A WILDCAT STRIKE
© David Price
The cat had one eye, and was generally hated by the entire community. It was a tortoiseshell, but that was all anyone knew about it. Quite possibly it was the survivor of an unwelcome litter, cast out to fend for itself; whatever the case, this was a cat that never had – and never would – be domesticated; its life was spent scavenging in back alleys, tearing through bin bags and sniffing along the gutters. Irate residents would often chase it off or hurl projectiles at it. But this was not a problem; it was a loner, and a survivor; not for this feline the life of quiet naps in front of a fire, or tins of Whiskers lovingly broken up into its favourite bowl; it lived on its wits, and would do so (quite happily) unto the end of its days; the street was its home, and it desired no company.
* * *
Heather Burnett was counting down the minutes to the end of her shift at The Pizza Hut. The days were long, and she spent most of the time on her feet; there had to be better ways of spending a gap year.
Finally, four 0'clock came around; she hung up her uniform, grabbed a pizza for her lunch and left. Roll on Saturday night, she thought, when she could enjoy a good night out with the girls.
It was a short walk back to the tiny flat she shared with Millie, her friend from college; a health freak, she often chided Heather for her love of pizzas.
Don't worry, Millie; when this gap year is over, I won't want to see another wretched pizza as long as I live!
But the one perk of her job was an occasional free lunch, and hard up students are in no position to refuse those.
“Oh … Jesus!”
She dropped the pizza, startled by a sudden clang as a dustbin lid clattered to the ground.
“Bloody hell! Damn cat!”
The tortoiseshell didn't even glance at her, the search for food commanding its full attention.
Heather bent down and picked up the box. The pizza had survived the fall, but …
“Anchovies. Urgh!”
She placed the fishy segments onto a single triangle. How many times did she have to tell them that she hated anchovies?
She broke off the triangle.
“Hey fellah, you like anchovies?”
The cat, of course, didn't respond, so Heather tossed the segment into the alley.
“Fish.”
At first the cat flinched back. Then it padded over and sniffed at the offering.
“Tuck in, it's on the house.”
After a moment it risked a lick; then, deciding that a good meal had chanced its way, it picked up the segment and walked off.
“Eat and enjoy.”
Heather walked on, wondering (with some amusement) what the neighbours would say? That cat was something of a bedbug to them.
Five minutes later she was settled on the sofa in front of the television, eating the pizza and watching ‘Ready, Steady, Cook'. A stray tortoiseshell (at that time) couldn't have been further from her thoughts.
* * *
Saturday night, time to do some serious clubbing.
Heather was excited, standing before the mirror and applying her make up as though putting the finishing touches to a masterpiece.
“Bloody gorgeous,” she said. “Even if I do say so myself.”
It was meant to be a night of fun, and all the signs looked promising. The weather looked set to take a turn for the worst, but Millie's advice to ‘wrap up warm' had fallen on deaf ears; no way was Heather going out on the razz dressed like an Eskimo!
“Think of my street-cred, girl.”
Carly and Talia arrived just after eight and they caught a bus into town. First stop, a pub; a few cokes and a chat about the coming night, and then it was on to The Toga Nightclub, the self-styled ‘hottest spot in town'. As the doormen waved them through, a few errant snowflakes started swirling around in the air. Heather was just glad to get out of that keen wind.
* * *
Once inside, the inclement weather was forgotten; flashing lights, pounding music, a wonderfully decadent atmosphere; to the eighteen-year-old Heather this was still an exciting experience, and after a few Gin and Tonics she was in just the right mood to enjoy herself.
Talia and Carly brought some boys over, another Gin and tonic was placed in front of her, and then one of the boys took her hand and led her out onto the dance-floor. She had to admit he looked good; fashionable clothes, fashionable haircut; and he sure could dance. Whether he made her look good was another mater altogether.
Saturday nights? She lived for them.
* * *
Later, she would remember kissing him, drifting back to the group, drinking a few more Gin and tonics.
Then she became disorientated, losing sight of her friends in the mass of gyrating bodies. She tried to find them, but The Toga was a huge cavern of a place, and she only succeeded in losing them completely.
Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to see that it was half past one in the morning.
‘Thanks for looking after me, girls, I really appreciate this!'
Retrieving her coat, she made her way to the exit.
* * *
At the door she had a shock, for those few errant snowflakes had turned into a blizzard.
“What? You've got to be kidding me!”
As she stepped outside, the cold hit her like a slap in the face. ‘Thank God there's a taxi parked across the road', she thought, and held out her hand to attract the driver's attention.
Comfortably settled, she closed her eyes; only a fifteen-minute ride stood between her and the comfort of a warm living room.
But the taxi driver was struggling to see through the driving snow; headlights on full, peering intently ahead, he dare not exceed fifteen miles an hour; and his wipers wouldn't clear the windscreen, no matter what speed he kept them at; staying ‘for hire', he realised, had been a very bad idea; it was like driving over a sheet of glass.
* * *
Finally, he had to stop. Heather's home was less than a block away, but the road was completely impassable.
“I'm sorry, luv; but this is as far as we go.”
“Hey? Where are we?”
“I can't get through; you're going to have to walk the rest of the way.”
She handed over some change and got out.
“Jesus Jones, it's bloody freezing!”
As the driver slowly backed away, she started walking towards her flat.
At first she didn't feel the cold too much, the alcohol having a warming effect; but soon the chill started to bite.
