the window. “What are you up to?”
Gatsby
Dan pressed his laptop lid closed and hurried downstairs. Flapped his arms into his hoody like a panicked bird. Although it was usually his prerogative to avoid social interaction whenever possible, Gatsby might be in, and he had no way to tell what the old man might do if he caught uninvited cats in his house. Might have a heart attack or something.
He slipped his socked feet into flip-flops — a bold look deeply shunned by everyone of his generation, but strangely held in high esteem by the kids of today (and in his mind’s eye, ninjas) — then shuffled up the garden path.
By the time he arrived at his rusting garden gate, Catman had disappeared too. Gatsby’s bathroom window was now wide open.
He stretched up on tip-toes, trying to see the ground beneath the window, hoping Catman hadn’t been knocked from the ledge to his death, but his garden hedge was a little too high to see over. They say cats always land on their feet. Not so comforting if they fall from such a height that their legs shatter on impact.
What was the terminal velocity of a cat?
He opened his creaky garden gate, flecks of black paint embedding in his palm as he gripped it.
I must remember to repaint and oil that, he thought. Amy had mentioned it in passing several thousand times. And he’d said he’d do it several thousand times.
He started to cross the road, picking tiny pieces of rusted metal from his hand.
He wouldn’t remember.
He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed Parkaman, back already, and standing just outside Gatsby’s gate. Gatsby was on his doorstep clutching a newspaper to his chest.
“What are you gonna do about it, you old fuck?” Parkaman spat, whilst violently shaking a finger at the old man. He hadn’t noticed Dan.
Dan stopped in the middle of the road wondering, gallantly, whether or not it would be best to just creep back home and maybe come back later, considering that at the present time Gatsby appeared a little busy.
The old man, to his credit, looked more angry than sad or afraid, but he didn’t say anything. His lower lip trembled slightly.
Parkaman moved to open his new neighbour’s gate.
“Hey, stop it.” The words just popped out of Dan’s mouth. No thought behind them.
He almost didn’t hear his own voice, but Parkaman clearly did. He wheeled around on the spot, lips pulled tightly across his yellow teeth, and suddenly he was off the curb and in Dan’s face.
“You neighbourhood watch or something, mate?” Behind him, Gatsby quickly hurried inside and shut the door. Parkaman was his problem now. He glanced past Dan, quickly inspecting the houses behind him. “It’s a nice street. Which one’s yours?”
“Um…” He swallowed. Thought quickly. “No, I was just walking through.” He pointed feebly up the road, away from his house. It wouldn’t do to have someone like this know where you lived. “You know, you shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what?” Parkaman leant his head to one side. Stared.
Dan held his arms rigid by his sides. “Shouldn’t talk to people like—“
Parkaman jabbed a long finger forward and prodded him roughly on the nose. “You wanna keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, or else you might end up in a lot more trouble than a stupid old man is worth, yeah?” He continued to glare. His eyes were creamy marbles, wide and glassy.
All Dan could think was whether or not the guy had blinked since the altercation had begun. Any normal person should have blinked by now. Did he have eyelids? Where were his eyelids?
“You hearing me or are you some sort of fucking idiot?” Parkaman lifted a disgusted nostril. Then blinked.
Dan looked at his feet. “Sorry.”
“Next time, you will be.” Without another word, he strutted off towards the main road.
Dan watched him go as nausea blossomed in his stomach. Why was it that whenever you tried to help someone, it was always you who ended up in the firing line?
He took a slow inhale to try to calm himself. “You’re the flipping idiot,” he mumbled under the exhale, whilst staring daggers into Parkaman’s retreating back.
It took another moment for him to remember why he’d left home in the first place.
He glanced up at Gatsby’s bathroom window. The cats hadn’t reemerged.
Gatsby’s gate opened silently despite the slight shake in his hand as he pushed it. The paint was even, un-cracked, impressive. A gate even Amy’s dad would have been proud of.