She looked to the ground, but by now the pavement was indistinguishable from the road. She told herself to stay calm, and keep walking; yet the cold was invasive, her body temperature was dropping; and she was becoming disorientated, staggering about the pavement like a drunk.
But it wasn't far, she told herself: not far at all.
Then the ground was whipped out from under her feet and she fell to the pavement, the impact driving the wind out of her.
She closed her eyes and passed out.
* * *
She was unconscious for less than a minute; and yet, when she came around, she was covered in a thin blanket of snow.
“Oh God! GOD!”
Her coat was torn and her arm was bleeding; but all she could feel was the intense cold. To lie there was certain death, she knew; but she couldn't move, could hardly draw breath.
“I can't lie here. I… can't …”
The biting cold had drained every last ounce of her strength; did death really feel like this?
The flat couldn't be too far away, and yet it may as well have been on the moon; Heather just didn't have the strength to move. Her subconscious mind was telling her that she might only be a few feet away from a warm room, but she only had a distant awareness of this.
Her eyes closed, delirium began to set in, and she could no longer fight the cold.
All she could do was succumb.
* * *
Awareness came slowly.
Had she been there long?
The snow now felt like a dead weight on her; and yet … warm.
Slowly, her eyelids flickered open.
Was that a face?
Yes, but this was hardly salvation; it was just a one-eyed cat.
Or maybe it was just her imagination.
She closed her eyes, but the cat still gave her warmth.
Suddenly, it thrust its head into her mouth and the shock jarred her to her senses.
“Gaaaach!”
She jumped, the cat leapt to one side.
Must get up. Must – get – up …
The cat nudged her with its head.
Again.
A third time.
“Alright, alright! I'm coming.”
Balling her frozen hands into fists, grinding her chattering teeth and urging herself on, Heather ‘somehow' made it to her feet.
But she was lost, and ready to collapse again.
The cat nudged her ankle, and then walked ahead when she looked down.
Glanced back at her.
She reached out a hand; it walked on.
Heather started to follow.
“No pizza tonight, I'm afraid.”
Her eyes closed; she started to pass out.
The cat nudged her again.
Again.
Hugging her body, she set off after it.
Surely it wasn't telling her to follow it; and yet, when she slowed down, it glanced back at her; if she stopped, it would nudge her ankle with its head. So she stumbled after it, more through blind instinct than anything else.
Where could it be taking her? To a nice warm dustbin? Yet she was following it, even though she could no longer feel her legs, or even will herself to move; it was instinct, pure and simple.
But the blizzard was almost a whiteout, the cat an indistinct shape. How long could she go on?
Look for the house, any house; a doorway even.
She staggered on, looking neither left or right, not wanting to let the cat out of her sight.
Then it was gone, but she stumbled on anyway, her legs at the very point of giving out.
If she could just catch sight of it …
But then she was on her knees, hands sinking up to her wrists in the snow.
‘Come back, will you; please come back.'
It was over, and yet she felt … warmth.
“Heather!”
A large Duffel coat enfolded her; strong arms lifted her to her feet; Millie had found her, and now Heather really was wrapped up warm.
* * *
A fully turned up gas fire, a thick woollen blanket, a mug of strong black coffee, and Heather was back in the land of the living.
Now Millie was taking care of her.
A lecture would probably follow, but that was fine; an ‘I-told-you-so' speech was the very least she deserved.
“I've been very silly, haven't I?” she said.
“I'm just glad you're safe; though Heaven knows how you found your way back.”
Heather smiled.
“Just tell me where you bought that Duffel coat; I'd like to have one for myself.”
An hour later, Heather drifted off to sleep in the chair.
Had she really seen the cat?
Yes, and thank Goodness she had; but how …
Well, that was something else to wonder about. Incredible as it seemed, the cat really had intended to help her. Maybe animals weren't so dumb after all.
Epilogue
Attacking the hard ground with a trowel, Wendy Donohue tried to prize a few more potatoes out of her garden.
“Come on, come on.”
A few minutes later the trowel was thrown, with considerable force, against the garden wall.
“Damn it!”
Thundering back into the kitchen, she grabbed a few shopping bags out of the pantry and set off for the Tesco-Metro.
During the five-minute walk she tried to calm down; that temper always had been her downfall, ever since she'd been a teenager. In fact, most of her neighbours would have it that she'd driven her husband into an early grave.
‘Rubbish,' she'd say, ‘years of heavy smoking and drinking had done that.'
Which was true enough, though few would suggest (to her face) that she'd driven him to drink and smoke to such excess in the first place.
All the same, she was now a lonely widower in her fifties; maybe it was time for her to mellow.
Nonetheless, a Big Issue seller received a withering stare when he tried to make a sale outside the store; some people she had no time for.
Ten minutes later she was making her way home, trying to keep her feet on the snowy ground.
Were those cats-paw prints?
That wretched stray again! Three days ago she'd given it a bloody good kick in the ribs, hadn't it learned its lesson yet? The next time she …
The cat leapt at her from the roof of a car; screeching, claws out … and Wendy screamed as it hit her full in the chest …
She slipped, her whole body leaving the ground … and she hit the pavement, hard, her hip and right wrist breaking on impact.
As she started screaming the cat walked away, not even favouring her with a backward glance.
Was he a bad cat?
No; he was a cat that preferred his own company.
He certainly believed that one good turn deserved another …
But mess with this particular cat, and you're in big trouble!